Nighttime Snack

A late bird cried outside, saluting the passing twilight. It was the height of summer and the evening was hot, despite the mild breeze entering through the open windows.

Their love had been quick, but thorough. It had left her body feeling pleasantly exhausted and seemingly ready for sleep, but after a short while, Galata found herself feeling awake and vaguely dissatisfied.

She found her way to the kitchen, leaving the light off.

A mesmerizing royal purple streaked across the dark sky, beckoning through the wide window that stretched along the counter. Pinpricks of light marked the dark contours of the high rises ahead: little cubicles of life, eager to stretch out the day.

She stalked towards the fridge, and light streamed into the room, draping around her naked body as she sought out that evening's leftovers: a single plate of fresh tagliatelle, not yet fully cool, just shy of a full meal for one.

Galata carefully took off the flat ceramic plate that covered the dish, finding that little droplets of condensation had started to form on the inside. She tilted the plate to watch a few beads begin to roll down, then fuse together.

A sudden sensation of cold, as a droplet fell to her toes. Then another, and another...

With a slow, decisive sigh, she closed the fridge. Putting down the cover, she turned towards the window, her eyes beginning their slow adjustment to the dark.

"You are mine," she whispered conspiratorially towards her plate.

Perhaps another bite in the dark would make her feel whole.

Withoug bothering to put on clothes, Galata lifted herself onto the kitchen counter. The stainless steel was not quite as cool as she'd hoped, although the soft round porcelain rested pleasantly in her lap, the designer plate cool to the touch.

Her feet dangling, and her eyes ever more comfortable with the dark, Galata picked up half a cherry tomato with the tips of her fingers. She licked the morsel with the tip of her tongue, relishing the shimmering, half-congealed buttery coating.

Her lips closed in around the tomato.

Not too cold yet.

She let it roll inside the hollow of her cheek, before crushing it with her teeth. The acidic taste of the freshly seared-in juice tickled her tongue.

The taste was perfect.

Bernard had taught her this trick: exposing the halved cherry tomatoes to hot buttery pasta at the last moment, just before serving the dish, helped unlock their flavor. Fresh juices seared slightly, each tomato on its own could transform the creamy sauce, breaking apart the languid silkiness with a spike of fresh flavor.

It was one of several tricks Bernard had brought to the table, even if Galata remained the better chef overall.

Still, there was something deliciously pleasurable about making him cooking. With his running around all day, and his never-ending overwork. With his struggle to focus, and to pay attention to her amidst his chaotic life.

A meal was a practical way to make amends, even if it fell comfortably within his own love language. Still, she appreciated the offering amidst their well-worn dynamic...

In this light, it felt almost sacrificial.

She opened the drawer by her knee and rummage for a pair of chopsticks.

She began picking apart the tagliatelle with chopsticks. Would someone be offended, somewhere between China and Emilia-Romagna? Was this bad luck?

Raising a rich-looking strand to her mouth, Galata took a bite.

Suddenly eager for more, she operated the chopsticks, methodically dissecting the leftover pickings in the dark, her long fingers lifting and lowering to ferry the remains of the evening's tagliatelle to her mouth.

How was she still this hungry?

Suddenly self-conscious, she peaked over her shoulder. A thin moon. Neighbors in the high rise across the street would only see her back. If any of them cared to study the dark spaces across...

Galata returned her attention to the plate, luxuriating in the sacrificial delicacy.

"Don't move. Stay just like that."

Starteled, a short strand of tagliatelle slipped from her chopsticks to land on her thigh, leaving the skin of her abdomen messy with butter.

Bernard looked at her distractedly, searching for something special through the viewfinder of his camera. How long had he been observing? The magic of the moment fleeted, and Galata felt frustrated.

"What?" She asked, challenged him coolly.

"May I?" he replied, already flipping open a small tripod for below camera, spinning little wheels to adjust the length of the legs, expertly glancing over at her body.

At least he had the decency to ask. It was an improvement from the days when Bernard captured her at his every whim.

Galata was at ease in front of a camera, and felt self-confident in her natural poise, which Bernard called "enchanting". At first it was fun. But over time his flattery had ceased to impress her, leaving bare a mild but raw obsession to capture her in all her moods and different shades.

"Fine," Galata sighed, putting down the chopsticks.

"No, keep them lifted," Bernard instructed.

Galata knew she would have to hold still for a while. A series of a long exposure shots to account for the low-light conditions... she imagined the result: a dark, curved silhouette set against the fading day.

She bit her lips, yearning for the half-eaten plate of pasta, when an idea blossomed inside her.

She put down her chopsticks defiantly, and Bernard cried.

"I have conditions," she said. "You only get one shot, so better make it count. And for thirty minutes after, you have to do exactly what I want."

It was the perfect way to make him pay.

Galata and Bernard had been having repeated little conflicts, centering on his irregular and intense work schedule--accentuated by needs poorly formulated, and going unmet, building up resentment.

Fully freelancing since a year, Bernard had had to accept gigs wherever he could find them. The upside was that he got to direct bodies whichever way he wanted, as he expertly spun brief conversations towards momentary but meaningful connections with his clients--just enough for each session to produce a few pieces of film that captured shades of the client's true self.

Galata envied her husband's clients; less for the attention he gave them, and more for the time they got to lay claim to within his hectic day-to-day. She herself was busy enough, but somehow their shared downtime was primarily dictated by Bernard's schedule, Bernard's energy, Bernard's desires.

If he wanted this shot, he'd have to pay for it.

"Those are rough terms," Bernard mumbled, but he kept looking through the viewfinder, thin fingers adjusting the wheels of the camera. Galata would be spared the rapid chatter of mechanic clicks that usually marked his photography.

"Sure," he then said, filling the silence of her tactful lack of a reply.

Bernard started directing her, now committed to all that it might entail.

"Rest your chin against your shoulder, and look away... now raise your chopsticks... bare your palm, play with the moonlight."

Galata did as he asked and smiled for him.

One shot, in return for half an hour out of his day on her terms.

"Satisfied?" she asked, after he had finally pressed the button. There was no way of telling if it'd be worth the price--not until she was done with him, and the film had been developed.

Putting aside his camera, Bernard's look took on a different kind of focus. He was wide awake now.

"Take off your clothes," she began. "And put on that kitchen apron."

Bernard did as she commanded. Calm, controlled, he moved through the dark, as though performing a ritual.

Dressed, he walked over towards her.

"Kneel."

Dropping to his knees, he began to run his soft lips along the inside of her thigh, starting by her knee, all the way up, until they met a short bit of tagliatelle.

Had it been part of the scene? Would the morsel of pasta be a unique detail in his picture, or had it been too dark.

Bernard chewed thoughtfully as he glanced up at her, then swallowed: "What do you want me to do?"

Galata slapped him softly. "Did I tell you to eat? That wasn't yours to take."

The tips of her fingers brushed his cheek, now in a caress. From there, they ran through the fading brown hair around his crown, softly gripping and pressing down. "But at least you know your place."

Slowly, reaching back for her chopsticks and her unfinished plate, Galata whispered: "It seems that we're both hungry."

Watching Bernard nod, the very image of obedience, Galata picked up a short strand of tagliatelle from her bowl.

Bernard lifted his chin in anticipation as she made to offer him a bite, only to carefully drape the strand of pasta over her left breast.

"Oops."

The cold bit of food tickled her left breast, sparking a field of little goosebumps.

Eyes understanding, Bernard leaned forward, even as she allowed herself to sink back against the cool window.

His lips, then tongue brushed past her nipple. From there, he began carving concentric circles with the tip of his nose, tracing the edge of her areola.

Galata planted her shoulders against the window for grip, and pushed her breasts forward, back arched, shivering now.

Eyes closed, she gripped her chopsticks, making an effort not to let go yet.

With effort she opened her eyes, regaining focus as her husband's tongue and lips thoughtfully explored her other breast. Breathing slowly, languishing in the moment, Galata picked up another strand of pasta and--carefully navigating the negative space between her breasts and his apron--placed it somewhere south of her belly button.

His nose trailed down, tickling her abs, pausing occasionally for a kiss and--once--a playful graze of his teeth across her thigh.

"No." She softly jabbed the tips of her black lacquered chopsticks into his cheek. "No biting."

He nodded, attentive.

"Kiss me, lick me, love me softly... tease me, but make sure to deliver. You know what to do."

Again he nodded; eyes serious.

Galata straightened herself somewhat and picked up the plate.

Together they ate.

Galata brought another cherry tomato to her mouth, plate resting coolly in her palm. She tried to keep her chopsticks steady, picking up another bite of creamy pasta.

Chewing thoughtfully, she glanced down at Bernard, who knelt between her legs, softly gripping her thighs for support, feeding himself, bit by bit, on the two strands of tagliatelle that she had left for him.

Bite by bite, she finished the plate, even as Bernard touched her softly with his chin, cheeks, and lips, moving closer and closer towards her pubic area.

Galata watched how he licked her playfully, mouth gleaming with the small measure of butter she'd offered him, making his way across her thigh to kiss the side of her knee, only to trace his nose north along the inside...

Galata sighed.

"Go slow... higher.... higher..." she no longer cared to leave a trace of gluten to guide his way.

She continued to eat, losing herself in the slow meal.

She struggled to concentrate, as Bernard expertly built up the tension. He kneaded his soft thumbs into the precise right spots in her abdomen, ever deeper towards the upper limit of her thighs... occasionally reaching back to caress her feet and each of her toes.

Galata sank further back against the window, enjoying the deep sense of inner satisfaction radiating from her abdomen, unlocked by the rich food and Bernard's love.

Her breath quickened as she felt Bernard's breath across her vagina, adrenaline roaring as she worked to finish the meal.

She had to put the plate down, unfinished.

Dropping the chopsticks, she grasped the edge of the kitchen counter, fingertips pressing into the dark marble. The balls of her feet found rested on Bernard's strong shoulders as she arched her public bone forward, closer and closer towards his strong tongue...

"Now, give it to me," she breathed, surrendering backwards, her body primed and aching for his tongue.

But suddenly he refused to move and got up from his knees. Apparently disinterested, he glanced at the clock: "I think your time's up, my love."

Already half an hour? She hadn't thought to check the time...

"I'm going to bed, Galata." An artificial sweetness in his smile, as he kissed her forehead and made to leave the kitchen.

"Don't you dare--you can't leave me like this!"

"I'm sorry, but I have to get up early," he said apologetically, making her want to wipe that vague smile off his face. She regretted not having been much harsher with him.

"Wait. Don't leave."

She knew him well, and the tactical feint hidden behind this painful tease, this sudden disinterest in her, was self-evident.

What to do?

"What do you want?" she began.

Now Bernard turned around, a dangerous glint in his eyes. The sheen of sleepiness disappeared like a clearing mist.

"Do you want me to come back?'

"Yes."

"Alright," he began, smooth as silk. "But you cannot move. You cannot take. You cannot come--except on my terms."

An aching lust won out from her irritation at this sudden twist in their dynamic. "Ok... just please, hurry."

In a swift move, Bernard took off the apron and walked over, reaching past her to pick the last cherry tomato out of the bowl. Softly, his fingers pried apart her lips and placed it inside her mouth, fingers massaging her tongue.

She chewed, licking his fingers and sucking up the juice.

Bernard observed her for a moment, before his hands pressed her shoulders down, making her sink towards the floor. She felt herself crumple awkwardly against the sink cabinet, but none of that mattered now.

All that mattered was this raging eagerness to get on with it, to feel him inside her.

Galata's lips were brought to towards his penis. No words were necessary to explain what he wanted. The taste of the tomato lingered, as she closed her lips around him.

His dickhead lay on her tongue for a moment, acidic.

Then she began to move, bobbing her head up and down.

He began to moan softly as she jerked him off.

She sucked and licked until he gleamed, planting the occasional kiss on the side of his shaft. She then proceeded to take him inside her as far as she could, moving up and down, her fingers kneading him as she sucked.

She wanted to get him to come close, as quickly as possible, and move on...

Bernard didn't seem to mind, if he saw through her strategy at all, and rushed his hands through her hair, hardening more and more.

At last he lifted her back up, his strong arms sitting her down on the cabinet.

She spread her legs, but he shook his head softly with a cheekish smile, picking up the black laquered chopsticks.

He brushed against the inside of her thigh, provoking a moan.

Kneeling, he then used the chopsticks to gently nudge apart her labia. From there, he slowly circled her clit with the tip of his tongue, each circle getting him closer and closer...

"Please!"

Finally, she felt the breadth of his warm tongue run the length of her vagina, engulfing her clitoris. Galata gasped, almost coming.

Gripping her thighs to hold her still, Bernard slowly ran his tongue upwards, once, twice, thrice, then pressing the tip of his tongue inside of her.

"Take me!"

"You think you get to make demands?"

Galata ached now to feel him inside her, shaking with frustration at the newly interrupted buildup.

"Very well."

She grasped his hair, and pulled him up.

He continued to tease her, running his shaft against her vagina, even as her eyes begged him to get on with it.

At long last she felt a sweet, fiery release as he slid softly inside of her. His penis felt big and smooth as butter.

He entered her slowly but deeply, and yet there was very little resistance on the way in. How wet she was.

He proceed to fuck her on the kitchen counter.

Bernard grabbed her by the waist, and she found that she could not move. Moving softly at first, for the longest time, he eventually increased the pace of his thrusts, pulling her closer and closer into him.

Galata arched her back, feet struggling for grip against the kitchen cabinet below, wanting to feel him deeper.

"Yes..." So deep, so deep, so deep...

But then he stopped.

"Unfair!"

Galata had always been slow to come. She needed buildup, dedication, effort, and Bernard knew precisely how to give that to her... and how to keep her right on the edge when she was closest.

He playfully slapped aside her hand, to prevent her from pleasuring herself as he observed her in her desperation.

"Please," she begged.

How could revel in leaving her right there, at the brink of satisfaction.

She had tried to fight him before at moments like these, but learned to resign to her fate in these kinds of situations, surrendering to his pace.

All that might help was begging.

"Please."

And at last he moved to grab her by the hips, swirling her around to bend her over the kitchen counter.

There he fucked her again, without inhibition now.

Before long she felt her body tense up, and then collapse, limp like a puppet.

A winded moan was stuck halfway in her throat, and she was about to whisper some loving words. But then he reached back into her, thrusting her back up the heights of ecstasy.

Bernard ground down what remained of her crumbling walls, pushing and pushing and pushing, driving her more and more crazy with his every move.

Galata was screaming now. She'd surrendered to the muscled body that grinded against the curves of her back, expertly pinning her against the kitchen counter, one hand around her wrists even as the other reached around her waist, fingertips finding her clitoris....

"Yes!" Galata felt her abdomen grasp around the head of his dick pressing far up inside of her. She was shaking now, clamping down, unwilling or unable to let go--and for a moment he stayed put.

She felt his release.

Then he retreated, softly panting.

Bernard stroked her back for another moment, then whispered: "I'm going to bed."

Depleted, Galata remained alone, stretched out over the gleaming metal kitchen counter, her nipples feeling sore but soothed by the cool stone.

She forced herself up and licked her lips, relishing the memory of the tagliatelle, and feeling a deep contentment.

She would sleep well tonight.