WANTON DELIGHT, SERVED IN THREE WAY

 

WANTON DELIGHT, SERVED IN THREE WAY

By

Kathleen Bradean

Today’s Special:

Wanton Delight, Served in Three Way

Smirking at the typo on the sign outside the China Curry Palace, I decided to try the restaurant anyway. A cloud of pungent spices made me cough as I opened the door. Inside, a horseshoe of stools ringed an open kitchen where a slim Asian man in chef’s whites orchestrated the motion of pans, food, and assistants with barked orders in Cantonese.

I took a place at the counter and wondered where they kept the menus. The patron beside me put a forkful of fragrant basmati rice and gold sauce to his lips and moaned appreciation, his eyes half-closed in bliss. The woman three stools down banged her palm on the counter, hissing, “Yes,” in surrender. She slid off her stool into the arms of two dark-eyed men who moved her gently to a fainting couch near the wall. One stayed behind and stroked her arm until she opened her eyes, gave him a smile that made me tingle under my panties, and caressed his moon-shaped face.

“What is your difficulty?”

I jumped. I was so wrapped up in watching the woman that I didn’t notice the male attendant before me. His voice was like a tropical breeze that caressed my legs before nuzzling under my skirt. I didn’t know where to look: his thick black wave of hair, chocolate-brown eyes fringed by lush lashes, inviting golden skin, further down… Jeeze the restaurant was warm.

He reached for my hand while he repeated his question.

“Do you mean, like, what do I want to order?” I asked.

Hearing me, the Chef snorted disdain. “Does the patient tell the doctor what medicine to prescribe? No!”

I flinched as he slammed a fry pan down onto the flames.

The man before me raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Our Chef, he learned from Indian gurus how to combine herbs and spices like medicines. He cures your ills, but he must know about you.”

My mouth opened, mouth closed, opened. Nothing came out.

“Why are you here,” my attendant asked.

“For the Daily Special, I guess.”

“I would enjoy serving that to you.” His fingers brushed my arm.

The Chef spun around, his eyes blazing. “Special dish, not for just anyone. You must have the predisposition to enjoy to the fullest. What do you want? Tell me!”

Squirming under his fierce gaze, I explained, “It’s lunchtime. I’m hungry.”

He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, muttered something that had to be an insult, and turned back to his stovetop. My eyes slid right to left and wondered what the other diners thought of his outburst. They were too absorbed in their food, emitting occasional guttural moans, to pay attention.  

I saw the muscles along the Chef’s back tense. He chopped vegetables as if he held a grudge against them. My nostrils flared to draw in the fragrant steam as he heated chilies in oil and between my legs, my clit buzzed.

My attendant stroked at the pulse-point on my wrist. I gazed at his wide, high cheekbones and very kissable lips, and decided that he was the prettiest man I’d ever seen. I spread my thighs a bit to get more comfortable on the stool. “I want to give you what you need, but you must tell me what that is.” He kissed the tip of each of my fingers.

Anyone with such meltingly sweet eyes could be trusted. I spoke in a gush, telling him personal things, emotional things, wanting things, my need for a fresh start, and--.”

“Enough!” The Chef bellowed. “I’m not a miracle worker, woman.” He slammed a plate in front of me. “Eat.”

The attendant stroked my hair. “This is your first time?”

A little late for dignity, I jutted my chin. “I’ve had curry.”

He laughed. It was like being dipped waist-deep in warm caramel. “Here.” When I hesitated, he lifted a fork to my lips, so I opened to him.

My hand went to my burning mouth. It wasn’t the spicy sensation that lingered on my lips like a demanding lover’s kiss, or even the after-burn of serrano chilies in the back of my throat that made my eyes open wide. I had to hike up my skirt and spread my thighs, because if my legs pushed together just right, I was going to come. My clit engorged like a time-lapse movie of a flower, from tight bud to full bloom in seconds. The cotton panel at the crotch of my panties soaked up my juices, distilled the essence, and sent eau de me wafting through the room.

The Chef slapped down another plate. “Now this.”

Desperately grabbing for the first dish as he pulled it away, I wailed, “I want more of that!”

The Chef sniffed at me with his lip pulled into a sneer. “You’ve had enough.”

I whimpered. “Please!” Oh man, did I need more of that. I needed it, needed it now, needed it hot, needed to feel it in my mouth.

The man who held my hand nodded sympathetically as if I said that aloud, and it was possible that I did. “Chef means that you may move on to the next dish.”

The other diners ate by themselves, but I liked being hand-fed by my pretty man. Obediently opening my mouth, I flicked my tongue over the tines of the fork and closed my eyes to experience the food. The spices were sweeter but more intense and the smooth, thick sauce felt just right in my mouth. Endorphins zinged through my blood. “More,” I flirted. My attendant gave me another mouthful. My thighs were soaked.

The prickly Chef substituted another plate. I glared at him. Hanging on to the arm of my dear, lovely attendant for support, I tasted the stew. Fire raced down my throat into my belly and my sinuses cleared to the point of pain. The room was suddenly too hot for pantyhose, too hot for my jacket. It was also too hot for my blouse, but they made me keep that on. I sizzled. The very helpful gentlemen standing behind me held my breasts up by sliding his soft hands under my bra and pulling my nipples like taffy. I turned to the other patrons to crow that I got two personal attendants, but none of the other diners would tear their eyes from their food. I sucked in deep breaths of the spice-laden air as I arched back against the second man. My hips ground in circles, looking for something to thrust onto. “Pretty man,” I purred to the man who fed me, “I have a difficulty you can fix…”

They pushed cucumber and mint yogurt into my mouth as they gossiped in languorous Cantonese, but I didn’t want to cool down. I slid my hands down my body. My bra was up around my neck and my blouse buttons popped open one by one.

“There is more to taste,” the man behind me hinted. He hooked my panties with his thumbs and yanked them to my knees as I lifted my butt off the stool. Long fingers pinched my wet clit and stroked the hood until I bucked against them with my knees braced against the counter.

They offered steaming noodles to me. I leaned forward; my attendant teasingly pulled away. I panted and crawled onto the counter, palms flat, bottom high in the air, exposing my plumped sex to the world. A nice, thick cock shoved into my throbbing pussy as I was rewarded with a mouthful of mushrooms and sliced meat on noodles. Explosions of flavor went off in my mouth. Thrusting back wildly, I forgot about the other diners and even that jerk of a Chef. Pure wanton delight flowed through my body.

My attendant climbed on the counter and served me his cock au natural. I moaned around that hard, earthy mouthful. The cock inside my pussy slammed hard, making delicious wet smacking noises, while the one in my mouth got spit-slicked until it shone. I grasped the dick before me and pumped it. Fingers slid through my brine and flicked my clit until I went into a prolonged full-body seizure of orgasm. My body clenched hard. I felt the gush pumping from the cock inside me so I squeezed down more on him. He groaned his appreciation. Creamy loads of come shot into my mouth from my pretty man’s cock. I lapped at him, sucking every last drop. A secondary shock-wave passed through me until I trembled.

They helped me to a couch. Somehow invisible to the other diners, I sat with my legs splayed while I played shamelessly with my breasts. My attendant lapped at my over-sensitive clit. I grasped his thick hair in my fingers and ground against his nose.

“Wanton delight, served in a three way. That will be twelve seventy-eight with tax, and gratuity,” my pretty man told me.