Saturday, March 08, 2008

Postwar Architecture

Tilda and I were discussing Isamu Noguchi when the caviar arrived.

“I haven’t been to his museum since the renovations,” Tilda said, reaching for her glass. “Hmmm, I don’t know what I was thinking, ordering a gin martini. How’s the vodka?”

“Very good. Nicely balanced.” I took a sip. “Why not correct an error? Let’s finish these and order a round of vodka martinis. After all, we are having caviar.”

Tilda smiled and raised a finger. “I like the way you think, sir.” She turned up her glass, and I raised mine. The stems hit the tablecloth at the same moment. I kissed her cheek and waved for the server.

“Yes? How is everything?”

“Very good,” Tilda said. “But may we bother you for another round? Except this time, we both want vodka martinis.”

“Generous with the olives,” I added.

“I love olives,” Tilda agreed, her eyes widening.

“Of course,” the server smiled, taking the glasses. “Generous olives all around. Anything else?”

Tilda looked at me. I shook my head. “No, that will be all,” she said.

“Very good. I’ll be right back with the martinis. Enjoy.”

Tilda watched her walk away. “She’s cute. She has glasses.”

“And hips,” I said, reaching for the brioche. “You don’t often see hips on servers in posh Manhattan joints.”

Tilda took a bite of caviar. “Um, oh my God,” she chewed. “I think my mouth just had an orgasm.” I was reminded of the device resting under my dinner napkin. I flipped a switch. Tilda’s back stiffened. “And speaking of orgasms . . .” She closed her eyes and focused on the buzzing against her cervix. I took another brioche, smiling as the server set down our drinks.

“Enjoy,” she smiled. Tilda giggled.

As her birthday gift to me, Tilda proposed a night of high modernism. She wanted to take me out to dinner at the Lever House Restaurant, the sleekly designed eaterie within the Lever House on Park Avenue. Afterwards, I would get her off outside the Seagram building before going to my place to fuck while watching The Fountainhead.

See, Tilda is a slut for architecture.

After a few sips of my martini, I flicked off the remote vibrator deep in Tilda’s pussy. Her back relaxed. “Oh, my,” she said, exhaling. “That’s pretty intense.”

“Another good idea, smart girl.”

The vibrator had indeed been a touch of brilliance on Tilda’s part. She already had it in place when I picked her up at her midtown office. “There’s an antenna poking out of my vagina,” she had giggled, kissing my cheek in greeting.

“Isn’t this an amazing interior?” Tilda asked, reaching for her drink. “I adore Gordon Bunshaft; he’s an absolute genius. And the restoration of this building was so true to his vision.”

I nodded. “It’s amazing that he anticipated the set design of ‘Battlestar Galactica.’”

Tilda put a hand to her mouth. “I think that line of influence went in the opposite direction,” she laughed.



As an entrée, we ordered a prime dry-aged cote de boeuf for two. Tilda consulted with the sommelier in choosing a wine. They settled on a two thousand and five Volnay Primiere Cru, Ronceret, Domaine Nicolas Rossignol. The beef was going to take forty-five minutes to prepare, our server told us. We were fine so long as the martinis kept coming, we replied.

The beef arrived rare. By that time, we were pretty rare ourselves.

Throughout the meal, I teased Tilda’s pussy with each new taste on her palate, each smart turn in the conversation, pushing her to synesthesia, a confusion of the senses. I could visualize the wetness seeping from her. I recalled the way she orgasms as she sucks my cock. Once, an hour into a blowjob, she paused and stood. “This is ridiculous,” she said, parting her legs. A viscous web clung to her thighs, nearly to her knees. I pushed her down and splashed one hand into her body, reaching for a condom with the other.

“What do you think of the meat?” I asked.

“I’m thinking . . . I’m thinking that you’re going to have to fuck me very hard after what you’ve done to me during this meal.” Tilda’s head nodded as the whirring resumed in her body. I turned off the machine.

“Eat,” I said. “Drink. Then we fuck.”

Our server checked in on us. “How is everything? The beef is amazing, right?” Her smile beamed under her glasses.

“Really, really amazing,” Tilda said. I turned on the device. Her back went rigid. She continued to converse with the server as her stockings grew wetter.

“I think we’ve done all the damage we can do,” I interjected. “Can we get it wrapped to go?”

The server's brow crinkled with maternal concern. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll have the plate collected and be back right away with the dessert menu.” She turned on a heel and casually walked away. She seemed so at ease, as if we were in her dining room and not a top restaurant.

I turned back to my plate, cutting another bite of meat. “The waitress and I want to fuck you.”

“Oh, you’re mean.” Tilda shifted in her seat.

“First, we’re tying you up,” I said, bringing the fork to my mouth. “And you’re going watch me fuck her.” I took a bite. “I’m going to enjoy that, because she’s so sensuous.” I chewed. “You’ve seen the way she walks. Can you imagine that body on the end of my cock?” I swallowed.

“You’re a terrible man,” Tilda groaned, squirming.

“I bet she’s a noisy fuck,” I added, cutting another bite. “I’m going to take my time enjoying that. You’ll just have to wait until I’m sated with this one.” I put the fork in my mouth. Tilda reached for her wine, then decided on the remains of her martini. “Try an olive,” I suggested. She popped an olive in her mouth and sighed.

“Then, she’ll get her strap-on as I move you onto the bed,” I chewed. “I’ll set you up on your knees, your face down on the bed. Then she and I will fuck your ass, double-teaming you, for hours. Ignoring your poor pussy.”

“Unh.” Tilda closed her eyes.

“When we’re done with you, we’ll just roll you on the floor. I’ll bring drinks for her and myself. We’ll talk and laugh. You’ll hear us fucking as you lay beside the bed.” I swallowed.

“You are killing me,” she laughed.

“We’d likely use you again in the morning . . . ,”

“Where is she?” Tilda complained. “I need to get fucked, and now.”

I turned off the device.

We shared cake, settled the bill and stood to leave. “Have a really great night,” the server smiled.

“Thank you so much,” Tilda said. “You were so wonderful. Really, I mean it, just amazing!” The server laughed. I took Tilda’s elbow.

“Come along before you drool on the nice lady,” I whispered gruffly.

We walked to the Seagram’s building. We talked about Mies and Philip Johnson, the vibrator buzzing inside her. “You know, I fuck a woman whose husband works here,” I said casually.

“Please, we have to go,” Tilda suddenly whined.

“It’s late,” I noted. “And you do have work in the morning. I would understand if you preferred to say good night here.”

Tilda looked up. “Let me think about that . . .” Her eyes dropped to mine. “Um, no. Let’s fuck.”

We started in the cab.

At my place, she ran to the bathroom to remove the vibrator. I kept it buzzing the entire time. She returned with a need to fuck as urgent as the need to piss after drinking too much coffee on too long a road trip. She was already halfway on the road to stupid.

I drove her home.

Ever helpful, I provide a link to a remote vibrator for those interested in enhanced dining. Reservations at the Lever House Restaurant can be made at 212/888-2700. Ask for a booth.



Velvet Touch Remote Egg

5 comments:

vanguardcdk said...

Hah, great story. Although teasing her with both the vibrator and the fantasy waitress at the end...you are an evil, evil man. ;)

Bianca said...

Oh how I miss Tilda. I have to come back to New York. I have some plans for the three of us.

The Fury said...

Great tease. There's something to be said for a great meal and a better tease. I'll need to search out a women with such vibrating apparel or perhaps purchase one and bring it to dinner.

Susan M. said...

Olives soaked in vodka (and olive-tinted vodka) are the very best part of martinis.

Anna Smash said...

I have a friend who has a similar story except that it involves his girlfriend on Christmas day at a mega-church, while sitting next to grandma and having a conversation with the pastor.

(I will always be a gin martini kind of lady.)