Extra Virgin
The Blue Danube wasn’t fancy, but it was authentic. The owner and manager, Serg the First, came from Hungary during the revolt of 1958. “Blue” was a quiet, well-mannered place where patrons could sit during the afternoons and tank up on kava either in strong espressos straight up or more moderate blends. Serg the Second, never bothered the waiters, never hassled them with pinches, pokes of prods, and never cheated them out of their tips.
Abbey was happy to work there, and she was putting money away for her son’s college. Abbey worked there a year. She had migrated down from Cincinnati with her boyfriend. They had been broken up for a year and a half now. Abbey took breakups hard, even when she was doing the breaking up. It always felt like someone had written her out of a script.
The regulars were art students – and their professors of course – from the local univerisity. “With more brains than money” was how they described themselves. They usually ordered microbrews and pasta. The Blue was a dark, low-voiced place.
“The academics were living pretty well,” Abbey thought. She was hoping for a little something for herself as well.
Many of the clients came for Serg’s rendition of a kifli, a rich, flakey hybrid between a croissant and roll. It was served with a variety of herb-flavored dips. Many came in for an order and stayed for hours eating them and drinking coffee after coffee.
Abbey liked to laugh and the customers liked seeing her wide smile and full mouth. They tipped her well. But Abbey became bored with their professorial mannerisms.
Except for this one guy. This guy came in, not so much like clockwork, but more like watching the sun to see where the shadows lie. He came in every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday evening wearing a tweed sport coat, either blue or black jeans. He had a rugged jaw and blue eyes. His eyes were deep set and mysterious, like he was seeing more from the inside than the outside.
Abbey figured he liked to write where he could watch people and have a beer. He was considerate. If it looked crowded, he’d be sure to take a smaller table, and he’d always ask, “Over there, OK?” if he took a larger table.
Abbey liked that. He didn’t talk much, but his voice was low and deep. He usually brought in two notebooks. One large paper notebook and the other was a pocket-sized, leather-bound journal. He would lay the larger notebook out and copy from the smaller one into it. He seemed to write with his whole body, not just his fingers. Abbey hoped he’d share his writing with her. She wondered how his fingers might feel – writing way inside her.
Thinking about him made her nipples tighten. She could feel them swell and stretch against her blouse every time he came in. A buzz went through her body for this guy she hardly knew. There was something about his quick, shy smile that was both genuine and seductive.
Abbey was happy when the guy, Jared, asked, “So what’s the secret of your kifli?”
“The Extra Virgin oil,” Abbey said, without irony or innuendo.
Now, feeling naughtier, Abbey continued, “The legend is that “virgin” doesn’t mean just “pure” olive oil. It’s about how it’s produced and who produces it. Young women from the Carpathian Mountains crush the olives between their legs.”
“In that case, I’ll have another order,” Jared teased back.
Abbey leaned into the table when she took his order. The edge of the table came right up to her crotch. The corner of the table jutted into her pussy at right angles. He looked up at her and met her eyes. She could tell he was deliberately not looking at the table doing foreplay on her. She caught his eyes then looked at Jared’s hands.
Abbey had seen such hands before. Her father had fine hands like that. She remembered his working at his Remington typewriter. His fingertips so delicate in their fingerings – like they were licking the keys. But he would never let Abbey read anything he wrote. Never. Like he was writing her out of his script.
She didn’t want Jared to shut her out, too. Abbey couldn’t resist the temptation and bent down to look at what Jared was writing. She couldn’t see everything, but she saw the title and a couple of lines.
“The Alphabet of Her Body.”
Her pussy, a pillow
and the awakening it brings...
The foreplay of angels.
He finished ordering and Abbey went to the bathroom. Abbey felt her clit swell like someone’s Gnostic fingers touched her there. Her clit was the size of an olive. Abbey felt like her pussy was crushing it like a fist. She squeezed her legs together and warm juices ran south, and she liked the feel of her warm juices running down her legs.
Then she got an idea.
She came out of the bathroom and went to Jared’s table with a small, white bowl.
“I brought you a new dip,” she said. “See if you can guess what it is.”
Jared dipped his kifli into the bowl and tasted it slowly.
“Melted garlic Gouda?” he asked. “It’s very warm and rich.” Jared liked the heaviness of the syrup on his tongue – like moonbeams filling up the shallow dish.
Abbey said, “No.”
“Butter and basil?” Jared guessed again.
“Not quite.” Abbey shook her head.
“Olive oil and cilantro?”
“No – it’s me,” she said.
Abbey crossed her legs as she stood at the side of the table. She could feel herself leaking and she wondered if he could smell her.
“You? What do you mean?” Jared asked.
“That’s me,” Abbey said. “How do I taste?”
He dipped the bread in bowl again. Lifting it out carefully, he raised it to his nose and smelled.
“Extra, special virgin,” he said.
Copyright © 2004 by L.A. Mistral. All rights reserved.
The author has published fiction erotica with Torquere Press and erotic poetry with Clean Sheets, Dom’s View and the poetry gallery of the Erotic Readers and Writers Association. He writes a “Sex and the Law” column with Xodtica and is currently writing his first erotic novels.
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