A Taste of Cherie - Sex Stories

A Taste of Cherie

... table ready: glasses, plates, silverware, and napkins. She's very particular about the napkins being folded and tucked inside the tines of the forks. I do it all the way she likes, just to make her happy. By the time she returns, it's all set out. She steps out from the hallway corner and presents herself to me, standing with her arms clasped behind her back. She's wearing lacy purple lingerie with a plunging neckline paired with satin slippers of the same color. I don't wait for her to ask the question; I already know what she's wondering.

"Honey, you're very beautiful."

"Thank you, master", she replies, her half-whispered answer blooming into a smile of irrepressible self-satisfaction. She takes her seat next to me.

Our dining room isn't anything special, but two of the chairs have been moved to the same end of the table. That's because she's always scooting her chair closer to mine, until we're pretty much knocking elbows. We've discussed buying a larger chair so we can eat side by side, but most of those types of chairs don't fit against the table. The perfect chair eludes us currently, but Cherie has the utmost confidence that it will eventually be found.

We chat a little during the meal, mostly about her day plus a smattering of world politics. She's not allowed to watch the news, since a lot of the things that humans choose to do to each other are inordinately violent and cruel. This isn't something I impose on her; we've sat and discussed this and agree ...

... that it's a man's job to protect his woman from the world emotionally as well as physically. Nevertheless, she has a genuine interest in geopolitics, and she often discusses current events with her students.

I find myself putting my arm around her shoulder. Her body shimmers in response, and she leans towards me. Her entire body is warm, overflowing with her feminine joy.

"I'll get the cake!" she volunteers cheerfully mere seconds after finishing her plate. She shoots up from her seat before I can get a word in edgewise and flits into the kitchen, flinging the fridge door open. An impish smile flashes across her face as she glances back at me—she knows she's not supposed to leave the table without permission. The rule sounds excessive, but you have to give your vixen some rules to break if you want to have any fun.

I watch as she gets two forks, two dessert plates, and cuts the last slice exactly in half. Then she struts back over to the table.

"Alright Cherie, you win. I'll have some cake."

She smiles victoriously as she hands me my plate, taking her seat beside me. My arm goes back around her shoulder, and she lets out a soft mew of happiness. It's strangely entertaining to watch her eat; she's very precise. Perhaps that's not the right word. But there's something about her little mannerisms that are subtly, deliciously feminine. And I notice them.

After dinner she quietly excuses herself, which is unusual. Normally she helps me clean up and then we watch a ...