They say that the weather can change in Niagara, so it was important to come well-prepared.

A bottle of Nuits St Georges, a jar of plump Spanish mussels, and a small box of hand-made dark truffle chocolates are the things that I’ll bring. And two glasses, a corkscrew and large serviettes. The serviettes are paper, but of good quality in the lush yellow and blue of my home in Provence. I’ll be wearing new clothes: a crossover top that might show a glimpse of black lace edging the Bordeaux of my bra. The top is not tight, but the fabric clings just enough for my nipples to show their change of humour. It should be warm and sunny so I’ll wear a mid knee-length skirt in a soft floral that I can push up gently should I feel the need to slightly spread my legs. But he won’t be able to see my new clothes, for I’ll still have my coat on; it is early and we’ll not yet have found the place for our picnic. I do hope we find an appropriate place, perhaps an abandoned path to the rapids. I must remember to take some mules, ones I can slip in and out of with ease. 

Rich liver paté, a ripe creamy Brie, a fresh French baguette are the things that he’ll bring. His grey herringbone jacket is pure wool against the breeze. I’m sure he has also thought of the weather. But he’ll wear an open-neck shirt which will be slightly darker in tone than the blue of his eyes. We are between seasons and I can imagine the feel of his mustard cord pants. He has forgotten to go to the hairdresser this month and I like the way his thick grey hair touches his shirt collar at the back. 

I’ll follow him, a little blindly, yet trusting. I know he will find the perfect spot: a rough wooden table with two benches under the trees down by the lake away from the crowds in a place where we can feel the mist rising. I imagine the noise of the waterfall rushing, tumbling down, but we are too far for it to be a distraction. What I do hear is my own thrill and excitement. I wonder if he can hear it as well. It is as though I am looking in from the outside, a voyeur on a secret time of my life. 

We are the picture of old-world decorum. I spread out two of the lush serviettes. He has a penknife, but we have forgotten plates. We laugh at this part of our impracticality. I place the bottle of deep red wine on the table. He takes it and considers the label. "The proof of the wine is in the drinking," is what he says. 

I smile and place the glasses on the rough table. He unpacks the paté, the cheese and the bread. I hand him the corkscrew. 

It is getting warmer and I take off my coat. He opens the bottle, but his eyes are upon me. I feel his approval and it makes me start to blush and, as if he has noticed, he turns his eyes once more to the task of the bottle. What he cannot see is the sensual contrast: the warmth of my blush and the feel of a Spring breeze beneath my skirt. I’m wearing lace panties, black over Bordeaux, sheer, the mid seam unsewn, a personal compromise between a thong and nothing at all. 

The cork pops and from his gaze I can see that my nipples betray me and hint at the thrill coming beneath. There is a swirling, a turmoil, as the Falls tumble over. Again. And again. 

We sit face to face, the table between us. He raises the screwed cork to his nostrils and breathes in the trapped bouquet. He closes his eyes for a moment before filling our glasses and then, raising his in a toast, he says: "Here’s to what’s happening." 

I cannot speak. I just nod and I sip. He breaks the bread and cuts some paté, spreads it on the dough of the baguette and hands it to me. I take the morsel and our fingers meet. I cannot resist drawing his fingers to my lips. My tongue touches the paté and bread and as my lips enclose the morsel and swallow, I draw him into my mouth just far enough to nibble, imperceptibly suckle. I cannot be calm and so break the spell. "Shall we play a game?" I ask. 

His index finger wanders to my lips and traces the fragile moist skin. His finger lingers and I close my eyes. Then he withdraws his hand and spreads some Brie. "I’m game," he say, his voice quietly hoarse. We both know the rules. We do not want complications. Yet we are like children before an adventure. I lean forward for the jar of mussels and the movement catches his eye. His gaze lingers on my taut nipples. I open the jar. With two fingers I catch a slippery mussel. "They are Spanish." 

He nods. "This one looks familiar," he say as he considers the folds of the two luscious lips. "There’s a pearl there," he adds and, as if as an afterthought, adds: "I wonder if you are as I imagine." 

I suddenly feel a throb deep and low in that part of me he cannot see, below the table. A moistness. I part my legs in the hope that a zephyr might cool what is happening. I sip and feel wine on my lips. "Do you have fantasies?" I hear myself say. He nods. I am silent. Then he take the mussel from my fingers and lets it slide into his mouth. I watch him, imagine a scene, and he says: "Please share yours with me." 

A couple approaches and with an envious glance at the food on our table move past us down to the lake. I hear the Falls thunder, hold my breath, breathe out slowly. 

"So tell me," he says. 

We wait until we are alone. The couple has gone, no doubt to look more closely at the thundering Falls and watch the power of the river vibrating. I have my own turmoil and wonder what he would do if I came around to his side of the table. 

My fantasy is to be here with you. The food we have brought has just served as a prelude. I straddle the bench; you turn to face me. My skirt rides up, but still covers my thighs. I keep still and wait for you to move. You smile and stroke my cheek with your finger, then my neck. My nipples strain against my bra and blouse. You gently pull one side of the crossover top away; my bra is sheer and you push the black lace a little so that just the nipple peeks over it. I remain still but my pulse rushes, is racing. I feel flushed. 

Suddenly the light changes as clouds gather above us. A solitary drop falls. You lick your finger and rub the wet over my exposed nipple. The cool air makes it hard. I want you, but I do not move. You take your time, paying scant heed to the tightening clouds. You obviously enjoy watching me unable to stir. You take off your jacket and spread it over the remains of the spoils on our table. Then you straddle the bench and you face me. 

A bulge starts to strain in your pants. I pretend I don’t see it, but I do. It makes me hot, but I keep still. You move closer to me and your hand pushes back my skirt. You stare and I watch the bulge in you pants. You have seen the slit in the lace of my panties. Your finger strokes my inside thigh and then hovers over the lacy slit. I am trying not to gasp. Gently your finger enters the lacy opening and urges further between the Chantilly of my brush. I am wet. Thickly wet. You like this. You draw out your finger and hold it, slightly slanted, beneath your nostrils. You breathe in and half close your eyes. Imperceptibly you smile and slowly suck on your finger. I close my eyes. You have teased me and told me what it could be like, but it is much more than I ever could have imagined. You are driving me wild. 

"I love the taste of you," you say. "I want to suck that pearl of yours and lick your darling mussel folds. Lie back," you tell me, and I do. You spread my legs and gaze at my open swollen pussy, then your head comes down and in long strong licks you burrow your face into me. Sucking, nibbling my clit, slurping as if unable to get enough of my juices. I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. 

You want to be there when I come. You want to taste it. And I do come. The clouds are breaking over Niagara and I come in waves, in clutches. Rain falls in plump warm drops as you lap all the while, lapping and stroking until the wild flow of the rapids suffuses to a satisfied calm. Then you pull me up and grin. I wipe your mouth with my fingers and kiss your lips, tasting me all over them. We caress gently, but even the lake has undercurrents of longing. The sun pierces the clouds as we kiss and drink from each other’s mouths once more, tonguing, nibbling, and sucking. I look down and reach out to unzip you. "We mustn’t be cruel," I say. 

You help with your belt and I free your bulging cock. You stand and face me now. I want my fill. I take this dear part of you - there is no foreskin as I had imagined - and stroke and lick the shaft as your hands hold my head and guide me. I lick the knob - a droplet - tasting of sea, inland and salty. I want more and flick my tongue about that little slit and gently suck for more. You are tensing. I hear your breathing. I cannot stop sucking, drawing your delicious cock deep into my mouth, slurping, wanting to draw from deep within you. I cannot stop. You are moaning now. I take your balls and fondle and squeeze them. You cannot hold back now, although you are trying. You are rushing to the edge. I want you to come. I am prepared. I don’t want to waste a precious drop. And there it is. The gush of your force is more than I dreamed. I swallow rhythmically as your essence flows and then fills me. I look up to you, my lips lingering on the tip of your knob and give a final tender lick. 

You wipe my mouth with your fingers and draw me to you. We hold each other, kissing languidly and long, tasting the last of a delicious lunch. You begin to straighten my top and give my nipple one last quick suckle. I zip your pants. We are both soaking and thank the weather. You take your jacket and we clear up. So well behaved, we know what we must do. You hand me the penknife and the corkscrew and I wipe them clean with the damp serviettes. Next time, we both know, there will be much more than just an appetizer in the park. 

I sit in the lobby of my New York hotel. Water gushes down a decorative wall. It is meant to be soothing, but it pounds like the Falls where we were to have met. A page cries: "Mrs Benoit. A call for you."

I have been waiting and was so well prepared. An appetizer usually leads to a main course. But the wild card of a flight cancellation has wiped out our only window of time. Now all that remains is this last call across one of so many bodies of water.

"I’m sorry," I say.

"I’m sorry, too."

"It was a wonderful lunch, though."

"You will write and tell me about it?"

"Yes," I whisper. "I will write and the words will make it true. Anyway, I still have the dark chocolate truffles."

"Then slip one in your mouth for me, darling."

"Yes, I shall do that. Yes, yes and yes." 

Copyright © 2001 Astrid L. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.

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