Guilty Pleasures (42 page)

At Guilty Pleasures, they unloaded the supplies for the Mexican-themed birthday party and packed things away, ready for Serge.
 

Millie sidled up to him and nibbled at the side of his neck. “I love Mexican, the spices, the chili, the chocolate . . . hot!” Her fingers walked slowly down his body to massage him through his jeans. She flicked her tongue, hot and wet into his ear.
 

Lance groaned.
 

She was insatiable. She parted his shirt to tongue at his nipples, running her hot mouth down to his shivering belly. Her nimble fingers sprung him free. There he was, shamelessly sitting up and begging for attention. She ran her tongue over the cleft at the top of his penis, and sucked him in deep for a brief moment before releasing him, wet and forlorn, to nibble her sharp teeth down the length of his shaft.

Her hands cupped his balls, massaging them; her nails raking through his pubic hair, before she closed one hand around him, licked her way up and engulfed the quivering tip again. Lance convulsed in ecstasy, buried his hands in her hair, caressing her cheeks, tracing her lips as she suckled him avidly.
 

“Stop, Millie, stop. I’m coming . . .”

She released him, swung herself up on to the counter and spread her thighs. She pulled him into her pulsing heat, her mouth sucking at his lips, and thrust her tongue into his mouth. “This is what you taste like . . . salt and sex.”

She dug sharp fingers into his buttocks, urging him on, whimpering in his ear as she came. Lance held on to her for dear life, balancing precariously on tremulous legs, as he dissolved and spilled into her.

Exhausted after the wild bout of kitchen sex and the scrupulous clean-up Millie had demanded afterwards, Lance made his way home for his morning nap. He’d have to take care, as she seemed determined to wear him to a nub. His poor balls were empty, literally squeezed dry. His body ached, and he desperately needed to sleep.
Home at last!
Too tired to shower, Lance threw himself onto his bed and was instantly asleep. He woke to the alarm’s plaintive call at two in the afternoon. It seemed he’d barely had time to fall asleep, and up he was again, in every sense . . .
 

His penis, blindly eager, nuzzled at his belly button.
No more!
 

Determined, Lance took himself into a cold shower. He smelled of sex. He soaped himself with scrupulous care, and regulated the water temperature to warm. He could still smell Millie on his body.
 

His hand wandered down to his cock. Out of the shower, enough was enough. He shaved, dressed, and nibbled at a barley snack. It was time to go to work. Tonight he was sleeping at home, whatever happened.

At Guilty Pleasures, the delicious aromas of spices and pimientos ribboned through the air.

Serge happily bustled, spoon in hand, stirring the pots. He turned flat discs of dough blistering on an iron griddle with agile fingers. He hummed
West Side Story’s
“I Feel Pretty” and his voice was deep and powerful, but not very melodious. “Hey, Willie.
Buenas tardes
.” He skipped happily along his raised walkway. “You like it
hot?
”

“Good afternoon, Serge. I love Mexican cuisine.”

“Oh, la-di-dah!
Cuisine!
Ain’t we
refined
, Willie Wanker? I don’t do no
cuisine
, I make F-O-O-D, you hear?”

“Oh. Of course . . .” Chastened, Lance scuttled off to make himself useful.

Lance chopped onions, peppers, pumpkin, tomatoes, garlic, and coriander, spilling new aromas into the air.
 

Serge distributed a surprising variety of chilies each to his own bubbling pot. He named them:
guajillo
,
pasilla
,
jalapeño
,
serrano
,
güero
, and—the devil’s own—the terrible
habanero
. He set Lance to grinding cloves, black pepper and dried coriander with a stone pestle. Serge placed succulent cubes of white monkfish in a lime juice and black peppercorn marinade for the
ceviche
. He seared large glossy
poblano
peppers over an open flame and rubbed off the skin for the
Chile en Nogada
.
 

“Hot indeed!” Lance exclaimed as the capsicum’s volatile oils tickled his sensitive nose.
 

Serge stirred the various fillings, tasting, rectifying, adding ingredients and condiments. He rolled up corn husks with a chicken and corn filling—flavoured with
serranos
and
cilantro
—for the
Tamales Verdes de Pollo,
pulped the acid-green flesh of avocados with garlic,
cilantro
and onions
and
of course, chilies, drizzling the finished
guacamole
with lime juice and covered the surface with plastic wrap to prevent the oxidation of the delicate dip.
 

Lance shelled large grey-armoured prawns for the
camarones
.

Serge garnished the
Dulce Poblano
with curls of bitter chocolate and sugared orange peel and dusted it with cinnamon and cloves.

Lance drew the aromas deep into his lungs. Never had the mingled scents of Serge’s creations seemed so exotic and intoxicating. He was starving.

Millie waltzed in, in a Frieda Kahlo-style multicoloured skirt and flounced white blouse, her hair braided into a coronet of red and black flowers. She stopped dead, her colour fading perceptibly. “My God, Serge, I think you overdid it! Those sauces smell so strong.”

Serge frowned. “Really? They seem all right. What do you think, Willie?”

“Smells good to me; in fact, I’m getting pretty hungry.”

Millie gagged. “Please. I’m going to the salon. I’ll need some help with the
piñata
, Will, if you don’t mind?”

The salon was transformed—brilliantly coloured hangings depicting a joyously rustic Mexico decorated the walls. Fat, dark men with jolly moustaches danced with round-faced girls with long white skirts and braids, and podgy, brightly caparisoned little donkeys capered and kicked up their heels at haughty black bulls with gilded horns. Strange figures with skull faces and feathered cloaks led a gold-haloed, blue-cloaked Madonna by the hand.
 

Dozens of coloured paper lanterns hung from the ceiling. A stand roofed with flowers awaited a band, obviously the fabled mariachi. The chandelier had been hoisted above the low-hanging lanterns and out of sight. The table for twelve was set with cheerfully mismatched colourful ceramic plates and bright enamelled tin cups. The tablecloth was egg-yellow with black, white and red rickrack, and the napkins red with green stripes.

A cheerier setting could hardly be imagined.

“I love it, Millie. It’s stunning, amazing, how you think of every detail! I love the paintings . . .”
 

Millie frowned. “Yes, it does look good. I had this young artist do the hangings. He’s brilliant! Just what I wanted.” She hesitated. “Can you smell the paint, Will? Or is it just me imagining it?”

“No . . .” Lance stepped up close to one of the huge hangings and sniffed. “Well, maybe just a little, but only really up close. Don’t worry; no one will notice.”

They had finished hoisting up the
piñata
with the presents inside, just as Hendricks and his waiters started setting up the buffet in readiness for the guests’ arrival.
 

Five men in traditional costume and the obligatory straw hats trooped in. All carried instruments: trumpets, guitars, and maracas. Lance shuddered, remembering the cello players.

The sound of trampling feet and laughter on the stairs heralded the start of the festivities. Lance ran for the kitchen and the band struck up a rousing fanfare.

The fun began. Serge and Lance raced to keep up with the large pitchers of margaritas—emptied almost instantaneously—and finalising the hot dishes for the buffet table. The guests shrieked, laughed, and ate their way through the deliciously spicy food, drowning the heat with gallons of icy Mexican beer and margaritas.

At last Hendricks wheeled out Montezuma’s Gold: a three-foot high chocolate and coffee bombe in the shape of an Aztec pyramid covered in gold leaf and floating on a lake of molten dark chocolate and chili sauce, sporting a large number-fifty-shaped gold candle on top.

The raucous, discordant chorus of “Happy Birthday,” topped by the quivering soprano wail of a trumpet announced that a very good time was being had by all,
including
the band.

At long last, the sounds of happy carousing faded to hiccups. Hendricks and his team carried in the spoils, and left one very drunk mariachi musician abandoned, unconscious, under the table by his fellows.
 

Millie dragged herself in looking exhausted. “Let’s go, boys. Call it a night, I’m beat. Will, please can you drive me home?”

“Of course, straight away. See you tomorrow morning, Serge.”

In the van, she snuggled into her seat and dozed off. Lance stopped at her door and gently shook her.
 

“Millie. Millie love, we’re here.” Lance helped her out of the van and to her front door, where she stood swaying like a sleepy child. He bent down and picked her up. He carried her upstairs to her bedroom, helped her into her
pajamas
and tucked her in.

“Will . . .” she mumbled drowsily.

“I think we’ve been overdoing it, love. You’re exhausted. You have a good sleep. I’ll walk Horse before I go. Sleep, my love, and I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Millie yawned and sat up. She looked over to her nightstand and noticed she’d left her diary there after the previous evening’s “confession.” She made a mental note to remember to place it back on her desk tomorrow morning. Not that she didn’t trust Will, but a girl had to have some secrets.