Torch Song in Chocolate
By Birthday Nymph
Edited by Denny


There is a stage.

It’s been here forever. It’s been the scene of birthday songs and award announcements. It has given support to the unsure and height to the overlooked. It’s been the inspiration for impromptu readings and romantic declarations.

But tonight…tonight it is here for something truly special. A chair sits on the floor of La Taverna, close to the stage. An ordinary chair, but in it sits an extraordinary man. An Honored Patron tonight.

There is a curtain. A dark-as-midnight curtain that shimmers with silver threads. A sea of inky blue velvet, liquid nighttime flowing behind the shadowy figure.

The room is quiet, strangely quiet, and the patrons’ anticipation is palpable in the smoky room air. The clink of ice on a cut-crystal glass, the slosh of a chair on the floor, these are the only sounds. Even their breathing is muted, as though they’re inhaling and exhaling in unison to keep from shattering the mysterious stillness.

There is music. A slow saxophone, blowing soulful notes. Not sad, but languorous. Post-coital rhythms. Deep, dark notes. Promises.

There is a spotlight. Small. No bigger than a dinner plate. It floats lazily for a moment, rolling on top of the music, then comes to rest on the figure standing upon the boards. More specifically, it comes to rest on her hand.

A tiny hand encased in a black glove, wrapped under a plain white bowl. The spotlight widens and we see more of her. Black satin from shoulder to floor, sitting casually on a tall stool, one foot resting on a crossbar, the other giving her balance. The edge of the spotlight throws a glimmer
of light on a pair of perfectly smooth, slightly shimmering, wings. Yes, we've seen her before, this one.

Her other hand holds a brush. A narrow house-painter's brush. New with clean, pure tan bristles. And she stirs the bowl, pulling the brush into the air to let the patrons see the smooth, dark, stream of chocolate sauce flow between the brush and the bowl before she stands to set the bowl on
the polished wood of the stool.

The music picks up speed, waking from post-coital to early seduction. A slow-pulsing, wary, teasing movement that pulls her to the edge of the stage. Two patrons stand and offer their hands as she descends the steps to the floor of La Taverna. The spotlight follows her, encasing her in light and dampening the rest of the room. Although she accepts their assistance with the faintest of nods, her eyes remain steadily on one patron, That Honored Patron, until she reaches his table. Hands scurry to move drinks aside as she sits where his drink once rested and offers her hand to him.

The sax stops, and she can be heard, "These gloves, Gary. So many buttons. Perhaps you can assist me?"

It's with an obviously shaking hand that he begins to unfasten the delicate pearls. Each one exposing a bit more flesh. As he opens her, them, the music changes, from seduction to wanton need, and with the last button opened, she peels the satin from her fingertips and drops the empty
gloves into his lap, then strides back to the stage...

The music changes, from sax to piano. She turns to face the curtain, her back to the patrons, one hand hovering over the chocolate bowl, the other resting on her shoulder. The black silk of her gown is open in a deep, scooping frame, drawing the patrons' eyes from the delicate curve of her
exposed shoulder blades to the hinted-at dip of the small of her back.

The piano tune riffs then becomes recognizable. There's a voice now, not her voice, but one from off stage, full of smoke and expectation.

"You give me fever...."

Our nymph rolls a shoulder and slides the thin black strap down over her upper arm, letting it fall slack.

"When you touch me..."

The other strap slips off her shoulder, and our Nymph turns to face the patrons, holding her dress with her arm across her breasts, letting a hint of nipple contrast against the smooth black fabric.

"Fever when you hold me tight..."

With a wink to our honored patron, our Nymph begins to stir the chocolate with her free hand. She brings her hand up and a long, thin ribbon of bittersweet velvet flows between brush and bowl. It slows and stops, leaving the dark coating on the soft bristles.

"Fever in the morning...."

The beat of piano and voice seem to draw her forward, to the edge of the stage, where she sits. One leg crossed over the other, black-slipper-clad toe resting on the seat of the Honored Patron's chair. She sets the bowl and brush on his table and then beckons him to lean towards her, closer,
pulling one finger under his chin until we imagine the feel of his warm breath on her nearly-bared skin.

"Fever all through the night."

We hear her voice...

"Come give me fever, Birthday boy..." She hands him the chocolate-coated brush and wraps her own fingers around his. Together, they draw the chocolate over the curve of her breasts, replacing silk with sweetness. The creamy skin disappears under the chocolate, blending into the sinking
line of black silk until the dress rests in a swirl of softness around her hips. She rests back on her elbows as together they pour the still-warm sauce over the muscles of her belly. From bowl to skin it cascades over her body to the worn wooden stage, leaving Our Nymph as a chocolate
covered birthday treat...