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Message-ID: <40991asstr$1045782606@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: oosh <oosh@gmx.NOSPAM.net>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 20 Feb 2003 18:54:22 +0000 (UTC)
User-Agent: Xnews/5.04.25
Subject: {ASSM} {Birthday} Dark Chocolate - oosh
Date: Thu, 20 Feb 2003 18:10:06 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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[This comes from a larger work in progress. I have decided to
pre-publish it today, 20 February 2003, in honour of Gary Jordan's
birthday. Gary is the generous soul behind the Silver Clitorides
awards, always a genial spirit on ASSD, and he happens to be very keen
on chocolate. - O.]


Dark Chocolate

by oosh@gmx.net


"Oh, what are these?" Alice puts her knee on the chair and leans over
the open box of chocolates. She looks up at Violet with soft, innocent
eyes. Only the slightest crease in her brow betrays her watchfulness.

Violet puts down her book and shifts in her chair. "Those? They're from
Birmingham - a gift from a besotted admirer." Her eyes twinkle the
joke, and she twitches a tight, ironic smile.

For a precious instant, Alice senses the smile as a secret message,
specially for her, and her heart rises in her breast. She sees Violet
on the concert platform, giving her perfunctory little bow, smiling
that secret smile to her alone. But then the vision clears, and the
auditorium fills: Violet must have shown that smile to everyone she has
ever met. Alice squirms as jealous annoyance flares inside her. She
feels it radiating down her left side, then nestling in her belly. She
shudders and shudders again, until it is gone.

Her gaze returns to the chocolates, darkly nestled in their pleated
black paper cups. Two have gone already. She glares at the twin sockets
with all the indignation of a diva noticing that a front-row couple
have failed to return to their seats after the interval. But then,
still peering into the box, she softens, releasing a little sigh. "So -
what are they? Will I like them?"

At first, Violet is too preoccupied to respond. She has been watching
Alice's hands, her mouth, her eyes, trying to divine from their
movement the thoughts unfurling within.

Alice turns again to Violet, coolly interrogative. "Hmm?"

Violet has the sensation of waking up in the middle of a particularly
important viva. She feels, rather than hears, the question. "Ah - What
are they? They're chocolate gingers. Dark chocolate."

Alice's gaze does not waver. Her eyes darken.

Violet shifts in her chair. "Black chocolate, I suppose. It's hard and
black and bitter." Violet detects Alice's momentary uncertainty, and is
pleased, quick to take the advantage. "It's a grown-up kind of
chocolate. Bit of an acquired taste, really."

Alice looks down in growing fascination. Her bare forearm, the green
school sweater carelessly rucked up to the elbow, extends with casual
stealth; her wrist drops over the box, a falcon poised to swoop.
"Hmmm..." It is the sort of indecisive sound that people make when they
are choosing from a bewildering variety. But in this box, each
chocolate is as alike as hand-made chocolates can ever be. "Can I try
one?" She looks up to Violet again, narrowing her eyes and quirking her 
lips.

There is something knowing in that glance, something adult that strikes
Violet as disturbing, but at the same time curiously exciting.
Reluctantly, she acknowledges to herself that it is not very long since
she herself detested plain chocolate - a detestation learned
unquestioningly from mother. And yet... And yet... There's something
smooth about it, something rich and mysterious - and now, away from the
family at last, free to form her own tastes - she has begun to see why
people like it so much. Would Alice understand, too? Her eyes focus
upon Alice's finger, poised over the box. There is a dark ink-stain
there, where Alice has been holding her pen. Violet looks at Alice's
mouth - open, lazily hungry - and tastes the blue, metallic ink from
that finger upon her own lips, feels with imaginary tongue the swell of
the joint beneath the skin, the texture of the tiny, unique, individual
lines.

Alice exhales impatiently. "Well? May I?"

Violet finds herself suddenly blushing, shuddering  at the sheer
inappropriateness of her thoughts. She forces a smile. "Try one. Why
not?"

The falcon swoops; and Violet closes her eyes, trying not to think of
that crisp black ball of chocolate dissolving in Alice's warm, sweet
mouth. But when she opens her eyes once more, Alice is holding it
between thumb and inky forefinger, suspended before her protruded lips.
With her teeth, she shaves thin layers of chocolate on to her
outstretched tongue.

Violet cannot repress her laughter. "Alice, that's utterly disgusting!"

Almost guiltily, Alice retracts her tongue, and tastes. Her eyes
brighten in private horror. "Ptah!" She wrinkles her nose.

Alice doesn't like dark chocolate: she is just a girl after all. Violet
thinks, "Pearls before swine," relishing the chance to play the mature
woman. "I told you that it was a grown-up taste," she says airily.

Alice snatches the chocolate away from her mouth, the better to send
Violet a glance of mingled defiance and contempt. Then, with
studied insolence, she puts the whole thing into her mouth and begins
chewing, eyes closed, savouring, her torso writhing in defiant delight.

Violet watches the performance, afraid to breathe.

The next moment, Alice stares pop-eyed, her mouth contorted in a
pantomime of disgust. With sudden, youthful energy, she leaps from
the desk and rushes to the waste paper basket in the corner. She picks
it up and spits a brown dollop into it. "Gak!" she says, looking in
horror at the bottom of the basket.

"You didn't like it, did you?" Violet cannot keep the gloating from her
voice.

Alice screws her eyes shut and shakes her head over the uplifted waste 
bin. "Pah! Disgusting!"

* * *

The following evening, Alice claims to have a mountain of homework, and
so it falls to Violet to clear up the kitchen after dinner. She puts
the pans in to soak, and decides to listen to some chamber music while
the hot water softens the grease. But no coffee yet: that will be her
reward when the work is done. The quartet is interrupted several times,
as Violet jumps up to replay some of the interesting modulations and
then picks them out on the piano, occasionally jotting some useful
ideas in her composition note-book. When it is done, a full hour has
passed, and she finds the water in the sink lukewarm. Not to worry: the
worst of the grease swirls away and she can use fresh hot water for the
glasses and cutlery, just as it should be done.

Finally, the coffee machine announces with a splutter that its work is 
done, just as Violet is putting away the last of the pans. Coffee time! 
She fills her cup from the little pot and makes her way to the 
sitting-room, pausing in the hall to listen for the distant 
thunder of Alice's typewriter. She feels slightly guilty about letting 
Alice cook the dinner when she has so much homework, but silence from 
upstairs suggests that at least the English essay is done. Reassured, 
she makes for the sofa.

And there, upon the coffee-table, is the smart black chocolate-box.
"Hmmm," she thinks, "what nicer than a chocolate with my coffee?" With
her forefinger, she flips the lid open. But all is not well.

"What?" she cries to the empty room. To her horror, only one chocolate
remains, alone in a dark sea of empty paper cups. She puts her cup down
sharply and raises the box for closer inspection, as if doubting her
own eyes. It is suspiciously light. Popping the survivor into her
mouth, she hooks up the black cardboard divider and peers below decks.
Mutiny. All gone.

"Alice?" Violet strides out into the hall. "Alice! What the fuck have 
you done with my chocolates?"

 From somewhere upstairs, she hears a low moan. Yes: the greedy little
bugger has scoffed them, and made herself ill. No wonder she ate so
little of the apple crumble - she was leaving room for her ill-gotten
hoard. Violet marches up the stairs, wrenches the door-handle and
strides into Alice's room - and is surprised to find it in darkness. 
Before her eyes can adjust, she sees a pale shape diving for cover
among the dishevelled bedclothes.

Violet switches on the light, and Alice hisses in irritation. She is 
half-covered, her back to Violet, apparently naked. Her hunched 
shoulder-blades say "go away."

"No I won't go away, you little sod! You nicked my chocolates, didn't 
you? I've a good mind to..." Violet advances toward the bed, her hands 
like claws. Her nostrils are assailed by the scent of ginger - ginger 
and sex. She is about to make a crushing allusion to this, when Alice 
begins to speak.

"Don't touch me, Violet." Alice's voice is cold and commanding, and 
despite herself, Violet stops in her tracks. "If you touch me, I shall 
be sick."

"I should bloody well think so. What a nerve! You only left me one!"

"I did it for you, Violet."

"What do you mean, you did it for me?"

Alice half turns her head towards Violet, but without looking at her 
directly. "I did it for you." Her tone is light and matter-of-fact. "You 
know that you don't get enough exercise, and I didn't want you to get 
fat. I, on the other hand..."

Violet's indignation boils over again. "Now look here, young lady... I'm 
the one who decides what I'm going to eat, and more particularly, those 
chocolates were given to me, not you."

"But we share everything, Violet. Well... almost everything." Alice
lets out a low, rather dirty, chuckle. "I even let you share my house.
I even let you come into my own room. Aren't I nice?"

"It's not your house until you're eighteen, as you know full well. And 
those were my chocolates!"

"Oh, Violet, don't keep on about it! They were only chocolates - it's
not as if they matter. And didn't I cook you a nice dinner?"

Violet feels her moral advantage beginning to ebb. She tries not to look 
at Alice, especially not now, because it is very difficult to be angry 
with such perfect shoulders, such kissable arms. "Well, I still think 
you're a rotten stinker..."

Alice rolls over on to her back, clutching an armful of bedding to her 
chest, facing Violet at last. "I didn't mean to be rotten, Violet. I was 
trying to be kind, that's all."

"Kind?"

"Yes, kind. You know about chocolate, don't you? You know what it does 
to you?" Alice writhes, extends a naked leg, points her toe and draws 
it sensuously up to knee height. "You know, it has... certain effects."

"Effects? What effects?"

Alice abruptly straightens and hides the exposed leg. "Chocolate is an 
aphrodisiac, Violet. I was just trying to protect you, that's all. I 
know how you struggle against your unnatural desires. I thought that I 
would be helping you if I put them out of temptation's way."

Violet cannot hide her blush from Alice. "That's nonsense, Alice. That's 
complete nonsense."

Alice's voice becomes sing-song: "Oh no it isn't, Violet. I've tested 
very extensively. Just two or three of those chocolates, and you would 
be a raging beast!"

"Rubbish!"

"And the orgasms are... mmm... fantastic!" Alice rolls her eyes.

"I'm not listening to any more of this!" Violet turns and strides out, 
slamming the door.

Alice stretches languorously, then rolls over, shedding most of the
bedclothes in the process. She lifts one corner of her pillow, and
feels beneath it. Ten chocolate gingers to go. She takes one and pops
it in whole. "Mmmm!" She feels the chocolatey warmth radiating through 
her almost at once. And then the tingle, the tingle that promises more...

She reaches down. "Can you hear, Violet?" she whispers. "Can you hear 
how wet I am?"

But Violet cannot hear. She is weeping, angrily weeping - as she is apt
to do when she is reminded, as she has been reminded tonight, that there
is one thing sweeter, more tantalizing, more erogenous than all the
chocolates in the world - and that is the one thing she cannot have.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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