From A High Stool

Sycamore changed into a white shirt of a very thin and light fabric. The first few buttons were open, as usual, so that the collar fell unkemptly over his chest. Placing a black apron around his torso, he thus started preparing us a meal.

I distracted myself with facing the two sides around me: Sycamore cooking on one, the empty, dark house stretching into the other – Completely quiet, still half-unknown to me. It felt lonely when he didn't talk – the air was starting to grow chilly in that evening, the sky outside was dark and dreary... But when he talked, I felt better. When he talked, I remembered I was there with him, and that he was Professor Sycamore, and not the scary stranger my brain pictured as the man who was taking me to his bed.

But even so, I still felt my bones grow lighter and lighter every time I thought of it. I felt ready to faint as the blood left my limbs, following straight to the core, flooding chest, belly and hips alike – the first ones trembling and shaking, the latter preparing, anticipating, twitching with fear and curiosity... all from merely acknowledging it in my thought: that he'd be taking me to his bed. Sycamore's bed. I wondered what it felt like... how soft the mattress, how perfumed the sheets... how large and how deep! And how would I feel on top of it? I embraced my stomach and bent down on it, feeling ready to be sick with excessive anxiety disturbing my digestive system – punching it, rather!

"Are you okay, dear?" Sycamore lightly asked.

"Yes... I'm just... feeling a little dizzy!"

"Well, I didn't see you touch breakfast this morning, nor nibble on anything your mother prepared you. It must be your exhausted body demanding food after being so mercilessly overworked by that turning brain of yours..."

I looked at him and he smiled, holding a wooden spoon inside his large hand. He looked both exceedingly masculine and silly in front of that stove, inside that black apron... the image almost allowed me to laugh out of my anxiety!

"If you'll do as I say:" his hand reached out and moved my face to him, he then resumed swirling the content of the pan "Don't look away from here: it will help open your appetite! Come, do you smell it?" he held out the spoon with a small portion of the red sauce he prepared. I ventured a sniff, as he demanded, and my stomach shook. I was pretty hungry...

"Delicious, isn't it?!' his voice was alert and joyful, he took the spoon between his lips and sucked on it delicately, tasting the sauce.

What he said made sense now – about trespassing all the thresholds life had for him of new and scary. I was there, crumbling down just a few feet away... and he composedly cooked. If anything moved him, it was the pleasure of waiting – the sweet taste of anticipation seemed to occasionally tease his senses, being perceived by me only in the form of an unexplained grin stretching across his face from time to time, and his eyes narrowing, intensifying as they seemed to watch only the smoke curling up above the pan. He wasn't scared, timid or anything of the sort... he needed not prepare for it, knowing what was in store for me, but being so kind as to not spoil it. He confidently, calmly waited...

The distant speech of one of Sycamore's colleagues reached me there, as I watched him. "...too young to be left alone with a man like him!" she apprehensively put it, then went on to try to explain to me what kind of man the professor was, and what could happen to one such as I, should I insist on going into his lab alone at night. Something about a Pyroar... something about the defenseless prey, ready to be eaten! The Professor's wet mouth closed around the spoon, savored the sauce, his tongue playing against his smiling lips... His quick fingers snatched a single strand of spaghetti recently lifted from the boiling water... moved it from one to another, getting used to the heat... put it between his teeth... closed them eagerly! His smiles, his hands, his cool movements and his growing appetite, tasting and salivating! Everything made a mean, undesirable reference in my brain! His eyes all the time flashing back at me – they meant I was next! It was maddening! ...Like the Pyroar licking the Deerling's long, feeble neck as the creature trembled, waiting to sink in his teeth... I was certainly ready to faint!

"Ohh!!" a moan escaped me – a moan of anxiety and fever as a shiver spontaneously shook me and my locked, starving butterflies pirouetted. I rapidly sealed my lips with my hands, gasping and hoping to God Sycamore would not have heard it... but I was there willingly, so why should the almighty care to help? Sycamore's smile stretched into a grin and I blushed with embarrassment... but it seemed he was only content with the result of his efforts: He noisily sucked the spoon between closed lips:

"Hmmm..." he closed his eyes and moaned. "Perfect..."

"Is... Is it ready?" I stretched my neck, trying to look into the pan.

"Perhaps..." his eyes didn't look at me – they plotted. "Do you care to try it?"

He held out the spoon again, it hovered above his open palm. I examined his eager, malicious smile... what was the worst that he could do?

"Hm... s-sure!"

"Alright, then..." he closed his eyes to enjoy a laugh, then he turned the spoon, letting the liquid fall on his index finger. "Tell me how you like it..." he walked up to me, smiling further from seeing me blush.

"Ahhh... Professor....!" I embarrassedly protested.

"You don't have to be shy now..." He was in front of me before I could dodge it, and, supporting one hand on the cabinet behind me, bending forward, he cornered me and stretched out his finger. I looked at it, then back at his mean, much too entertained eyes.

"What?" he poked, pretending not to understand what the big deal was about "You don't want it?"

"I-it's not that, it's just that..." I looked at his finger again, my color picking up!

Sycamore laughed heartedly "Well..." his finger drew closer to my lips, I automatically arched backwards "if you won't taste it, then I can never call dinner served... if I don't, then we will never..." he aborted the phrase spotting a gleam of hope in my eyes "Oh!" he suddenly commented, his intrusive finger drawing back "could it be that... you'd rather taste it from my mouth?"

His spirit reached maximum evilness – he seized my cheeks between gentle fingers and pressed them together, opening my lips up, and here came his tongue insinuating itself between shiny lips...

"It's fine, it's fine!!!" I quickly acquiesced, and he smiled triumphantly.

"Well then..." he let go of my cheeks, his hand caressed my face, opened, holding its side - his fingers brushed lightly around my ears, underneath my hair. My heart thumped fast...

"Try it..." he lifted the index finger covered in sauce, waiting for my move. I was too embarrassed to do it... his smile waited anxiously, his eyes narrowing, enjoying the fun.

"You can close your eyes if it will make it better..." he whispered coercively. I obeyed, closing them shut, slowly opening up my lips, waiting...

"More so, dear..." he muffled a chuckle, pulling down my chin. His grip on my head grew lighter, his fingers there migrating to the back of my head, gently intertwining with the roots of my hair. My lungs arched automatically, my tongue slipped out only slightly, and my body felt hot. I could feel Sycamore's aroused eyes on me...

Slowly, then, he slid his finger sideways through my tongue. It made me jump in my seat at first, however soft the movement... I opened my eyes, and he smiled so very pleased, so very absorbed... When he was done giving me a taste of the tomato sauce, and I gulped it down hardly remembering I was supposed to taste it, he asked me to open my mouth again. When I did, he brushed his thumb around my lower lip, then onto the very surface of my tongue. It felt weird and extremely embarrassing, and I pulled back when I couldn't take it anymore. He laughed, then sighed, moving away and giving me my space to burn – my head felt hot and numb at once.

"It should be ready in five more minutes..." he casually warned, returning to the stove.