Page 16 of Collin: Episodes 13-15
“Wait until we have the caraway seeds and smoked paprika with the olive oil added. And always, always”—Mr. Moreau held up his glass vial of olive oil—“use the good oil. Don’t accept rancid fake corn liquid. You Americans have no class with oils.”
Collin pretended to put a hand in a non-existent pocket and adopted a 1950s TV announcer accent. “But, sir, isn’t oil that substance that drips off good American cheese product slices when the burgers are hot on the grill?”
Mr. Moreau’s eyes widened in horror. He grabbed the kitchen towel. Collin dashed out of the kitchen, giggling madly.
A torrent of French followed Collin down the hallways and into the living room. He threw himself headfirst into the couch. Mr. Moreau straddled him half a second later. He pulled down Collin’s pants and snapped Collin’s ass half a dozen times with the folded-over towel.
“That! Rancid! Slime! Is….an…abomination! Spawn of Satan. That! Is not food. It is—” He began speaking again in French.
Collin wiggled under him. His sir was so much fun to tease, and this was so much better than watching his dom worry about things nothing could be done about. He struggled, more for sport than any attempt to get away. He was giggling too hard to try. Mr. Moreau dropped the towel and slapped Collin’s rear cheeks with his palm. “You imp. You cheeky feline of a boy.” He stopped smacking Collin’s ass in favor of grabbing handfuls of it.
Collin twisted around and pulled his sir down on top of him, looping his arms around Mr. Moreau’s neck and pulling him in for a kiss. “I shall never allow such evil into your kitchen, then, sir.”
“Never. I will fig you for a week.”
“What’s figging?”
“When a very irate dom peels fresh ginger into a dildo and fucks a naughty brat, then leaves it inside him until the reprobate is a penitent.”
“Wouldn’t that…burn?”
“Precisely.”
“On second thought”—Collin raised an eyebrow—“I think I’ll avoid even eating the aforementioned abomination.”
Mr. Moreau stood up and offered Collin his hand. “Oh? And what made you change your mind?”
“When you started threatening me with cooking ingredients in the wrong end. Ginger is supposed to go in my mouth and come out my ass. Not go up my ass and come out my eyes.”
Mr. Moreau smirked. “Hmm. No promises.”
Collin glared at him in horror. “Where’s that contract? Do I need to add a few things to it?”
“Oh, are you making figging a limit, kitten?”
“No, I’m making fucking me with dinner a limit! If that’s what you do with ginger, what might you do with eggplants? That’s supposed to just be an emoji! Or cucumbers! Cinnamon sticks! What if you got creative with potatoes?”
Mr. Moreau shook with laughter. His eyes looked suspiciously wet as if he was about to start crying with mirth.
“Any more ideas you want to give me, mon petit chaton?”
“You know what? I think you have a food fetish. First, you milk me for breakfast, and now you’re threatening me with dinner.” Collin grinned. His stomach was starting to hurt from laughing. “And here I thought you just had a thing for good cuisine. Dare I even ask what you do with daikon?”
“Oh, you have no idea, pretty boy. Have you ever heard of the practice of nantaimori? The female version is more popular; that’s nyotaimori.”
“No.” Collin’s eyebrows rose.
“It’s the practice of serving sushi on a human body. And daikon is sometimes used in sushi preparation.”
Collin blinked twice. “What? Isn’t that like…I mean, hygiene? Sushi is raw fish!”
“It’s usually served with a banana leaf between the skin and the fish.” Mr. Moreau grinned broadly. “Are you afraid I’m going to turn you into a serving tray for dinner?”
“Afraid? No. Absolutely certain it’s in my future now that I know you have words for it, yes.” Collin stomped toward his sir.
Mr. Moreau grabbed his wrist and pulled him in to a hug. “Not afraid, then?”
Collin snuggled into his sir’s chest. “I’m much more worried about ginger and eggplants.”
