Laura poured it all down her throat, honey glazed pork, roast chicken, pasta with tomato cream sauce. Her slurping and smacking of lips mingled with the heavy smell of food held back by the velvet curtains. It all conspired to make the air in the room practically solid even though there were many meters to the ceiling. Reaching for the potatoes, she saw Henry standing beside the table, hands folded in front. There were marks from his toque where his straw coloured hair was plastered to his forehead. His half worried half hungry eyes followed each morsel from her plate to her voluptuous lips. She decided to throw him a bone and beckoned. He blinked at if woken up mid-dream and came closer, shoulders hunched.
‘The chicken is especially good,’ she said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin, ‘well done, Henry.’
‘Thank you my Lady,’ Henry bowed his head.
She beckoned again and when he bent closer, gave him a smooch on the cheek.
‘Thank you, my Lady,’ Henry’s eyes shone, ‘thank you.’
‘You can return to the kitchen,’ she said and he backed away from her bowing, one protective hand over the wet mark she had left on his cheek. Her chuckles sent ripples down her chins, across her breasts, over her stomach to her thighs enveloping her chair. Then she felt a rumbling which had nothing to do with her laughter.
‘Gary, the bucket,’ she said. He was there at once and up came pork, chicken and pasta with tomato cream sauce and honey.
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A Bolg? 