Nora’s Round 7 Challenge: Incorporate the White House (taken from Fido’s Story). Word limit: 600.
Read NORA 6 here (see “Similar Posts” at the bottom of this post for any earlier entries)
Catherine was rarely ever lost for words but when she opened the door she found herself practically gasping for air.
“Richard Gaynmedovich,” the tall, broad-shouldered, immaculately dressed guest intoned, sweeping his arm decadently into a gentleman’s bow. Catherine extended her arm for a handshake but he plunged to one knee and planted a slow moist kiss upon her perfumed dainty hand while staring up at her with dangerously intense eyes. He possessed the exotic features of a light-skinned Russian prince but spoke like an English gentleman from a Somerset Maugham tale.
“Arthur!” cried Richard, emerging from the library. “Marvelous to see you, old chap.” They exchanged a vigorous man-to-man handshake. “Shall we have a quick snort while Catherine sets the table?”
“Go on then,” Catherine cooed, shooing them along. “Out of my way.”
There had not even been a wink or eyebrow toss between the two men. Catching up on their latest news over brandy snifters, they seemed as relaxed and chummy as country club intimates. However, she could not shake the thought of their hard naked bodies mounted in the primal four-legged animal position, grunting and bucking and flexing in outrageous acts of violent penetration among heedlessly flung blazers and trousers. Disturbed at her rising pulse, she hastily pushed the unsettling imagery from her mind.
Catherine brought out mashed potatoes with gravy, steamed oysters, sausage links, baby green salad, corn on the cob and applesauce. She then called the men over, seating each at a table head and placing herself squarely in the middle.
“Splendid with the seating scheme,” whispered Arthur coarsely into her ear. “Maybe later we can squeeze the seats closer, if you catch my drift…”
“Arthur!” she blushed, taken aback at his indiscretion. Speaking loudly and feigning annoyance, she said, “Of course I haven’t forgotten the buns in the oven!” She dashed to the kitchen and scurried back with a basket of warm buns luxuriously swathed in white cloth. “One more dish!” she chirped, scampering off again.
She returned bearing a roasted suckling pig on a silver platter. The men gasped. Steam issued up from its browned glistening back in aromatic wafts. Richard’s nostrils flared out as Catherine leaned towards him, bringing the suckling to him for closer inspection. The quivering gorge of her squeezed bulging mounds were inches from his face. Glancing down, she could see he had begun to stiffen.
“How was your day, Richard,” asked Catherine, taking her seat.
“Pleasant enough, thank you. Went for a morning swim, read my newspapers, tweaked my memoir. The usual.”
“Tell her about Obama,” Arthur said, filling their wineglasses with a 1997 Mascarello Barolo.
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot. The president called me this morning. He was in a devil of a state over this dreadful Nobel Peace Prize hubbub.” Richard laughed. “He alleged he didn’t deserve it, but I’m sure the old dog was pleased!”
“The president!” Catherine gasped in awe. Arthur only associated with men of influence but she sometimes forgot just how eminent his acquaintances ran.
“Nothing to get worked up over. I’ve known Barry for decades. Why, he’s practically an adopted son. I won’t bore you with the details…” Richard brought a forkful of pork loin to his mouth and closed his eyes as he began to chew, moaning with contentment. “I must say, Catherine, this is the most tender, moist, delectable loinflesh I’ve ever tasted.” He opened his eyes and leaned forward, exchanging a long gaze with her. His eyes briefly dropped to her bosom as his wriggling toes found her calf.
“I shan’t even try to imagine what’s for dessert.”