The Dungeon Gourmet

The Marquis de Bond blogs about cooking and kinky sex. While it may be easy to blog about sensual domination, applying it in real life has challenges. Recipes for love don’t follow plans. New ingredients show up unannounced, other ingredients turn stubborn and refuse to be what they are.

Sarai’s free-spirited submission drives Bond crazy but captures his heart. Sarai doubts the survivability of a relationship forged in fantasy. To prove her wrong, Bond invites the one man capable of stealing her away to join their sex play.

Now all three will discover if two dominant men are a recipe for love…or war.


A blonde hostess, dressed in black corset and stockings, invited Bond to follow her. At one time the soft rustle of silk, the whiff of perfume and the wiggle of bottom would have lifted his desire like mercury in a column. Now his only thought was to wrap up this meeting and escape. He’d closed the sale he was in town to make and was almost to the Beltway when a text message came through—an urgent plea for five minutes of his time. A friend he couldn’t refuse. Another delay he couldn’t avoid.

Who would have thought that he’d be looking forward to a weekend of sipping iced tea and listening to crickets? Well, there would be other amusements, a sweetly curved amusement. He found himself craving an evening breeze laced with honeysuckle and the sound of Sarai’s bare feet padding across the front porch to join him.

The hostess seated him in a booth. Fine black leather gleamed in the soft light. “Welcome to Club Krush. I’m Katie. We have Ginger to entertain you. Lady Krush will join you shortly.”

Bond looked across the rows of empty tables and sparkling glassware. A redhead took her first seductive swing around the dance pole. Music throbbed. Katie brought his drink. He sipped and smiled, recognizing St. Amand ale. Krush must be buttering him up for something big.

A crash, followed by a nerve-severing scream, sent what should have been his next swallow sloshing over his white shirt.

* * * * *

Sarai tucked the phone between her ear and her shoulder and lifted thick hair off her neck, letting a hint of breeze cool the perspiration there.

“Don’t worry,” Bond told her. “It is only a minor delay. I will be there tomorrow, for sure. In the meantime, it’s an afternoon in the dungeon for you. You can’t keep neglecting your courses.”

A siren’s whoop made her wince and hold the phone away. She waited until it dropped off enough to be heard. “Is that an ambulance siren I hear? Are you sure everything is okay?”

“Don’t worry…the ambulance, she leaves now, and I’m not on there. Everything is fine.”

Sarai didn’t believe him. His French accent thickened when he was stressed. She could almost see his long fingers raking dark hair back from his face as he talked, knew silver sparks danced in his blue eyes.

Arguing was useless. She returned to the only subject he would discuss. “I can’t write that paper in an afternoon. My brain is desert dry and so is the topic.”

“Let’s see if we can’t moisten it.”

Her mouth went dry as well.

Bond’s voice rumbled with warning. “And I will check, so don’t think about sneaking off. The dungeon inspires your best work.”

Sarai glanced out the open window. The river wound like a silver ribbon below the hill. When Bond was overseas, she’d sit and watch sunlight play in gold veins over the surface, think of how the water flowed out to the ocean, touched the shores on the other side of the world. In the same way, his spirit and personality had the power to reach across the distance, touch her secret self and make her crave the simple joy of pleasing him. She wasn’t going to win this.

She tossed her beach towel on the kitchen table and kicked off rubber flip-flops. She tried reason. “Getting away from the desk for a while will spur my creativity.”

“You have been spurring your creativity for three weeks. It’s my turn.”

She flopped in the chair and plucked at the fringed edge of her cutoffs. He was so sexy when he was unshakable. She pressed her thighs together to block desire, purring in response to Bond’s determination.

Bond’s tone softened. “You are afraid, afraid you will fail. Yet, you always make the dean’s list. You work today. Stay logged into the dungeon and I’ll slip in for chat when work allows.”

She poked out her bottom lip.

“Don’t pout.”

It irritated her that he guessed her response. She crossed her legs and felt the tug of damp panties against tender lips, caught the scent of her desire. Peaches. Bond said she reminded him of sun-warmed peaches. If she was a peach, that Gallic growl in his voice was the sun that warmed her.

“I don’t,” she grumbled.

“Your education is neglected, pet. This will be corrected. Today. I am clear?”


“I emailed instructions. It will help with the inspiration.”

“Yes, Sir.”

A low, almost animal wail startled her. “Nooo. Nooo.”

“What’s that, Jacques?” She used his first name, their signal something serious needed discussion. “Is a man sobbing?”

The sound receded, a door slammed, quiet returned. Bond cleared his throat. “It is nothing serious. Don’t worry.”

“It’s usually serious when guys cry.”

“This one is…how do you say…a drama queen. Be good. We’ll talk later.”

The Dungeon Gourmet Blog…spicing up your love life.

August: Le Marquis De Bond’s Toasted Peach Ice Cream

This is the secret.


Yes, imperfect timing can still yield good results. But in my dungeon, only superb will do. And for this result, timing is the hub, the heart of the scene or recipe.

We begin with the ingredients. The peach. No spring green for this dish. The firm, tart flesh of the early summer varieties won’t do. Only the voluptuous, August peach—matured to perfection—serves us.

Now, perfect peaches—like fine wine (and certain other delicacies)—need time to grow into the full richness of flavor. The cold cellar, and containment in good oak stocks…er…barrels, can develop the multilayered bouquet. For the peach, the heat and time suspended in the summer sun brings her to perfection.

Anyway, this is the test: Hold the peach loosely in your palm. Notice the weight. The good peach should have some weight, a heft in your hand. She should fill your fingers. Now, exert a light tension with the pads of your fingers on the skin, a tugging apart, fingers and thumb pulling in opposite directions, just so. If she’s ready, the skin will part to reveal glistening, succulent flesh. Ah, my mouth waters.

Breathe deep.

You will know.

The scent of a perfect, pluckable peach is like no other. The sweetness of her will make your teeth ache to sink in.

Her juice will flood your fingers.

Se mettre au jus, mes amis. Mmm. Enter the juice.

Put your tongue back in your mouth and go pluck some peaches. We will continue.