Okay, friends, to cap off this “50 Shades” theme, I’m bringing out the big guns today. Like any good finale, I’ve saved the best for last. I’ve called upon one of my favourite bloggers to write a guest post just for us!
Amanda is The Maven of Mayhem and it did not go unnoticed by me that she recently penned an erotic tale about bacon. (Yes, yes she did!) But since I don’t actually like bacon, I have put in a special request for …. POUTINE! Thank you so much Amanda for joining in on our fun and for putting your awesome writing to work for it too!
Warning: The following material includes graphic, x-rated depictions of french fries, cheese curds and other artery-clogging kinkery. I’m just saying, you might not want to read this out loud in your kitchen to your darling children. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
photo credit and source
50 POUNDS OF POUTINE
By Amanda, The Maven of Mayhem
Dusk was falling as I exited the depanneur. A warm evening breeze caressed my skin, reminding me that summer could, at times, be a forgiving mistress.
A lone vehicle stood across the parking lot, a string of Christmas lights framing the sliding window in its side. A chip truck! I thought, excitedly. My stomach growled in anticipation. I put my newly purchased case of beer in the trunk of my car and headed over.
“Les Patates Yvon,” I said aloud as I crossed the lot, reading the name of this four-wheeled establishment. “Yvon’s… potatoes?” I guessed. I was new to the area and the French language it embraced.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” said a voice. A handsome man leaned out the window, his dark hair held back by a net. “What can I get for you?”
I studied the menu posted outside the truck. “I’m not sure… What’s pow-teen?”
He looked at me quizzically. “You mean, poutine? It’s pronounced ‘Poot-SIN’ - emphasis on the sin.” He winked slyly. I blushed. “It’s a dish of fries, cheese and gravy. Truly like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. Can I make you one?”
I hesitated. “Um, no thank you. I’m not sure if that’s my thing. Maybe I’ll get some fries.”
“How do you know it’s not your thing if you’ve never tried it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he disappeared from the window, and reappeared moments later, opening a door into the truck. “Come inside,” he held out his large hand. “And I will give you what you really want.” It wasn’t so much a request, as an order.
I stood for a moment, stunned. My better judgment tugged at me, but curiosity and desire teamed up to make me accept his invitation. I took his hand, letting him pull me through the door.
The inside was hot and humid, the smell of old grease hung in the air. Yvon flicked a switch, turning off the twinkling lights adorning the outside of the truck. He then guided my hand toward the OUVERT/FERMER sign on the window. “Change it to closed,” he ordered. And I did.
Yvon shoved some boxes off a small surface beside the fryer. I gasped as he lifted me effortlessly onto the now-bare counter. He leaned in and whispered in my ear: “It’s time to make things sizzle.” I heard the flick of another switch, followed by a bubbling sound. The deep fryer had come alive, swallowing long strips of cut potato with its heat.
“Your problem, mademoiselle,” Yvon whispered, “is that you’re not adventurous enough. ” He slowly traced a finger up my neck. “You don’t take chances. You don’t try new things.” His finger now traced up my cheek, over my temple and into my hair. “What is life without new experiences? New pleasures?”
I didn’t answer. Feelings of fear and ecstasy danced within me, leaving me unable to speak.
“Sit there like a quiet little girl, then.” He breathed into my ear. “I have to get the cheese curds from the fridge.”
“Ch- cheese curds?” I managed. “You don’t use mozzarella? Wouldn’t that melt better?” His finger slid down my head, where he grabbed my ponytail and pulled it back – hard.
“Nobody. Uses. Mozzarella.” He said gruffly, giving my hair a small tug with every word. “Do not insult me.”
“I’m– I’m sorry.” I muttered.
He released my ponytail and stroked my cheek. “Just don’t let it happen again.”
Within moments, the fries were ready and placed in a styrofoam container. Cheese curds were placed over top, and then came a thick coating of lumpy gravy – “my homemade gravy, or ‘la sauce,’ as we say in French” he explained. Yvon held it out before me. “Get ready.”
I reached beside me for a familiar bottle. “No ketchup!” he barked. I jumped and dropped the bottle. “We’re not going to use a condiment tonight. You need experience this bare, or not at all.”
His insistence excited me. It made me come alive. Never would I have considered leaving the safety of ketchup with fries until this moment. It was then that I realized I needed to give myself over to him entirely.
“Open your mouth.” He said. “Close your eyes and open it wide. I have something for you.”
A shot of heat filled my mouth. The combination of flavours was like nothing I’d experienced before.
I swallowed. “Give me more, Yvon. Oh God, give me more!”
“What do good little girls, say when they want something?” he asked.
I could hardly stand the wait. “Please! God, please! I need it inside of me right now!” Another shot of flavour, then another. He was cramming my mouth full and I could barely keep up.
“I know you can take it, baby. Let’s see you take it.” Plastic forkful after plastic forkful; I was moaning with pleasure. Then, just when I thought I could take more – just when I was sure he couldn’t stuff me any fuller if he tried – it was over.
“Open your eyes,” he said. Still standing in front of me as I sat on the counter, he held up a container, scraped bare.
Then he unrolled his sleeve to reveal a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?” he asked.
“No thank you,” I replied. “But I do have some Labatt 50 in my car. Want one?”
“Absolutely. Nothing goes down better post-poutine,” he replied.
