Astral

Hots With a Haughty Hottie By: Astral

To ask the question “Want to come over for some ramen?” can be an offer perceived many ways. It can be as innocent as a generous offer to dine to a lover. It can also be a smoldering lure, and in this case, one for a hot, hot, hot, night!

Only a flaming recipe was fitting for a sullen, mid-summer rainy day with her. The pot was meticulously three-quarters filled. Turning on the induction, I observed the increasingly frenetic movements of the boiling water. The bubbles ascended to the meniscus, each shaped with its own flamboyance and rotundity, rising and popping in a cycle. I opened the package of noodles, and the boiling water sizzled, splattering a few droplets onto my skin. Heat impaled me with her scythe–her nails inching their way up from chest to cheekbone.

Piling the spices and sauces, I observed the mixture viscously treading its way down the sides of the pot, like sweat trickling from temples to collarbones. The water blushed into a romantic bed of simmering crimson as both liquids entwined their bodies on the surface. I gave it a taste, a modest teaspoon. My tongue moved back and forth, savoring the delectable warmth. But an absence of a particular element agitated me. It needed a force: a force that would yield my whole. She stroked a small cylindrical object in her hands–on its ingredient label read “capsaicin”. Her silent but radiant glare rendered me stationary, unable to pronounce a breath of hesitation. She poured the scarlet substance, waiting for the picante anchor to capsize in and perfuse throughout.

I placed the noodles on top of the volatilely burning soup. The compacted strands slowly began to unfold, opening

their floured undergarments and unveiling their unadulterated thinness.

Turning off the heat, I put on the oven mitts to firmly grasp and carry the pot from kitchen to the wooden dinner table,

distributing the noodles into separate bowls. After briefly glancing at her bowl, she composedly took the first

chopstick-full, slurping each twisted strand. Her lips gradually twitched, tongue following pursuit as it pressed on

the roof of her mouth. She took another slurp–this time with the soup. Her consecutive moans enticed me to try my own.

I swallowed my spoonful, the remnants of the substance whipping the back of the throat and stinging perpetually.

My trembling mouth yearned for more pleasure found in this pain. Before I had the opportunity to grab another portion,

however, she seized mine and devoured it. I was disconcerted, but my disturbance was unconditionally overcome.

She salivated to the edges of her chin, and her eyes exclusively interlocked with mine.

Upon blinking, I opened my eyes to see her lips a mere inches apart from mine.

“It’s getting hot here, wouldn’t you agree?” she asked.

My heart throbbed violently, and we proceeded for a second heat wave.