and fed me just a snippet, just a sliver of expensive, black truffle, which she had brought in from Piedmont itself. Little did I know that she had filled her budoir with these most highly sought of the worlds edible fungi. Pulling me by a studded leash on a studded collar, she commanded me to my knees while she laid her and lithe body supine on a poster bed adorned with gold silk linens. "Close your eyes and listen," she dictated. I complied. I heard the unmistakeable sound of a metallic pull tab being peeled back. "Do you know what that was?" sked, a teasing cuntiness in her voice." "Is it, can it be, is it?" "Yes, she said. Yes. It's orange soda. And you get none of it until you find every black truffle that I've hid in this room. Every one, do you understand? Every fucking one." I found one, then another, then another, working indefatigably around each corner, each crevice, looking in every drawer of her dresser, seeking out the black truffles, my heart pounding, awaiting the sweet orange nectar, yearning for it, almost bleeding for it." "Yes," she said, "yes. that's the thirty eight truffle. There's so more. Drop them on me, each one, drop them on me, you fucking inventory manager. Do it." Once more, I complied. She stared me down, baring the tips of her teeth. She came when she said, "This orange soda is soooooo good."