He was trying to work his way up in the culinary world, she was already there. He was a 20 something kitchen boy, doing dishes, making sure the shelves were stocked with ingredients and supplies, delivering utensils and dishes on demand. She was a 50 something chef, a saucier, with a learned talent of mixing and sautéing the perfect blend to make a dish, from meats to deserts. Her skills had earned her a place in a top restaurant in Boston. Every day, from afternoon into the late evening, she would be at her station at the stove, asking for the ingredients, mixing them in a creative and passionate manner, watching as the sauce developed. He dutifully supplied her whatever she requested, on demand, without question.
Her focus on her work often seemed preoccupied. She really didn't notice much happening around her, especially him, he thought. He noticed her. Although decades older than him, he could see her inner passion, which she expressed through her cooking. She was an attractive woman. Her pretty face, full bust, and curvaceous hips and legs were evident. She preferred a practical dress in the kitchen. Practical in her mind meant clothing that would not get in the way as she cooked. She typically dressed in a short, loose skirt, no stockings, and a peasant blouse with a button down front that could easily be opened when it became hot in front of the stove.
Practical dress in her mind was totally provocative in his mind. She was focusing on the stove, but as she bent over, he was obsessed with catching glimpses under her skirt. It wasn't hard. The fans in the kitchen kept the air moving, and it also kept her loose skirts moving. As he came in and out of the kitchen we was constantly exposed to glimpses of her upper thighs and sometimes the curve of her buttocks He wondered whether she was wearing panties, but couldn't quite tell.
While she was focused on the developing the sauce in the pan in front of her, and seemed oblivious to the effect she was having on the kitchen boy, the fact is that her passion for cooking was also a passion in her loins. No one knew this, but her pussy would become wet as she cooked. As she stirred the sauce, she imagined a man's cock stirring within her. As she added ingredients, she thought of each little lick and kiss and tug she would like to give and to get. Cooking and sex were parallel pleasures for her, and somewhere along the line of her life, they had become mutually erotic events.
She knew this about herself, of course. Most nights she would finish her sauces, receive the compliments to the chef, and go home to masturbate herself to delirium thinking of the smells and taste and touch of sauces, both from the kitchen and from the body.
What she didn't really know is that her secret was not so secret from the kitchen boy. He was younger than her of course, but he also had a gift and a skill. He could feel when a woman was in need. He could feel her heat, her passion. He could see that her shyness, or self absorption, or brusqueness, was simply a defensive reaction to the underlying passion.
The kitchen boy knew the passion of the chef, and although she expressed it in her cooking, he could see what she needed. The short skirts may be practical, but they were also a signal. Please touch me.
One evening, he did. The heat in the kitchen was intense. The sauce was bubbling. She was in her element, asking for ingredients, adding them slowly, stirring. He stood beside her, at her command, but also listening for her unspoken commands. As the fan fluffed her skirt up, his hand went down and then touched her thigh, sliding up until it firmly gripped her butt. He waited for a response. At first touch she startled, but then slightly shut her eyes as his hand went northward. As he gripped her butt, she inhaled sharply, then slowly released her breath. But she did not say a word.
His hand gripping her ass gently moved deeper, probing, finding. No panties. She focused on her sauce in the pan, but took a wider stance with her legs, allowing him to slide his hand further in. When he reached the folds of her vagina, she was breathing deeply, internally focused. When his fingers spread her labia, they both could feel her juices covering his fingers.
She hadn't said a word, but her meaning was clear. Please fuck me now. And he did. In a fluid motion he moved behind her, lifted her skirt, dropped his pants, and plunged his cock deeply into her. There was no resistance. Her pussy had been wet from the passion of cooking, the unexpected entrance of fingers and now cock into her domain was welcome.
She leaned over the stove, not taking her eyes off the pan and the sauce, but now focusing on the warmth and hardness in her depths. He thrust, again and again, quick, hard, deep. She came before he did, her pussy convulsing and her wetness coating his cock. She felt his passion building.
As he neared his climax, she suddenly twisted around, pulling his cock out of her pussy and grabbing it in her hand.
"Cream, please." He understood, and leaned toward the pan on the stove. She jacked him several times hard, and he came, spewing his cream into the sauce. His cock jerked several times, then was still in her hand.
"Thank you, kind sir," she said, then leaned down to gently clean the remaining cream off his cock with her lips and tongue.
She turned to the sauce, and with a whisk skillfully swirled his cream into the sauce. "My guests will enjoy this tonight," she thought, " although they'll never guess the special thickening agent involved."
Smiling, he turned away, shoving his spent and now diminished cock back into his pants, and returned to washing dishes.