Doughy Style

Marcelle had a thing for pizza.

Cold on a hangover morning, greasy in front of a soccer game, muddled by her tears and thoughts, pretty grim at an airport, from the think crust napoli to whatever the american plebe was into these days (probably cheetos), she liked them all, preferably at the same time.

Her special interest wasn't something you could tell by looking at her: Marcelle was dedicated to pizza, but almost as much to being sexy. To be a pizza slut, you have to behave like a fitness nun. With the summer fast approaching, she followed a strict regimen: a diet filled with vegetables and sorrow, no ethanol in her drugs, and above all exercise.

She was in fact coming home from an excruciating 3-mile when it all began. She would have recognized this smell anywhere: not only pizza, but pizza she had never tasted before. In the city center, restaurants opened and closed in a constant flow of ambition and suboptimal business models, but somehow she had a feeling Dough Me was here to stay.

Opaque doors revealed as much about he restaurant as the menu, which was either written with black on black or empty : it all but begged for her, to get a look, a taste, some kind of mystic revelation maybe.

"Sorry miss, you can't get inside."

The man had suddenly materialized between her and the door she was about to open.

"Oh, but the sign says you're..."

"We are open indeed, as we will be all day every day, but I can't let you in right now."

"What? Why not?"

"The chef told me so. See my toque? It hides my disgraceful ears and most importantly my earbuds. You don't really fit the vibe he's going for. We're not really into sportswear, makes clients feel guilty. He might change his mind after a one to one, for instance tonight 3 a.m. at his place, here's the address."

"He's asking for a date?"

"No, it's more like a sex thing. Anyway, I have other potential clients to reject, if you'll excuse me."

It almost seemed like a moral duty to denounce the chef's predatory behavior and the astounding lack of tact shown by the vigil. But Marcelle didn't want the chef canceled; she wanted him humiliated -and also to eat pizza.

It's only in front of him that she found herself reconsidering her plans. Not the meeting an extremely creep dude part, but the one about not having sex with him. Marcelle had an affinity for very muscular guys, the ones so bulky that you couldn't picture them not being on steroids. Martin wasn't, but he had a shy smile and a massive dick. Or massive balls, his sweatpants only revealed the size of the total package. Not that she needed much to get excited: abstinence was also part of her summer body routine and itw as beginning to take a toll on her.

"I thought you would just leave a bad google review."

"I would, but I didn't get a chance to actually taste the pizza. I want to be able to say it's awful."

"Well I have some for you. Chef's special."

The pizza wasn't great, especially at that price, but Marcelle was intent on treating it like a performance. A very horny one. She made a mess of it, letting the white sauce taint her face and lips, deepthroating slices, licking her lips in delight. And she could see that he wanted her, his eyes hungry, his cock twitching.

As she took a moment to wipe her face with a napkin, he whispered in her ear, "It's like you're eating me. Think about it, I'm in you right now. Do you like that?"

"I... have to take a glass of water."

Which wasn't a lie, the crust was extremely dry. Hopefully the hardest thing she'd swallow tonight. She excused herself to the kitchen, and soon found herself against the fridge, needing some cold to fight off the heat of the guilt.

"I know you want me too."

Of course he had followed her, and this time she couldn't deny it, nor deny herself from this man-meal. She grabbed his face and kissed him like she wanted to fuck him, sloppy and desperate. Martin grabbed her by the hips and lifted her up on the counter.

"Do you often fuck people on your kitchen counter?"

"All cooks do. On theirs, not on this one" he breathed, taking off her tight pants without bothering to get her top off.

"Gross. I'm never going to your restaurant."

Martin paused and took some dough in the pile, before forcefully putting it in her mouth.

"I only listen to constructive criticism."

Finally, the chef took off his own jeans and underwear, revealing a giant erection. Just as she was about to get a taste of what she had really been craving, or maybe some painful fingerbanging, the bell rung.

"Stay here."

"Grab a condom!" she remembered to yell. Sadly this would not protect her from the inevitable yeast infection.

Marcelle wasn't a patient person, especially when she was about to get laid. After a few minutes, she decided to go look what was taking this long.

"What are you do...?"

Martin wasn't alone. In the leaving room now stood a dozen of scantily-dressed men and women.

"Sorry babe, looks like this city is full of pizza whores."