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It started innocently – it really did. George ran a very nice, very hip restaurant on Main. I wondered he was handsome, of course, but we were only polite for the longest time. I’ll admit I liked how he called me “honey” – it seemed so old-fashioned and down-home, from a slick, cigarette smoking man. He was quick witted and organized, he moved easily for his height. He came in about once a week, we did orders and passed pleasantries (weather, sports) and moved on. He was never as chatty, needy or strange as other clients, and while I enjoyed him, I don’t think we wondered much of each other outside of those brief interactions. Or I hadn’t wondered so, anyway.
I’m not sure why I even brought it up, I hadn’t even patroned his restaurant, yet. One day I just asked, “what do you stuff your mushrooms with?” His eyes lit up, and he was off. Obviously I should have guessed that he was passionate about cooking. I considered myself a very competent to good home cook, and adventurous to boot, so I was all the time eager and interested in talking about it. It started that every time we saw each other we exchanged “what are you making?” conversations, and interactions became less brief. One day I showed him a picture of a boule I had made the previous evening, asking for a troubleshoot on crumb. We started talking bread and then he said, pulling out a company card (heavy cardstock, twee logo), “text me, huh? I’m writing down my cell,” he said scribbling in his bad handwriting, “don’t leave me waiting, I want to see how much better your next try is… if you follow my advice.” He glanced up, from his semi bent position, up towards me, almost through his lashes, and I had a near-instant flash of what he would look like, looking up at me like that, from his knees or between my legs.
“I will… I mean, I won’t… I mean leave you waiting.”
“Good. Hell, you can just send me what you’re cooking tonight.”

I plated nicer than usual, certainly. Especially for just myself. I cooked dinner every night, and usually a dessert too. I liked being alone, in a silent kitchen, finally focusing and getting into a flow. Tonight, however, I listened to dancing music, sexy music while I was cooking. Did a little more work than I had been planning to when I was thinking about what I wanted to make just this morning.
I sent him a (very nicely lit, carefully turned plate) with a thrill. Realized after five minutes I had neglected to say just who was sending him a picture of onion risotto. Texted in a fit of ‘oh god, he’s looking at his phone in utter confusion’ panic, “This is Rebecca”. And then a minute later, “From your distro”. And then another minute, “what I cooked tonight”.
I sat down to eat my cooler than usual dinner and fretted. I was used to texting with my sisters, and friends, and the immediate responses I got from them (or if not immediate apparently I didn’t care). I decided I was not gonna be upset without an immediate response because it was nearly seven on a Thursday and I got the distinct impression Sage Tart (George’s) would be busy and date filled. I had finished dinner and long ago turned off the music when my phone buzzed on the table. I dove for it and then put it back down. I counted to a hundred then glanced at notifications.
“Looking good Rebecca, looks like you took it slow.”
“You have to, to make good onions, and to make good risotto”
“Can’t be rushed, good to know you’re a patient woman.”
“I can be, when it’s worth it”.

We were texting all day – I was sending pictures of rice and eggs, he was sending pictures of meringues and pork bellies. He ended a late night hand-made pasta text with “see you tomorrow”. I scrambled to make a challah, and dug out a “special occasion” bottle of honey from the pantry. My head snapped to the door frequently all morning. He finally came in about eleven (a totally standard time for him). He was carrying a pretty little paper plate. I laughed and handed him the challah and the honey. He laughed and said, “saved you some of that dessert from last night” (german chocolate cake).
“Will you finally come by the restaurant tonight? You can eat in the kitchen with me, when I take dinner.”
“About when is dinner?”
“Whenever you walk through the door, honey.” I was thankful, as I never had been, that no one could read my mind. He would have known I was masturbating to memories of his numerous “honey”s.
“Are you just going to feed me leftovers and scraps?”
“Something good I’ve been planning for you.”
“Oh my, then I’ll definitely be by”.

Nervous as a cat, I was unwilling to change from work clothes before gonna Georges – didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard. But I let down my hair, switched from pink to red lipstick. There was a stunning girl standing at the front, wearing good clothes. She smiled,
“You must be Rebecca, I’ll grab George for you.” I was surprised that he had set a look out. How had he described me to his employee? I had almost kind of expected him to be wearing whites, but he came out in what I all the time saw him wearing, expensive jeans, chambray button up but a thick linen apron over that. One of those posh ones, with leather neck straps, and his logo embroidered on it. He was either vain, or just eager to spend money on things, but either way I loved his look. I loved how he smelt good, even though I knew he smoked. I loved his dark stubble on his very light skin. I liked his clean, strong hands, his good teeth, and how tall he stood. I couldn’t get over his muscled forearms, sleeves pushed up past his elbow, as he reached out with both hands to shake mine. I hoped his hostess wouldn’t read me (the way women can read women) and see how I was reacting to my hand being folded into his. This was the first time we’d ever made contact. As he shook my hand his left hand slid over the back of my hand as he held it tight, running it up over my wrist, enclosing that as well.
“Come on back.” I followed him through the little tables, lit lowly. He stopped and talked with nearly every table, dropping smiles left and right, shaking hands, slapping shoulders. He looked broad, competent and at peace. As we approached the swinging back doors he placed the flat of his hand against the small of my back, ushering me into the kitchen. He pulled me in close, hip to hip, as his mien changed. Snapping orders, but still smiling. He didn’t seem to be performing any more, like in the dining room. He seemed utterly comfortable, and ready to jump in. Whoever was working on plating glanced up at both of us, unsurprised to see a stranger in the kitchen and then grinned up at George, “forget it, boss, we got things under control, take dinner already.”
His office was a squared off back portion of the kitchen, separated from the rush with something like a confessional booth lattice. Dark wood, like the paneling, tables and chairs in the dining room. It had a red leather upholstered door like a classic bar and was dark.
“Go on through, turn on the desk lamp, I’ll be right in.”
I pushed through the door and walked hesitantly in, surprised by how dark it was, considering how bright the kitchen was outside. I tugged on a green bankers lamps pull chain that was sitting on a wide, L-shaped desk. As I looked around he hip-checked his way through the door with two plates.
“Sit down, honey.” I dropped promptly into the leather arm chair on the “guest” side of the desk. I laughed as he set the plate down; stuffed mushrooms.
“I’m so glad you started the conversation with mushrooms, please eat.” I took a bite and started praising.
“I’m so glad you gave me your number,” I responded, after finishing my first one. Eating quietly with him was strangely easy.
“Thank god you finally gave me an excuse.” He poured drinks and I enjoyed being in the same space as him, outside of work. Smelling his soap, or cologne, watching him move and sit sprung and relaxed in his leather chair.
“How’d your girl at the front know it was me?” He gave a little scoff into his glass, and glanced up, that same way, through his lashes. I hoped the light was low enough he couldn’t see the blush rush to my face. “I don’t want to ruin this perfectly lovely evening.”
“I’m dying to know, you’ve already shit all over my mincing and chopping, nothing else could hurt my feelings, at this point.” He laughed low, “honestly? I said I had a brick house coming in for dinner.”
“Jesus, George!”
“I’ve ruined the perfectly lovely evening.”
“Not exactly.” He pushed the plates away from us with a forearm, and reached across. Something like aroused-panic filled me from toes to throat as he gripped my elbows, pulling me in tight to his desk. “I think you’re attractive as hell, and I was a little too honest talking about it.” He didn’t apologize and my throat went tight and dry as he held my arms and my eyes. As his hands started to relax, I stood.
“Thanks for coming, honey,” he let me go and stepped out from around his desk. He firmly put that hand on my back again, warm and impossible to not respond to. He wasn’t trying to stop me, but just make contact again.
“And come back soon. Whenever. But soon.”

I tried to keep quiet after dinner. Probably for a few days. He sent a picture of tea on his work desk. “Using that honey”. I responded with a picture of focaccia and he immediately said, “stop by my place some time – after hours, we can do a little class.”
“Offering a master class, chef?”
“Well, let’s call it free labor – need some help with some gnocchi”.
“Oh, I see, this is pawning off the worst possible job on me just because you’re handsome”.
“Oh, I don’t know, probably making the tomato risotto is the worst job…
Handsome, huh?”
“It’s the worst job”
“I promise it’ll be fun.”
I didn’t doubt it.

I genuinely didn’t know how to dress for this after-hours free-labor “class”. I was a little worried that it would turn out his sous or something would also be there. I didn’t want to wear work clothes (office appropriate) but also couldn’t wear pumps etc (not safe or well suited in a kitchen). Would it be too presumptuous or slutty to wear sexy underwear? I ended up going with my own version of his uniform; jean skirt and a button up. In a small bow to how thirsty I was though, I wore the jean skirt I owned with a zipper straight up the back.
I knocked on the front door, rapping knuckles against the closed sign. The door sprang open like he’d been waiting on the other side. He had something folded over his arm.
“Hey honey, got you something,” extending his arm towards me. I laughed, a twin to his own apron. I tossed it on, noting that it had the same embroidery and smelt like him.
In the kitchen there were six free-standing stainless steel countertops, two by three. The one in the middle and closest to his office had clearly been where he had been working. He asked if I had ever rolled before and I responded affirmatively but unprofessionally.
“I’m not looking for a speed run, precision is better than hurrying”. We fell into an easy, quiet rhythm. Unlike me, he apparently all the time liked to have music playing, “especially when the team isn’t in total turmoil, the kitchen always sounds too quiet alone.” We talked a little, when something occurred to one of us, and laughed frequently but mostly just cut and rolled. His hand was once again on the small of my back, quite suddenly. “Remember, slow is smooth,” he slid his hand all the way down the outside of thigh, as far as his arm could reach, “and smooth is fast.” I was nearly panting, and crushing the little pillow of dough against the fork.
“Does this zipper work?” starting from the bottom he unzipped it to only a few inches from the waist, nearly entirely off. “Oh good, it does,” sliding a hand up the inside of my thigh, the knuckle of his thumb just barely touching my underwear.
“I didn’t say stop what you were doing,” lazily sliding that thumb from side to side, “just wondering about this zipper. We’re working on the special for tomorrow you know.” I attempted, through pounding heart, to keep working, shocked by the command and unable to not respond to it. More fingers came into play, and my wetness made my swollen clit easy to discover and tease. I was angling my hips back and upwards, desperately attempting to get more pressure, not just the gentle rubbing.
“This is in the way,” he almost growled, hooking an index finger at the waist of my underwear and tugging them down to a little above my knees, restraining my legs. I wanted terribly to spread them much wider than the barrier now created by elastic. I could have died as his fingers finally touched bare skin. I whimpered, bracing myself on my forearms and dropping everything in my hands, “I can’t,” I moaned.
“Can’t what?”
“Can’t keep doing this, I’m about to come all over your hand.” His left hand snapped up and swept everything down to the end of the counter and then to the space between my shoulders. He pressed down quickly and forcefully, pushing my face against the blessedly cool steel.
“Then come.” I cried out as I did, almost before he finished speaking it felt like. My legs became liquid and the only thing that kept me standing was barking my knees against the cabinets under the counter as they buckled. He gripped the back of my neck like a kittens, “desk, desk, desk,” he directed, ripping down underwear and skirt in one jerk. I stumbled clumsily through the bar door, turning around in the near pitch dark, backing up until the curve of my ass slammed painfully into the desk. Nearly growling he overbalanced me further by bully-pushing against my breast bone, so I rocked back into an almost sitting position, the desk being a little too high to simply fall onto. He bent slightly, grabbing around the middle of my thighs and thrust me up onto it. He sat while impatiently tugging on that same banker’s lamp, lighting us, and the desk, but not strongly enough to illuminate the corners. He was already licking me before I even noticed the precarious position I was in. He had barely begun when he groaned against my pubis, “you’re a flailing little girl, aren’t you?” almost muffled. I didn’t realize how I had almost instantly flung my arms out, trying to cling to something, endangering whatever was on the desk. Words failed me and I only whimpered. His hands stopped gripping my thighs (they would be marked tomorrow), and he reached out blindly. “Hands, hands, hands,” said in the same commanding tone, I reached down, expecting to let our fingers lock together, but he pressed my palms flat against my hips, and then caught my wrists in the space between his thumbs and pointer fingers, gripping them at the curve of my waist, and sealing them and me, in place. I felt caught at my thinnest part, unable to move backwards, away from his mouth, or even forward to press into his tongue. He started slow again, but then he looked up at me, and it was so much like that initial, unbidden image that I came helplessly once again. “Good, but we’re not stopping.” I keened and tried to move, in any direction. I didn’t realize I had been saying anything, until he stopped, looking up, barely away from me, tongue almost out, almost puppy-ish. “No?” he asked. I realized I had been whining ‘no, no, no,” and realized too that what I meant was, ‘no I can’t orgasm again’ or ‘no, don’t stop’.
“I can’t come again,” almost tearful.
One long slow swipe was his response, then, “I want to eat you like a feast, now come all over my tongue, too.” I was unable to disobey.

He released me, but I still felt his thumbs pressing into my soft belly, and his fingers gripping around my waist.
“Sit down, relax, honey, I’ll be right back.” I flopped bonelessly into his chair, worried, but unable to do anything about the fact that I was covering his leather in wetness. I could have fallen asleep, dimly lit as it was, physically tired and beyond satisfied. I heard him humming, turning up the radio and clanging around in the kitchen. The part of me that would ordinarily leap to help clean up was simply too exhausted, too peacefully unable to move.
I must have dozed a little, because I was surprised when he slid a plate onto the desk. Basic, easy sausage, onions and peppers. I didn’t know I was hungry until I saw it. He seemed just as relaxed as if he hadn’t made me orgasm three times in less than half an hour. We ate, silently for a while, and I could detect a little bit of a self-satisfied smirk about his face. He pulled the plate away from me, while my fork was hovering over it. He finished chewing and said,
“What do you want?” I wasn’t precisely sure what he was asking with that, but I had a guess.
“More of this.”
“What? Food? Oral sex?” I laughed.
“Yes. But I guess you have more than only dinner and oral sex in mind.” He grunted and scooped up another forkful for himself. I tried reaching with my own again, but the plate was tugged further away.
I elaborated, “it seems to me, George, that finger fucking me over a counter and eating me out on your desk is a tame evening to you. It seems to me that you have far worse things in mind.” He pushed the plate back towards me, reward for the answer.
“I want to do terrible things to you, obviously. I’m asking you what you want.” My throat dried up with a mouthful of food. I’d never had a man say that. I’d never seen one look so hungry for and interested in the answer.
“I want to be used. I wanted to be fucked in your place. I want you to make me even when I say I can’t any more. I want to see what terrible things you can do to me that are going to make me come until I cry.” Like a satisfied predator there was something like a rumble from somewhere between his throat and chest.
“That’s what I wanted to fucking hear. I want you back here later this week.”

NSFW: yes

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