A passionate chef is just the person to teach Charlotte a lesson or two in the kitchen.
I’d never bought into the whole domestic goddess thing. If Goddess had wanted me to be a cook, I argued, why would she have invented M&S ready meals? Of course, I loved <watching> all those TV chefs. Nigella, finger-licking and spoon-sucking while flashing her voluptuous creamy décolletage; Hugh, striding through the countryside, fearlessly chowing down on everything from gently sautéed umbilical cord (or some such) to beetroot ice cream; and my favourite, Gordon, with his chef’s shirt off, being the ultimate alpha male, ordering his terrified kitchen crew around while producing lighter-than-air puddings and sizzling steaks. I adored watching them chop and pare, knead and grind, but I never went further than looking, preferring to take my culinary pleasures at the hands of others. Until my 29th birthday, that was.
My best friend, Anna, (a fine maker of deliciously gooey chocolate cake) had given me a gift voucher for a day’s cookery course at Bakewell Manor, a gothic house that I’d pass on my way to hers for afternoon tea and cakes.
“Charlotte, it’s time you learnt how to whip up something delicious for yourself,” she’d chided. “No more shop-bought cakes in swaps for my homemade ones!”
And so, a week later, I’d found myself trying to keep up with the rest of the class as they eagerly followed the instructions of Sebastian, our rather grumpy but attractive chef tutor. In his late 30s, he had dark brows, chocolate-brown eyes, a hawk-like nose and incongruously full lips. He was dressed in full chef’s whites, including the chequered trousers.
Sebastian had my measure immediately, after we all had to stand up and say who we were and why we were there. I was first and told the truth! I explained that I was there only because a friend had sent me and that I didn’t really know much about cooking apart from what I’d seen on TV. He’d stared coldly at me.
“So you watch, you don’t do?” He quizzed. Dumbly, I nodded my head and tried a grin.
“Well, leave it to the experts, right?” He glared at me, turned his back and spoke to the other students.
“We’re here to learn, to create beautiful things in the kitchen,” he told them, before swinging back around to me, glowering. “Because we all need to cook. All of us! To make food, to feed ourselves and others, that is the most important thing.”
Of course everyone else made up a load of guff about ‘wanting to perfect their technique’, and swore that not a morsel of anything that wasn’t organic, free range or homemade had ever passed their lips.
Damn, I thought. I knew I shouldn’t have bought that tub of M&S Mini-cakes. I surreptitiously reached up to the counter and slid it back into my bag. Sebastian caught sight of me and rolled his eyes. And that was that. He pretty much ignored me for the rest of the day. The mysteries of pastry seemed to pass me by. I spilled water all over the counter, covered myself in flour and got butter in my fringe. My ruff puff pastry was just rough and my short crust was singed. All the while I could feel Sebastian’s eye on me. I’d catch him staring and our eyes would meet. I’d always be first to look away, my cheeks burning with humiliation as he looked from me to whatever catastrophe I’d just pulled forlornly out of the oven.
Finally, at 6pm, it was over. Thank god, I thought. I couldn’t wait to go back to my happy ‘can’t cook, won’t cook’ existence. However, I was last to leave, struggling with the sticky mess I’d created on my work surface. That’s when Sebastian came over, arms behind his back, his face impassive. He stood over me, incredibly tall.
“Have you learned anything today?” he questioned.
“Yeah, to buy a bigger freezer and stock up on ready meals,” I replied stonily.
“Women like you make me so mad,” he fumed. “Cooking is the most important thing in the world. Feeding, nurturing… it’s at the heart of everything.” He fixed me with a stern look and then produced an egg, whisk and bowl from behind his back. “Here. No one should leave so untutored. I bet you can’t even scramble an egg.” I blushed and ruefully smiled.
“You’re right. I can’t.” A faint smile danced briefly across his lips – blink and it was gone. Severe-looking again, he cracked the egg into the bowl and handed me the whisk.
“Beat it.” He said. I gingerly poked at the egg in a clueless fashion..
“No, no! Not like that!” he exclaimed and grabbed my wrist. I gasped, his grip, so firm, sent shock waves straight through me. I felt his hand tighten and couldn’t stop a small moan escaping my lips. He moved behind me, his arm around my body, his hand sliding down my wrist to rest on my hand.
“Like this.” Rapidly he beat the egg to a foamy consistency, then took his hand away. “Now you do it.”
I leaned back a little into his warm body. I could feel his breath on the top of my head. Was it a little heavier than it should be, I wondered? I leaned back a little more. Felt something hard. No, not just something − a cock, growing firmer and jutting into my back.
“I can’t do it right.” I confessed, “I’ll just mess it up. Show me how you did it again.”
I could sense him thinking, “Is this crossing a line?”, so I tipped my head back and leaned against his chest. That’s when I could feel him thinking, “Fuck it. Let’s cross the line”. He grabbed my shoulder and spun me round to face him. I bit my lip and looked up at him, astonished at the heat that had sprung up between us.
“Do you want to be taught?” he asked slowly.
I nodded silently, reached up and stroked his face. He turned so my hand brushed his full lips, then he opened his mouth and sucked my fingers inside, swirling his tongue between them; licking, softly chewing, eating me up. His tongue danced around the palm of my hand, circling, pressing hard until I sighed with pleasure. Then he bit the soft skin under my thumb. I inhaled sharply at the unexpected pain.
“Oh, the bad cook,” he cooed. “You don’t like it rough?” I shook my head and he deftly lifted me onto the work surface. “OK, let me kiss it better.”
He gently pushed me back until I was lying flat on the floury surface, and, showing the multi-tasking skills of a good chef, adroitly spread my legs, pushed up my skirt and swiftly tugged away my knickers.
“Mm,” he sighed with pleasure and dipped his head. He nibbled and licked upwards from my ankles to my thighs. Then he began deeply kissing my c**t. He sucked softly on my clit, alternately lapping with firm licks and flicking with butterfly-soft teasing until my hips began to move under his busy mouth. His hands snaked over my knees, stroking and cupping the shaping of my waist before reaching beneath me to untie my floury apron. He broke off to flip the apron over my head and swiftly undid my shirt to reveal my bra-less breasts.
“Beautiful,” he said admiringly. “You’re so beautiful. Lie still, keep your legs spread and wait there.”
He moved across the kitchen and I lay there, feeling so exposed and incredibly turned on. Anyone could walk into the kitchen and find me lying there. I felt myself shudder with an element of fear and then felt a burst of pleasure from being so brazen. Where had he gone? I lifted my head to look.
“I said lie still!” his voice cracked across the kitchen and I shivered with anticipation. I felt like one of Gordon’s hapless kitchen crew and wondered what delicious dish he was planning on making from me.
Click. I heard the key turn in the door lock. My fear of being caught gone, I felt confident. He was back, smiling approvingly, for I hadn’t moved from the counter and lay as directed, legs bare and spread wide, my skirt rucked up around my waist, my shirt still open, exposing my breasts. My nipples were hard points of expectation. I was breathing heavily.
“Charlotte.” he said and leaned over to kiss me. He tasted of me, all musky and vanilla-ish. He smelt buttery and warm. I always think you know what a new lover will be like from their kiss and I felt my pussy clench with excitement as Sebastian tasted and teased my mouth with his tongue. He bit at my lips then sucked my swollen mouth and swirled his tongue around mine. It felt good, no clashing of teeth, not too much pressure, just right. I sighed in pleasure and wrapped my arms and legs around him, rubbing myself recklessly against his hard cock, hidden inside his trousers.
“So greedy.” He shook his head. “Such a greedy girl.” Smiling, he released my hands, pushing me back against the counter again. He reached to a table behind him and I discovered what he’d gone to get – a carton of his own double-whipped cream.
“I made this while you were all having your lunch break earlier,” he said conversationally. “It’s fresh and milky.” He drizzled a cool, creamy trail across my breasts and then smoothed it into my skin, authoritatively kneading my breasts, his thumbs flicking across my nipples slippery with the liquid. “It’s delicious served with pastries,” he commented and stooped to lick my nipples clean of it. I moaned − it felt so good. I could feel the invisible thread which reached from my nipple to deep inside my pussy being pulled and I clamped my legs together and wriggled with pleasure.
“Legs apart.” he snapped. I tried to part them reluctantly but it was so hard when it felt so delicious. Obediently I drew them apart and squealed with shock as he began to drip, drip, drip the cream onto my clitoris. Each tiny splash felt amazing and I was absurdly turned on to feel the cream dripping into a blend with my own juices. I felt wet and so excited I reached my hand down to rub the cream in and satisfy the intense craving to come I felt, but Sebastian took my hand, placing it above my head.
“That’s my job,” he smiled, and he held his hand just above my c**t and teased me by tapping his fingers across my swollen clit. I abandoned any pretence of playing it cool at that point and began unashamedly begging.
“Please, fuck me Sebastian. Give me your cock,” I pleaded. He stopped and feigned surprise.
“You want my cock? Why didn’t you say?” To my utter pleasure, he promptly pulled his trousers off. I lay there, slick with double cream, dusted with flour and oh-so ready, begging for his cock to satisfy my desperate desire to come. As he stood full I took in his member − smooth and wide and a bit too big; just enough to make me catch my breath and quiver with desire. I couldn’t wait to have him inside me. Producing a condom (god knows which drawer he kept those in), he smoothed it on and started slowly rubbing my clit with his hardness. I cried out and thrust my hips up to meet him. He parted my swollen pussy and teased me, pushing in just an inch of his manhood, then pulling back out again, pushing in just two inches and then out again. I screamed with frustration.
“Please, fuck me, please!”
“Oh, I will!” he fiercely announced, his face set as he then plunged his full length inside me, holding my hips tight. He flicked an arm under my knees, whipping my legs up against his chest and slowed down. He was deep inside me now; I felt helpless, pinned to the counter, his cock thrusting so deep within me, roughly grazing my clit with each stroke as I felt an intense orgasm building inside till it exploded. I flung my head back and howled. I shook with its intensity and begged him to stop, to wait, but he ignored me, briefly pulling out to change position as he pulled me off the counter, rolled me over and bent me across it before lifting my hips just enough to plunge back into me again. I’d never been fucked so hard, so good, so deep. I was limp in his hands and trembled with anticipation as I felt another orgasm roughly shake me, setting alight to my whole body just as he began thrusting harder.“Yes, yes,” he muttered and we came together this time, our hearts beating furiously as we collapsed together and slid to the floor. He pulled me to him, spooned me on the ground as he stroked my hair and kissed my throat and neck gently. “Can’t cook,” he murmured, “But, oh, such fuck! Now, how about those scrambled eggs…”
