He texted me in the morning, while I was getting ready for work. I had no clue when he slept.
“What are you wearing?”
“Now?”
“Tonight.”
“What’s dress code?”
“Cocktail hour.” I was in a surprisingly flirty mood, and if not excited about the evening, was not dreading it, either. I sent him the “three options.” “Black.” he responded back instantly. He had unerringly picked the most expensive option, but I was pleased he’d picked the most technically modest as well. He didn’t seem like someone who’d want to parade around a hot slut or anything, but still. I showed up at his restaurant at about 630. Once again I was directed to ‘head on back’. I didn’t like this secretarial-host he allowed to do his work for him, he shouldn’t make her always do it. He was working on something in the office and I sat opposite him while he finished. He looked up, and I was once more taken with his dark eyes, I hadn’t noticed them in the same way I had, before the sex. “Fantastic, you look great, but take off your shoes.” I glanced down, and back up. What could possibly be wrong with the shoes? I can admit, I like a sexy shoe, I wear a high heel, but they weren’t objectionable. He grabbed something from a deeper desk drawer and shoved it across the table. I looked askance at the shoe box. “Remember? I promised fun?” Inside were high, and sexy, but definitely standard looking black stilettos, except for straps around the arch, and ankle, both with cutie pie locks. I was a little unnerved that he had got the correct size. “So you can’t run away,” with a face meant to bait. I suddenly pictured trying to dash across the kitchen and dining room here, the times when we were alone, in the near dark, with him in pursuit and received the prod of fear-lust I so associated with him. I kicked off my shoes and swapped them with the ones in the box. He knelt beside me, and I turned my ankle out so he could do up the straps and the locks. I looked at the back of his head, the dark hair, impressed with how someone could literally be kneeling at my feet, but utterly in control. “All right, let’s go,” grabbing my hand and dragging me behind him, stopping to rap out some commands to a few people as he left. My face felt hot, knowing that most of these people had been here yesterday, while I knelt naked, and that they were no doubt gossiping about their boss’s little mistress. I felt my knuckles twisting a little, trying to free my hand, but was unable to. I gave up and allowed myself to be pulled out, a little faster than I would have chosen to walk, between having shorter legs, and wearing pumps. I turned left, towards the subway station about a block away, but he went the opposite direction, towards the parking lot. I lifted an eyebrow, “we’re driving over there?” “Do you seriously not trust me enough to get in my car with me?” It was true, there really weren’t any men who weren’t already well known to me I’d drive with, but everything about it felt weird. It felt romantic, it felt like being trapped, it felt like being brought to an unknown destination. Unspoken I felt my option, that choice to say stop though, and followed. At some point, I’d have to have a real talking-to with myself, and explain the sort of trouble I was letting my pussy get me into. He drove too fast, and he played his music too loud.
The place wasn’t that far off though, and I would be able to easily leave singly, if I so desired. It looked just as trendy as George’s. I was woefully unaware of dining options in my neighborhood, even though I’d lived there for some time. I really enjoyed cooking for myself however, so I rarely went out. If I was spending time with other people, I’d rather cook for them, as well. He parked, and I was about to step out. He grabbed my thigh. “We can’t just go in,” he said. He pulled something from his pocket. “Just a little vibrator.” “George.” “It won’t be on the whole time, and it is just a little one.” Was I more thrilled than scared, this time? I slid my knees apart, and he slid his hands up my thigh slowly. It was just a small vibrator, about finger width, a few inches long. He nestled it against my clitoris, my underwear holding it in place. “I probably won’t even turn it on,” I laughed shakily and stepped out of the car. He dropped a hand on my back, and leaned in, “tell Charlie you like his sign. It’s just his signature, and he thinks he’s real clever.” I laughed. Charlie’s was definitely more of a party-spot, than a date-spot, like Georges, the tables larger, and the general feel more speak-easy than bistro. A table close to the kitchen doors exploded with greetings. I glanced up at George, who was responding in kind. Fuck. I’d been ambushed. The back table was almost full with about eight other people, who had clearly been expecting and waiting for George, and had two seats left. Mother fucker. I smiled through the round of introductions, feeling irritated. They were all also cooks, patissiers or otherwise involved in the industry. They seemed to have known each other awhile. I was introduced as just Rebecca. I decided to not be too upset, would I rather have had an intimate little candle lit thing with nothing to talk about? I also hoped that he would be less likely to torture me if we were sitting with a whole bunch of his peers. They made conversation easily, George being his charming, storytelling self. This is who I had been accustomed to, who I had met at work. The joking, remembering-your-stupid-background stuff. Like a salesman who remembered everyone’s name. He rested the palm of his hand, cupped on my knee nearest to him. I wondered if he knew how much I thought about, and loved his hands. As if everything he did was just a ploy. His pinky slid lazily against the inside of my knee. Everyone was very nice, and did their best to include me in conversation, without pressing me with any questions. I was glad there was no ‘so how did you two meet?’ ‘what do you do for work?’ etc. They were pleased that I liked to cook, and seemed delighted that I was willing to speak deeply on the subject. Generally though, I could just sit back and listen. Charlie appeared with a tray and everyone started the loud round of salutations again. Charlie was just as gregarious as the rest, nearly manic. He noticed me last and the woman across from me, Nita, said, “and this is Rebecca.” “You’re like, really pretty,” he said, setting a plate before me, “like, I mean, too pretty for him, anyway,” jabbing a thumb in George’s direction. Everyone laughed. I was going to be exhausted before the end of the night. Suddenly the vibrator clicked on. Thankfully it was dead silent but it made me slam a knee into the central single leg of the table. “Aw, don’t be embarrassed,” George said to me, as if responding to Charlie’s comment. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to actually orgasm, sitting at this table, distracted by both strangers and food, but I would be horribly edged all evening. This vibrator was much gentler than the wand, and would merely tease, apparently. He clicked it on and off randomly, or perhaps just gave me space to actually eat. I was worried that when we would finally leave, the bullet would slide out from my now very soaked underwear. I got through dinner, and made some conversation while feeling as if I was going to slide off my chair. He ducked, under the pretense of grabbing a napkin, and grasped my ankle, shaking it, reminding me of being locked into my shoes as well. I wanted to groan when the conversation became ‘dessert? Dessert? Dessert?’ sure everyone knew and was conspiring against my orgasm, or in cahoots to torture me further. I hated him for how relaxed and disinterested he seemed. I hated him for doing this with his friends. Did they know what he liked? Had he told anyone about me, or his plans? Was there someone sitting at this table who knew or guessed what was going on? When we were finally walking out he turned the vibrator back off, allowing me to walk normally to the car. “Where are we going?” he asked. “Back to Sage Tart, asshole,” I replied. He laughed, “good, ready for me?” “Fuck you.” They were mopping and finishing cleaning up when we walked in. “Sit down, I’m going to make tea,” he said. He stopped to talk to everyone cleaning in the kitchen, finishing chores with them, grabbing rags and setting to work. The music was different – apparently with the boss gone, someone else finally got to pick. As I walked through the office door the vibrator turned back on. I considered pulling it out, now that I was in semi-private, but worried what he would do if I did. I sighed, clasping my knees together and looking down at the shoes. I couldn’t even kick those off without him unlocking them. He came back with the tea. “Do you only let them pick the music when you’re not here?” “Sometimes I pick an MVP and let them put on whatever they want, if someone does a particularly good job,” he answered, unsurprised by the question, handing me the sugar dish. I squirmed in the chair, and he looked satisfied. So he just always was a controlling dominant fucker. “I need to get fucked,” I said, unable to even hold onto the glass of tea, at this point. “You’re mine,” he responded. I mentally bucked at that statement, but was too horny to fight about it. He pushed my apron across the desk, “put it on.” I immediately dropped everything and began stripping in front of the desk. I placed the still vibrating bullet on the desk as I got to my underwear. He rolled it between his fingers as I dropped the apron over my head. He gestured at me and I went to him, standing in front of him, the arches of my feet starting to ache, my clit thumping wildly. He grabbed my wrists and pulled me over his lap. With my ass high in the air on his lap I felt more exposed in the apron than I would have naked. He held on tight to the neck strap of the apron, and rested the mug of tea on my back. He sipped it in silence, laying the mug on my spine in between. He did nothing else and I moaned, without resistance to this detached behavior around my nudity. Still being used like a breakfast tray he gently slid a finger between my labia and I gasped. “Don’t wiggle too much, the tea is still really hot, you wouldn’t want it to spill all over you. And I’ll be really pissed if you let it spill on these pants, I like these pants.” Miserable, I tried to stay still, after finally getting what I needed after dinner. He finished drinking, and set to masturbating me in earnest. In one hand he gathered the neck and waist straps of the apron, forcing me to bend my back upwards, like a performing seal. He landed a stinging slap on my buttocks and said, “mine.” I coughed against the yoke of the apron pressing into my neck. He slid two fingers inside me and hooked his fingers towards my spine. I felt like a butchered animal, hanging from a meathook. I spasmed on his lap and he just kept repeating ‘mine’. He alternated between finger fucking me and spanking me, almost lazily, like I was just being recalcitrant.
“Can I come on your hand, please?” I panted out. He growled, “yes of course, you little whore, wiggling all over a chair in public, dying to come all night.” The viciousness of his tone tore my orgasm from me, and I felt like I was melting away. He didn’t let it be over however, and kept saying, “mine, mine, mine”, and when I came again I did it wailing, “yours, yours”. He shoved me off his lap, and I tumbled to the floor. I lay on my side, trying to sort out my various bruised joints as he got undressed and lay beside me. With complete tenderness, he slid an arm under my neck, pressing his forearm across my chest, his hand draped over and cupping the opposite shoulder. He penetrated me smoothly and rocked us on the floor behind his desk. I shuddered against his chest and belly, feeling him shrink out of me. I lay exhausted and sweating, feeling satisfied, rather than merely worn out, content to stay in the position we were in. He pulled away from me and I grunted, woken up from a doze on the floor. He stepped back into his pants, taking the key from his pocket and unlocking the shoes. I curled my toes after he jerked them off, tugging at the heel. He lay back down beside me, bringing the arm around again, and draping the other on my hip. “You are so pretty,” he said. Perhaps unkindly I snorted, “you don’t have to after-care me, George.” He gave a startled chuckle, “someone has been doing outside research, huh?” It was embarrassing that he had guessed that any sort of sex play beyond missionary or doggy style was all new to me, and it was embarrassing to admit I had done some reading about what I was privately thinking of as his “freaks”, which I knew wasn’t charitable or appropriate. He pressed his chin into the top of my head and wrapped both arms tightly around my torso. “I like doing after care though. You’re just so prickly.” I’d never been called prickly before, didn’t think of myself as a particularly standoffish person. I decided to just be comfortable, just enjoy the relaxation and intimacy of laying with someone, which to be blunt, hadn’t happened to me in awhile. I even decided to not think about all those other times he’d performed ‘aftercare’. I had history and it would be silly to act as if he didn’t. But maybe he didn’t know how many of my experiences with him were first time experiences. “They like you.” I stiffened, knowing he was talking about everyone I met tonight. “Never mind, never mind,” he back pedaled, stroking my hip like a balky animal. He smelt so good, and was so warm, compared to the floor. We’d have to stop having sex on the floor, it was just too cold. As if reading my mind he said, “maybe I should leave some blankets in here. Or clear some space and get a couch.” “Don’t change your decor on my account,” I said, again meaning to kid, but this time coming out sleepily. “Do you want to get more comfortable?” I wiggled my hips, tucking myself in deeper. “Mmm.” “Come home with me tonight.” He spoke low enough that I had to pay attention. He shifted his arms out from under me, pushing me onto my back and straddling me around the hips. “Toothbrush on me, we can stop at any pharmacy you want,” he grinned. I did want to be curled up, and covered up. I even liked how warm he was but it just seemed like a bad idea. I’d been very single, and pretty happy with it. I hadn’t shared a bed with anyone in about seven years. “Whatever you want for breakfast too.” I pictured eating breakfast with him, with nothing to talk about, except maybe sex, or food, or his friends. He brushed his knuckles across my forehead and down my cheek, “I want to wake up with you tomorrow.”
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/z7cbci/chefs_master_class_part_6_mf_3932_yo_cnc_public