by Daphne Dawn
Before he can make a movement, I let my hands go to his cock and I raise myself up, pointing him at me. Slowly, I ease down onto him, pulling out from his kiss and moaning as I feel his cock feeding into me once again. I let myself fall on it, his length piercing me at once and forcing me to scream.
I start bucking my hips as fast as I can against him, and he guides my movements with his hands on my ass. I take my hands to his chest and, wanting to have some control over him, I push him down onto the table. I lean into him, my nipples inches away far from him.
He takes my hard nipple in his mouth and starts sucking it as my body rocks against his. He lets himself go willingly, his hands never leaving my ass. Swaying my hips, I ride him with abandonment, accompanying the upwards thrusts of his body.
Feeling his body on mine is perfect. It isn't just lust, or just desire. It is all those things but it is also something more. Closeness, comfort. And it feels good. It feels fucking good.
I ride him perfectly, going up and down in a flowing motion, his cock defenseless against the tight embrace of my pussy. I come up until only his tip is inside me and then back down once more.
I sway forward and backward, his shaft buried deep inside me. Grabbing my ass cheeks hard, his fingertips over the curve of my crack, he thrusts upward matching the rhythm.
As I ride myself to exhaustion, my coming and going motion only slowing down when I can’t go on any longer. And, when that happens, I’m already screaming at the top of my lungs. Pleasure makes its way up from my pussy and, in my throat, it turns into a raw and primal sound, exploding in the air like the sound of a grenade.
I think of rolling to the side, spreading my legs, and let him do the heavy lifting. But no, I want more than that. As such, I take my knees off the table and, with both feet on the side of Blake’s hips, I squat over him.
His cock is still inside of me, so all I have to do is take a deep breath and order my body to start moving again, which he does. I jump up and down on his cock, the thunder of the orgasm he gave me still roaring inside of me.
I go at him faster and faster, his fingers curling around both my breasts viciously. I look down at him, enjoying the look of pure joy and lust on the hard lines of his face, and I redouble my efforts. I keep on going up and down on him until I can’t take it anymore, my whole body as tense as a nocked arrow.
I erupt in pleasure again, ripples of it washing over me with such intensity that I simply collapse on top of Blake, my legs flailing as if they’re not mine to control. I bury my fingers on his chest as I endure the destroying force of my orgasm, surrendering to the perfection of it.
Giving me no time to rest, he pulls his body from mine and slips his hand under my ass. He forces me to stand and then he makes me turn my back to him, forcing me to bend over. I place my hands on the desk and do as we wants, jutting my ass back at him.
I feel his hand stroking my pussy, parting its lips, and then he comes back inside me, his cock piercing me with a single deep stroke.
He takes one hand off of my waist, and I wince as I realize what he’s going to do. I bite on my lips, hold my breath, and then I feel the palm of his hand landing heavily on my ass cheek. He does it over and over again, leaving an imprint of his fingers on my flesh, the sound of it echoing in the room.
“I want you to fuck me hard,” I moan, thrusting my ass back at him. He doesn’t make me beg – The moment the words leave my lips, I feel the tip of his cock brushing against my inner lips again.
After a heartbeat, his cock is sheathed to the hilt inside of me. He drives it all the way in, his fingers hooked on my hips as he thrusts and holds his position.
Slowly, he starts building up a rhythm, but he does it fast enough. In a matter of seconds the sound of his thighs slapping my ass fill the whole room and drown my brain in a symphony of lust.
“Harder,” I command him, and he obliges happily. He rocks his body so hard against mine that if he wasn’t holding me by the hips I’d just fall forward. At the same time, he laces my waist with one arm and takes two fingers to my clit, pressing on it while he ravages my pussy.
Fucking me while working my clit, he drives me so insane I don’t think I know my name anymore. I go from my hands to my elbows, barely enough strength left in my arms to support myself. And still he keeps on thrusting, his movements vicious and wild, a sweet wickedness to the way he has taken over my pussy.
My pussy tightens up around Blake’s shaft and I just explode. I let out a scream loud enough to shatter glass as the explosion goes off inside my body, and it feels like wasps are buzzing under my taut muscles. That burning sensation becomes almost unbearable, and it almost feels as if I’m really on fire.
My muscles are still twitching and burning, but I need more. I need him to fuck me until my conscious mind fades away entirely, and all that’s left of me is unbridled unconsciousness.
“I want more…I want you to…take all of me,” I find myself saying. Oh, God, I can’t believe I said something like this.
“Then you’ll have it,” he groans, taking his cock out of my pussy.
He places his hands on my ass cheeks and, spreading them wide, he then starts rubbing the tip of his cock up and down my crack. I grit my teeth as he presses his thickness against my asshole and I scream again as he starts sliding it in.
He does it without hesitation; he just slides it in at a steady pace, his thick shaft pushing my inner walls back on its way in.
I scream and he drives all of his inches into me, pounding me slowly at first, but then his pace grows. My body is rocking back and forth with each coming and going motion of his.
I don´t want him to stop. This time I want him to come as well. I need to have all of his seed.
“More, more…” I continue, my eyes closed shut as pleasure tears my brain apart. My ass tightens up around his shaft like a vice as I come again, waves of merciless pleasure crashing against both my mind and body, but this time I feel his cock pulsing too.
At the same time, I feel his cock pulsing violently and I realize that he’s close. I push my ass back against him, forcing his cock to go as deep as possible; with that, his cock throbs again, this time even more violently, and I moan as I feel him coming inside of me.
His cock buried deep inside my ass, and his fingers digging into my ass cheeks, he starts gushing out in a torrent. I hold still as he unleashes a torrent of cum inside of me. His warm semen fills me up, and it only takes a few seconds for it to start dripping out of my ass.
I sigh loudly as I feel juices starting to drip down my legs.
He keeps on gushing, the cum escaping my insides and tracing a path down his still erect cock. When his cock finally stops exploding inside me, he pulls back, taking it out of my ass and rolling to the side.
My eyes find his and, with a twinkle of amusement dancing behind my eyes, I smile.
He grins at me, his eyes, his face and ragged breathing telling me everything that I need to know right now.
“I love you, Blake. You’re everything to me.”
“I love you too,” he whispers back at me.
And that’s when I know I finally found happiness.
Taste
Put it in your mouth, baby
You know it tastes so good
I'm the bad boy of the restaurant world.
A master chef. A billionaire businessman.
Women come. At least a few times.
And then they go.
That's just the way I play it, darlin'.
One course meal.
Until Nicole comes into my life.
Opening night. She's not impressed.
Says that I've gotten too successful.
Thinks I've forgotten my roots.
I wouldn't normally care.
I'd swat her away without a second thought.
Except...I can't get her out of my head.
That amazingly curvy body.
With an @$$ you just wanna knead like dough.
I'm
going crazy.
She thinks she's gonna bring me down.
But she has no idea who she's dealing with.
Tonight...she's on my tasting menu.
Palmer
I finger the steak, tracing the marbled flecks of fat.
I observe it with steady concentration and follow each streak as if it were a roadmap, pointing me home.
A well-marbled steak is a beautiful thing.
It's perfection.
It's redemption.
Is it also salvation?
My mouth moistens as I think about the silky texture of melted fat.
The depth of flavor. The tenderness. The way it transcends a moment in time.
I grind salt and pepper over one side of the steak, and then flip it over to season the other side. Then I heat a cast iron skillet, and when it's at the desired temperature, I drop a pad of butter into its center. I watch as the butter circles, spins, and sizzles around the pan until it's a melted puddle.
Then I place the steak on top, listening to the hot skillet kiss the raw slab of red meat, slowly caramelizing it.
I've made my fortune in the restaurant business.
Flipping food. Perfecting my craft.
Making a name for myself.
But I want more.
I want to elevate the culinary landscape of New York City…and the clock's ticking faster than Julia Childs chopping an onion.
This restaurant here—The Pearl on Park—is a longtime dream come true. I've made my fortune through high-end cuisine—you know, the kind of food that requires three spoons and three forks just to eat? The kind of food accompanied by waiters in suits and white linens. I've become one of the most famous chefs in the world, running a chain of high-quality, extremely fancy restaurants.
You've probably seen me profiled in publications like Bon Appetite, Saveur, Food and Wine, Cooks Illustrated, and The Art of Eating.
I've made food that'll give you an orgasm as soon as it hits your tongue: beautifully crusted baguettes, fresh meat that'll make you moan, and warm cakes gooier than a woman begging for more.
But this restaurant is different.
I'm still creating dishes that are good, orgasmic good, but now I'm pushing boundaries. Salty, fatty, sweet—the kind of food that makes you want to sink your face in and say Fuck it, I'm eating this.
Maybe I'm stubborn, or stupid, or both, but truth is, you have to be all of those things and more to make it in the restaurant business.
You see all of these tools in this kitchen—the vacuum machines, the pH meters, the liquid nitrogen? I'm debunking cooking myths. I don't care what any other chef in this city is doing. If it's working for me, just get out of my way.
Watch me run my restaurant the way I want to run them.
I have no interest in what the chef is doing next door, or across the street, or even across the fucking globe. Why? Because the only thing that matters is my kitchen.
And this place here—these stainless steel appliances, the swanky Park Ave vibe, the top of the line table linens and décor—it's a longtime dream come true.
I look down at the steak, and spoon brown butter over it, basting it. It's now crusted and cooked to perfection, and I remove it from the skillet. The steak is caramelized around the edges with a beautiful brown crunch that I can't wait to place between my teeth.
If you visit The Pearl on Park, this'll be one of the best steaks you've ever had, I promise. It's one of the new dishes that I’m going to present.
I plate the steak and carefully slice a chunk of meat off with a serrated knife. There's a crisp char on the outside and rareness in the middle that feels like butter on my tongue.
"Fuck, that's good!" I can't help but yell out and slam my fist down on the countertop.
"You made me jump!" I look over to see my sous chef, Brit, walk into the kitchen. She's working overtime with me to get a few dishes perfected before our soft opening.
Any other day, and this late at night, it wouldn’t be Brit here with me. Maybe some actress with one of those fake smiles, too eager to have a taste of the Chef—but not today.
I can’t waste my time. Not now.
"Taste this!" I say, looking at Brit over my shoulder.
She walks over, and leans against the counter. I place a forkful of steak into her mouth. I watch as she chews slowly, and then closes her eyes, throwing her head back.
"My God," she says, shaking her head in disbelief. "You weren't joking. This is the best steak I've ever eaten."
I'm glad she agrees, but I can't help but want to make sure.
"Don't pull my leg—tell me the truth," I say.
"I'm serious! It's that good," she says. "This'll put The Pearl on Park on the map."
The way she drags her hand over her throat tells me that she means it.
But suddenly, I can no longer think about that perfectly caramelized steak.
Instead, I close my eyes and remember the doctor’s appointment I had last week. The one where my dreams of cooking the best food in New York were born.
It's an appointment that haunts me and drives me in equal measures.
The sanitized talk. The fluorescent lights. The sterile smell of it all.
Something showed up on the MRI, the doctor said, as I sat back in the hard plastic chair. He pointed to a white, walnut-shaped mass, and the rest of the appointment was a blur. I left, vaguely agreeing to a follow-up appointment, and ultimately making myself a promise to cook the best fucking food New York City's ever tasted.
"This is the best steak the Big Apple's got," Brit says, bringing me back to what’s in front of me.
That's exactly what I want to hear.
It's true; I'm a multi-tasker. I can juggle a dozen restaurants, and even more women, and still find time to scuba dive my way through St. Thomas.
It's what I do. And I'm good at it.
I'm not interested in half-assing my way through life.
I'm living large, and I know it. But I'm just getting started.
If you can handle the heat, go ahead…turn the page, and jump into the fire.
My name is Chef Palmer, and I'm going to give the world something they'll never forget.
Nicole
"Where are the vegetables?"
WHACK! THWAP!
Two line cooks look up at me. One shouts back, "We can't hear you, what?"
"I said, where are the—" but my voice is again cut off by the overhead noise.
WHACK!
WHACK!
THWAP!
The noise of construction workers a floor above us has put me on edge.
I can't think. I can't cook. I can't sear a piece of chicken without hearing what sounds like a dozen drag cars moving full throttle above my head.
The line cooks shrug their shoulders.
"THE PRODUCE—WHERE IS IT?" I say, struggling over the noise.
Danny, one of the two, finally understands what I'm asking. "Oh that. The driver mumbled something about a missed payment and took off."
I look around the kitchen and see that he's right. We haven't received our fresh produce this morning. Beyond a few stray onions, we have nothing.
How am I supposed to cook today?
I take a deep breath and run my fingers through my hair.
Stay calm, I repeat to myself.
"Okay, thanks. I'll give him a call."
"Sorry, I figured you knew."
"It's fine," I say, even though it doesn't feel fine at all. In fact, it's taking everything in me to not lose it today, but I have to keep my cool. "I'll get it sorted."
I walk out of the kitchen and into the main dining room. I look around at the tables, at the blue gingham table linens, at everything I've worked so hard to build.
Blue.
The color reminds me of my grandmother. I can almost hear her whispering into my ear, “A woman with no wrinkles is a woman without a story to tell."
I remember sitting on top of her knees, looking into her pale blue eyes a
s she hummed some old song from the forgotten 50s; in my memories, it’s always Doris Day and Dream a Little Dream of Me on her lips, and then she’d just wrap her arms tight around me and cradle me against her chest.
I’d close my eyes, surrendering to the warmness of her embrace, and the world would feel like a dream—blurry at the edges, but bright and comforting all the same.
She's the reason I started this restaurant. She instilled in me the love of food and the notion that anything is possible with enough hard work.
And believe me; none of this was easy.
In fact, it was the hardest thing I've ever done.
I washed dishes, I waited tables. I worked double shifts, and I saved every single penny I could get my hands on. I once worked through a fever of 104º, and I honestly thought I wouldn’t make it through the day.
But there was that dream.
A dream that burned hotter than any fever ever could. That unrelenting need to do something, as small as it may be.
Then one day, I simply made it happen.
All those pennies, the long hours, theexhaustion...I just threw them all into the pan and stirred. I added a lease to the mix, a healthy dose of anxiety, and then I just closed my eyes and bet it all.
It’s been a year now.
That anxiety remains, along with all the penny counting. The dish washing, table-waiting, and frantic cooking are all part of the process as well. But now I do it all in a place I can call my own.
The Old Tale is my restaurant, and it's huddled among New York's high rises. You can almost feel the way time bends once you step inside.
Thousands of people rush by the door every day, barely noticing this small bistro that seems to exist in a universe of its own; but for the few people that step inside, they have no choice but to leave the rush and frenzy of New York City outside.
There’s nothing fancy about The Old Tale. No glamorous logos, no overpriced menus or waiters wearing a suit and tie.
