Yes, Chef

This episode contains verbal degradation between two consenting adults. Please listen at your own discretion.

Pasta water is boiling… onions are diced. What am I missing?

Garlic. Um… three heads should do it. I hope.

This is… a lot of pressure. But it’s also a game. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

Yes, you are my boss, but right now, what we’re doing, it’s just… play.

“These tomatoes need to be chopped finer.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Chef, I’ll dice the tomatoes finer and adjust the heat on the stock—”

“Less talking, more doing.”

“Yes, Chef.”

You’re observing me while I cook. A whole five-course meal. Luckily, there’s no one actually out in the dining hall waiting to be served.

It’s late. The kitchen has long since closed. And this little game is just for you and me.

Four months ago, when I started as your sous chef, I never could have imagined having a relationship like this with you. It’s… I can’t even describe it, really.

It’s… not quite romantic, although I certainly wouldn’t mind if it was. It’s not purely sexual either, though.

You’re my boss. But… you’re also… there’s not a word for it. Not my domme or anything like that, but… well, that word fits pretty well, actually.

We spend all day in the kitchen together, with you always barking orders at me, so stiff and unsmiling. It never bothered me because that’s just what working in the fine dining scene is like. There’s a lot of pressure on everyone.

I’ve always obeyed you as quickly and efficiently as possible. Always do my best to perform to your standards.

And then, one night, all that tension and pressure between us finally broke.

You kissed me out behind the restaurant after closing. I finally saw you smile for the first time as you dragged me back inside and fucked me on the prep table.

I don’t get to see that side of you often. And I have a feeling not many other people do either.

But I see it most often during these late-night sessions of ours. After we sneak back into the kitchen after closing. After we play our games of power and control with each other.

Tonight, you’ve tasked me with cooking you five courses while wearing a remote-control vibrator in my underwear. You, of course, hold the remote. You’ve not turned it on yet, but I imagine it’ll happen at any moment.

There it is… This really isn’t proper knife safety… dicing with a vibrator between my legs.

Do I care? No, definitely not.

I push all of the ingredients off of the cutting board and into the frying pan. There’s the carrot, celery, onion, tomato…

I add the beef broth to the pan and gently stir.

“Something the matter?”

“Well? Answer me.”

“No, Chef…”

“I like you like this. Needy. Desperate. Whiny. Don’t let the sauce burn.”

“Yes, Chef.”

I need to compose myself and keep stirring the sauce.

“You seem distracted…”

“N-no, Chef.”

“You know how upset I’ll be if anything is overcooked.”

“A-almost ready, Chef.”

“Good. Taste it.”

I spoon a piece of pasta out of the salted water and blow on it before taking a bite. It’s a perfect al dente. The sauce is simmering now and… just about ready to be combined.

“It’s… ready to be plated, C-Chef.”

“Don’t tell me. Just do it.”

“What’s wrong? Having issues concentrating? I guess I’ll take care of this for you.”

You turn off the stove burners and carry the boiling pot of hot water to the sink to drain the pasta. It’s embarrassing, you having to step in and finish these last steps for me. And that’s exactly why you’re doing it.

My whole body is shaking as I stir the pasta and the sauce together. I squeeze my legs together and my clit throbs against the vibrator. I want so badly to collapse to the ground and fuck myself on the vibrator, but that’s out of the question.

“Your next course is r-rigatoni… bolognese. Enjoy.”

I hold my breath as I watch you taste my food. As much as this is a game, you are still my boss and your opinion on the quality of my food is important to me keeping this job.

“Better. The anchovies needed more time to incorporate into the fat. But, otherwise… it’s quite good.”

“Th-thank you, Chef.”

I can’t believe it. That’s probably the kindest thing you’ve ever said about my food. ‘Quite good.’

Now, all that’s left is the final course. Dessert.

You requested pistachio ice cream which, so long as the ice-cream maker isn’t being fussy, should be fairly quick and easy. And so long as you don’t increase the vibrations…

“Ah—stop. You know, I’ve changed my mind for this final course.”

There’s a glint of mischief in your eyes when I turn to look at you.

You push your entrée aside and motion for me to come to your side.

“Y-yes, Chef?”

There’s a hunger in your eyes, a look like you want to devour me. And fuck… I want you to.

“Take off your clothes. Lie on the table in your underwear.”

“Yes, Chef.”

I quickly obey, tossing aside my hat, untying my apron, rushing to unbutton my white chef’s coat, tugging my pants and shoes off. You take the vibrator and put it aside.

I lie back on the metal table. The cold is shocking underneath my hot skin.

“You look cute like this. At my mercy.”

“Thank you, Chef.”

“You’re being so sweet today. Following my instructions so well. You want a reward?”

“Yes, Chef…”

You trace your hand up my stomach to my bralette…

You lift it up and expose my breasts to you…

“God, you’re perfect.”

“Thank you, Chef…”

I lick my lips as your fingers trace feather-light patterns down my chest and stomach. Every one of my senses is dialed up. Even the lightest of touches makes me twitch and jerk.

You pull my underwear down my legs. You’re making me feel so vulnerable and exposed… hot and restless… and I really, really like it.

“You’re so fucking sexy.”

Your hands grip my hips and you tug me down to the edge of the table, pulling me right up against you. You bend forward at the waist and lower your mouth to the inside of my thighs.

You reach between my legs and pull the vibrator out of me.

“I know what you want. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I… I want you…”

“Say it. Beg for it.”

This is my favorite part of our game. Where I play weak, whimpering and squirming beneath you, like I’m fighting myself on what I want.

There’s a pleasure in knowing that… despite you being in charge, ordering me around, seemingly free to demand anything of me… I’m in control. I can say a single word and stop this game. But I would never do that.

“Please, Chef. Please… please eat me out.”

“Good start… keep going.”

You hover your mouth right between my legs, teasing me with your warm breath.

“Please, Chef. God, I’m so wet for you. Please eat my pussy.”

“Good girl.”

Your soft, warm tongue presses up against my folds.

Your soft, warm tongue presses up against my folds.

“Keep begging. I didn’t say you could stop.”

“Yes, Chef. Please… please give it to me. Please, I need it so bad…”

“Oh, yes, baby, fuck yes. That feels so fucking good…”

“No, please… please keep going, don’t stop…”

You pull away from me, ignoring my whining.

“Please, Chef. Please please please please.”

“Please what?”

“Please keep going. Please, I want to cum. Please let me cum, Chef.”

“Mmm, but you sound so cute when you’re being tortured…”

“Please…”

“God, I love how desperate you are for it. How badly you want it. Are you my greedy little slut?”

“Please, yes, yes, I’m your slut. Please…”

“Mine.”

You lower back down between my legs and suck softly on my clit. Your tongue… fuck… it feels so good, sliding between my folds.

You reach up and squeeze my breasts in your palms. Your fingers tighten around each of my nipples and squeeze, kneading and pulling at them.

Each squeeze feels like an electric shock. Each stroke of your tongue triggers waves of pleasure from my head down to my toes.

“Are you going to cum for me like a good little slut?”

“I’m—I’m so close. Please, can I cum, Chef? Please can I cum?”

“No.”

I wish it didn’t make me so wildly turned on to be denied. But it does. I ache and throb, so close but so far without Chef’s permission.

“Please. Please, tell me what you want me to do. I’ll do anything.”

“I know you will. You would do anything to cum because you’re a greedy little slut, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I… I’m… I’m such a filthy, needy slut.”

“Say it.”

A wave of heat washes over me. We had a very hot discussion about this yesterday. About how I get off on being called a slut. How hot it makes me to be verbally degraded.

I thought it was going to be you doing it, but clearly you’re going to make me degrade myself.

“I’m waiting.”

“I, uh… I… fuck. I’m such a… such a desperate slut… s-so greedy to cum… I’m just a hole for you to fill…”

A blush breaks out across my cheeks, down my neck and chest. The embarrassment, the humiliation… it’s making my pussy ache.

“Good girl… Keep talking like that, and I just might let you cum on my face.”

You spread my legs open and lick my dripping pussy and lift my legs up onto your shoulders. My whole lower body is trembling. I’m so fucking close.

“Oh, oh fuck, yes, Chef. I’m a needy little whore. I love it when you eat my pussy like that.”

“Y-yeah, yes, yes… yes, Chef! Please, I’m so close, please let me cum in your mouth like a dirty… fucking… slut…”

“Fuck… oh my god…”

You look up at me from between my legs.

“How was that?”

“Incredible. My brain is… uh… broken.”

“Good. That’s exactly how I like you.”

“C’mere.”

“Will you let me return the favor?”

“Gladly. Get on your knees.”

“Yes, Chef.”