Catering

Big companies always provide the lamest excuses for not paying their bills on time. 4 o’clock already. It’s my day off and I‘ve spent it almost entirely at the business, cursing in front of the computer. I have been checking payments and sending reminders, not my favorite pastime by far. But I can’t really complain. Things are going well for my catering company. I have specialized in exclusive finger food for parties and receptions and cater mainly to large companies. Exotic hors d’oeuvres and inventive tapas are my forte.

I roam the empty kitchen. Usually the place is buzzing with activity. Steam hisses in the woks and everywhere is the rhythmic sound of my chefs chopping herbs and vegetables. But today it is awfully quiet and clean. My mood darkens. Spare time has become rare and I still don’t know how to deal with the emptiness and silence of being single. It’s been 2 years since I broke up with Sarah and I have been working my ass off ever since.

I’ll cook, I decide. Some experimenting will cheer me up. And it beats going home to an empty apartment. I fix myself a strong G&T and am about to drop some fine cucumber slices in when I hear the doorbell. That reminds me: I haven’t locked up the shop.

“Hello,” she says “I’m sorry to disturb you. Are you open?” She is leaning on the doorstep, peeking inside. She turns her head sideways, in an attempt to see if there are any opening hours posted on the door.

“I’m closed actually”, I start, but she has already entered, the door clicking into lock behind her.

She walks straight up to me, holding out her hand. A professional smile is pasted onto her face. “Nice to meet you. My name is Marie Nilsen. I work with PWC. You did our Christmas event.” I shake hands with her reluctantly. What is this woman doing here? Shouldn’t Miss Career be hosting a perfectly organized garden party at her country house, wearing a white see-through blouse? It’s Sunday. “I just send you a reminder, because you are very much behind with the payment.” I answer rather surly.  “Well…, that’s why I’m here, actually” she says hesitating. “I’ve come to apologize. We are a bit off schedule with accountancy in my department. I’m so ashamed.”

I can’t believe she’s saying that, or rather how she is saying that. A soft husky voice, eyes averted downwards, but sparkling with mischief. She is trying to pout, but her lips keeps launching into a smile. What a remarkable piece of theatre.

She pauses and looks at me in a strange way, her head slightly cocked to the right. “But eh … now that I’m here, would it be inconvenient for you to discuss a small menu for our next event? Are there any new dishes we could try?”

She forces me to look at her. Her face is pretty and open. She is younger than I thought at first glance. Blonde curly hair and icy blue eyes. A few tiny freckles adorn her straight roman nose. A faint smirk pushes up the corners of her mouth. She has a compact well trained body and she’s actually wearing her white see-through blouse today. The silk elegantly following the natural curves of her breasts. I track a satin strap over her right collar bone down into the folds of her shirt and faintly distinguish the outlines of a black lace bra. Her black skirt is taut around her hips and ends right above the knee, revealing dark stockings and surprisingly no high heels. She’s sexy and she knows it all too well.

She is waiting for an answer but I can’t say a word. I am engulfed by a huge wave of lust. A warm glow sweeps through my body. My thoughts are little shreds of drool floating around randomly in a vast empty space. I can hear someone say “Come to the kitchen, I will help you out,” in a flat tone. It’s me. I manage a clumsy gesture urging her to follow me to the cooking area. My brain is on red alert. I need to think and come up with something very fast.

When I stop and turn around taking a deep breath to start explaining the ins and outs of kitchen laws, she doesn’t halt but keeps coming closer until her face is only an inch away. She smells heavenly. A flowery perfume with hints of may bell. On her skin I distinguish a more spicy scent. The urge to draw even closer is so overwhelming it erases every last rational thought.

I put my hands on her hips and turn her around slowly until I can I push her against the refrigerator and lift up her skirt. I firmly lean into her, blocking all means of escape. She shivers. My hands trail her buttocks and I soon discover she is wearing garters to her black stockings. My finger pries into her panties. They are soaking wet.

I slowly take one of the cucumber from the pile up on the cupboard behind us and push the shape into her buttocks, suggesting other attributes. It surprises her and she wants to turn around to look at it, but I push my upper arm against her face  to avoid her from turning it. “Nonono”, I whisper in her ear, “chef’s secret. You are not allowed to look.” She groans.

I slowly move the tip of the cucumber in between her legs, brushing her nickers. She moans softly and parts her buttocks wider. I can feel her body tense up. She expects me to enter her soon.
But I’m not going to have her leaning against the fridge. Not with a vegetable.  I’ve got some surprises for her. Payback time.  

I let her turn around to kiss me. A long kiss heavy with tongue and desire. I can feel it burn my insides, sinking in lower between my legs. Suddenly a sharp pain pulls me out of the orgasmic ocean I was drowning in. She has pinched my nipple. Hard. I’m appalled. That’s not allowed. I am the chef. I push her towards the table. I have a large table in my kitchen made of natural wood. Heavy feet, low surface . I’m not among the tallest and I like my surfaces low to keep a good overview on my work.
“Sit” I tell her, surprised at the authority in my voice. She complies. I gently push back her upper body until she reels back to lean on her elbows. When I lift up her legs she sighs and lies down willingly.

I pull up her skirt and remove het nickers. She is blushing. Her legs are open. I have perfect access to her glistening oyster and pearl. Her feet rest on the table border, her long legs still clad in the shiny black stockings. No need to change that. A dish like this asks for a simple finish. I pull open the fridge and take out a small pot of caviar. I scoop up a string of fish eggs with my index finger and decorate her naked silky oyster with a trail of tiny brown pearls.  She shivers when the cold necklace forms on her mons pubis and descends into the warmth in between her thighs.

Most people think an oyster is best served with pepper and lemon juice, but that would be a complete waste. I personally prefer horseradish as a spicy counterpart to any oyster. An ancient root, fiery and strong. I know exactly where in the fridge I put that ice cold bowl of homemade wasabi and within seconds I and spooning tiny dots of spicy green paste onto her lips and clit. She wriggles her hips in anticipation to the cold condiment touching her delicate skin. Soon the wasabi will cause a hot burning sensation she will in no way be able to shake off.

“Let’s taste,” I whisper. I hold down her legs and slide my tongue into the folds of her pussy She wriggles as I push my way in between her labia. It’s wet and hot and I realize it’s has been ages since I have smelled the sealike salty scent of a horny woman. I tonguefuck her but she wants more, bigger. I slide my index finger into her. She’s squirming. I follow the trail of caviar eggs and wander up to her clit. The wasabi must be stinging by now. I suck it up, lapping at her pussy like I haven’t eaten in 2 days. Will I allow her to come? No. I retract my finger. She groans complaints.

I pull her up and feed her little spoons of caviar while we kiss. She tries to get in my pants but I pull away. “This is a possibility” I whisper hoarsely, “oyster paired with caviar and a touch of wasabi.”
“And now for the main course: undress.” I command her.” God, I’m not good at this,” I think to myself, but she looks at me with a smile and starts to unbutton her blouse. I quickly move around the kitchen and grab some utensils. She’s standing in the middle of my kitchen looking intently at my movements. She’s only wearing a black lace bra, garters and stockings. I’m swooning. I find a cooking apron and toss it to her. She pulls it over her head and I turn her round to tie the knot behind her back. Then I bend her over until her buttocks are nicely showing and ready for the main course.

“We’ll have to tenderize the meat,” I whisper in her ear. Instantly I see the hairs on her arm stand straight up.  I have some wooden spoons, a spatula and a skimmer. Let’s see. I slap the spatula onto her buttocks. My stomach weakens as she reacts to the pain. It’s only a small slap, but she wasn’t  really expecting it. I’m so hard and wet, I’m about to explode.  I continue with the spatula, the flat rubber spoon flexing  harder and harder. She hisses and sighs, but I do not hear a single complaint.  The skimmer is a large metal spoon punctured with little holes. I wonder if the imprint will be visible on her beautiful ass. I slap her hard. A clear mark forms. A red circle with little white dots. She moves her body, like a restless horse. I pull her hair and continue my hard work until she squirms it’s time for a break. “Stop, stop”, she sighs, exhausted. Her buttocks are red and burning.
It’s a lie to say that white wine does not go well with red meat. I happen to have an excellent white in the fridge. Fruity, but firm, the perfect match. I pull out the bottle and sit down on a crate next to her gorgeous ass. Softly I caresses the ill-treated skin. Then I take the wine and pour it generously over her buttocks. She shrieks away at first but when I start licking away the cold liquid she eases down.

Ile flottante is by far my favorite dessert, but the egg whites have to be freshly stirred. I won’t have time for that now.  I do have an excellent homemade mint sorbet. I use it to accompany cold vegetable soups and freeze it on a stick, in long slim cones.
An excellent way to conclude this heavenly meal. I quickly grab a cone and hide it behind my back.

I loosen the knot of the apron and she takes it off. Then turns around she faces me, standing up so I can examine her perfect breasts. We kiss again, but this time it’s an urgent kiss filled with frustration. She bites my lips pushing her body into me, telling me she’s ready to come. I gently push the cone between her thighs. She shrieks away. I brush her lips and quickly shove it in and out of her pussy. She shivers. I put the ice cream stick in my mouth and lick off the juices. When she leans in to kiss me I push the ice cream cone into her mouth. She blows the cone softly, in small strokes, taking it in deeper and deeper. I love to see it move in and out of her mouth.

I start my way down over her soft and delicious belly until I’m back in the wet folds of her oyster. Mint sorbet, a faint touch of wasabi and the smell of the sea. I feast on her clit, while fucking her hard with 2 fingers.  She is moaning, bracing herself against the table. I can feel the orgasm building up inside her. Her thigh muscles become rock hard, she is groaning louder and louder. I put more pressure on my tongue and try to follow her rhythm. Then I feel how something snaps and everything collapses. The tension is sucked into nothingness and she comes hard and long. Her pussy contracts rhythmically around my fingers. She lets out a long deep moan and shivers. Then her body goes limp. Her pussy slowly releases my fingers from its firm grip and I can feel her pulling my hair, telling me to get up.

When I face her again I can see a red glow on her cheeks. Her eyes are sparkling. She looks at me with the brutal stare of an adolescent schoolboy. “Well, I think that would be an excellent proposal for our New Year’s party,” she whispers in a fluttering voice. “But, for next month’s stakeholders’ meeting I think we would need a lighter menu.” She acts remarkably well composed after all she’s had to endure. I kiss her, so she can taste herself. “Vegan? Or raw food?” I ask her, my body throbbing with want. “Let me check on that at the office,” she whispers. Her lips are so close they are brushing the hairs on my cheek. “I could come by later this week when I have more information.” It’s a question.
“Yes”, I tell her softly. “That would absolutely be necessary. We are very busy. We need to plan this urgently.”

“I’ll call you” she says smiling at the door 10 minutes later. Then she is gone.
 I still can’t get my head around it. What happened? I smell my fingers. It’s not a dream.

I hear my phone buzz. A text message. Phone number unknown. “Vegan would be nice. I have a very good recipe. Would you like to try tonight?” There’s an address in the texto.