Tara Crescent

After work Monday evening, I make my way to Chinatown, to the fifth floor walk-up that is the relatively spacious apartment of the Chef.

The Chef’s name is Mark, and he isn’t really a chef, though unlike me, he can actually cook. He’s some kind of middle manager for a biotech company. I call him the Chef because he likes to play with food. Last Monday, he rubbed cinnamon oil on my nipples, my pussy lips and around the tight ring of my asshole, and he watched me wriggle as the heat from the oil warmed my entire body. He had me begging and pleading and when he finally bent me over his desk and fucked me, I came in an explosion of scalding pleasure.

I wonder what the Chef has in store for me today.

Every time I see the Chef, I’m struck by how hot he is, in a rumpled kind of way. He’s tall and lean, with curly hair that’s an endearing mix of ash-blonde and grey.

His chest hair is the same color, though right now, he’s wearing a grey t-shirt.

Even thinking of his chest hair sends a shockwave of desire through me.