Hard at work, p.4
Hard At Work, page 4
I redoubled my efforts, tugging more forcefully on his prong and bringing him steadily closer to the inevitable. Riley responded to my ministrations by gyrating and swirling his hips, pushing back on my cock ’til it was completely enveloped inside him. I was going to lose it at any moment, but Riley went first.
Without much warning, he gave a primal grunt and began to quiver. My first clue that anything was happening was a sticky, wet feeling in the hand that was twirling around his cockhead. My second was the burst of cum that shot past my left ear onto the floor. The next hit me square on the chin. Riley, meanwhile, just kept riding me as hard as he could, bracing himself against my chest and clawing into my muscles as his orgasm overtook him, drops of cum landing between his delicate hands and covering my entire torso.
Each time Riley shot a load onto me, the walls of his ass cavity flexed involuntarily, squeezing my tool and pressing me further and further over the edge. Finally, I could control it no longer. My back arched, I shoved my cock as deep up into Riley as I could and sent rushes of cum surging into the condom. I jackhammered up into him several times, trying to finish myself off completely by punching my cock into him as hard as I could and making Riley moan even louder.
Finally, I went rigid, every last drop of ejaculate drained from my aching balls, and Riley collapsed onto my cum-covered chest, plastering my face with grateful kisses. He lay on top of me in a sweaty, swinging heap as we both recovered our breath; then he reluctantly rolled off of me and led me into his immaculate bathroom.
After we both had cleaned up, we padded, still naked, into Riley’s kitchen for a drink of water to help cool off. He also cracked one of his bottles of Veuve. The icy golden liquid was like drinking sunshine, the carbonation making it even more thirst quenching. I quickly gulped down a flute of it and got a refill. It was starting to make my cheeks rosy again, but I didn’t care. I knew we would be here all night and finish the bottle.
Raising his glass in a toast to me, Riley said, “Here’s to finding you the perfect apartment.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I replied, clinking glasses with him.
Finishing his sip, Riley spoke again, this time a rascally grin pulling up the corners of his beautiful lips, “We’ve got another full day tomorrow. We could be together for hours and hours. I hope that’s okay with you.”
“I think I’ll be able to put up with you somehow,” I told him, grinning in turn.
“That’s good, because boy do I have a great property to show you tomorrow….”
“I’ll make sure to stretch first this time,” I laughed, pulling him in for a champagne-laced kiss.
Pierre the Pâtissier
Life had brought me back to Los Angeles after years away on the East Coast. I had cultivated a career in book publishing only to grow bored, spend six months traveling the back roads of Europe, and return to my native California without a clue as to what I should do with my life.
Though I eventually found work in the film industry—no, not that film industry—on the production side of some big studio flicks, my heart was never truly in the work. Unfortunately, that was all I did: work. Though I was making good money, meeting interesting people, and found the work to be challenging, I had no free time to pursue any of my interests.
I didn’t mean to take up guitar or learn Russian or anything like that, but time and again I found myself thinking: What good is making money if you don’t have time to enjoy it? So after a couple of years, at an opportune moment, I quit.
That was it, I just up and quit. Granted, I had more of a plan than that, but my plan did not extend beyond a few months. If I really stretched things, I figured I had the savings to live on for a little less than a year, but I didn’t want to go back to the daily grind anytime soon, so I quickly started casting about for an alternative career.
As luck would have it, I met a food writer while I was out one night, and he indulgently gave me some helpful hints about how to start freelancing. Before that evening, if you had asked me whether I would have ever thought I’d be employed as a restaurant reviewer, I probably would have laughed in your face. I had always been interested in food, and loved eating out, but until I really started to think about it, I never thought I was qualified.
Turns out that if you are a good writer, curious about food and restaurants, and are driven, you can be a food writer. I was all those things, and on top of it, I started cataloging all the fine restaurants I’d eaten in around the city and figured out that I had an excellent base of reference for becoming a restaurant critic.
Once I started thinking this way, I found out I could write about just about anything, especially once I got a few sample clips published. The more I wrote, the more writing work I got. Editors seemed to appreciate the way I punctually met deadlines, my fastidious research, the fresh angles I took, and the genuine passion I had for the work.
Before long, I was pretty much fully employed, though I made my own hours, worked from home, and got to spend my days wandering the city in search of the best places to eat. Not only that, but I also got to travel and write about my experiences. It also gave me a good excuse to eat at really nice places while on the road. For research purposes, of course. Life was good.
Most important, however, was keeping up-to-date on the food scene in Los Angeles, since that was my bread-basket, so to speak. Whenever I heard about a new restaurant, bar, or café, I hastened to try it, hoping to get a review up before the competition.
That was why one day when I was strolling through my neighborhood doing my errands, I was interested to notice a new pâtisserie right near my dry cleaner. I had been traveling a lot, so I had not even noticed that the place had been under renovation. The sign said: PIERRE’S PTISSERIE.
That was a little too cute for my taste, but I decided to pop in anyway, and I had to concede that the baking smells that were wafting from the door were incredible. The places smelled like heaven. Buttery, pain au chocolat heaven.
I dreamily walked in the door prepared to order up a pastry from the shelves and shelves of golden croissants, colorful petits fours, and assorted bonbons, but no one was in sight. “This is a fine way to run a business!” I thought.
I hungrily wandered the bakery, looking at all the different goodies; then I noticed that there was a little doorman’s bell on the counter. So, not knowing what else to do, I rang it, fully expecting some grandmotherly type woman to come flouncing in from the backroom.
Imagine my surprise when the person who came from the kitchen was actually a scrappy young man in his late twenties with dark, spiky hair, smoldering brown eyes, an earring, and tattoos winding their way up his sinewy forearms. He gave me a little smirk, which was funny because he was the one with some flour smudged on his face.
Then he asked, “May I ’elp you?”
Hearing his accent, I realized he was French. I picked my jaw up off the ground and answered him in his mother tongue, saying, “Yes, I was wondering what you’ve just baked, I’d like to take home the freshest product.”
He smiled at me, saying still in French, “Ah, you speak French?”
“A little bit,” I modestly replied. “I have spent a lot of time in Paris.”
“That is where I did most of my stage when I trained to be a chef,” he told me. Then he introduced himself. “I am Pierre.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed. “So this is your pâtisserie?”
“That is correct. I am a chef, but I was always most interested in being a baker like my grandfather. I came to California to work, but wanted to start my own business.”
“Well, it looks wonderful,” I told him. “Where in France are you from?”
“A town called Aix,” he told me. “Do you know it?”
I had indeed spent a little time in Aix. It is in the southeast of the country in Provence and is known for its fields of lavender that thrive in the sunny Mediterranean climate. Hearing he was from Aix also made me smile, because the city is known for a particular pastry.
“You’re from Aix?” I repeated. “Then I would love to try some of your calissons.”
Hearing me say that, Pierre positively lit up. His huge smile completely transformed his smirking, mischievous face into that of an excited little boy.
“You know of calissons!” he exclaimed, completely surprised.
These special treats are tiny sugar cookies trimmed with pine nuts, and have been a specialty of the pâtissiers of Aix-en-Provence since the Middle Ages.
Suddenly, Pierre was my new best friend. He invited me behind the counter and started to ply me with the treats of his trade.
There were chaussons aux pommes with flaky buttery shells surrounding fresh-picked apples swimming in cinnamon. The fruit tarts were made with the most colorful berries I had ever seen. There were fluffy meringues, nutty dacquoises, dark chocolate ganaches, creamy financiers, and utterly delicate napoleons. My favorite, as Pierre soon figured out, were the cream-filled éclairs that he had made with a variety of glazes. He made me try the chocolate, the mocha, the caramel, the maple, and his own homemade buttercream.
I was going to go into a sugar coma, but I couldn’t get enough of Pierre or his pastries. He would dip his finger into an éclair’s creamy center and make me taste it. When I didn’t suck all the cream off his finger, he would finish the job himself, giving me an impish little grin as he cleaned his finger with his tongue.
Each pastry was more delicious than the last, and I made sure to sing Pierre’s praises. Everything was so delicate and decadent, yet simply made from the freshest ingredients. I made a mental note of what I was tasting so that I could write about it later.
The rest of my concentration, however, was taken up by checking out Pierre whenever he wasn’t looking at me. He was definitely French, but not in that annoying, mousy way. He was like a celebrity chef, with real machismo, though with each passing moment and each additional goodie, I could tell that he was gay and that he was definitely into me.
As for me, all I could think about was working off my sugar rush by fucking his brains out. He was my height with a svelte body that was knotted by the muscles he had gained plying his trade. It takes hard work and effort to run a bakery: long hours, hauling ingredients, rigorous mixing, stoking the ovens. His arms were pure muscle, and I could make out the outline of a round little ass through his flour-stained jeans.
I asked him more about himself and learned that he had been in the U.S. a few years. He had been dating another chef, but when their relationship soured, Pierre decided he needed a big change and that it was time to start his own bakery, just like his grandfather had.
I asked him specific questions about his techniques, ingredients, and his culinary background so that he could see I was no common dilettante. My plan must have worked, because after the last éclair, he raised his eyebrows and gave me a searching look.
I looked back at him, questioningly, then grinned. Something I did must have convinced him to do what he did next.
Taking my hand, almost gently at first and then more insistently, he led me into the back of the bakery, telling me, “Come, there is something I want you to try.”
I was ready for anything.
Leading me into the back, past his cavernous ovens and a large marble preparation table to the gigantic stove that occupied an entire wall, he pointed out a huge copper pot that was sitting over a tiny open flame. Reverently lifting the top, he bent down to breathe in the fresh cloud of steam. I followed his lead and got a nose full of spicy, fragrant, chocolatey bliss. I couldn’t fathom what would make such a combination and I asked Pierre what he was making.
He told me that he was experimenting with creating different chocolate bonbons and that this was something completely new. He was creating the base ingredients for a new truffle that incorporated three different kinds of Asian chilis, natural bee honey from Scandinavia, and Turkish citrus fruits.
Before I could ask him any questions, he had ladled out a spoonful of it, and was holding it up to my lips expectantly. I compliantly opened up my mouth to try it, and he stepped closer so that our mouths were almost touching, and he blew on the steaming liquid to cool it slightly for me. I was touched by the thoughtful gesture, and leaned forward to take the spoon into my mouth.
The chocolate had cooled slightly, and at first that’s all I tasted; but as I swallowed the thick liquid, it made my throat tingle and burn, while releasing the most heavenly citrus vapor up through my nose. There were so many flavors going on, I found myself craving more just so I could try to parse them out more exactly.
Pierre was still standing inches away from me, and I wrapped his spoon-holding hand in my own so that I could lick the utensil clean, trying to taste every single element in the candy. He looked thrilled and nervous, asking me what I thought.
I didn’t even answer him, I just pulled him into a sweet, long, messy, wet, chocolatey kiss. I had just gorged myself on this beautiful man’s baked goodies, and now I hungered for his sex. My appetite was insatiable and I was going to be fulfilled one way or another.
As we kissed, my lips scratching against his supple, pink mouth, we began to tear at each other’s clothes furiously. I quickly unbuttoned his chef’s whites while he tore off my shirt. I kicked off my shoes and started to undo my pants while Pierre took off his jeans. We were naked in seconds flat, and then we were back to kissing one another ravenously.
The harder I kissed him and the deeper I shoved my tongue into his mouth, the harder he kissed me back. We were clawing at each other so intensely, embracing so tight, it was like we were wrestling right there in the middle of his kitchen, and I delighted in the feeling of his muscles flexing and contracting in counterpoint to my own.
Pierre’s chest was more hirsute than my own, with a huge patch of fur covering the entirety of it, tapering over the space of his abs and then widening again to form a diamond patch around his belly button. I could barely see the light pink nipples at the tip of his flat pecs for the mat of hair that covered them, but I still managed to tweak them a few times, making Pierre kiss me even harder.
I reached around him and grabbed hold of his tiny ass, pulling the cheeks apart and really kneading into the muscle like an unformed lump of Pierre’s bread dough. I nuzzled into his chest hair and savored the smells of sweat, deodorant, and a slew of baking spices like cinnamon and nutmeg that had left faint traces on his skin.
I sucked on his fingers, tasting the vestiges of chocolate still on them while Pierre reached down to coax my swelling cock to life. His own meaty éclair was already up and ready for action, and I couldn’t wait to taste its cream filling. He was, unsurprisingly, uncircumcised, and was sporting a nice, thick baguette, about the same size as my own eight inches. The shaft thickened from its base and was the widest at the middle, then tapered to a finely pointed head that was just barely revealed by the turtleneck of his foreskin. The whole thing curled in a downward arc shape. I’d seen one or two dicks like that in my time, so it was still a novelty.
We slammed back into one another, making out again as we felt each other up and down, leaving bright red marks where our hands rubbed each other’s skin. We dry-humped each other standing up, our two cocks chafing each other like soft sandpaper. My own cut sausage was getting tickled by Pierre’s unruly mound of black pubic hair. He was so European and went au naturel, with no manscaping at all, and his shaft and balls were forested with a thick layer of downy hair.
As we frotted, my cock pushed up and down against Pierre’s, causing the foreskin to stretch and retreat with each upward hump we made on one another. His rolling pin was dribbling clear precum all over the place, wetting both himself and me, and lubricating our dry-humping.
Without my realizing it, Pierre maneuvered us back through the kitchen to his large preparation table, right in the middle of everything. He swept his arm across it, spilling utensils and kitchen implements everywhere. Then he grabbed me in those muscular arms of his and set me on my back on the table, pinioning my legs against his hairy chest.
This was his work space, so there was flour, spices, and various other ingredients like sugar and butter everywhere. Within a moment, we were coated in all kinds of baking necessities, my back stained white with flour. Pierre reached for a bottle of cooking oil and poured it freely over his bright pink cock, and sent another squirt right at my ass.
He rubbed my crack with his hand a couple times to get it coated in the oil, then holding me firmly in place with his strong hands, he stuffed his meat thermometer as far into me as he could go.
I reached up and squeezed his arm, hard, because I was not ready for full penetration, and my insides burned with the intrusion, but as he started to vibrate slowly, loosening me up and massaging the walls of my ass, I soon became more comfortable and let go of him so that he knew it was all right to start fucking me.
He worked my ass with the same finesse he used to style his pastries, switching rhythms and directions frequently, keeping me guessing, and hitting every one of my internal erogenous spots. He would ram me for a few strokes, then gently swirl his hips, making me moan with ecstasy. He would anchor himself by leaning over me and placing his hands on my chest, pinning me to the table, and thrust down into my cavity. Then without warning, he would lean back and jab up into my prostate.
Every new movement was a surprise, and my mouth hung open as I let the waves of electric pleasure wash over me. Pierre ran his hand along the surface of the table, dusting it with confectioner’s sugar, and then stuck his fingers in my mouth, wiggling them around so that my tongue sucked every last granule clean.
