Yes, Chef! (A BBW BDSM Erotic Short Story)

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0.00 · 0 ratings · Published: Jan 2nd, 2014 {{ book.ratingTitle }}
Melody is the routine loving manager of a small restaurant who loves to play by the rules. Damian is the sexy, hot shot chef hired against her wishes who promises to stir things up in the kitchen. What happens when the lights turn down and the service is over?


This is a short erotic story starring a BBW who is experiencing her first taste of BDSM. Length is approximately 5,700 words.


Excerpt:
Holly, a beautiful brunette with an enviously tiny figure, rushed up to me near the end of the shift. “Mel, my customer at 15,” she motioned towards the table with a slight nod of the head, “wants to speak to a manager. I did the best that I could but he is impossible.” I sighed and closed my eyes, summoning the strength.
“I’ll handle it,” I put on a brave face.
Turning around, I glanced towards table 15 and saw what could only be described as a Greek God of man. He had thick, dark hair, a strong jawline and exuded masculinity. I inhaled sharply.
He was looking in my direction, evidently realizing I was the manager. I saw his eyes flick up and down, taking in every inch of me. I smoothed my black wrap dress - my self imposed work uniform and a staple in any curvy girl’s wardrobe - over my thighs and licked my lips. I walked towards him.
“Good afternoon,” my throat felt suddenly dry. He was even more attractive up close and smelled faintly of after shave and Dove soap. It was an intoxicating aroma. “I’m Melody, the manager.” Stay professional, I urged myself. Stay professional. “Holly said you wished to speak with me?”
He gestured to his barely eaten meal. “This,” he drew out the word, “is terrible.” I could see his eyes, a deep brown, and swallowed. Without even meeting him, really, I knew I didn’t want to disappoint him.
“Is there anything I can do to improve your experience?” I asked him, wiping a suddenly clammy hand on my dress.
“No,” each syllable was perfection. I imagined him whispering into my ear, his hand traveling up my bare thigh.
“Let me take this plate, then, and it will certainly be compliments of the house.” I had expected complaints regarding the food as the sudden departure of Ernesto had left us completely in the lurch. I reached forward, toward the plate, and brushed his hand. I snatched it away. His touch was electric. Images of him and I, entangled in the sheets, leapt to my mind.
He smirked. It was obvious that he knew exactly what I was thinking. I blushed and reached forward again, this time avoiding his hot flesh. “I’m sorry you had such a bad experience.” I took the plate and, with my head down, beelined towards the kitchen.

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