Crowded house, p.10
Crowded House, page 10
“One more chance,” Marius said testily.
“I’m truly sorry, from the very bottom of my heart, for goading you to keep on crying . . . like a big ol’ baby.”
“Right,” Marius said. “That’s it. On your knees.”
That part where I said Marius wasn’t as scary behind the camera as he was in front of it? I was entirely off base. Marius stood over Steve-o, rigid and unyielding. The fact that he hadn’t raised his voice was suddenly infinitely more powerful than any yelling, screaming, or name-calling could possibly be. Funny thing was, Steve-o didn’t seem particularly surprised by the request. Dutifully, he got to his knees in front of Eddie, then looked up at Chef Marius for further instructions. Still smirking.
Marius turned to Eddie and casually said, “Well? You’ve got a big fondness for raw pork. Pull out that slab from your trousers and make Stephen do his penance.”
Wait a minute. Had he just . . . ?
Eddie looked as confused as I felt. But when Marius said, “Now,” there was no arguing. The sound of Eddie’s zipper coming down filled the small room.
It seemed like I should look away, but I couldn’t help but steal a glimpse. Eddie’s dick? Just as oversized as everything else on him, even at rest. But I wasn’t about to add to his humiliation by gawking. I turned to face the wall, but flinched when I felt a hand fall on my shoulder. “Julia,” Marius said—and there was that illicit thrill over him actually knowing my name again. “Don’t look away. You’re a reality show contestant. You know better than anyone how everything is magnified when it happens for an audience.”
He slipped an arm around me and turned me to face the two men—one on his knees with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, the other towering over him, redder than an heirloom tomato with his dick in his hand . . . a dick starting to swell and lengthen.
“Now,” Marius said. “Stephen is paying Eddie his restitution. But he needs to learn his place.”
Was this actually happening? Maybe the mushrooms in Kitchen Gauntlet were the psychedelic variety and I’d tasted my competition omelette one too many times. But no. There was a level of reality here that went above and beyond reality TV. The sight of the sweat glistening on Eddie’s brow. The smell of Steve-o’s obnoxious patchouli. The muffled, wet sound Eddie’s fattening dick made as it pushed past Steve-o’s lips.
“That’s quite a mouthful,” Chef said to me conversationally. “You have a decent palate . . . how do you suppose it tastes?”
Well, we’d been running around the kitchen all afternoon trying to make sure our pork was at the correct temperature . . . “Salty?” I ventured.
“Indeed. And umami. Always. Even if it’s drizzled with honey or covered in spunk. Genitals always taste of umami.”
Whatever flavor that monster cock might be, it must be hitting the cameraman’s every last taste receptor. Eddie was ragingly hard now, and his dick was so girthy I could practically hear Steve-o’s jaw creak from two yards away. It wasn’t just a big dick, it was gargantuan. Now Eddie wasn’t the only one turning red. Steve-o’s cheeks were flushed too, possibly from lack of air. But his hipster old-man trousers now had a distinct peak forming behind the fly.
Marius pressed his mouth to my hair—oh, my god—and murmured, “Stephen gets off on you watching him. Haven’t you noticed he fancies you?”
I shook my head. I highly doubted Steve-o cared much for anyone but himself.
“It’s true,” Chef said. “He’s always following you around. We have more footage of you than any other contestant.”
“I just thought he was being annoying.”
“Oh no. You’re his type. The perfect blend of sweet and spicy. Soft but firm. Innocent but world-wise. I’ve seen his eyes on you. And he would like nothing more than for you to indulge yourself in the umami between his legs.” My heart raced faster. Was Chef going to tell me to suck this obnoxious cameraman’s dick? “But he’s being punished. And traditional gender roles are so tedious, don’t you agree?”
I had no idea what he was talking about but I nodded along anyhow, dazed, and still half-convinced that this was all some bizarre psychedelic dream.
“Look inside the sous vide machine and bring me what you find inside.”
Every season, some show-off contestant decides to get fancy and poach something in the sous vide—a big water bath. Chef Marius is never particularly impressed, but that doesn’t stop people from trying. But the process is fussy and takes a lot of time, so the bath doesn’t usually get used more than once or twice in a season. Why he wanted it now, I had no idea. Until I opened it, and discovered a tangle of leatherette straps inside . . . and a glittery purple sparkle dildo attached.
“Come now, Julia. Don’t dawdle. You know I hate dawdlers.”
I scooped up the strap-on, and the bottle of lube beneath it.
Chef gestured at Steve-o, and told Eddie, “Strip him.”
Steve-o got to his feet. His lips were swollen and pink from sucking cock, and I’ll bet his jaw was killing him. But he didn’t resist when Eddie unbuttoned his shirt with big, clumsy fingers. He had a nice body underneath those insufferable thrift store garments. Tight and muscular, with artsy tattoos covering his entire left arm and part of his chest. And while no one’s dick could possibly compare to the whole pork loin hanging between Eddie’s legs, the hard-on that was revealed when Steve-o’s briefs were pulled down was pretty impressive, for a human-sized man. And it was pierced through the slit, a Prince Albert.
Of course it was.
“Do you know the proper technique for lubricating an asshole?” Chef asked. I shook my head mutely. He took the lube from my unresisting fingers and flipped open the top with his thumb, then gave naked Steve-o a shove to the shoulder so he bent at the waist, ass in the air. “You might want to warm the oil so as not to shock your partner. However, I think Stephen hasn’t quite earned that right.” He squirted a glistening glob of oil on his first two fingers, then slipped them into Steve-o’s ass with the same sort of confidence he would use to extricate the giblets from a game hen.
Steve-o groaned, a loud, guttural sound that sank into me, right down to the bone. Eddie too. He caught his breath in response, then took his monster dick in hand and stuffed it into Steve-o’s waiting mouth.
“Never skimp on the lube,” Marius told me. “It might get messy—but a proper chef should never be squeamish.”
“No, Chef,” I answered in a daze.
Marius’s long, strong fingers plunged into Steve-o’s tender pink asshole, disappearing and resurfacing, gleaming with lube. Steve-o gurgled around Eddie’s fat dick, while his balls swayed and his own hard cock bobbed up and down with the force of being fingerbanged. His pierced cock was as red as his cheeks now, and leaking profusely at the tip.
“If you care about your man’s pleasure,” Marius said, “locate the prostate.” He pulled his slick fingers out with a gentle, wet slurp and held his oily hand out for mine. Dutifully, I put my hand in his, and he slicked it with lube from his own hand, then extended my forefinger. Hands clasped together, his piggybacked over mine. With both forefingers pointing, he pressed our fingers up that obnoxious cameraman’s ass and aimed them toward the floor. “There, maybe you can feel it. Maybe not. In this case, it doesn’t matter. Filthy sluts like him will get off on just about anything.”
He plunged our fingers into the slippery hot tightness, over and over, and I reveled in the feel of breaching a man’s body. It was unexpectedly intriguing, and left me wanting someone to plunge into me.
“I don’t suppose I need to tell you he’s ready,” Marius said after a few minutes of focused thrusting. I looked at Steve-o. His tattooed body was taut and quivering. His breathing was coming in shallow gasps. A shimmering thread of fluid connected the pierced tip of his dick to the tile floor between his feet.
“No, Chef,” I said, “I can see it.”
“Very good, then equip yourself.” He gestured toward the purple strap-on. “Whether you prefer to shed your clothing is up to you. Although the sensations are much heightened on bare skin.”
I would never dream of taking off my clothes for the camera. But if I was getting naked not to titillate some nameless, faceless reality show binger, but to accentuate my own pleasure? Yes. I should do it.
I shucked off my herringbone pants and squirmed out of my jacket and T-shirt. The bra I had on beneath was black and lacy, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get a charge out of the way Chef Marius’s pupils dilated when he saw it. “Leave that on,” he murmured, and his voice was low and rough. I nudged away my discarded clothing with my foot and turned the strap-on helplessly around in my hands. Marius took it from me, not with impatience, but with the quiet focus he gave the contestants when he was showing us a technique for the very first time, from filleting a turbot to coaxing a mussel from its shell. “One foot through here.” He helped me step in. “The other here, and buckle it like so.”
The sparkly purple dildo should’ve looked ridiculous dangling there between my legs . . . but it didn’t. It looked powerful. I could tell Eddie thought so too. He was staring at it as if he didn’t quite know what to make of it, but it fascinated him nonetheless.
“A bit of lube,” Marius said. As he slicked the purple dick, I tried to wrap my head around the fact that he was lubing my fake cock. “And then you ease it in.” He gestured toward Steveo’s gleaming, tender asshole. “Not too hard. The silicone isn’t as forgiving as human flesh. And pay attention to what’s going on in front of you—as always. It’s just like a hot pan. You don’t want to bang away on autopilot. You pay attention to the meat. You listen to what it’s telling you.”
Eddie was obviously as baffled as I was . . . but even more turned on. Veins stood out in high relief around the base of his thick shaft, and he had taken a handful of Steve-o’s dyed hair in a loose fist, guiding his head.
I stepped up behind Steve-o. If I closed my eyes, it almost felt like a flesh-and-blood dick in my hand, too. I guess that’s why they made these things out of silicone. It felt foreign for it to be facing away from me . . . but not in a bad way. I stroked the head across the quivering pucker of that slick asshole, and Steve-o moaned deep in his chest. The reverberation carried through his throat, and Eddie gave a tiny gasp as it played across the base of his massive cock. I fondled the asshole again, getting a feel for its resilience and shape. Chef was right. It was a lot like cooking. Being aware of how much pressure was the right amount. How much tenderizing the delicate cut of meat could take. And with that, I wielded my tool, and I sank in.
All four of us made an appreciative sound as that purple glitter dick breached Steve-o’s ass. The dick had no nerve endings, obviously, and at first I really couldn’t tell how it must feel. Too hard. Too soft. Angled too much up or down? And yet, when I really thought about it—when I really got in the flow, like I did when I was in the kitchen—the strap-on became an extension of me. Like a whisk in my hand, fluffing up the eggs for a soufflé, one that would actually rise this time. No, I couldn’t really feel the dick. But plunging it in and out of that hot douchebag’s splayed asshole, I almost thought I did.
It turned me on as if it had nerve endings, anyhow. With each plunge, I grew wetter and wetter. My nipples strained against the lace of my bra, and when I opened my eyes, I saw that Chef Marius was gazing hungrily at the sharp peaks. I paused in my thrusting and eased my breasts over my underwire. The black lace framed them gorgeously, and my nipples were taut and flushed. I should have been too intimidated to say anything—you don’t make a suggestion in Kitchen Gauntlet unless you’re damn well sure of it—but I was giddy with arousal. And so I said, “The only way to be sure of your ingredients is to taste them.” The tiniest flush appeared across Chef Marius’s cheekbones. I’d never seen him at a loss for words, but he didn’t say a thing. Just bent and took one aching breast into his hand and swiped his tongue across the hard nipple.
Need raged through my body at the feel of Marius’s tongue on me. The four of us found some kind of rhythm together. Tongues and breasts and dicks, and all of us breathing hard. The scent of our arousal filled the small room with umami. But I wanted more.
“Chef,” I said tentatively—and it was really hard to make my voice sound casual. “I’m not sure I have exactly the right rhythm here. Maybe you could show me.”
At first I thought I might’ve overstepped my bounds. But then Chef Marius’s eyes grew even more intense, tumultuous, with an edge to them that was part frightening and part thrilling. He unhitched his herringbone pants and said, “It’s never shameful to ask for help.”
He positioned himself behind me, hands firmly on my hips. It was just like the way he treated so many of the other contestants in the kitchen, pausing to demonstrate exactly how they should handle the ingredients. Except I’m guessing the other contestants didn’t feel his hard cock pressing into the curve of their ass. And I’m guessing none of them were naked except for a bra and a sparkly purple strap-on.
Marius slipped a finger inside me—and his touch was just as deft as I always imagined it would be. Long, strong, and just forceful enough to make my body quiver.
But I wanted more.
And Marius didn’t disappoint.
A condom wrapper crinkled, then I felt his stiffness pressing up against my hungry pussy. No, not just hungry—famished. And no one ever walks away from Chef Marius unsatisfied. He pushed in, and filled me utterly. The long, hard, silky stiffness glided in with just the right amount of friction. Filling me, and filling me, and filling me. He thrust in with both precision and abandon. And all the while, Eddie watched as if he’d never seen a woman get fucked doggy style before.
Maybe he hadn’t. Not in person. By Germany’s top TV chef. The world’s top TV chef.
With each powerful thrust, Marius bumped my hips, shoving me harder up Steve-o’s willing ass. At first, I jostled him forward with the motion. But when the shock wore off and Eddie gathered his wits about him, he realized that we were bookending the obnoxious cameraman. And that if anyone could stop another person like a brick wall, it was him. Eddie started timing his thrusts with mine. Sinking into Steve-o’s mouth with each time the purple glitter dildo drew out. If I felt full, I couldn’t imagine how Steve-o must’ve felt. He was being spit roasted as effectively as any suckling pig, with an unyielding slab of dick pinning him from either end.
Marius fucked my aching pussy. I fucked Steve-o’s quivering ass. And Eddie jammed his humongous cock relentlessly into that wide-open, aching mouth. We moved together, the four of us in concert like an experienced kitchen team that’s been working together for years, thrusting and grinding, whipping the four of us into a frenzy. Sweat flowed freely as if we were laboring over a hot stove. Salt slicked my bottom lip. The air was thick with umami—saline like the catch of the day, fresh from the sea and still pulsing with life.
Marius bent over my back and cupped a hand over each of my bared breasts. He shed his chef coat, and his chest hair tickled between my shoulder blades. He pressed his mouth to the nape of my neck and said, “We could go on and on, ride the knife edge of pleasure all night long. But there comes a point in every meal where the ingredients become overworked. A good chef knows when the batter is ready.”
“Yes, Chef,” I said through my broken gasps.
Marius slid a hand downward and eased a finger behind the glittery purple dildo. His touch was as sure on my throbbing clit as it was in any other ingredient. He slipped the finger between my gushing folds and found that sensitive nub with as much adeptness as he’d separate an egg yolk.
My body bucked in shocked pleasure, but Marius anticipated the movement, just as he might anticipate the spatter of hot grease on a fresh slab of bacon. He moved with the motion and rode the wave, turning it into a deep, satisfying thrust. The dildo was buried in Steve-o all the way to the root, and he gave a deep, broken groan around Eddie’s fat dick. Arousal spiked between the four of us, suddenly dizzying. Before I realized what was happening, I was coming. Surge upon surge of cleaver-sharp orgasm, tearing through my body, driving it into Steve-o’s needy asshole. The feel of him trembling beneath my hands was hotter than any seasoned skillet. It was almost as if I had a dick of my own, filling him with my bittersweet seed. He bucked beneath me, spilling his pleasure on the floor. His groans of pleasure changed and thickened as Eddie broke, coating his gullet with thick, salted cream.
Chef Marius treated me to a single caress on the shoulder as he pulled free and his hot seed spilled down my thighs. He wasn’t an effusive man. But maybe I had learned to read him in those subtle gestures and wordless nudges of encouragement. He pulled on his clothing. Without being told, Steve-o got to work, naked, swabbing up the mingled fluids cooling on the pantry floor. Eddie was still pretty stunned. He needed to be told to put his clothes back on before the cameras spotted him.
We left the back room one at a time so as not to give the other contestants anything to gossip about—though, frankly, I don’t think anything they might dream up could possibly be as crazy as what actually happened. Chef first, then Steve-o, and finally me, since Eddie looked like he was still processing our little tryst. The producers must’ve herded everyone else back to the dorm while we were spicing up the pantry. When I crept out into the hallway, the contestants and camera crew were gone and the lights were low. All but the light at the far end of the hall, shining from the doorway to Chef’s office.
As quietly as I could, I stole a glance . . . and a glance was all it took. Steve-o was on Chef’s desk. Not with his butt in the air being spanked with a belt, either. Just sitting there, easy as you please, with his feet swinging lazily. Contestants wouldn’t so much as lean against Chef’s desk, let alone sit on it. Chef was making himself a cappuccino for the road from the fine Italian espresso machine on the credenza. At least, I thought it was for him, until he handed it to Steve-o, and I saw the way their fingers brushed.
