Читать книгу Hard At Work - Brad Saunders - Страница 9

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 PÂTISSERIE.

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.

He turned me on my side, with one leg wrapped around him and the other in the air. With each thrust, his hairy, sweaty balls whacked against my ass, and they stuck together for a moment until Pierre withdrew again. His sprout of pubes tickled my testes and made them ache with ecstasy.

Pierre poured another cupful of cooking oil onto his hands and greased up my junk as he continued to hump me. With the precision of a master baker, he manipulated my rod into a throbbing erection while teasing my balls by lightly brushing them with his fingertip.

For my part, I grabbed on to his rug of chest hair and pulled hard, making him gasp with delicious pain and redouble his efforts to bring me to fruition. He was talented with his hands, using all the coordination that years of carefully dressing cakes had trained in him, and he was quickly sending me to a finish.

Pierre continued to tenderize my ass with his mallet of a cock, sparking every single nerve inside me and sending jolts of electricity to every extremity. Meanwhile, he was rolling the circular tip of my johnson in his hands, leaving my breath ragged and irregular as the nerve endings became overworked.

Finally, I could hold back no longer. My berries knotted up into my body, and I let loose a colossal gush of semen, spilling sperm all over Pierre’s hands as it issued from deep inside me. Torrent after torrent of the stuff arced through the air onto the prep table, even hitting my own throat and shoulder as Pierre persisted in milking out every last drop.

I moved my ass around on Pierre’s dick a few last times, savoring the last sensations of completion. He coaxed a final drop of jizz from my spent cock and gently dabbed at it with his finger, bringing the goo to his lips and licking it off with his tongue. He smiled and pronounced it to be délicieux.

Pulling out of me, Pierre started to jerk himself off. He had gotten some flour on his hands, and it had created patchy lumps on his sweaty torso and dusted his cock. He didn’t pay any attention, though, as he whipped the foreskin back and forth over his cockhead. He concentrated on the tip of his dick, getting it really lubricated with cooking oil and swirling his finger all round it inside the foreskin.

With a low groan, he twitched his hips a few times, and his knees buckled, and he poured a cascade of his cream down onto me. When I had seen he was about to blow, I spun myself around so my mouth was inches from his cock, and as he shot his load, I opened my mouth to catch some of the custard. It was delicate and hot, sliding down my throat in a mass of slippery goo, and as he finished dribbling drops onto the edge of the marble table, I smacked my lips appreciatively, enjoying the last remnants of flavor.

When Pierre finished, he hunched over, taking a moment to come back to life. Then he leaned toward me to plant a final kiss on my mouth, which was still smeared with a mixture of our cum.

He licked a drop of it off my chin and kissed me again. We passed the little white ball of salty fluid back and forth between our mouths, sharing the snowball until it became too diluted with our saliva to taste, then he swallowed it and kissed me again one last time.

“That was better than anything else I tasted today,” I told him.

“You have a very discerning palate,” he joked back.

We dressed quickly—a customer could come in at any moment, after all—and Pierre sent me on my way with a bag of croissants and a package of chocolate bonbons before cleaning up his kitchen.

As I left, Pierre told me, “It’s nice to meet someone who appreciates what I do. I hope that you will come back.”

“I plan to be a regular. You can count on it,” I replied. “I’m going to tell everyone I know to drop by.”

“I’m not sure I can handle all that business,” he said, grinning. “But I can try.”