Authors Note: my first attempt at a vanilla coupling, and probably not the last time these two will meet in the cool room! Please let me know if you want to hear more!
*****
Clearly, the tension had been building for some time. There had been signals for weeks, sure, but since "The Break-Up" (as they both referred to it) things had taken a more serious turn. But we'll get to that shortly.
She was somewhere in her twenties, and came with the perfect mix of eagerness, gorgeousness and recklessness that made young men stand up and old men sit down. A hard-working, hard-partying chef, Louise (or "Loosley" to the other cooks in the restaurant, for reasons we won't go into) was the type of girl everyone wanted, but no one knew how to get. She was short and had a slight frame, the length of her hair was a mystery to many, and her china-white skin cried out to be kissed, licked, tasted, adored. Naturally, predictably, her breasts were both huge and essentially perfect, but thankfully her chef's uniform largely covered her assets: had those girls been common knowledge there would likely have been several, more serious, groping incidents by now.
But he knew; he knew and pined to know more. The prep chef Patrick (glorified dish-washer, truthfully) seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to catching a peek of Louise's exposed flesh. Every time she lent up to the plate stack he spied a sliver of midriff. As they stood across the meal-pass from each other he inevitably found a way to catch a shot through her buttons and straight to her chest. It was a game she probably was unaware she was playing at first, but she didn't remain unaware for long, and soon turned from amateur to professional, teasing him in an escalating spiral of innuendo.
Patrick stood taller, and more angular, than your average twenty-something, and had been a thrilled spectator to Louise's escapades for months, but since The Break-Up, her break-up with FuckFace, new, exciting opportunities began to open up.
But enough of the set up. You're here tonight for the same they stayed late last Thursday. There was work needed doing, and it's always better with a friend. Buckle up.
The cooking session had been a rough one. The regular hospitality crisis of too many customers demanding too many meals with too few staff, each with too little patience and no fucks to give. Stress and tension, that's the point here. It proliferates in a kitchen, and there are only so many ways to relieve it.
The heat-lights turned off, the "closed" sign put up (ironic, considering) and the other chefs all gone home to drink or smoke or whatever. They were largely alone; except for the scullery staff (two useless high-school dropouts) scrubbing mercilessly at the remaining pots without speaking, while some anonymous metal band blared on a tinny speaker.
The pretext was... well they hadn't thought of it yet. Pretexts were for people who get caught and need to explain why they were staying back so late to spend time alone in the cool room. Stock take. That would work if need be, provided they were still, at least partly, decent.
The cool room, as they so often are, was square, short and dim. It was also fucking freezing, breezy and ill-suited to romantic encounters. But you have to use whatever lemons you get, right?
She went in first, giving him the slightest of backwards glances before disappearing through the plastic strips. It was a summons, a promise, and an instant increase in his heart rate. That was probably his cardio-vascular system preparing for what it could only guess would be an increased blood flow situation in a few minutes' time. Not that he was think about his heart rate; the boy was increasingly pre-occupied with the growing situation in his jocks. "A" leads to "B", I suppose.
He followed. Wouldn't you? The very same svelte vixen you've fantasized over for months literally beckons you to her chamber. Admittedly, far less sexy a setting than (what he could only imagine) her bedroom to look like, but once again, use the lemons.
A few short seconds later, after he closed the door behind him, they both stood doing that awkward pre-fuck stare. Sizing each other up, mentally planning an ambush. This is the moment, no matter what happens next or in the days and months after, this is the moment they will both always remember. This deep breath, this hanging on the edge, this moment where the burning fuse smolders into the dynamite just before detonation. That's the fucking sexy bit.
He flicked at the switch controlling the fan, removing most of the wind chill, and stepped in close. Very close. His next move made her gasp.
Patrick dropped to his knees in one silent fall. Given the height difference, his nose (pointy) poked that magic, sensitive slither of flesh just below the belly button. His bristly chin tickled her skin, which seemed to radiate heat given the ambient temperature. He kissed her again, this time a little lower.
Deftly, with unexpected precision, he folds the thick band of her cotton underwear down once, then twice, exposing the top of her smooth, perfect, mound. Waxed only yesterday (she had an idea this encounter was coming up), he leaned in close and breathed deeply. It was intoxicating, a mix of hard-worked perspiration, long-faded perfume and, most dizzying, her unspoken musky desire.
Pulling her pants down further, just below the curve of her ass, Patrick exposed the top of her puffy slit, and kissed his way down her mound, finishing just above the hood of her clit. It teased her in a way she didn't know she could be teased. It was electricity, frustration, tickly and horny all at once. Louise let out a strangled moan, more like a squeak than a moan, and leaned her head back. She shuffled her legs as far apart as her pants would allow, silently urging him to hit the target.
