I first met Max at a flashy chocolate-tasting party, held at my friend Plum’s house. Plum is the kind of socialite who always has to over-do everything, but this habit of hers does make for decadent and memorable nights. As well as inviting a professional chocolatier to host the evening, Plum had upped the glamour quotient by giving the party a Roaring Twenties theme. It wasn’t quite historically accurate, but heck, mixing chocolate luxuries and flapper outfits was fine in my book.
As for my outfit, my creamy colouring looked great in black and I figured nobody would care if my twenties dress wasn’t quite as loose and flappy as the genuine versions were. I didn’t want to hide my killer curves, after all. I was recently single and very ready to have some fun with Plum’s upper-crust set. I usually like a working-class man, rough and ready with his hands, but a little amuse-bouche would have been fine that night, I remembered thinking.
Dressing up was a lark. I loved any excuse to put on an outfit and embody a character; having a role to hide behind made me bolder and more likely to take a risk. Like the one I’d eventually taken that day to flirtatiously seduce Max, the innocent chocolatier, who had probably only been expecting to be dipping his fingers in liquid chocolate that evening…
I’d arrived fashionably late to the party of course, and made a grand entrance as Max was finishing up his introduction to the origin of chocolate in a strong French accent. I tried not to make too much of a kerfuffle as I divested myself of my furs, just as he was setting up his first demo of truffle-making. Catching my eye, Max had asked for a volunteer before I’d even sat down—it just seemed serendipitous to go and join him on the ‘stage’ in Plum’s large parlour.
“Put me to work, Chef,” I said to him with a wink. I took a tiny curtsy as my already-tipsy friends around the room cackled at my flirtatious tone. As Max described the truffle ingredients to the crowd, I took a moment to drink him in; he was a chiselled hunk of man, his soft dark hair contrasted with his icy blue eyes and drew me in. I even let my gaze drift down to check out his pert butt. Perfect.
“Alors, the first thing is to break up zis chocolate bar into the bain-marie,” Max said in his delicious accent, disturbing my thoughts. “We often use the finest couverture for melting, but today we had a request to work with Plum’s favourite chocolate bar—the Azteca Gold. So, now we will break and melt and make truffles with zis.”
“Yes, chef. Whatever you say, chef,” I said, with a cheekiness that I hoped he understood stemmed from a desire to connect. I did as I was told and helped Max with the bars of chocolate. As we broke the squares down, they began to melt with the warmth from our hands and a lovely smell of sugary darkness emanated from the bowl. It felt similar to the scent that I could catch from Max’s own neck, a warm, musky—almost chocolatey—bouquet.
“Now we whisk the cream,” he instructed me, placing a cool tub of it in my hand. “Slowwwly,” he said, maintaining eye contact with me as I blinked at him, taken aback by the intensity of his gaze. I followed his instructions and poured the thick, luscious cream into the steel bowl he proffered. As I lifted the whisk from the table of shiny equipment, he grabbed my warm hand in his, guiding the instrument into the bowl and turning it in large, lazy circles.
I felt myself beginning to flush, and the long string of pearls at my neck clattered against the steel of the bowl as I held it to me. The heat of Max’s body as he stood close was distracting, although it felt tantalising, especially against the cool sensation of the whisk in my hands. He held my hand and arm tightly and the cream began rising in soft peaks that begged out to be put to better use than in mere truffles. Sadly he ended up blending the cream and chocolate together to make the gold-dusted bonbons that were for Plum’s delight, but he did in the end, save me the bowl for ‘licking’ giving me a wicked grin as he did so.
We’d continued flirting through Max’s second demonstration, this time with him using a blow-torch, even though I was no longer under his immediate direction and had drifted back to the crowd. To be fair, he did spread his attention around, particularly with Plum, who loved to be the centre of attention even more than I did. But I could see there was a particular spark in his eyes when he spoke to me, and I felt singled out even more because he kept finding excuses to touch me lightly—on the waist here, on my rump there—as he moved around the room, making sure everyone had a taste of both desserts. They were heavenly. I was more partial to the cream-based truffles but even the white chocolate and passionfruit crème brûlée was worth furtively licking off my fingers. The man had talent and I was burning to find out more about how far it went.
Plenty of bubbly had been going around too and I felt my inhibitions slip away like the tide on a moonlit night. I let my flapper dress slide a little off my shoulders in a coy way and gave as good as I got with the light body contact Max had initiated. His large biceps for example were a delightful surprise when I’d squeezed his chef whites. Plenty of strength for throwing me around, I smirked to myself, as I caressed the champagne flute in my hands.
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Eventually he’d asked me for help in the kitchen and I’d willingly followed, hoping for steamy antics. I was gratified when we finally stole some private time in the pantry. I’d been beckoned into the small space by his elegant chef’s fingers and I wasn’t going to let an opportunity like that pass me by, especially after the escalating build-up of touches that evening. We had a slow, sensuous kiss in there, my long pearls squashed between us and my ass pushed up against a king-size bag of quinoa, crackling along like a soundtrack to my pleasure.
Max had swirled his fingers down my décolletage, veering right, to the tip of my almost-exposed nipple there, before deftly switching to the left. My large breasts were almost falling out at that point, and I moaned desperately to encourage his explorations. I badly wanted to feel his lips on me, to taste his skin, and see if the smell of chocolate his neck had hinted at, pervaded all the way through to his juices.
Max snuck his fingers into my panties, where he could feel my wetness and I gasped deeply at this firm touch. I felt like the truffles he had so adeptly moulded. He was dipping into my liquid centre, stroking me toward glorious ecstasy when we were rudely interrupted; Plum with a smirk, had hurried us out of her kitchen and thrown us back to the mercies of the crowd—like her name suggests, she can be a little tart sometimes. At least Max pressed his body against me as we hurried into the parlour so I could feel the firmness in his chef’s whites, a promise of what might come.
In the end Max took my number, instead of my body, that night. That bout of interrupted passion in the pantry was soon fulfilled though, and we’d had multiple sextastic dates that began and ended in his fabulous penthouse kitchen. I became au fait with various utensils I’d never thought before to investigate in a carnal way. A particular favourite was the cherry huller, which made a fun nipple clamp when in a pinch. I’d always loved that fruit, and now I had more reasons to associate them with debauched fun.
Speaking of debauched though, today Max and I were celebrating our first anniversary. It had been his idea to dress up in vintage clothing that was reminiscent of the night we met. I’d long since relegated the flapper dress that I’d worn then, but I figured a few new purchases were warranted. I’d spent a lazy morning in the boutiques of Knightsbridge—as well as a pop-in to Harrods for a bite at their world-famous Chocolate Bar, just to get me in the mood. Their ‘chocolate pizza brownie’ was a work of elegance, studded with crisp macadamia nuts and swirled with a berry sauce, served with an oozing scoop of vanilla ice cream. Calories be damned, I was planning to get a work-out tonight.
I started getting ready slowly, sipping some bubbly and enjoying the ceremony of it all. I’d tied half of my long dark hair in complicated twists, leading to it cascading down my back, swishing as I walked, in just the way I liked it. I’d attached a black floral fascinator to my hair with a barrette too, and I shook my head to see if would hold. I planned to be bouncing about so it was important that I felt firmly put together. I was wearing a bustier that pushed my creamy cleavage up to the skies, and I’d dusted it with edible shimmer to make it seem even more inviting. Under my fringed skirt was a black thong and seamed stockings; shocking red lipstick completed my look.
Max was wearing tuxedo trousers, his chest bare, just the way I liked it, and he looked dashing as he waited peaceably for me with a tumbler of whisky in his hand. Music was already playing softly in the background, the sax soaring with my mood. I told him to sit tight for just ten minutes more and his smile widened with anticipation. I decided I’d tease him a little and tottered around the house in my fuck-me heels, turning the lights onto their dimmest settings.
I’d make him play hide and seek for a few treats and treasures. I’d slipped a Rigby and Peller eye-mask under a cushion on the sofa—it was a work of art, that silky scrap of lace. Then I placed, from La Gelatiera in Covent Garden, a pot of luscious gianduja (my all-time favourite chocolate spread) onto the windowsill, behind a heavy curtain. I’d make him look for them in a moment. For now, I returned to where Max was waiting in the bedroom and ordered him to lie back on our large four-poster bed. I straddled him and checked on his erection—excellently firm already. I touched him lightly through his trousers and enjoyed watching him squirm, his pupils already fully dilated.
“Here’s a clue for you,” I purred.
“To the lounge you must go,
and find what you tie in a bow.”
He leapt up eagerly. Max loved when I took charge and formed games for us to play in and out of the bedroom. For all his inventiveness in the kitchen, our real creativity and flair shone when I was leading our shenanigans. He moved quickly to the lounge and proceeded to throw things about his haste. I watched with amusement and let him make a mess, finally raising my eyebrow in the direction of our pink damask sofa. He leapt on the right cushion and lifted the lacy gold mask from behind it. I particularly liked that style when I saw it in the shops, because it looked sexy and outré, but I could still see through the lace and direct our playtime.
“Put it on me and tie the bow,” I instructed Max. I kissed him as he obeyed, letting my tongue swirl slowly into his mouth in just the way he loved. I told him graciously he could run his hands over my stockings. “Just the stockings, mind you,” I warned teasingly.
I loved the tight mesh of these stockings and how it felt restrictive on my skin, but really I adored how they prolonged the pleasure of undressing. You had to go slowly, or risk tearing them, and I would punish Max if he did. I giggled at the thought; being bossy and playing the domme made me feel heady. Usually his punishments for these kinds of infractions involved lengthy bouts of him eating out, to help out, if you catch my drift.
Max stroked my legs up and down, gently with just his fingertips, holding eye contact with me as he did so. He was kneeling on the floor as I relaxed like royalty on the pink fabric of the sofa. “You can give me a foot massage, if you like,” I said lightly. He grinned and eased off the patent leather of my high heels, one at a time. Max slowly kneaded the pads of my feet with his strong chef hands and my eyelids sank closed with delight. My ears even began to vibrate lightly as if they were purring with sensation; my erogenous zones were all connecting, sending sparks of sensation cascading through my body. It felt good when he was so focused on me; I wriggled with ecstasy and gave up any sense of control to Max’s erotic and lengthy massage.
After some time in this reverie, I refocused, pulled my feet out of his hands and pulled him onto the sofa. I wanted to move around a little. I jumped on top of him, legs either side of his, and leant forward so that my large boobs were right in his face. He didn’t need any instruction at that point. Max licked and caressed me as I leant back, arching my body and pushing my now-exposed nipples even further up. They looked so perky and pink—just the way I liked his shaft to look as well. I pulled open his trousers to check and let his erection finally fly free. I loved how excited he was for me and I wanted to feel that physical connection to him all over my skin. I stood up and pulled my bustier off so that my curves were unleashed too.
I gave him a little show, cupping myself and circling my nipples with my long red nails. I stroked myself till my breath deepened. I shook my body in a little shimmy, turned around and wiggled my rump in his face. Max’s hands were all over me. I wanted more. I stuck my tongue out at him and then lasciviously bent over the edge of the sofa so that my ass was in the air.
“Take my skirt off,” I told him. He eased down the fringes and soon the seams of the stockings were visible to him all the way up my ass cheeks. “Spank me,” I whispered throatily. Sometimes I liked playing a domme who mixed things up. Max took a firm hand to each buttock: a light thwack and I could feel my juices pool with intensity. “More,” I said and his spanking grew in intensity. I swivelled back around and slowly, slowly lowered my stockings, giving my ass a little time to recover from the delicious stinging.
“One more surprise,” I said to him.
“In this room, you’ll find something sweet,
a sauce to make you good enough to eat.”
Max’s enthusiasm doubled, if that were possible. And he found the chocolate sauce in record time, nearly yanking our velvet curtains off their treads. He opened the gianduja jar and placed it reverently in my hands. I slipped my mask off and placed it by the side of the fireplace; I wanted to properly see and enjoy this moment.
The silky chocolate really was my treat. I loved placing a dot on his nipples and letting it warm up, almost liquefy, before I used the tip of my tongue to swirl it down his abdomen. I took my time before using more of it on his shaft, finally leading onto the tip and treating it like my favourite lollipop. I had so much fun trying new flavours to spread on Max’s body—whipped cinnamon butter, truffle honey—but sweet chocolate was always my favourite, reminding me of the way we met and how much we’d enjoyed since then.
He tasted delightful even without the saucy addition, but I loved how it gave me more lubricant to work with. He was so big, I needed it; sliding my lips over him, pushing down and having to open so wide took some doing. The power I had over him at that point made me light-headed too, feeling his whole body tremble was gratifying to my ego.
I laid back after I’d had my fill, wiped my face like a little cat, and then nudged Max with the gianduja pot, giving him a wicked grin. It was his turn with the chocolate. He dribbled a little directly onto my mound and took his time feasting on me. Max was talented with his tongue, and I let him explore with abandon, feeling my pleasure mount and my clit swell. His enthusiasm with all things gustatory made him an excellent giver and he devoured me like he hadn’t eaten for days.
I was panting and so ready for him when he mounted me with his giant erection swinging. For his part, he also looked like he was desperately trying to hold his orgasm back until he entered me properly. He was so fierce in his concentration, almost majestic from this angle. Seeing the breadth of his shoulders and the set of his jaw was a huge turn-on as he purposefully and ecstatically considered the entryway to heaven that was my slit. He eased himself in slowly and I gasped as the full length of him took me, as always, by surprise. He made me feel extraordinarily full every single time.
Max started building the tempo slowly, taking himself in and out, an inch at a time until I was begging him to go faster. He finally began to let himself go, to let that desperate fierceness have at it. I felt cherished when he put my pleasure first, but preferred when we orgasmed together and I could feel this peak building, spiralling, between us. I was getting crazier, lost in the moment, keening and clawing at the fireplace rug.
My large titties bounced up and down as Max pumped into me and the sight of it fired me up even more. We looked so sexy together when he was towering on top of me, the contrast of my soft curves moving against his hard, wiry muscles. He flipped me over and the show of strength made me feel like a ragdoll, totally at his mercy; he was like an animal and it made me feel wilder too.
My floral barrette came loose with all the bucking—I shrieked out and he covered my mouth with his hand. I relished biting him whenever he did that; the meaty flesh on the side of his palm was so satisfying. I chewed on him as I felt my orgasm rise out of control—I was grunting just like him, both of us sweaty and working seamlessly together on our exquisite rhythm.
The ripples of electricity between us seemed to stretch out endlessly, making my skin feel like it was alight. My pussy could not get enough of Max and the pleasure was like bolts of lightning, leading along and through our bodies, somehow even making the dimmed lights in the room feel brighter. The ridges of his cock nudging all the way in to my desperate cunt made me spasm and cry out again and again.
“You like that?” he growled, riding me right to the peak of my orgasm and tipping into his own, pulsing and exploding his pleasure alongside mine.
I replied, breathlessly, my orgasm after-shocking through me, “Yes, chef!”
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