The walk-in

Different kitchen, and not mine. I was a guest after their close, curls up, white t-shirt, dark apron, standing in the open walk-in doorway with the warm kitchen light behind me and the cool air on my shins. Ferris is twenty-eight. He cooks somewhere else. He is not my chef and he is not my owner and he had not paid me to be in the building. The line was powered down. I told him the walk-in was a room we could use only if it stayed a room: cool, not a trap, door propped with a crate so it could not latch. He wedged the crate himself and showed me the gap. Eightysix still meant stop. He said it without me having to drag it out of him. Good. I am mean about rules and generous after they are clear.

I pulled him in by the apron strings and kissed him like I was already impatient. His cock was hard against my stomach. I said I want you to fuck my cunt against that steel shelf, and I want to cum, and then you cum on the apron, not in me. Different night, different ending. I was still smug about the alley and I wanted a mess I could throw in a hamper. He laughed and said that was the filthiest work instruction he had heard off the clock. I told him it was not work.

He got my jeans down and lifted me enough that my ass met the shelf. The metal was cold for a second and then it was just a brace. I stroked his cock, smeared the wet head against my cunt, and put him in. The stretch made me swear. I hooked a heel at his hip and said fuck me, and do not get cute. He fucked me in steady hard strokes, cock deep, one hand under my thigh, the other on the shelf so we would not bring it down. I got a hand on my clit. The propped door showed a slice of the dead line, burners off, nobody coming through it. The risk of a closed kitchen made my cunt grip him. I told him there, keep the cock right there, and I came with my mouth on his shoulder, shaking, laughing once because the orgasm was so blunt it was funny.

He kept fucking me until I tapped his wrist, not eightysix, just enough. I said apron. He pulled out and stroked his cock over the dark cloth while I held it away from my t-shirt. Cum striped the apron, hot, and a little of it hit my fingers. I sucked one finger clean and told him that was the review: excellent, do not look for me on the schedule. I took the apron off, threw it in their hamper, and left in the white t-shirt with my jeans up and my clogs in my hand until I hit the alley. My cunt was still pulsing. The crate stayed in the door until he dealt with it. I went home over the laundry and slept like a woman who had gotten the fuck she ordered.