what do you think is pervy cook Joel’s favourite dish to serve you? (with a healthy helping of the chef’s special sauce obvi) 💦
Im a firm believer that he takes one look at you, all sugar plum and tempting, and knows hes gotta make a special sweet dessert. A beautiful and generous serving of homemade cinnamon roll. He likes to roll it out in the bakery counter where you can see: his thick hands kneading the dough. Pounding it, slapping and cupping it back up towards his apron before slamming it down again on the wooden surface. Watches ya with heavy eyes as his knuckles work deep knots into its flesh, gently powedering it with more flour then water. He rolls it with precision with a layer of cinnamon wrapped up in its core. Then, he sticks his finger down the center, creating a gap in its tight ring. He says its better when you can cook the inside a little bit evenly, gives the center layers a warm outside but preserves their gooey middles.
He doesnt let other customers see the final touches:
How he fucked the hole slightly around his cock in the back, gently fisting it so it didnt lose its shaoe. Most important secret was his secret sauce. But he does need his helper: and after watching you eye fuck him from across the tables, joel leans against the wall, behind the kitchen, furiously pumping his cock. Flour sticks to his hand and gets over some of his shaft but he doesnt care. As sweat beats down his forehead, he sucks air desperately through his teeth. Its always hard and fast anf desperate. He cant even think to take his time when he gets like this. One hand beating his meat. While the other holds the plate of cinnamon dough freshly baked. Its still warm, and he knows he wants to serve it to ya all hot and bothered. With a final thrust, joel explodes over dish: his balls pulse out thick gobs of semen as his tip paints over the swirls, layering on your now creamy dessert.
He sucks his fingers clean before wiping on his apron. Ringing the bell, then personally walking out from behind the counter. You gulp as he approaches. Hes flush, hair askew, trousers clearly loose under his apron, which does little to hide what he was been up to. He towers over you all messy and satisfied with a grin. Setting down your plate, his hands still dirty.
"Made it special just f'you," he hums.
You lean forward: The sweet succulent smell of the cinnamon mixed with the hot stench of his doings fills your nostrils, and you can barely hold in a moan. "Looks delicious. Chef," you reply with your lower lip caught between your lips.
"I can always make ya some more. On the house. Could even give ya a private lesson how I make it so sweet."
You smile, so soft and dangerous. "I would love that, chef."