The Chef

Foreword:

I wish to tell you about an observation I have made throughout my life. I have never met a chef with beautiful hands. All the chefs I have ever encountered have the most unattractive hands, in fact, most have really ugly hands.

My story:

When I was a student I procured a part-time job at a hotel that was renowned for functions. Being in a beautiful location with ample parking, the venue was particularly popular for weddings and company soirées. Naturally, they were always in need of casual staff as waiters at these gatherings. The dress code for casual waiters was very simple; black trousers, a white shirt, and a black bowtie. I made myself available on Wednesday evenings, and all day Saturdays and Sundays. You were paid by the hour which wasn’t spectacular, but tips here and there certainly made one’s labours worthwhile.

One of the function’s managers, Daniel, bumped into me at a local gay bar shortly after I commenced working there, and being a harbinger of news naturally told everyone at the hotel that I was gay. Being rather guarded about my sexuality at this time, I was initially annoyed. As time wore on, however, I discovered that some of the other waiters were not as straight as I had originally thought.

I enjoyed the work and generally everyone was very pleasant, except for one horrible individual. Helmut, referred to as Chef Helmut, was the head chef at the hotel. He was always miserable and rude. He had a thick German accent and constantly spewed his vitriol. Fortunately, Jarne, a Belgian chef and Helmut’s second in command was far more pleasant. I, therefore, always made sure to be at his service station during functions, so as to avoid Helmut’s bile.

Jarne was very affable and as time wore on became friendlier towards me. He was a big strapping lad and slightly over six-foot tall. I had no idea what his hair looked like initially because of his chef’s cap, but from the hair that stuck out on sides, it looked to be dark blond in colour. Jarne had a pleasant face, but the word ‘handsome’ certainly did not spring to mind. He had big fleshy, pasty looking hands with long thick fingers, and yes, his hands were ugly.

As his friendliness escalated, I started getting the occasional wink from him. I found this rather perplexing because he was a butch man and I would never have imagined him to be gay.

At around five p.m. on a Sunday afternoon, after the last function had ended, I observed Jarne standing in the doorway of the functions managers’ office. We were all being paid our meagre wages at the time. He was attired in casual clothing after the days shift and I finally got to see his hair. It was indeed dark blond and cut fairly short. As I went my way after being paid, he accompanied me to the car park.

Jarne had an apartment less than a mile from the hotel and always walked to work. I offered him a ride, which he accepted. Arriving at his abode he invited me in for coffee, enticing me with appetizing cake he had acquired from the pastry chef at the hotel, the previous day. As we chatted we drank our coffee and ate the delicious cake. I did not want to overstay my welcome, but he seemed insistent on my company and soon beers followed.

At eight p.m. I mentioned that I really needed to be on my way.

After accompanying to the door he placed his hand on my arm. Jarne then looked at me with pleading eyes, and said, “Please don’t go, please stay.”

I really wanted to get going and as much as I liked Jarne, he wasn’t really appealing to me. I was about to bail, when he again uttered, “Please.”

I nodded before he closed the front door behind us. On our way back in he kept holding my arm. After entering the lounge, I was surprised when he kept on moving through towards the bedroom.

In the bedroom, my head was encased by his doughy hands before we locked lips. After slipping his hands down my body, Jarne pulled me into him. His kissing was tender and sensual, and I also felt his ever increasing hardness as we languidly rubbed our bodies together.

When we broke apart he smiled and said, “Thank you for staying.”

Following on his cue we commenced unbuttoning our shirts, followed by the removal of shoes, socks, and trousers. He again embraced me and locked in each other’s arms we recommenced kissing. I was rather pleased that I had given in to him, because Jarne was turning me on far more than I ever believed he would.

Next, I felt him pushing my underpants down. After our bodies moved apart his goading hands encouraged me to sit on the bed. Jarne then pushed his underpants down and let them drop to the floor. Jarne had a long, thick, unusual knob. It had a very pronounced downward curve and the head of his dick kinked even further, making the front of his foreskin invisible. The skin on his cock was very white and as pasty looking as his hands. Moving in close to me his hands began caressing my head. It was almost as if I was being ‘punished’ for my earlier aversion to his hands.

Jarne then lifted his knob and I finally saw the rumpled foreskin overhang pouting under his dick-head. His foreskin had an unusual nodule, which he informed me was a marble that he had implanted into it. As I began retracting the skin it was like watching a flower opening, revealing a bright pink mushroom.

I watched mesmerised as he repeated the process a few times before guiding his dick toward my mouth. I had never heard such horny murmurs from anyone before as his dick slipped past my lips. After returning his fleshy mitts to my head, Jarne began stoking my hair. He was the least frenetic person I had ever met and it was as if he did everything in slow-motion.

Inch my inch he invaded my mouth and soon his cock-head was tickling the back of my throat. Every time I showed any discomfort, he would pull out slightly and allow me to relax.

“Come on baby, you can do it… just a little more,” he kept intoning, while caressing my head. With my mouth drooling like a faucet, I finally took the entire knob down my throat, marble and all.

“Yes baby, I knew you could do it,” he triumphantly announced.

After our cock sucking session ended, he said, “I want you on your stomach,” before continuing, “That way you will feel the full benefit of the marble,” which I assumed would come from the bauble at the front of his knob. Jarne’s appeal was growing by the second and I followed his instruction without hesitation.

As he mounted me, my manhole I was gaped like a fledgling chick, awaiting a worm from its mother’s beak. Again his entry was slow and unflustered, and totally sensual. Halfway into his anal decent, I fully understood what he what the purpose of the bauble was as he began strumming my prostate. I virtually commenced tearing his sheets apart with my fingernails.

‘Oh my fuck, he is ‘tormenting’ me with the most mind blowing stimulation,’ I thought, as my fingers and toes felt like they were pulling into cramp.

My cock soon began expelling tons of lava from my churning balls as he agitated my prostate with his wicked nodule.

Jarne, however, was far from done, as his divine chafing kept provoking my lust. My shuddering body was defenceless against his ‘attack’ and I blubbered like a horny slut.

I am not sure how long he took to cum or how many more times we both did, because my state of sensual oblivion deprived me of all comprehension.

I did stay the night and the reverie was never-ending.

Fortunately, I was able to experience a dozen or so more nights with this god of love.

Regrettably, however, Jarne moved back to Belgium six weeks later, after his contact had expired. I often fantasize about the lucky person who is on the receiving end of his incredible skill.

Strangely, ugly hands don’t bother me anymore.