Ab and Me

(Heather goes back in time to seduce celebrity chef Alton Brown before he became famous.)

Everyone always fawns over Tyler Florence on the Food Network, saying he's the hottest thing. I don't buy it. He's so pathetically obvious in his flirtation with some of his female co-hosts. Not sexy at all. I prefer witty, smart, and handsome, with sexiness simmering beneath a deadpan exterior. Somebody more like, oh, Alton Brown. The man who once compared brioche to lingerie. The man who once said, about his own MacGyver-esque style of cooking, that if a man can be so creative in the kitchen, imagine how he can be in the bedroom. Damn! But I'd never stand a chance to fuck a happily married, super-busy celebrity.

Let's see, he said once in an interview that back in college, he was a cook at a pizza place and he used to pick up girls by offering to cook for them. Bingo! To the lab...

***

So, I've finally perfected my magical time machine, hidden under the skin in my hand beneath my rose tattoo, and in the nick of time, too, because I've never been hornier in my life.

I grab a Pyrex dildo off the shelf and slide it inside me, slamming it in and out of my cunt while slipping my fingers down to my swollen clit, rubbing vigorously to try to get some relief. Despite the fact that I cum about thirty seconds later, my clit swells right up again and my juices start flowing even more.

Frustrated, I wash my hands and take off my lab coat, which is all I was wearing, and shimmy into short, tight white tennis shorts, a tight red t-shirt, and spiky red heels. I don't know how much more 1982 I could get, but hey, that's the idea. I tease my shoulder-length blond hair and apply black eyeliner and mascara, peach blush, and nude lipstick. I look kind of like the cover of an old Sweet Valley High book, except I'm 22.

I'm ready to go. I run a search on my machine to find AB in late August 1982, at the beginning of fall semester, and there he is. At work. At a little pizza place near the University of Georgia in Athens, GA. Away I go. It's ten after 8pm, 80 degrees outside and the sun has just set.

I saunter in and order a slice and a soda pop. AB must be in the back. I finish my slice and sip thoughtfully on my drink. I ask to meet the chef. "No, there's no problem. It will only take a moment," I explain quickly to the manager behind the counter.

AB wipes down the stove, and then glances up when he hears me approach. "May I help you?" He begins wiping another counter.

"Hi! I'm Heather," I smile seductively.

"Hey, I'm Alton. What can I do for you?" He barely glances up again as he continues wiping surfaces.

Oh, it's even worse than when I watch him on T.V., how he is so focused on what he's doing, but all I can think about is him bending me over the kitchen counter. I say nonchalantly, "Nice to meet you, Alton. The pizza crust is delicious, so I just wanted to compliment the chef."

"Uhh, thanks. I just follow the recipe. It's actually pretty basic."

"You're very welcome. Do you think you could show me how to make it sometime?" I draw out my words so he understands my innuendo.

He stops cleaning. He's silent for a moment as he looks up, and his eyes travel my petite frame from my face to my perky breasts to my slim waist and curvy hips, then down to my long, bare legs and shapely red heels, then right back up to my face.

"How about tonight? You could meet me when I get done at 9."

"You bet." I smile, walking away slowly, swaying my hips until I'm out of his sight range. Then, I head for the ladies' room and adjust my machine to put me right back at 8:59. I slip out, and when no one is looking, I zip to the front to make it look like I'm just arriving. I walk to the back.

"Hey," I say.

He looks up and sees that it's me and tears off his apron and cap.

"Let's go!" He starts walking. "Did you drive here?" he asks as I walk by his side.

"No, this place is close to where I'm staying."

"Okay, let's walk together, then. I don't live far from here."

On the way, sweat is rolling down his temples. There's a lot more of his spiky light brown hair than I was used to seeing on his 22-years-older self and he's tanned and slender. He exudes a powerful, masculine energy, and I can smell pizza grease and his own natural musky scent. I breathe deeply and inwardly count to ten to try to calm my trembling hands, moist pussy and desire to pull him into an alley and...

He asks me if I'm new to the area and if I go to the University. I tell him I'm on vacation visiting some relatives and I must return home to New York the next morning.

We arrive. He shares an apartment with a guy he goes to school with, he explains. He apologizes for the mess and excuses himself to shower. It's all I can do not to sneak up and peek into the bathroom to try to catch a glimpse of his sultry naked body. The door is cracked, so I only see hints of his hard, toned frame.

As he walks out, pulling his shirt over his head, he quips, "So, do you always wear high heels when you make pizza?"

I shoot back, "Do you always shower and change your clothes to rid yourself of pizza smell only to make more pizza?"

"Touché." He smiles and shakes his head.

About fifteen minutes later, he shows me the bread flour and other ingredients and how they come together. He works the dough in his strong, capable hands, kneading it for a while, stretching the dough until it's "like chewy bubblegum," and even does a couple of fancy tosses before he forms the dough into a round mass, places it in a bowl, and covers it. I admire each muscle in his arms and imagine those versatile hands on me.

"I do this a little differently at home than at work, if you haven't guessed already so far. Now, for a finer, more delicate crust texture than at your typical pizza joint, it has to rise for 18 to 24 hours in the fridge," he finishes. "Then we can mash it down, reshape it, top it and bake it. Luckily, I started some dough yesterday that should just take another couple of hours to finish up in the fridge." What shall we do until then? I'm dying to ask. He gives me the grand tour, touching my arm, my back. I get little electric shocks each time.

Finally, I can't take it anymore, and when he's showing me his spice rack and describing some of his favorite flavors, I step closer to him, standing up on my toes, breathing in his delicious, lightly musky scent. I touch his arm and whisper against his earlobe, "So what's the best flavor you've ever tasted?" He lets out a barely audible moan and almost smiles as he turns and our mouths meet, followed by our tongues.

He caresses my breast and kisses down my jaw, to my neck. My pussy juices start flowing again and my legs tremble. I pull him desperately to the floor, ripping off his shirt, and start kissing him again. My hands are on his jaw, then his chest, and then his rock hard abs. My nails scrape his back; then my hands cup his ass and pull him closer.

As I touch him all over, his eyebrows raise for a split second, and then his eyes darken as he nibbles my earlobe and his hand moves toward my breast. He pulls my hip towards his with his other hand while I'm pulling him to me and I can feel his hard shaft against me. My shorts are soaked and I know he can feel it the way his breath catches and his caresses roughen. His kisses give way to sweet little bites. His hand moves between my legs and he unbuttons my shorts, slipping a gentle hand down to my shaved pussy lips.

"So tight and wet," he whispers.

"The shorts too," I smile, and I shimmy out of them and toss them aside.

He dives for my pussy and gently sucks my pussy lips, licking the inside of them while two fingers slip inside me. He tickles my G-spot and teases my clit with his lips and tongue. He stops short of me cumming and a wicked smile crosses his lips. "This is oonly the beginning."

I am paralyzed by disbelief only long enough to realize that he is standing, removing his pants and boxers in a single split-second motion, pulling me to my knees and his cock is entering my mouth, filling it. It's a little salty and gags me at first. I suck eagerly, lightly caressing his trimmed balls and taint. He lets out a really audible moan this time, that deep, manly sound I can never resist. I pick up the pace and slow down, teasing him the way he teased me, savoring each choking thrust and his hand grasping my hair and my shoulder. He spills a load in my mouth with a large groan, and I lap up every drop of his cum. My pussy is contracting and releasing all on its own, and I am growing more and more frantic.

He pulls off the rest of my clothes and he slides two fingers in me again, tickling my G-spot while kissing me. Instead of bringing relief, it makes me want him more. My fingers tangle in his spiky hair. Our tongues explore every millimeter of each other's mouths, and I feel his hard-on against my leg.

"Please, Alton," I whisper. He removes his fingers and nibbles on my neck. I cry out. His hand brushes my breast gently then he kisses and suckles on it. "Ohhh..." is all I can muster. He moves to the other side and repeats.

Moaning softly like a hungry man devouring a succulent feast, he kisses my tummy, caressing my thighs and the backs of my knees. "Dear God, Heather, every inch of you is delicious," he sighs against my hip. I can't take any more.

"Please, please fuck me right now! Oh, God, please!" I beg him repeatedly, but he just chuckles and gives my pussy a big French kiss. I feel a thumb tip tickling the outside of my asshole and despite the gaping empty ache in my cunt I explode. He keeps up my orgasm for a couple of long minutes, then lets up just long enough to flip me on all fours and shove his cock into my wet, sopping hole.

"Was this what you wanted?" he demands in a lightly smirkish tone. I cum again almost immediately.

He slaps my ass a few times and thrusts inside me, still hitting that G-spot only with the increased force needed to keep me cumming. My pussy squeezes his large shaft and he tickles my asshole with his thumb. I reach down and rub my rock-hard clitoris, triggering another orgasm. I can feel his cock starting to convulse. "Ooh, not yet," he growls lowly, almost to himself. He slips out of me despite my still contracting pussy spurting all over him, yanks me up and practically carries me to the kitchen. He sits me on the kitchen table and enters me again, ramming hard and rough.

I am getting sore but I welcome the soreness as he stretches my pussy to its limits with each thrust. I quiver with pain and pleasure, and I feel him starting to cum and it triggers one last one in me. He growls and grunts as his load gushes into my red, swollen pussy. We ride it out together, and then, suddenly, we realize where we are.

He looks at the clock, then at the refrigerator. "Well, it's been a couple of hours, so that other dough should be ready. I don't know about you, but, uh, I'm starving by now," he says. He hops into his pants, washes up, and sets the oven to preheat at 500 degrees.

"You better believe it," I say, jumping off the counter.

"You want to stay tonight?" he asks, "My roommate won't be home."

"Sure," I agree.

To be continued...