I wasn't sure what to expect when I put an ad on the Internet for a personal chef.
I knew this: my cooking skills weren't cutting it. I loved good food, well cooked and prepared, but the secrets of culinary success eluded me. No matter how hard I tried, the results never tasted right. Finally, I resolved to get help.
I could afford it. I was a successful writer, working mostly out of my home.
Joni Burns showed up at my front door three days after I placed the ad.
I did a double-take when I opened the door. I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this: a woman with a down-to-Earth, understated beauty, in mid-life, with a long mane of dark-brown hair, pale, clear skin, piercing blue eyes, and a terrific figure squeezed into a form-fitting, knee-length blue dress. She carried a large canvas bag at her side.
"Mr. Fielding?" she asked.
"Call me 'Sam,' I replied, offering my hand. She shook it. "Ms. Burns?"
"Call me 'Joni.'"
"Come on in, Joni."
I led Joni to the kitchen. Although I lived alone, I favored space, and I also liked to entertain once in a while, so I owned a large house with a roomy, well-supplied kitchen: it featured a gas stove with eight burners, two ovens, polished granite counters, an expansive island in the middle, an enormous stainless-steel refrigerator, and a well-stocked pantry. Joni seemed impressed and inspected everything carefully.
"Your CV didn't say whether you'd been a personal chef before," I said. "Have you?"
"No," she said, closing the refrigerator door and facing me. "I have a lot of experience cooking, but not professionally. I can do the job, though."
I tried to hide my skepticism out of politeness. I was particular about my tastes in food. I wanted someone who knew what they were doing, not an amateur.
As though sensing my attitude, Joni held up her bag.
"I'll tell you what. Let me make you something. I brought some supplies for a demonstration."
That sounded good to me. I was impressed that she was prepared. And--I have to admit--she was very easy on the eyes. I wasn't hiring a chef to look good, but if she were otherwise qualified it would be a nice perk. I liked the way the dress hugged her body. The rise of her nipples was visible under the fabric, and I guessed that she wore no bra, which was interesting. I tried to guess her age. She was plainly middle-aged, with a few gray streaks in her otherwise dark hair, but her skin was supple and soft, and I guessed that she was older than she looked and preserved an air of youthfulness with a good diet and fitness regimen. I could stand to upgrade the healthfulness of my own diet and I wondered whether, if she were my chef, she might make some helpful suggestions.
"Very well," I said. "I have some chores to do in my office upstairs. How about if I come back in one hour and see what you have cooking? You have the run of the kitchen until then."
Joni smiled with a pleasant but reserved and somewhat inscrutable air.
"You won't be disappointed," she said.
With no expectations, I left the kitchen and went upstairs. I paid two bills online, exchanged a few messages with my agent, and tried, with mixed results, to write my way through a segment of a new story that was giving me some trouble.
When the clock on my computer showed that an hour had elapsed, I stood up and went downstairs. A warm, pleasant fragrance of baking cheese and other savory scents hit my nose when I reached the first floor.
When I entered the kitchen, I saw Joni turned away from me, toward the oven.
My jaw dropped open.
She wore a heavy-duty, professional chef's apron--and nothing else. She was otherwise naked, head to toe. Her bare ass was exposed to me, and with a surge of arousal I noticed just what a nice ass it was. Round and soft, with luminous pale skin, a few freckles here and there, but nicely sculpted, too. Joni obviously spent time in the gym.
"Um--" I began.
Joni turned to me, naked save for her apron and black-rimmed glasses. She didn't seem as embarrassed as I would have thought she'd be.
"We're almost ready!" she said with a smile.
"Ms. Burns," I said.
"Joni."
"Joni, then. Joni, you're, um, naked."
She gave herself a quick once-over glance.
"Yes," she said. "I always cook naked."
I was rarely at a loss for words, but I was now.
"You... um... why?"
"First," she said, in a matter-of-fact way, "I can avoid getting my clothes dirty from food stains or grease. Second, I cook better when I'm naked."
"What?" I replied. "That doesn't make any sense."
"I know it sounds weird, but it's true. I started cooking this way about a year ago, after reading a book by a psychologist who talked about the advantages of being naked. He wrote that nudity stimulates a person's mind and senses. It connects us with our world. It brings out the best in us. So, I tried it, and he was right! I cooked much better when I was naked. It's very stimulating, and I feel like I'm sharper and more aware when I'm naked."
I was certainly stimulated by Joni's condition, but what she said sounded like quackery to me.
"Joni--" I began again. She interrupted me.
"Sam. Judge me by results. Try what I've cooked."
She had been cooking for an hour. I couldn't very well say 'no' after the effort she had made for me.
"OK."
Joni turned and bent over and pulled something out of the oven. As she bent over, the smooth expanse of her delicious ass came into view again, and more than that--I saw a glimpse of her vulva in the shadowy gap between her legs, and a hint of a tantalizing gap between her labia.
I felt almost dizzy. I was expecting a food demonstration, not a porn show. I felt a bulge in my pants. I didn't want to create a scene. But, then, Joni already had created one.
She pulled a few trays out of the oven and set them on trivets on the granite counter. Steam filled the air, as did the magnificent blend of smells coming from the fresh, hot dishes. Joni had prepared a variety of bite-sized morsels for me to try. She scooped them onto a China plate and handed me a fork and a napkin to taste them.
Then she surprised me again. She untied the apron, pulled it over her head, and laid it on a counter to the side. She stood in front of me, fully nude.
It was like being struck by a thunderbolt. I was briefly paralyzed with a feeling of shock and desire. It was as though Aphrodite had spontaneously appeared in my kitchen--a woman whose naked figure stirred every juice and rang every bell in my body. From the thinness of her waist and definition in her abdomen I discerned that she must have spent time at the gym, but the gym-work did nothing to diminish the florid, womanly curviness of her figure: full, firm breasts, an hour-glass figure, deliciously flared hips. Her skin was smooth and pale and luminous. Pale pink nipples jutted forth from wide, lightly pebbled areola.
A tiny metal jewel decorated her navel, to my surprise. I wasn't accustomed to seeing navel piercings in women near my age. Somehow, it heightened the eroticism of her naked display.
And yes, her pussy was exposed to me--utterly bare, the smooth parallel dunes of her outer labia framing the dimpled recess of her vulva.
My cock stirred with agitation.
Despite its magnificence, Joni's exposed anatomy wasn't what aroused me the most; it was her demeanor. The brazenness of her display was tempered by the reserve in her face. I tried to read her expression, but I couldn't--not entirely. I saw confidence mixed with vulnerability, an understated smile playing across a face that didn't know how much it wanted to reveal to me, a stark contrast to the bold exhibition of her naked body. There was something about that contrast that made my insides turn over.
"Joni," I said, once again finding myself unable to complete a thought.
"Sam, I'm sorry," she said, not wholly successfully raising a hand to shield one of her breasts. "I should have asked you before taking off my apron. I'll get dressed if you want me to." She reached for her apron.
"You don't have to do that," I said, perhaps too quickly. Joni paused, stared at me, and waited.
"This is just... different," I said. I didn't know whether to look at her or not, so I looked at the food on the counter instead.
"Stay the way you are if you want to. Let me try these."
"Good idea," she said.
I turned my attention with some effort away from Joni's nude figure to the food she had cooked. I looked at the morsels nearest me.
"Are those gougères?" I asked, pointing to a sampling of yellowish puff balls.
"They are," Joni said.
I had tried cooking gougères several times, always without success. When I made them, they always turned out too thick and doughy. But Joni's cheese ball fit between my fingers like a fragrant cheesy piece of air. I bit into it, flaky and still hot, the taste of gruyere cheese tickling my lips. It was exquisite, the best I'd ever had. Crisp, light as a feather, and with a perfect nutty, Swiss cheese flavor.
"Wow, that's good," I said, looking up and trying hard not to stare at Joni's pale rosy nipples just a few feet away.
"Try this one," she said, pointing to another dish, full of Mexican taquitos. I picked one up and bit into it. The crispy rolled corn tortilla crackled and a burst of extra hot chipotle pepper and spices filled my mouth. I had written in my ad that I liked Mexican food, as well as hot and spicy food, and Joni's little dish expertly satisfied my tastes.
Joni stood and watched silently as I sampled her food, shoulders back, full breasts pointed at me and occasionally swaying gently whenever she shifted position. I tried not to stare, and to focus on the food.
Next up was a perfectly cooked flaky piece of spanakopita, stuffed full of a delicious mix of spinach and feta cheese. The tasting finished with a cinnamon-sweet morsel of baklava.
It was all perfect--just the right balance of spices and flavors and perfectly textured, too.
