I loved cooking for Roberta. I also loved my palpitations and stage fright.
Because I wanted her to like my dishes and be happy with her young girlfriend. And she rewarded me with her subtle smile and her lust for me.
When I was cooking, I always had to wear an old, loose-fitting blue men's shirt that she had bought especially for me in a thrift store.
It reached almost to my knees. It was ideal because Roberta could touch me anywhere at any time, fondle my breasts, check whether my nipples were stiff and my pussy was wet. It was always important for her and me that she could play with me whenever she felt like it.
Sometimes, when I was chopping herbs, dicing vegetables, tasting the sauce, she would spontaneously press herself against my bottom from behind and rub herself against it, both her hands on my small boobies. First she stroked my littles very gently.
When Roberta heard me breathing harder, she squeezed my stiff nipples, licked my earlobes and whispered: "You're my submissive little cooking bitch and I love you, Tracy".
I knew I wasn't allowed to speak, not to answer. Only moaning was allowed.
Sometimes I felt her hand on my wet pussy. Then she penetrated me with her magic fingers, explored me, then pushed her dripping wet fingers into my mouth and made me lick my juices.
Roberta loved to sit at the old wooden kitchen table, watching me, sipping on a glass of white. She loved this old-fashioned kitchen, where her grandmother had cooked and eaten and lived most of her entire live.
I never asked her, but Roberta was perhaps ten years older than me, in her early 30s. She had inherited the small, somewhat dilapidated house in a quiet, remote street in the center of our town from her beloved grandmother.
I liked to provoke her, deliberately dropping a spoon on the kitchen floor, bending over with my legs spread so that she could spot my bare bottom and my shimmering wet pussy under my pulled-up shirt. Sometimes it was a wooden spoon, sometimes the flat of her hand, which slapped my expectant bottom and turned it red, making me moan and whimper with pleasure.
Roberta liked to lie on the couch after her visits to the kitchen. She loved to watch classic love movies. I served her white wine. Then I knelt in front of her. She stroked my head, whispering into my ear, how hot she thinks I am.
When I'd finished cooking, she sat down at the dining table in the living room. I served her. I wasn't allowed to have my own plate, but she put the bites she had chosen directly into my mouth. Sometimes I had to lick creamy desserts from the palm of her hand or from her fingers.
It was a special reward when Roberta put her fingers first into her wonderful vulva, then into my dripping pussy and then into the dessert. I then enjoyed our female scent and taste at the same time as the taste of the dessert in my mouth.
She loved how submissively and greedily I licked her fingers.
When Roberta had finished eating and I had served her the coffee and her favourite tiny vanilla cookies, she took my head in both her hands and pulled me gently but strict under the table.
First she dropped little crumbs of the cookies onto her toes. I lay on my stomach and picked them up with my tongue. She liked it so much when I lay flat on the floor, my legs spread wide. At some point she slowly opened her legs.
Of course I knew where my head and tongue had to go next. That was perfect bliss. I was allowed to explore her vulva with my tongue, drink in her wetness and very slowly begin to lick her into her orgasm.
PART 2
Roberta had spotted me a few months earlier at Café Ravenna, where I worked as a kitchen assistant and waitress.
She was a regular guest in this small restaurant owned by Erika and Giovanni, an elderly German-Italian couple who were constantly arguing. They alternated between German and Italian cuisine, ignoring the menu posted outside.
The regulars didn't care at all. Most of them ate Erika's ragu Bolognese or Lasagne al Forno just as enthusiastically as they loved Giovanni's crispy roast pork with dumplings or his thick bean soup with bacon and sausages. I never managed to find out why Giovanni, of all people, was so fond of German cuisine. Maybe an answer to the dominance of his mother from Emilia-Romagna, from whom Erika had learned all her culinary skills
Café Ravenna was open seven days a week, from morning to night, because the owners felt a great responsibility for their guests and feared that without their care they might go hungry or, even worse, be forced to eat fast food.
The middle-sized town where the "Ravenna" was located, is best known for its art college, to which I had just applied in vain. It said: "Rejected for lack of perspective talent".
My divorced parents, as much as they hated each other and never saw eye to eye, would both triumph over this.
That´s why I decided to just stay and try again the next year.
The unimpressive cardboard sign: "Temporary help wanted for kitchen and restaurant" was already a bit faded. Erica and Giovanni hired me on a trial basis. I showed surprising talent in the kitchen, brought food and drinks to the guests without any spills and didn't complain about the working hours.
Roberta was something special. In terms of age, she could have been my older sister. Roberta only came when Erika was cooking. She was always solo, friendly but distant. I noticed how she sometimes looked at me when I served her. I also have a thing for girls and could read her eyes.
But she was still just a guest - until the moment she praised the Ribollita, a thick Tuscan soup made from white beans, kale, leeks, carrots, celery, tomatoes, parmesan and bread.
Giovanni pointed at me: "Our little girl here cooked this". I was proud and blushed a little when Roberta looked at me intensely and applauded.
A few weeks later, Giovanni asked me if I wanted to cook for Roberta's birthday. The next day, which was actually my day off, and at her house. She would pay me for it and he mentioned a sum that I could make good use of, as I was chronically broke.
She wouldn't take me shopping, but I would just turn up at her door in the early afternoon and cook what she had bought.
I had a bit of stage fright as I stood in front of the weathered wooden door of the old house. It was still summer, the garden was wild, natural, full of herbs, wild flowers, bushes, meadow grass, humming everywhere.
Roberta opened the door. For the first time, she was no longer a guest to me, but a beautiful, desirable woman. She was taller than me, with short blonde hair, wearing a light, green-spotted, casual summer dress that emphasized her boobs.
I must have stared at them for a few seconds too long. I don't have much to stare at when it comes to my own boobs, but I immediately thought about how it would feel if her stiff nipples rubbed against mine. She pretended not to notice my horny stares and walked into the house ahead of me.
I congratulated her on her birthday, of course, and presented her with a small, very feminine clay figurine that I had modeled and glazed myself as a piece of work for the entrance exam. Roberta placed the figurine with a friendly smile next to other slightly dusty odds and ends - where it still stands today.
She lived in a rare mélange of furniture and paintings from all stylistic periods of the 20th century. In the kitchen, fans of old cooking utensils would have been thrilled.
As we toasted each other with a cool white wine, I asked: "What would I even cook?" Roberta pointed to the kitchen table, full of tomatoes, vegetables, fragrant herbs, ripe Parmesan, different types of pasta, olive oil, balsamic vinegar and buffalo butter. There was much more in the fridge.
"I'll leave that to you. Just surprise me".
"Ohhh, really? Ok. Why not. And when are the guests arriving?"
She grinned at me: "No guests are coming, my little one. You're just cooking for me. And if you want, you're invited to try your own creations".
I was quite taken aback, but after all, I was paid to cook and not by the number of guests. I decided to use the vegetables to make a range of hot and cold starters, culminating in a real "Ragu Bolognese" because had just learned this from Erika. I was curious to see how Roberta would like it.
Later I was so busy that I didn't notice her looking over my shoulder at first. When I felt the warmth of her body and the light touch on my back, I involuntarily pressed my bottom against her and felt her return the pressure. I started to rub myself against her, continuing to slice the tomatoes, then felt her breath on my neck and the pressure of her boobies against my back. I moaned softly as she whispered in my ear: "My little girl, don't say anything". Then she slowly inserted her tongue into my ear and her hands felt my stiff nipples through the T-shirt and the wafer-thin bra.
I was getting wet now, moaning louder, supporting myself with my hands on the worktable, crushing the ripe tomatoes, my vulva pressed against the worktop. Roberta's hands were now under my shirt, fumbling my boobs out of my bra, massaging them, squeezing my nipples.
Roberta could feel me giving myself completely to her now. Her right hand unbuttoned my jeans, slipped into my panties and explored my wetness. I involuntarily spread my legs. She penetrated me deeply with two fingers. I began to move rhythmically against her fingers.
"It's so beautiful how horny and submissive you are, my little cooking whore," I heard her whisper. Suddenly I could no longer feel her hands or her breath on my neck. Now she was standing in front of me, looking at me closely.
I stood with my legs still spread wide apart on the table, my jeans open, my wet panties barely covering my vulva, tomato juice dripping onto the floor, my T-shirt pushed up, my boobs hanging out of my bra, my face feeling hot, drops of sweat running down my face.
"You're so cute the way you're standing there, my little submissive cooking slut. You know, I always dreamed about this when I watched you at the Ravenna. To spot and feel you here. You're a wonderful young woman, independent, clever, you're going to be a great cook and you're so wonderfully submissive. I sense you are yearning to be submissive and to be fucked by a strong woman."
She leaned over the table, gave me a kiss on my sweaty forehead and walked out. "Go on cooking now, my little kitchen slut. I'm already looking forward to your delicacies."
Slowly I slipped back into reality. I had never experienced anything so hot and beautiful with a woman. The kitchen had now become a magical, wonderful space.
The kitchen utensils became friends now who helped me to achieve my first great performance as a cook for Roberta.
