Cooking For Roberta

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.

PART 3

Roberta's birthday, I really don't remember which one and it doesn't matter, made me a different person over the next few months, a new, lively, horny, lustful, self-determined young woman. I think Roberta changed too. Of course, I can't really say for sure because I didn't know her before.

When Roberta left the kitchen - I was still standing with my legs spread, wet and horny, panting and sweaty, leaning against the kitchen table. My hands were covered in tomatoes crushed with lust, their juice slowly dripping onto the kitchen floor, perhaps mixing with mine. What kind of sauce would that make? I thought, slowly coming back to myself.

Something magical had just happened to me. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but I felt incredibly at ease. Without thinking further, I cut up my panties with the kitchen scissors, threw them in the bin, took off my bra, which still had my boobs hanging out of it, and threw it in too.

Then I started cooking. It was cooking like in a wonderful, hot dream. My naked pussy rubbed against the denim. You couldn't miss the wet spots, nor the nipples of my little boobs poking out of the sweat-stained T-shirt.

Of course, I started with the ragu Bolognese first. This wonderful sauce made from minced beef and pork, pancetta, fat milk, onions, celery, carrots and tomato paste had to simmer for at least 2 hours.

Now for the antipasti.

My cooking had become an exhilarating flow. Everything I did made me happy and horny.

As I was working on the eggplants stuffed with tomatoes, capers, olives and garlic, Roberta quietly crept into the kitchen.

She pressed herself firmly against my back. I felt her soft, full breasts, then her strong, caressing hands on my boobs.

"Mhhh so nice and small and firm. Good thing you took your bra off. You don't need that with me anyway, my horny little chef," she whispered in my right ear.

I could feel her breathing, goose bumps ran all over my body and I moaned softly with pleasure. As her hand slowly slid down, undid the top buttons of my jeans and felt its way to my wet center, I spread my legs as if automatically.

She breathed tenderly: "How submissive you are. Ohhhh, you got rid of your panties straight away. You are such a wonderful cooking whore." Her fingers slid between my vulva lips, pentrating me slightly. "You're so wet. I'd love to fuck you right here.

"Jaaaaa, fuck me.... pleaaaseeee..... whenever you want. I'm all yours". I had never said or even thought such sentences before.

But every word felt right, it was an incredible moment of happiness and never before had I been so completely close to myself.

Roberta sensed my devotion, kissed me tenderly on the back of my neck and said nothing. Her fingers, wet from my vulva, reached for a black olive that she pushed into my mouth, glistening with my own juice.

I licked her fingers, which she immediately slid back between my pussy lips until they were wet again, wetting another olive, which she then slipped into her own mouth.

I tried to keep working, chopping the fresh oregano into small pieces. Her fingers explored me, my wetness. I felt them deep inside me, measuring me, taking possession of me.

"Keep going, cute cooking whore," she whispered in my ear. A little tap on my clit that made me cry out in pleasure and devotion. She left.

I stood back at the kitchen table with my legs wide open. I was happy. My juice was oozing out of me. My jeans were wet like after a rain shower. I was soooo happy.

The ragu smelled delicious.

It sizzled gently on the old-fashioned stove. I put the stuffed eggplants in the huge oven and started preparing the potato cakes with saffron, the bruschetta with diced tomatoes and olive paste last, as well as the radiccio, which I would fry in olive oil, the green beans with anchovies, parsley and garlic and also the porcini mushrooms.

Everything should be on the table at the same time, including the Ragu Bolognese.

PART 4

A few weeks after Roberta's birthday, I was in the kitchen of Café Ravenna.

It was early in the morning. For the first time, I cooked a ragu of wild boar, mushrooms and herbs, braised in a rich red Colli Bolognesi. Naturally, it was a recipe from Erika. She had entrusted it to me with the promise never to reveal the details of the recipe to anyone.

The mushrooms were not permitted to be rinsed, but had to be brushed individually, the herbs chopped in a certain way, the meat cut into equal-sized cubes (I was even allowed to use Erika's personal knife in the meantime) and then rubbed with a secret seasoning mixture.

Giovanni called through the open kitchen door. "Hey, Cuoca, here's an American ragazza who's desperate for a job. Says she's an artist. Like you."

I was frantic. It was the dish for lunch, nothing was to be allowed to go wrong. I wasn't in the mood for job interviews with some crazy artist girls.

I was about to shout just that to Giovanni when a young woman in her very early 20s, maybe 150 cm tall, with short brown hair and a few wild orange color explosions in it, stuck her head into the kitchen and said "Hey, I'm Ava and I'm looking for a job" with a pretty sweet American sound.

Of course I couldn't resist looking at her very tight tank top, under which pretty, rather tiny boobs were clearly visible. "Ohhh, almost like mine," I thought immediately.

She had a clever, somewhat mischievous look and a cheeky twinkle in her eye. I love old Hollywood movies and immediately thought of Ava Gardners eyes in the sensational movie "Pandora and the Flying Dutchman".

But above all, I thought of all the unbrushed mushrooms and the time ticking away until lunchtime. "Do you have any experience? In gastronomy or cooking, I mean, of course."

"Sure, I sometimes helped my mother in the kitchen. And I was sometimes permitted to make baked cheese... and crepes for dessert," she said without batting an eyelid. Okay. At least she had been in a kitchen before.

I sighed: "Okay, we'll do a test run. Go and wash your hands, the kitchen aprons are in the cupboard back there. And hurry up"!!!

Ava was really quick, just nodded briefly, did what I told her, then stood next to me, waiting eagerly for instructions.

I showed her how to use a special brush to clean the vast quantities of earthy mushrooms that Erika had foraged in the forest this morning.

I began to prepare the wild boar meat, occasionally checking that Ava was working carefully, giving instructions that she followed wordlessly and with a smile.

I can be strict and authoritarian in the kitchen. She seemed to like that. In fact, I saw a longing in her eyes that I knew very well in myself.

I thought to myself: "Why on earth did my new kitchen help have to be a young submissive brat?"

I would have no choice but to introduce her to Roberta.

In a kitchen, especially one as cramped as the Ravenna, you can't avoid bumping into each other from time to time. Ava seemed to enjoy it. After a while, her cute little ass seemed to randomly bump into mine whenever I had to push past her. She was testing me out.

The cool morning slowly turned into a warm autumn day. The meat was roasting in the large iron pan and lardo, the fatty Italian pork bacon, was sizzling in the huge cast-iron cooking pot. Soon the mushrooms would be added for frying. It was getting really hot in the kitchen.

Little beads of sweat were already glistening on Ava's forehead. Her tight, white tank top was forming larger, damp patches. It looked pretty seductive. She caught me staring at her and grinned. I threw her a kitchen towel so she could wipe the sweat off her face.

Finally, all the ingredients were in the big pot and slowly simmering in the red Colli Bolognesi wine.

Ava and I stood by the open window, but there was little cool air coming in. "You worked quickly and quite carefully," I praised Ava. "You can start here tomorrow for all I care. As kitchen help. Papers, money and stuff, you'll have to sort that out with Giovanni up front."

I had expected a "Thank you, great" or something similar, but not that Ava would start crying with joy. I spontaneously hugged her. She whispered in my ear with her cute US accent: "Thank you, thank you, thank you. Now I don't have to beg my parents for money. They want me to come back. Do something useful. Not breadless art."

That sounded pretty familiar. I squeezed her even tighter. Today I was wearing my new, swanky "Grand Chef Lady" chef's jacket, which I bought from my first salary as second chef (after Erika, of course).

But nothing underneath.

I felt our boobs pressed tightly together.

I sensed her warmth, her stiff nipples, the slight smell of her fresh feminine sweat, which I impulsively and audibly sucked in deeply.

Ava reacted to this with her tongue, which she suddenly stuck in my ear. I automatically placed my hands on her beautiful buttocks and stroked them. Ava pushed her right knee between my thighs, which opened automatically and gave her access to my already wet pussy under the linen fabric of my blue checked chef's trousers.