Saturday night, the first warm day of spring. The epicenter of primordial chaos, ground zero for the worst humanity had to offer, the busiest dinner rush the restaurant has seen in a year. Reservations pour in online, over the phone. A line stretches halfway down the block with women in clubbing dresses and families in sweaters and elderly couples playing on their iPads, all waiting for a table.

I’m called in on my day off, still bleary, stumbling through the downtown neon lights through the back door. A moment later an apron hits me in the phase, falls into my hands, as I see you, eye of the storm in the kitchen, pointing at me with a long sharp knife in hand.

“Wash up, start plating, get to work on sauces.” You spare me no more than one long second, burning eyes pinning me to the spot and sobering me up.

“Y-yes Chef!” I say, and enter the clattering maelstrom and orchestra of utensils and pans and glass, as we all slowly try to be Sisyphus tonight and push the dinner rush boulder up the hill.

An hour in, sweat soaking my shirt, my apron stained, my body moving on autopilot. A band-aid slapped onto a burn on my left arm from an eruption of volcanic marinara.

A plate breaks behind me and I don’t even turn – the hollandaise needs to be perfect. The second plate, though, and we all turn as the first screams start.

The sous chef, face bright red – whether from his well-known meth habit or the final death knell of his oft-expressed inability to take orders from a woman – shouts into your face, smashes another pastry plate. He curses us all, our families unto the seven generation, and then tosses his apron to the ground and his hat towards the deep frier, where only an intrepid dishwasher saves us from a health code violation by catching the abandoned princely crown.

Silence reigns. The machine teetered on collapse. The army holds it breath.

Your knife points at me. “You. Put on the fucking hat and help me. Everyone else, get back to work.”

“Yes, Chef!” the chorus comes back, my shocked voice among them, as I leave the sauces behind to stand at your elbow.

The door creaks closed as the final dessert-refugees depart the battlefield, the hostess clicking the lock shut before leaning her head against the glass, and in the kitchen we start to identify the missing, the wounded, the dead. Broken plates are swept into the garbage; the dishwashers pop outside for a smoke and come back with an empty vape pen and giggly laughs; the cooks scrub surfaces so the field is prepared for the next night’s sortie.

I’m picking up a rag myself, stretching my wearing shoulders, when I feel a finger trace the line of my shoulders. I blink, and turn, and see you there – hair matted under your hat with sweat, apron a mess, intense eyes looking into mine.

“Come here,” you say, and I find myself in an abandoned booth, the bartender, in-between their own ablutions, pouring straight whiskey into two glasses and leaving them for us.

You take a long sip yourself, sigh, and I see the general relax, just a bit. “You did good there,” you say. “Really good.”

I sip my own drink, cough, and when I blink again, I feel your eyes on me again, weighing me up, making my heart pound in my chest. “I think we could both use a shower,” you say, and then stand up, pointing to the door. “You want to…use mine?”

Silence, tension, fear, admiration, want, second-guessing, decision.

I stand up with you, looking you over, seeking the smirk on your lips, and I walk with you to the exit, to the walk to your place, to whatever happens after. And, softly, my answer.

“Yes, Chef.”

Hello everyone! Thank you for reading my prompt for this week’s theme! I wanted to play up the tension and anarchy that could reign in any mid-level restaurant during a busy night, and how that crackling tension pushes the head chef, a formidable woman, and the younger but competent culinary student working for her, together for a night (or more) of mutual passion.

Has the chef recently had her marriage fall apart due to her long hours, and is looking for a distraction? Or do some men find her too intimidating, and finding someone who appreciates her exactly what she is looking for? Perhaps the culinary intern recently went through a bad breakup himself, or hasn’t been as successful in hiding his crush on his superior as he thought. Whatever setup we imagine, I’d love to see how this restaurant seduction and potential romance plays out!

Whatever the setup, I’m looking for something kinky and consensual, with everyone having a good time.

How this goes and your own appearance is up to you! Are you a young chef in your late 20s or early 30s, just making a name for yourself? Or are you older, seasoned and established, finding intimacy where you can? Just let me know your thoughts.

Lovely kinks to include are: passion, dirty talk, teasing, frantic sex, shower sex, age gap, mild power dynamics, fun with bondage/toys, affection, sweet pet names, obeying orders, wholesome and kinky fun, and more! Kinklist here for more ideas!

Limits include degradation, non-con, vore, scat, snuff, etc.

If you are interested in writing this out, send me a DM with your ideas and thoughts, and we can go from there! I tend to go for a few paragraphs a response and a long-term buildup. This prompt is always open.

And if this isn’t exactly what you’re looking for, all my previous prompts are available for play as well. I'm open to hearing from you whenever you see this prompt - don't be shy!

I look forward to hearing from you!