Teasing Chef
by acguy
Copyright© 2025 by acguy
Erotica Sex Story: Sophie is a petite 24-year-old, Cambodian-American beauty. She has found success in the world of social media content creation and enjoys the fruits of that success. Petite, stunning, and endlessly provocative, Sophie turns everyday moments into erotic games of tease and temptation. With online success comes reward, Sophie has hired a personnel Chef.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction .
It had started like any other Monday.
Sophie padded barefoot into the kitchen just after noon, wearing a silk robe so short it barely covered the bottom curve of her ass. It was pale pink, glossy in the sunlight that spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and it clung to her damp skin in the places where her shower hadn’t quite dried. She hummed softly, scrolling through her phone with one hand while the other toyed absentmindedly with the knot at her waist.
Chef was already there.
He always was—punctual, quiet, too tall for her cabinets, and devastatingly fit. That day he wore a grey T-shirt that hugged his arms in ways that Sophie had definitely noticed. Blonde hair pulled back, apron on, sleeves rolled, knife flashing across the cutting board like some kind of edible magic show. The condo smelled like roasted garlic and basil. Comfort. Care. Control.
“Morning, Chef,” she said, slipping onto one of the stools at the island.
“It’s almost one,” he replied, not looking up.
She grinned at that. His voice was warm and even. Calm. But she swore she caught the way his eyes flicked over her legs before returning to the chopping board.
It had been like this for a while.
Sophie, twenty-four, content queen of South Florida’s digital scene, had hired him two months ago when she realized her diet of cold brew and edibles was tanking her energy. She’d meant to keep it professional. But that was before she’d seen how his broad hands handled her produce. Before she’d noticed how he didn’t flinch when she walked past in a see-through crop top and thong. Before she’d decided, she wanted to see if she could break that calm exterior.
Every evening that week, the game had escalated.
Tuesday, she wore a mesh bodysuit under an open cardigan. Sat in the living room editing photos, legs crossed just so, while Chef plated seared salmon with fennel and citrus. She ‘accidentally’ left a tab open on her laptop, showing a thumbnail of her latest shoot—her on her knees, head tilted back, one hand buried between her thighs.
He cleared his throat. Said nothing.
Wednesday, she greeted him in a baby-blue bikini, the bottoms riding scandalously high. “I was filming earlier,” she said innocently, arching her back as she reached for a glass. “Didn’t feel like changing.”
He handed her the drink without comment, but there was a flicker in his jaw. She noticed.
That night, when he left, she slipped into her studio and recorded a clip just for him. She didn’t send it, of course. She just left it paused on her monitor, frame frozen on her flushed face, lips parted around the base of a pink toy.
Thursday, he spoke up.
“Sophie.” He stood by the stove, spatula in hand, eyes steady but tired. “Can you not?”
She tilted her head, lip between her teeth. “Not what?”
“You know what.”
“I’m just being comfortable in my own home,” she said sweetly. “You wouldn’t want me to feel uncomfortable, would you, Chef?”
He stared at her for a moment, then turned back to the pan.
The tension had a flavour now—slow-cooked, simmering. She liked it.
Friday was quiet at first.
She wore a cropped sweatshirt and nothing underneath. It lifted when she stretched, flashing the underside of her breasts—small, perky, and tipped with nipples that always seemed hard, always noticeable. Like they were announcing themselves. Like they were daring him to look.
She made a point of perching on the counter while he cooked. Swinging her legs. Asking him questions she already knew the answers to.
“You okay, Chef?”
“Fine.”
“You sure? You’ve been tense.”
He gave her a tight smile. “It’s been a long week.”
She smiled back, all innocence. “Want me to make it longer?”
That got a pause. Just a beat. But he didn’t rise to it. Didn’t say a word.
He finished the plating in silence, wiped down the counter, and left earlier than usual.
Saturday, she dialed it back. Just a little.
Oversized tee. No makeup. Hair in a bun. Still no bra—of course not—but she didn’t push anything. She stayed in the background while he cooked, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, editing a batch of selfies with the skyline glowing behind her.
He said almost nothing.
And yet—when he looked at her, there was something different in his eyes. Less patience. More hunger. As though the wall he’d built between them had taken a few too many cracks. As though he knew exactly what she was doing, and exactly how close he was to doing something about it.
That night, she watched him go. Said nothing. Just stood by the window, bathed in city lights, letting him see her silhouette through the thin fabric of her shirt.
Sunday was quiet.
Too quiet.
Sophie was lounging on the couch in a pair of thigh-high socks and a cropped tee when her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, surprised to see Chef’s name.
“Chef,” she answered, playful as always. “Did I wear you out?”
His voice came through low and measured. “I won’t be coming by today.”
Her smile faltered. “Oh?”
“Nothing serious,” he added quickly, as if sensing the change in her tone. “Something came up. I’ll be there tomorrow, usual time.”
She curled her legs under her. “Everything okay?”
“It’s fine,” he said, a little too firmly. “But Sophie...”
“Mm?”
“You really need to tone it down.”
Her grin returned, curling slow and wicked across her lips. “Tone what down?”
“You know what.”
“I’m just being me.”
There was a pause.
“Then consider this your final warning. Keep pushing, and there’ll be consequences.”
She bit her lip. “Promise?”
He groaned softly, clearly frustrated, then hung up without another word.
Sophie giggled to herself. Tomorrow was going to be fun.
Monday arrived with brilliant light and a sharp edge to the air. Chef let himself into the condo like he always did, greeted by the scent of orchids and vanilla, the faint echo of the city below, and—unexpectedly—moaning.
He froze.
It was coming from her studio. Rhythmic, breathless, unmistakable. He heard a low whimper, then his name—half-formed, wrapped in something raw and desperate.
“Chef...”
He closed his eyes. Jesus.
Shaking his head, he walked into the kitchen and began pulling together a salad. Something cold, fast—no heat, no prep. Just greens, walnuts, sliced strawberries, some goat cheese, a vinaigrette he could shake in a jar. Something he could abandon mid-sentence if (when) necessary.
The moans tapered off, replaced by silence.
Thirty minutes passed.
Then the door opened.
Sophie emerged barefoot, cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted, her hair twisted up like she hadn’t bothered to finish brushing it. She wore a bikini so small it barely qualified—mint green, thin as floss. The triangle top clung desperately to her nipples, and the bottoms all but disappeared between the soft curves of her arse.
Chef saw her, exhaled through his nose, and set the knife down slowly.
Sophie stretched, arms overhead, spine arching as she yawned. Her breasts lifted with the motion, and one tiny nipple slipped free before she tucked it back in with maddening nonchalance. Then she bent to pick up something near the sofa, giving him a long, deliberate view of her perfect little arse.
“Morning,” she purred.
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