Avec Plaisir
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Avec Plaisir free porn video
It was a fucking disaster. Eli pushed the heel of his hands deep into his eyes, cupping the upper ridge of his eye sockets. A gesture he hoped would stem the stream of guttural curses stirring and bubbling in his throat from bursting out his mouth. He groaned instead, the utter despair and depth of his humiliation evident in the resonance of his voice that sat thick like heavy cream in the air. As he pushed his hands back over his head, rubbing from his nape to his chin, over and over, the rasping counter pull against the re-growth of hair rubbing deeply against the rough skin of his fingers and palms. He thought if he could just rub hard enough, rub his skin numb, his hands just might erase the memory of the entire day. “I can’t do this.” he thought, then cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back into the empty studio, “I’m a god damned Michelin mutherfucking Star, Cordon Bleu Chef, and that pisshead, Durant, can find another babysitter for his golden boy”. He fell back onto his chair as he felt all his breath expel at once, bereft of will, he rocked back on two legs letting the wooden spindles of the back hit the counter bullnose end and laid his elbows deep onto the surface. Eli let his head fall back and closed his eyes hypnotised by the overhead brightness of the studio lights.
“ Chef, I feel like Cocotte, get up and get me the eggs from the laddier.” Lluc kicked the leg of his chair nearly knocking him over as he scrambled for balance. Not hearing Lluc come into the studio kitchen, Eli was caught unaware and his half tumble of surprise brought him close to planting his face in Lluc’s chest as he tried to stand. He could smell the crisp linen of his chef’s whites that sat over the scent of the heat of his skin. He swallowed the moan that threatened to expose the effect it had on his cock. “Get your own fucking eggs.” He growled and made to leave, stilled only by the iron on iron clatter of the skillet hitting the cooker, and the hand that grasped his shoulder and pushed him back down onto his seat. “Take your hands off me De-Roche, I’m not here to service you or to feed you.” Eli hissed out slowly as he raised his eyes to meet Lluc’s questioning stare. “Ah, I see.” He whispered. The silence hung then in the air and Eli churned with both anger and mortification that his star was rapidly burning out to be replaced by someone with half his skill. Someone whose very presence goads him to respond to every slight of phrase as disparagement but who also strikes a fire deep in his groin.
Eli turned his gaze back to the expansive state of the art studio kitchen, it was every dream he ever had, it was what he saw himself doing every night, the very art of sharing his work with the world, one beautiful dish at a time, surrounded by those who adored food, and it was all crumbling away only to re-form into an unrecognisable monster for the younger, hotter, more charismatic Lluc De-Roche. His body tightened ready to spring, he needed to put as much distance between him and De-Roche before he felt himself disappear altogether. He needed his life, his dependable, reliable, respectable kitchen in Swan Wharf with his faithful customers who love his food, who find their soul nourished with is simplicity and dedication to the purity of France’s cuisine. He stiffened his back turned to Lluc and with more force than he intended, he said, “I have a restaurant to run, there are no eggs here and I’m leaving.” Eli moved his hand to grasp Lluc’s wrist and found his own clasped hard and pulled back over his head. “Non, Monsieur,” his voice slightly shaking, “you will stay.” Eli threw his weight into his other arm to push away and found it twined with the first, above his head tightly pinned, stretching his chest and lifting him slightly up off the chair. Lluc’s rapid breath showered the space between his ear and his shoulder. Its heat raising the hairs on Eli’s arms with ensuing gooseflesh. He shivered. “Let me go, Lluc.” “Non.” He persisted. “Monsieur.” Eli’s heart raced in his chest, raced like it did when he put the blade to his scull each morning on the river, raced like when cold air blew in your lungs while you held a running start. “Monsieur, I am going to touch you.”
He pulled hard, his arms stretched awkwardly over the back of the counter, his body taut and going no where. The harder he pulled the more their bodies collided with solid chest meeting solid chest and his cock bouncing off the abdomen of the frenchman, his struggles and grunts achieving nothing more than to expose his own skin under his whites as it made contact with Lluc’s and to agitate his aching cock to uncomfortably fill his kitchen trousers. “Fuck off De-Roche”. Lluc smiled and pressed his leg across front of the chair, he leaned in close enough so that Eli caught the humid sheen of sweat of his chest exposed by a snapped stud in his whites in the struggle, giving him a glimpse of the dark hair that covered his chest, and surrounded his nipples. “Are you done now Monsieur? Arrete, d”accord!”
“Why?” Eli hissed. “What do you want from me?” “C’est tres facile, Monsieur, s’il vice plait. I want your cock. I can take it now or I will wait. You can do it my way and you will find the kind of pleasure only I can give you, that I know you want, or you can be stubborn and we both wait. It matters not to me. Before tonight is over you will beg me to take your cock in my hands and in my mouth and let you cum. Either way, I am going to have you. Your cock belongs to me”.
“ Chef, I feel like Cocotte, get up and get me the eggs from the laddier.” Lluc kicked the leg of his chair nearly knocking him over as he scrambled for balance. Not hearing Lluc come into the studio kitchen, Eli was caught unaware and his half tumble of surprise brought him close to planting his face in Lluc’s chest as he tried to stand. He could smell the crisp linen of his chef’s whites that sat over the scent of the heat of his skin. He swallowed the moan that threatened to expose the effect it had on his cock. “Get your own fucking eggs.” He growled and made to leave, stilled only by the iron on iron clatter of the skillet hitting the cooker, and the hand that grasped his shoulder and pushed him back down onto his seat. “Take your hands off me De-Roche, I’m not here to service you or to feed you.” Eli hissed out slowly as he raised his eyes to meet Lluc’s questioning stare. “Ah, I see.” He whispered. The silence hung then in the air and Eli churned with both anger and mortification that his star was rapidly burning out to be replaced by someone with half his skill. Someone whose very presence goads him to respond to every slight of phrase as disparagement but who also strikes a fire deep in his groin.
Eli turned his gaze back to the expansive state of the art studio kitchen, it was every dream he ever had, it was what he saw himself doing every night, the very art of sharing his work with the world, one beautiful dish at a time, surrounded by those who adored food, and it was all crumbling away only to re-form into an unrecognisable monster for the younger, hotter, more charismatic Lluc De-Roche. His body tightened ready to spring, he needed to put as much distance between him and De-Roche before he felt himself disappear altogether. He needed his life, his dependable, reliable, respectable kitchen in Swan Wharf with his faithful customers who love his food, who find their soul nourished with is simplicity and dedication to the purity of France’s cuisine. He stiffened his back turned to Lluc and with more force than he intended, he said, “I have a restaurant to run, there are no eggs here and I’m leaving.” Eli moved his hand to grasp Lluc’s wrist and found his own clasped hard and pulled back over his head. “Non, Monsieur,” his voice slightly shaking, “you will stay.” Eli threw his weight into his other arm to push away and found it twined with the first, above his head tightly pinned, stretching his chest and lifting him slightly up off the chair. Lluc’s rapid breath showered the space between his ear and his shoulder. Its heat raising the hairs on Eli’s arms with ensuing gooseflesh. He shivered. “Let me go, Lluc.” “Non.” He persisted. “Monsieur.” Eli’s heart raced in his chest, raced like it did when he put the blade to his scull each morning on the river, raced like when cold air blew in your lungs while you held a running start. “Monsieur, I am going to touch you.”
He pulled hard, his arms stretched awkwardly over the back of the counter, his body taut and going no where. The harder he pulled the more their bodies collided with solid chest meeting solid chest and his cock bouncing off the abdomen of the frenchman, his struggles and grunts achieving nothing more than to expose his own skin under his whites as it made contact with Lluc’s and to agitate his aching cock to uncomfortably fill his kitchen trousers. “Fuck off De-Roche”. Lluc smiled and pressed his leg across front of the chair, he leaned in close enough so that Eli caught the humid sheen of sweat of his chest exposed by a snapped stud in his whites in the struggle, giving him a glimpse of the dark hair that covered his chest, and surrounded his nipples. “Are you done now Monsieur? Arrete, d”accord!”
“Why?” Eli hissed. “What do you want from me?” “C’est tres facile, Monsieur, s’il vice plait. I want your cock. I can take it now or I will wait. You can do it my way and you will find the kind of pleasure only I can give you, that I know you want, or you can be stubborn and we both wait. It matters not to me. Before tonight is over you will beg me to take your cock in my hands and in my mouth and let you cum. Either way, I am going to have you. Your cock belongs to me”.
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