Anything But Vanilla
Copyright June 2012, Sofia Bane
I’m not sure how Sebastian first guessed I was kinky, but he knew, and he’d always throw it in my face at the most provocative times. “Up for a spanking today, Celia?” he would ask, brandishing a metal spatula in my direction. Or, one time I was wrapping twine around the legs of a stuffed chicken, and he just stood behind me, snickering. When I finally turned around, he spoke before I could: “Tied tight, just the way you like it.”
Fine, we would play this game. “You know it. Go back to whipping your cream, ‘Bastian, and leave the hard stuff to the grown-ups.”
So in the restaurant kitchen where we both worked, Sebastian was our pastry chef, and pastry chefs always got shit like that. He took it graciously, though, returning to his station to work on desserts. I’d carve my meats on the other side of the kitchen, too busy in our typical chaos to be distracted by his teasing hotness. He came from an Italian family, giving him golden skin and dark curly hair. What I’m saying is, his chef whites looked good on him. But he was mostly a colleague in the kitchen, and his innuendo wasn’t meant as anything more. So I thought until after hours one hot summer night.