The Grind | 18+

The Grind

This is a short erotic story (meaning 18 and older please and thank you - also if I know you personally and you know I wouldn't want you reading this, exit now 👀). There is some kinky shit (hair pulling, spanking, bondage, food play) in this. If that makes you uncomfortable, please don't continue.

This is not edited, so there will be mistakes.

This story was available for a limited time back in March of 2020 to get rid of writer's block, but I decided I wanted to re-share it for giggles.

Enjoy!

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My forearms throbbed as I whisked egg whites as fast as my muscles would let me. No matter how quickly I flicked my wrist, the eggs just wouldn't become thick. I refused to ask for help, even though my part of the dish was literally the one thing people came to the café and bakery for from noon to three o'clock, besides the coffee.

I was new to The Grind Café and Bakery, and hadn't made my mark yet. I usually busied myself by making the coffees or cookies during the day, but the owner - and one of the best pastry chefs in the state - wanted me to try my hand at making a lemon meringue pie.

It wasn't working out too well.

The pie crust was easy. My mother used to have me help her bake pumpkin pies around Thanksgiving. Thinking of that made me wish for the scent of pumpkin and vanilla coating the air. Instead, all I had coating the air was coffee and the crust, which was quickly losing its aroma to the overwhelming smell of the café.

Ranger Braxton - to be called Chef at all times within the walls of his esteemed business - had told me that I wasn't permitted to use the stand mixer, or the handheld one. He told me it was a learning curve that everyone had to go through, before they were permitted to make things on a regular basis in the kitchen.

He'd been hard on me since I started a week prior. Telling me that my coffee didn't taste right, even though plenty of the patrons disagreed. My cookies - my prized motherfucking cookies - were "too soft" for his bakery.

What cookies were too soft?

The door to the kitchen opened, and my one and only co-worker for the day - Sven - glanced at me. I was usually scheduled with him, and he was one of my favorite co-workers.

He was about six inches taller than me, putting him at about six feet. He made a habit to wear shoes that upped his height by an inch, so I assumed he was naturally five feet eleven, and wanted that extra inch to be an even six. He had thick black hair, beautiful dark chocolate skin, and eyes to match. The man had skin so smooth that I debated on asking about his skincare routine, if he had one.

Women loved him, and by the look on his face, he was either amused at my struggle, or he'd gotten another phone number.

Maybe both.

"Whisk all you want," he said, leaning on the counter to watch, "but those little forearms of yours aren't going to do much, Violet."

I glared at him, whisking even more violently. "Then help me. On the D.L. so the dictator out there doesn't notice."

He puffed out a laugh and surveyed the ten pie crusts laid out, waiting for the freaking meringue to be done. That was it. That was the last part to put on top of the lemon filling, and-

"Shit," I hissed, slamming the whisk down and turning to run over to the lemon filling. I'd forgotten about it. What kind of freaking baker was I trying to be?

I watched as the little bubbles began to form on the bottom, and breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn't been too late.

As I mixed in the remainder of the ingredients for the lemon filling, I turned to see Sven whisking away at the meringue, making a hell of a lot more progress than I had. I said a little thank you in my head, too afraid to voice it, in case Chef was listening.