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WhippingtheCreamAnValentine’sDaystorybyYevaWiestWhippingtheCreamWhippingtheCream©2009YevaWeistUsedwithspecialpermissionbyPhazeBooksVisitPhaze.com/freevalentinesformorefreeValentine’sDaystoriesfordownload.2YEVAWIESTIwokeupwanting.Iwantedtheflickofafingeragainstmyclit.Ifeltitthrobbing,achingtobestroked,andthesensationwasalmostmorethanIcouldbear.Thesheets,crispandclean,brushedagainstthetopsofmythighs,thesoftmoundofmybellyandthepeaksofmybreasts.Mybodywasaliveandawashwithfeeling.Ieasedmyhanddownalongsidethecurveofmywaistinsleepyexploration.Ismiledinexpectationofrelease…thephonerang.Itkeptringing.Despiteallmyscreamsoffrustration,allmygarbledprotestsandcurses,thestupidcellpealedandvibratedalongthenightstandbesideme—towardme.Isnatcheditupandflippeditopen.“What?”Igrowlednonetoopolitely.“Ineedyouhere—thismorning,”saidSonia.Shewasthechefdecuisine.Iwasherassistantand,assuch,powerlesstodisobeyBeforeIcouldframeananswerordeigntothinkupanexcuseforfinallytakingamorningoff,shehadhungup.Ilaystillforjustanothermoment,myclitthrobbingandmybottomlipburstingforthintoafull-blownpoutthatrefusedtobemollified.IwantedtohateChefSonia,butIcouldn’t.Icouldonlygroaninfrustrationandrealizetheenormousopportunitythatworkingwithheraffordedme.Soniawasoneofthemostsought-afterchefsinthecity,andoneofthemostincorrigibleflirtsIhadeverworkedwith.Thethoughtofherslantinggreeneyesandrecklessgrinhadmespringingfromthebedinadifferentsortofanticipation.Suddenly,Iwasreadytomeettheday…andmyboss.****3WhippingtheCreamTherestaurantkitchenfeltcoldwiththepre-dawnemptinessthatprecedesabusyday.TodaywasValentine’sDay,soitwassuretobehectic.Soniahadnotyetarrived,soIspentmytimewarmingtheovensandmakingespresso.Thecheerfulchugoftheespressomachineandthewonderfularomaofcoffeeblendedwiththewarmthofthekitchengivingmeasnugifstillslightlyarousedfeeling.Happily,Igavetheday’smenualeisurelystudyrealizingwithatingethatthepannacottaconfrutte,cookedcreamwithberries,waslistedasdessert.Itwasmyassignment.Soniahaspencilledmynameinbesideit.Iwonderedifitwerewithinmypurview.“Arrgh!Ican’tmakethefreakin’pannacotta,”Iactuallysaidaloud.“Whythehellnot?”askedSonia.Ifroze.Iclosedmyeyesinhorrorandslightlyshookmyhead.Damn,Ihadn’theardhercomeinovertheverboseanticsoftheespressomaker.Igrippedtheceramicedgeofthecounterandbreathedinandouttryingtostillmyragingemotions.Soniatappedmeontherightshoulder,andwhenIdidnotmove,shegentlyturnedmearoundtofaceher.Hereyessparkledwickedly.“Iaskedyouaquestion,”shesaidsoftly.“Whythehellnot?”Hereyestookinmyflushedcheeksandtheflutteringpulseinmythroat.Icouldfeelheatsuffusemyfaceandspreaddownmythroatandacrossmychest.Shewatchedthefierycourseandseemedfascinatedbymydiscomfort.“Mycreamisneverstiffenough,”Isaid.“Andforsomereason,mycaramelrefusestopoursmoothly.IfeelhopelessthismorningwhichisnottheattitudethatIneedtomakeadecentpannacotta.”Shemovedclosertome.“Isthatreallyhowyoufeelthismorning?”HerItalianaccentwasstrong.“Ordoyoufeelsomethingelse?”4YEVAWIESTSonialeanedcloserandstrokedmycheek.Hereyesheldminecaptive.Icouldn’tbreathe.Iwasalltooawareofherfullness.Thebodiceofherstarkwhiteuniformstrainedagainstitsbrightredbuttons.Theswellofherstomachprovedsoftagainstmypelvis.Shesmelledfullandwomanly.“Ifeelconfused,”Iwhispered,andshesmiled.Inthatmoment,thattantalizingmoment,sheseemedsoft,pliant.Themomentpassed,though,andshewasbacktobusiness.Sheassumedcompletecontrolandwhirledmearoundtofacetherecipe.“Gettowork,”shegrowled,“oryouwillneverbeatopchef.”SoIsetaboutcollectingmyingredients.Isprinkledgelatininabowlofwarmwatertoletitsoften,whileIbroughtsomemilk,sugar,andavanillabeantoaboil.Iaddedthegelatintothemilkandscrappedthevanillabeanseedsintothemixture.AfterIstrainedthemixtureandallowedittocool,Ipreparedthecaramel.AsIpoureditintosomecolorfulramekins,IfeltSoniamoveclosebehindme.Whilethewarmaromaofcreamandcaramelrosetoengulfme,IfeltSonia’shotbreathagainstmyneck.Theessenceofhernearnessfusedwiththedeliciousmouth-wateringsmellsofthepannacottaandseducedme.Mybreastsswelledandachedtobetouched,andmypussybegantomoistenwithherownspecialcreaminess.MyhandsshookasIpouredheavymixtureintoastainlesssteelbowl.EveryporeofmyskinwasawareofSoniaagainstme.Ireachedfarontothecountertograbthebeatersforthemixer.Herbodyfollowedmine—againstme,meldedtome.Iturnedonthemixer,anditwasasthoughIhadturnedSoniaonwithit.Asthestrandsofwireliftedandblendedthecream,herhandsliftedandheldmybreasts.Thepannacottagrewthicker,andtheheatofdesiregrewstrongerbetweenmythighs.Iheldtightlytothearmofthe5WhippingtheCreammixer.Itsvibrationstraveledalongmyarmandchurnedagainstmybody.MyabdomenbumpedlightlyagainstthecounterasSoniacontinuedtorubagainstme.“Thewhippedcreammustformstiffpeaksbeforeitisready,”shesaidandbegantopluckthetendertipsofmynipplesthroughmyblouse.Ihadnotwornabra,andsothecottonfabricofmytunicraspedagainstmynipples.Theybegantogrowharder,stiffliketheheavenlycreationIcontinuedtobeat.Myclitbegantothrob.Icouldfeelitquivering.Finally,Idecidedthecreamwasthickenough.Iturnedoffthemixerandpulledthebeatersfromthewhippedcream.Twinpeaksstoodsidebysidei