She tried. She tried to breathe. She tried her very best to breathe in. It was hard. She needed to be stronger, fiercer, always more and more so. Her first breath met her lungs, striking light to her seizing chest. It was weak, like a sweet summer breeze tickling the top of a blade of grass, she needed to get deeper, she needed to be strong, like thunder, down into the roots.
Alyssa gasped for air, snapping back to attention. Finding herself on her office chair, she realised, of course, that there was nothing erotic about what she was watching, yet her fingers pushed between her lips watching in perfect silence as the Chef explained in monotone the common misconceptions of oxidisation. Avocados turn brown when exposed to air, this doesn’t always mean they are rotten, she, of course, knew this already.
“Trust a fuckin’ Chef!” She said aloud, a little too loud.
Still, her fingertips swirled around, the force of her underwear pushing them deeper and deeper, down inside her. She shivered, goosebumps lighting up her dark skin.
Of course, she knew! She must have seen the inside of a thousand Avocados, – Nein! She thought to herself, more like a million. She couldn’t remember making a meal without one, her life for ten years had been deeply entrenched in the pitted fruit. If she was to walk into the street and come face to face with the headlights of an oncoming car, what would she see? The face of her lover? The hot sand on some lush beach? Fuck no, just the smooth brown pip, surrounded by the slimy green flesh, probably standing over a bench top at 5am in some stainless steel death trap… Was that really the sum of it all?
“Oh, fuck,” She moaned aloud,
Her fingers had begun to plunge so fast that she could feel sticky drips running over her wrist and down onto her chair – She didn’t give a shit.
Her gaze returned back up to the sweat soaked YouTube Chef. No, not for you!
…This was for her, this was her time. She had an hour and counting until the doors opened, fifty minutes until the tables would be put outside, thirty minutes before the coffee-grind had to be set, twenty minutes before Julien would finish food prep, ten minutes to revise the menu, and five minutes to cum.
She leaned back in her seat, keeping one eye trained on the door, it was left unlocked. It was exciting to think someone might open it, catch her by accident. She smiled, it would be their fault, she didn’t go around opening closed doors, not unless she knew perfectly well what she might find inside. Her feet had begun to sweat, she desperately clawed at the outer lining of her socks, revealing a long pointed foot beneath, her nail polish shimmering in the light. She pulled her leg back to the right, levering her fingers at a higher angle so she could feel the pounding of her own fingers in both holes, her legs were stretched wide, her toes squirming in the cold blue light.
“What I’d like you to do,” The Chef continued, Alyssa centred her vision on him,
“Please, tell me” She moaned, “I’ll do fucking anything.”
Some tone in her voice caught her attention, although sarcastic she couldn’t help but think of Julien.
A fuzzy picture of the graphite tiles on his bathroom floor, the feeling of his rough callused hands around her throat. She’d never been held like that, never so confidently – not without begging first. She felt his breath, imagined how it would feel to have him again, he was probably just meters away… No! She brushed it away. Fuck off…
She caught her breath.
Her hands were soaked, her chair too, she even took in small drips over the PVC on the floor, a guilty splatter in the partial sunlight. It was not enough. She felt the hollow dissatisfaction resonating inside her, she was still burning, she needed the release.
Alyssa glanced at her bag under the desk, she had started bringing her toys to work, even though sometimes they didn’t get…