MMOM Day 11-K is for Kitchen Confidential
Title: Pressure Cooker
Fandom: Kitchen Confidential (book, so technically RPF)
Character: Anthony Bourdain (mentions of others)
Rating: Hard R
Wordcount: 400
Disclaimer: This never happened and I'm not making any money for saying it did.
Notes: I'm basing this on the book "Kitchen Confidential" rather than the tv series, which I've never seen, but I think it can also be applied to the tv series as part of the back-story.
More love for Beta Goddess Carol, saving me from myself time after time.
It had been an amazing night.
The job still sucked, the restaurant was going under and it was only a matter of time before the manager figured out all the scams he was running and fired his sorry ass, but tonight…tonight it had all come together.
He’d worked the sauté station and helped turn out nearly 200 dinners. Gnocchi Genovese. Tuna livornaise. Filet poivre. He had the timing. He had the moves. He was fucking Baryshnikov and John Wayne on steroids.
The alley smelled like piss, sex and rancid food, heavy with the muggy feel of August in New York, even this far past midnight. That line of coke he’d snorted to get through the last hour had his mind breaking the sound barrier. Time to hit the after-hours clubs for a little decompression, but not yet because he’d had a boner the size of the Empire State Building ever since Grill Bitch came into the locker room and pulled off her shirt, practically shoving those chimichangas in his face.
He’d shot up in this alley or ones like hundreds of times, but now he was off dope and the coke was supposed to be better only it wasn’t. His dick was out and his hand was moving, but nothing was happening ’cause he couldn’t concentrate. Never a problem when he was shooting smack.
Fuck. Grill Bitch. On her knees. Sucking him off. Hot mouth taking him deep. Or maybe that new bus boy, Paco. Not that Tony was a faggot, just that the kid had been busting his balls all week and it was definitely time for a little payback. On his knees. Or up against the wall. Legs spread and nothing for lube but stolen lard from the walk-in. Going in hard and fast and maybe the kid liked it or maybe he didn’t but Tony didn’t care ’cause now it was happening. Hands moving as smoothly as they had on the line when he had three pans sizzling and he was the best fucking cook in town, and the whole world could suck his dick, and he was coming hard, panting, shooting jizz like sauce from a squeeze bottle.
Tony squinted up into the night sky where there were no stars and no one to judge him. The world was crumbling around him, but tonight he’d kicked ass and he was going out to celebrate.
Fuckin’ A!
Fandom: Kitchen Confidential (book, so technically RPF)
Character: Anthony Bourdain (mentions of others)
Rating: Hard R
Wordcount: 400
Disclaimer: This never happened and I'm not making any money for saying it did.
Notes: I'm basing this on the book "Kitchen Confidential" rather than the tv series, which I've never seen, but I think it can also be applied to the tv series as part of the back-story.
More love for Beta Goddess Carol, saving me from myself time after time.
It had been an amazing night.
The job still sucked, the restaurant was going under and it was only a matter of time before the manager figured out all the scams he was running and fired his sorry ass, but tonight…tonight it had all come together.
He’d worked the sauté station and helped turn out nearly 200 dinners. Gnocchi Genovese. Tuna livornaise. Filet poivre. He had the timing. He had the moves. He was fucking Baryshnikov and John Wayne on steroids.
The alley smelled like piss, sex and rancid food, heavy with the muggy feel of August in New York, even this far past midnight. That line of coke he’d snorted to get through the last hour had his mind breaking the sound barrier. Time to hit the after-hours clubs for a little decompression, but not yet because he’d had a boner the size of the Empire State Building ever since Grill Bitch came into the locker room and pulled off her shirt, practically shoving those chimichangas in his face.
He’d shot up in this alley or ones like hundreds of times, but now he was off dope and the coke was supposed to be better only it wasn’t. His dick was out and his hand was moving, but nothing was happening ’cause he couldn’t concentrate. Never a problem when he was shooting smack.
Fuck. Grill Bitch. On her knees. Sucking him off. Hot mouth taking him deep. Or maybe that new bus boy, Paco. Not that Tony was a faggot, just that the kid had been busting his balls all week and it was definitely time for a little payback. On his knees. Or up against the wall. Legs spread and nothing for lube but stolen lard from the walk-in. Going in hard and fast and maybe the kid liked it or maybe he didn’t but Tony didn’t care ’cause now it was happening. Hands moving as smoothly as they had on the line when he had three pans sizzling and he was the best fucking cook in town, and the whole world could suck his dick, and he was coming hard, panting, shooting jizz like sauce from a squeeze bottle.
Tony squinted up into the night sky where there were no stars and no one to judge him. The world was crumbling around him, but tonight he’d kicked ass and he was going out to celebrate.
Fuckin’ A!