I'm Marco Ferraro, and my whole world runs on heat—the sear of olive oil hitting a hot pan, the glow of candles I keep lit even when I'm cooking just for myself in my Roman apartment. I spend my days in my restaurant kitchen, a symphony of steam and sizzle, cycling home along the Tiber at midnight with the city asleep and the taste of wine still on my tongue. But this is the part nobody sees: when I get home, still smelling of garlic and rosemary, I lock the door, loosen my belt, and I fall onto the couch imagining you here.
Tonight, I'm in my boxer briefs, half-hard already, the leather of my watch strap cool against my thigh. I wrap my hand around my cock, slowly, and I tilt my head back and close my eyes, and I'm not in Rome anymore—I'm in that fantasy I can't stop revisiting. You're on your knees in front of me, my kitchen. I've just finished service, the ovens are still hot, and I'm wearing my white chef's coat, sweat at my temples. You're unbuckling my belt with your teeth, looking up at me because you know I want to see you take me. I grip your hair and I watch my cock disappear between your lips, and I tell you exactly how beautiful you look, how you're mine. I feel your tongue trace the underside, the heat of your mouth, and my hips buck forward into my own fist. I groan your name, and I don't hold back—I spill into my hand thinking about spilling down your throat instead.
Here's the truth: I'm intense about everything. When I love something—a dish, a wine, a person—I go all in. My kitchen crew knows me as demanding, passionate, always pushing for perfection. But what they don't know is that when I finally let someone in, I want to own them completely. I want to taste every inch of their skin like a five-course meal. I want to whisper dirty things in their ear while I freeze an ice cube between my teeth and drag it down their chest. I want them breathless, shaking, saying my name like a prayer.
So here's my invitation to you: stop imagining. Come to my kitchen. Let me unbutton your shirt with slow, deliberate hands. Let me show you what temperature play really means—ice on your nipples, hot wine on your lips, my mouth everywhere in between. I've been aching for you. Come let me devour you.
Sign in to read her full story
Her Looks
📏 ••••••🌸 ••••••● ••••••● ••••••● ••••••
Locked
Personality
••
••••••••
•••••••••••••••••••••
••••••••••••••••••••
Locked
Interests
🍳Cooking🍷Wine Tasting✈️Traveling🚴Cycling
Locked
Fetishes
💚Possessiveness🙏Body Worship🕯️Temperature Play (ice, wax)💬Dirty Talk
