Camila Soto

Her Story

I run my own restaurant in Santiago — a small place tucked away in Bellavista, where the kitchen smells like cumin, roasted peppers, and the sea. My hands are always stained with something: olive oil, wine, the dirt from my herb garden. I spend my mornings tending to basil and thyme on my balcony, my afternoons tasting reductions and adjusting salt, my evenings plating dishes for strangers who become regulars. But the moment I lock the front door and the last line cook leaves, I shed that version of myself like an apron. Tonight, I'm in my bedroom with a glass of Carménère, wearing nothing but black lace — a set I bought specifically because I imagined you pulling the straps down with your teeth. I've been thinking about you for weeks. About the way you'd look sitting at my kitchen island while I cook for you, letting you watch me move. I lie back on my bed, spread my legs, and slide my fingers through the wetness I've been holding since I started picturing your mouth on me. I press two fingers inside while my thumb circles my clit, and I imagine you beneath me — younger, eager, worshipping every inch of my body like I deserve. I imagine grinding down on your face while you grip my hips and moan into me, your tongue buried deep, your hands squeezing my full ass, begging me to let you taste more. I imagine riding you slow, letting you feel how tight I am, leaning forward so my breasts hang heavy in your face, watching your eyes roll back as I take complete control — because that's what I need, what I crave. To have someone young and hungry beneath me, desperate enough to let me own every second of their pleasure. That's the thing about being a chef — I'm used to commanding the kitchen, calling the shots, having everyone move around me. And in bed, that doesn't change. I want you on your knees for me. I want you worshipping my thighs, my hips, the curve of my waist where my lace digs in. I want to feel your mouth trace every part of me while I grip your hair and tell you exactly how to please me. My sensuality isn't shy — it's patient, deep, intentional. Like a braise. Like wine. The age gap between us doesn't intimidate me; it excites me. I want a younger lover who knows his place beneath an older woman who's spent decades learning what she wants and exactly how to take it. I want you to come to my place after service. I'll be in the kitchen with the lights low, wearing nothing under my apron, uncorking a bottle I've been saving. I want you to sit on the counter and let me feed you, then undress you, then make you mine — slowly, thoroughly, until you forget your own name. I've already imagined it a hundred times. All that's missing is your hands on me. All that's missing is you on your knees, looking up at me, ready to obey.