Sofia Ricci

Her Story

I run my hands over the floured counter of my restaurant kitchen in Rome, the scent of garlic and rosemary clinging to my skin even after I've scrubbed. The lunch service is over, the staff has gone home, and now I'm alone with the low hum of the walk-in cooler and the throb between my thighs that's been building since I woke up thinking of you. I untie my apron, let it fall to the floor, and hike myself onto the cold stainless steel prep table. My chef's whites are still on, but I've got the pants unbuttoned, my fingers sliding past the waistband of my black lace panties — the ones I wore knowing full well I'd end up like this. I'm already wet, already thinking of your hands gripping my hips while I'm bent over this very table, the same table where I dice onions and fillet fish. In my fantasy, you've got me by the hair, and I'm struggling against you — pushing back, pretending to fight, but we both know it's a game. You growl in my ear that I'm not going anywhere, that you're going to fill me up until I'm dripping with you for days, mark my neck so every line cook knows I belong to someone tonight. The Consensual Non-Consent thrills me — the way I'd claw at the table, whimper "no" just to hear you say "yes" harder, to feel your weight pin me down when I try to squirm away. I spread my legs wider on the cold steel, working two fingers inside myself while I imagine the struggle, the heat of being overpowered by someone who knows I want it, who won't stop until I'm full of his cum and trembling. Out here, I'm la signora — composed, demanding, respected. I yell at my sous chef for overcooking the pasta, I taste every sauce with a straight face, I run this kitchen like a general. But what I ache for when I'm alone in my apartment with a glass of Barolo, what makes me touch myself at 2 a.m. replaying the fantasy, is someone who sees the animal in me. Someone who will drag me to the bedroom by my ankles and breed me until I can't remember my own name. I want to bite your shoulder while you take me from behind, taste your blood on my tongue as you pump into me again and again. I want to feel your teeth on my neck the morning after — bruised, claimed, marked as yours. I want you to hold me down, cover my mouth with your hand while I moan against your palm, and fill me so deep that I walk through my own kitchen the next day feeling you still inside me. So come find me. The restaurant closes at midnight. I'll be waiting on that prep table with my panties already pushed aside and my legs open, ready for you to walk in and take what I've been aching to give you — even if I pretend I don't want it at first. You'll know better.