Dominated in my own Kitchen

Dear FemdomU Forum,

I never thought my first time being dominated would happen in the very place I’ve built my career: the kitchen. I’m an executive chef, the one in control of the line, barking orders, plating art, making sure every single detail is perfect. I’ve always been the boss behind those swinging doors.

But the night it happened, I learned just how easily all that control could be taken away.

It was after hours, the place silent except for the hum of the refrigerators and the occasional drip from a pan left to dry. I was closing up, sweaty from a long night, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing down the steel counters. That’s when she appeared. The hostess. The one who always had this knowing look in her eye when she passed through the kitchen during service, the one who never quite looked at me like the others did. She wasn’t intimidated by me. She smiled, stepped in, and locked the kitchen door behind her.

“On your knees, Chef.”

The words hit me harder than any heat from the ovens. My instinct was to laugh it off, but my body betrayed me. My knees actually buckled. Before I could process it, I was kneeling on the tile floor, looking up at her. She didn’t hesitate. She walked straight to me, heels clicking, and pressed her hand against the back of my head.

“Open your mouth. Let’s see if you can obey as well as you command.”

I obeyed. My mouth opened wide, and she slipped two fingers inside, letting me taste the faint mix of her perfume and something wicked. She leaned over me, pinning me with her stare while I sucked, drool running down my chin. My cock throbbed in my chef pants, the hardest I think I’ve ever been, and she noticed. She smirked, pulled her fingers free, and smeared my spit across my lips.

Then she used me like a tool in my own kitchen. She pushed me back against the counter, climbed up on the stainless steel, hiked up her dress, and spread her legs. Her voice was sharp, commanding. “Eat.”

Fuck yeah, I obeyed. I buried my face between her thighs. My beard was wet with her in seconds, my tongue working desperately, greedily. She grabbed my hair, held me tight, and ground herself against my mouth until I couldn’t breathe. Every sound she made echoed through the empty kitchen… moans, sighs, that sharp intake of breath when my tongue found just the right spot. I thought I was the one serving, and the truth was she was using me completely, and I loved it.

At some point, she slipped down, spun me around, and bent me over my own counter. My heart was racing, my cock straining against the zipper as she pressed her body against my back. Her hand slid down, cupped my cock through the fabric, squeezing hard enough to make me groan. “Not yet, Chef,” she whispered, her lips brushing my ear. “You don’t get to decide when you’re finished. That’s my job now.”

I swear, in that moment, I gave up more than my body. I gave up control. My kitchen, my rules… none of it mattered anymore. She owned me, right there among the knives and cutting boards, the same counters I spend my days perfecting dishes on. That night, I was the dish. She devoured me.

But she wasn’t finished. Not even close.

“Strip,” she said. Just that one word, flat and sharp, and my chef’s coat suddenly felt like a prison. I fumbled with the buttons, yanking it off with shaking hands. My undershirt followed. She made me fold them neatly and place them on the prep table, her eyes watching every move like she was inspecting a trainee. Then she pointed to my pants.

Dropping them in that cold kitchen felt unreal. My cock sprang free, hard, leaking, the head flushed red from the pressure of holding back. I’d never felt so exposed in my own territory, standing there stark naked under the fluorescent lights where hours earlier I’d been plating duck confit.

She slid off the counter, heels clicking again on the tile, and circled me like a predator. “So this is what the big, bad chef hides under his whites,” she teased, her nails grazing over my chest, my stomach, down to my cock. She gave it one cruel squeeze, then slapped it lightly, watching it jump. I gasped, and she laughed.

“On the floor. Hands behind your back.”

I obeyed. Kneeling on that hard tile, naked and trembling, I felt the hum of the refrigerators vibrating through my skin. She stood over me, towering in her heels, and slipped her foot forward until the tip of her shoe nudged my cock. I twitched helplessly, and she shook her head with mock disappointment.

“Pathetic,” she said. “You beg to be used, don’t you?”

“I… yes,” I whispered, the word tasting like surrender.

That’s when she climbed back onto the stainless counter, spreading herself wide again. But this time, she didn’t let me approach. She sat there, fingers parting her wet lips, eyes locked on me. “Stroke for me. Slowly. But don’t you dare cum without my say.”

I wrapped my hand around myself, trembling, pumping slow and desperate, watching her play with herself inches from the prep station where my knives rested. She moaned, slid her fingers deep, then smeared her juices across her thigh. Every sound she made pulled me closer to the edge.

“Faster,” she commanded, and I obeyed. My hand blurred, hips jerking, precum slicking my palm. My eyes burned trying not to blink, terrified of missing a single moment.

“Stop.”

I froze instantly, every muscle tight, cock throbbing angrily. She grinned, leaned down, and spread herself wider. “Now crawl. Face in, tongue out. Finish what you started.”

I scrambled forward on hands and knees, my face diving back between her thighs. She used me like a toy, grinding against my mouth, yanking my hair, smearing herself across my lips and chin. I licked, sucked, swallowed everything she gave me, groaning into her flesh.

When she finally came, she held me so tight against her I thought I’d suffocate. My mouth filled with her taste, my beard drenched. And when she released me, she looked down, still panting, and snapped her fingers. “Now. Cum for me, Chef. On the floor where you belong.”

I didn’t even touch myself. My cock erupted instantly, spraying across the cold tile, puddling beneath me in the kitchen where I once commanded men and women with a raised voice. I had no idea my dick was capable of cumming on command like that.

Now I was just a kneeling, ruined mess, waiting for her next order.

She hopped off the counter, straightened her dress, and stepped over my cum like it was nothing. Unlocking the kitchen door, she glanced back one last time. “Clean this up, Chef. Every drop. You’ll be ready when I come back.”

I’ve cooked for dignitaries, celebrities, critics—but none of them ever owned me the way she did in my own kitchen that night.

—Chef Jeff