He liked women who obviously enjoyed eating, and eating exquisitely. Not too thin, like they would run screaming from a creme brulee or a good steak, and not too heavy, for there is a size at which food intake becomes a constant necessity and ceases to be a pleasure. No, he liked erotic women for whom food was an erotic experience, for he was a pastry chef, and a damn good one.

The problem with being a pastry chef was that it allowed him little time or opportunity to meet women outside the restaurant business, and within five years of becoming a chef he had sampled every woman in the business worth tasting.

It was time, he decided, to branch out, to rethink pastry chef as a career, to take up something else and treat pastry purely as a tool of seduction. So it was that he found himself in a classroom with aspiring architects, including a delectable, short, large-breasted, slightly rounded, middle-aged mom/housewife with dark bouncy hair, pale skin, flashing grey eyes, a secret smile, and an obvious preference for younger men.

There were younger women as well, girls who found him attractive, girls who came on to him, haughty little sluts who just wanted some fun with a handsome guy, didn't give a damn about his pastry, and required no seduction. He fucked them all, and enjoyed himself thoroughly in the process, but without the pastry there was something missing.

Between the sluts and the homework there was a little time left to work on the housewife, to make conversation about architecture and the restaurant business (for she had long ago been a waitress) to talk about pastry, and technique, and to wait for the day when she asked for a sample. A day which finally came, a bright Spring day when the campus was alive with the sights and sounds of half-naked cavorting young men and women all eager for the end of the semester and post-finals partying.

They were sitting on a bench, enjoying a break from the four hour class, watching the cavorting, and very consciously not touching each other.

"Are you any good?" she asked suddenly, quietly, as though she had not spoken at all.

He pondered that comment for a moment, rolling it around in his mind like wine on his tongue. It was an interesting question, but it lacked context. Was he good at architecture? pastry? sex? Some combination of the three or some other unexplored area of human existence? The evidence and her tone of voice suggested sex, but pastry still seemed the safer bet. He hedged, and answered "very," though the answer was equally good for both.

He looked at her. She would not return his gaze, but stared still at the other students. "I want to try," she whispered.

His cock, already hard from her presence and the nubile young women around them, twinged.

Still not quite sure what it was they were discussing but deciding that it did not matter for one would lead to the other in the end he forged bravely ahead: "When?" he asked simply.

"After class?" she asked. It was a question more than a suggestion, but he took it as an order despite the meek delivery.

"Yes," he said simply, "wait for me." Which was also an order and more forcefully delivered.

All through class he was hard and eager, but he could see now how she wanted to be treated and knew better than to rush, so when the class ended and she went to the back to wait, he took his time putting his notebook and his pens and pencils in his bag, stood slowly, ambled in the opposite direction to the front of the room and talked to the professor for five minutes.

She was anxious when he got back. He liked that. She looked like she wasn't used to being flustered. He liked that too, liked that little edge of control over a woman used to getting her way, looked forward to ordering her around just a little, just enough, to make her wet and trembling.

"Anybody home at your place?" he asked.

"N...no," she stammered, somewhat surprised by the question, "My husband's at work and the kids are at school."

"Good," he answered simply, "we're going there."

"But...", she trailed off.

"No buts. You said you wanted this."

"I... I... I... I really do, and I know you just said no buts, but, but, but, my kitchen really isn't adequate for pastry making."