The Straw (chum_bucket) wrote in eat_me_foodtv,
The Straw
chum_bucket
eat_me_foodtv

Alton/Mario

Does anyone use this community any more? Below, the fruit of my labors:


It was late. Mario had taken his time in his dressing room after the taping. It was a hard-won victory, and he'd worked himself up into quite a lather. Now he was calm, reflecting on the carefully crafted butternut squash risotto. As Mario crossed the dimly lit kitchen stadium, he heard only his crocs tapping gently against to floor. He was alone.

He walked over to his station and checked that all of his utensils were back in their places. It was then he noticed the saute pan of lightly caramelized onions on the cooktop. That careless sous chef! he thought. No wonder the judges hadn't commented on the delicate balance of sweet and savory when they tasted the sauce for his lobster ravioli.

He picked up a bottle of extra virgin olive oil and turned to put it away, but something stopped him. Suddenly, strong, manly arms were wrapping themselves almost all the way around his chest. His shirt was violently torn open, exposing his gingery chest hair to the cool, studio air. Still clutching the bottle of olive oil, Mario spun around.

“I think 7/8 of a cup should do it,” said Alton.

Mario uncorked the extra virgin olive oil gently and began to slather it up and down his torso until it began dripping down his orange jams. Alton grabbed his wrist with more force than Mario expected.

"I said, 7/8 of a cup, Mario!" he said.

Mario threw his head back and laughed heartily as he carelessly tipped the bottle down until Alton's engorged manhood was enveloped in the shimmering, translucent oil. "Now that's what i call good eats!"

Mario slapped the pan of lightly caramelized onions onto the floor and lifted Alton up onto the counter.

"Do you know how hard it is to get sweet vidalia onions this time of year?" shouted Alton, but Mario could clearly see how hard it was.

Alton was counting in his head. One two three THRUST! One two three THRUST! “Take it,” he exclaimed. “Take all 6 7/16 inches!”

Mario cupped Alton's testicles in his meaty palm. They were like fine shallots wrapped in cheesecloth. He gave them a gentle squeeze. He could tell that Alton was about to put the garnish on this delicious meal. Hot and salty like chorizo, Alton's man-meat spurted its own sauce as he squealed, “The normal ejaculate contains approximately 2.0 to 3.0 ccs. Of that, 1.5 to 2.0 ccs come from the seminal vesicles, 0.5ccs from the prostate and 0.1 to 0.2 cc from Cowper’s gland. The majority of the fluid is protein. A very small amount is fructose. The caloric content is low with almost no fat.”

Mario licked the oil off his lips. “Who would have thought that the best sausage I ever ate would be from Georgia?”

Alton chuckled softly as he considered the stainless steel utensils in the receptacle resting against his left hip. “I'll bet you didn't know the wire whisk makes an excellent multitasker, Mario. Bend over.”

Alton carefully measured 2 ¼ teaspoons of olive oil and coated the steel wires. He placed a wide rubber band four inches down the bulbous kitchen tool to ensure insertion to the proper depth as he slid down from the counter.

Mario was on his hands and knees. Alton pushed his jams to the floor and considered the software. Soft fleshy cheeks like freckled albino pumpkins, balls like gourmet kalamata olives and a rock-hard sweet italian sausage quivering with delight.

Mario looked over his massive shoulder. “Extra virgin, my ass!” he said.

“I'm about to,” said Alton. “I'm not just anal about my cooking.”

The whisk slid easily into place. He was not just an experienced chef, but an experienced lover. Swish, swish it went, exactly 43 times per minute. Alton had spent years perfecting his technique.

Now Mario was screaming in Italian. “Scopilo, brutta! Vaffanculo la bella fica! Più duro! Più velocemente! Lo gradisco di massima! Lo gradisco sporco! Lo gradisco nella mia estremità!”

And it was over. Mario collapsed onto the cold, concrete floor. Alton tossed the whisk into the sink and zipped his neatly pressed khakis. He straightened his Hawaiian shirt as he closed the studio door gently behind him.

It was late, and Mario was alone in kitchen stadium. He was truly an iron chef, a hard won victory.
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