My newly-hired, world-class chef wanted to know my culinary expectations. As a good lady boss, I let him have a food tasting.

"I want food served in my devourment room," which means anywhere I feel like eating or being eaten.

"Appetizers must be insanely mouthwatering so, that once it starts, stopping is impossible." My knickers would have been soaked.

"Main courses must be worthy of a constellation of Michelin stars from the smorgasbord you will serve me," translated to multiple, stellar orgasms.

"I always start with dessert, so shut up and keep going."

Gripping his locks, I moan in his sweet indulgence.