Chopped! The Purple Vixen vs. MishRocks

ThePurpleVixen vs. MishRocks on FCF


I had already decided that Ted Allen was actually Lucius Malfoy with geek glasses. The resemblance was uncanny, and he annoyed me by serving no real purpose on the set. I mean, pick up a fork for Christ’s sake! Critique a plate! Whatever…

The adrenaline cruising through my bloodstream was like nothing I had experienced. Being on television was enervating enough, but the whole competitive thing—cooking my ass off against these other three girls (I reserve the term ‘chef’ for those who truly demonstrate skills with food and fire—and of the four of us—that would be me!)—that just jacked things up to a new level—wait, no, it kicked it up a notch! (Yeah, I’m on the Food Network—I’ll kiss as much ass and zest as many lemons as I need to in order to be the NEXT BIG THING!)

OK, maybe the next little thing. At 5’2 and a little over 100 lbs, I have played my character perfectly—at least I think so. The pert, ever-cheerful, cutesy-pie little darling chef. Yeah, yeah—I know, it’s been done. Rachel Ray at first (until she gained a hundred pounds and over-saturated the media. Plus—have you actually seen what she cooks? Ugh. I think she finally found her niche with her new line of dog food, cuz’ sister, that’s what she’s been cooking all along!) And then there’s Kelsey Nixon—Kelsey’s Essentials. Essentially, Kelsey, you’re a hack with a hawk-nose and Cooking 101 creativity. Oh, how I’ve always wanted to stick her pert little face in a nice wide bowl of tiramisu, and just hold it there, knowing she’ll suck up all that crème and cake like an Oreck on a beach mat.

It seems like every month, there’s some new or special edition of Chopped. This week, it’s Chopped—Kitchen Kittens edition. Yeah, that horn-dog Bobby Flay produced this one, and you KNOW what was on his mind. Four hot little nymphs in shorts and tank-tops cooking against each other for the ultimate grand prize of—their own cooking show. Oh, and $50,000 to make it more interesting, as if having your own show wasn’t interesting enough.

So, we’re gathered in the kitchen, the rear kitchen, that is, waiting for the judges to decide who gets chopped in Round 2, the Main Course. Cameras on us, I try of course to be pleasant and cheerful to my competitors, but internally, I fucking loathe them. I was SO psyched after Round 1 when that hollow-headed Natalia got her tight little ass booted off after the Appetizers. Really Nat? A taco pie with a topping of crushed and baked Big Red gum? Ick. I don’t know, she seemed to have this fixation with pie, even in the practice rounds, and as I watched her cook, I fantasized, just for a second, about smearing that hot body of hers with pie and then…..ok, never mind.

Anyway, Nat got chopped, and now, after 30 minutes of cooking entrees using the ingredients in our baskets—buffalo filets, Smuckers Uncrustables, hazelnuts, and a can of Coors Light, we await the results. Ewa, that voluptuous Polish cook, presented some god-awful buffalo ravioli with hazelnut sauce. But my real rival, the one I worried about, and the one who I loathed the most, was Meg. All that purple. Those witty quips, the catty put-downs, the flirting with the judges and Lucius. I couldn’t swipe back—trying to maintain my persona as the cute, cheerful, innocent darling, but with each sarcastic witticism that made Andrew Zimmern belly-laugh and Giada DeLaurentis titter, I fucking seethe inside, fueled by some pretty creative cooking on her part and good results so far.

And she cheats!! Well, in my opinion she does. Taking up all the shelves in the blast freezer during Round 1—fuck her! And Round 2, grabbing the mandolin when she KNEW I needed it, just to slow me down. Intentional sabotage, I tell you! I glare at her, trying not to cut my eyes, secretly wishing that my mere thoughts, beamed right at her head, would cause her skull to explode. Another witty quip, and Ewa chuckles. I’m about to respond, when Lucius calls in, “Girls, the chefs are ready for you.” Deep breaths all around, and the three of us march out to find out who will go home, and who will move on to Round 3—desserts.

Standing in front of the chef-judges, watching Lucius’ untanned hand grip the silver dome covering the soon-to-be-chopped plate, I am unsurprised as he lifts it with a flourish, and reveals the buffalo ravioli. I see Ewa gulp, holding back tears, and bravely thank the panel. Without looking, I simply know Meg is smirking, and as I fake-hug Ewa I shoot a few dozen daggers at her over Ewa’s shoulder as our eyes lock.


I keep the smirk painted on my face as dear Teddy tells the Polack to pack up her oversized tits and be off, and frankly I’m just glad that someone won’t be using an entire fucking tin of paprika every round now. My purple hair is up in a high bun, held through with steel chopsticks. I have a gimmick where I can yank those out, swipe them with an alcohol pad from my apron and nab a morsel of almost anything I’m cooking with a little Benihana flick, out of the pan and up into my mouth, then swipe them dry and back into the bun. The producers love that trick. I don’t so much love this “Kitten” schtick they’ve got us doing.

Wedging my 5’7 and 135ish pounds into a ribbed black tank with my gastropub’s pigtailed skull and crossbones on the front, and a pair of black denim cut-offs that just barely qualify as shorts and not panties. But what the fuck, a show on the Network and enough scratch to buy the shithole next door to my gastropub and stop the non-stop live reggae they play? That’s the fucking dream right there. I look across at my competition, if you can call her that, with my hazel eyes gleaming malefically. I went heavy with the Goth make-up. It plays well on the short ads, and people have an easy time remembering and talking about the mean purple-haired Goth girl who made the awesome shit.

I’m just glad I got away with making those fucking dreadful Smuckers hand pies and the pisswater beer into a passable sauce with the help of a fuckton of butter and passion fruit, which basically cover up every taste ever between them. And now we’re at the dessert round. I rake you with my eyes again as if I could haul you into the oven with just a look and leave you to bake until your skin got crispy. Fucking smug little pretty girl. Don’t think I didn’t see the shit you were pulling through the last two rounds, I think at you furiously, betraying nothing but a smirk and a gleam in my eyes. Don’t think I didn’t see you “accidentally” taking my bourbon or taking ALL the fucking lemons and zesting them at your fucking station!

I can see the venom in your eyes, oh yes. I snap my eyes back forward as Jeff Mauro, the Sandwich King, who is CLEARLY enjoying this way too much and is acting as the public face for Bobby Flay, being the horndog that Bobby can’t be on camera, leans over and gives us a Chicago leer. “I can’t WAIT to see what you ladies manage on this next round!” And his tone is so fucking oily you could sauté chicken in it. But I give him a half-grin and a lewd wink and disgust myself even as I twitch my hip with my hand on it like Mae fucking West. “Oh, your Majesty, ya know we’re not gonna leave ya disappointed!” I cut my eyes at you obnoxiously obviously. “One of us, anyway.”

And I move back as Ted tells us to open our baskets, stopping myself from turning and glaring at you because the producers kept yelling at me about that during break.

The dessert’s gotta have maple rock sugar, peach rice wine, a key lime and egg substitute in it. Well, fuck.


I try and choke the bile back down my throat as you and Jeff go at it—“Oh, we’re not gonna’ leave you disappointed” in your sing-songy punk flirt, and for the camera, I just grin, shrug my shoulders, make my eyes REALLY big for a sec, and bob my head a bit—my sparkly brown eyes and Nutella brown ponytail making me look like the cutest little cutesy-pie ever to grace this set—this network—no, fuck…this planet.  Pert and perky = Mish!!  And such a contrast to the Purple Sith Lord to my left.  Each round, I have had to fight back a dry heave as those chopsticks slide out of that ‘do and into the food.  yeah, yeah, I know about the wipes, but still….ick.  Lucius gives the word, and we open our baskets

Hmmmm, actually, this isn’t too bad—most at least have some semblance to dessert-type foods, so I’m thinking—no prob.  This round is MINE.  I adjust the powder-blue tank top that sticks to me pretty snugly, the sweat and some spilled Coors making my 32B’s a little more prominent, and giving the camera guys something to focus on.  My denim cutoffs stop just shy of ass-cheek territory, and each round, I make sure that some non-food item accidentally falls to the floor so I can oh-so-cutely pick it up.  Glancing over at you, and then at Lucius, our attention is directed to the clock—re-set for 30 minutes.  A deep breath, dozens of recipes flying through my head, trying to incorporate all of these items…. yes, I think I got it, all I need is….. 

“Go!” Lucius shouts, and we’re off.


Okay, okay, I think, my mind racing as my eyes dart over the laid-out ingredients. This is all right. I can even play with this a little. A key lime pie, yep. The rice wine right in there, proportional with the lime, giving it a mellow burn to the sour bite. Whiz the maple rocks in the grinder, get it fine as sugar, and use it as fucking sugar. Hell, I can use the egg substitute in the recipe, right there and in color. I need graham crackers, butter, condensed milk, whipping cream, maybe some fresh peaches for accents on the pie. Oh, and maybe a hint of chartreuse from the liquor closet for color. Give it a really herbal bite. Peach juice in the whipped cream. Yeah. Fuck yeah.

We move quickly, and you – well, I don’t fucking care where you’re going right this minute, because where you’re NOT going is where I’M going. I’m not gonna re-plan around my shit being stolen again, so I fall back a pace as we race – you’re a fast one, and even though I had the inside station you’re right on me- and then I make as if I forgot something, as If I need to head back to my station – and I turn and try to as subtly as possible hip-check you to try to send that smaller form bouncing away towards the veggies, intending a “WHOOPS!” of pure innocence so I can race to the pantry for the good pie stuff. AND take all the fucking graham crackers, just in case you had my thought.


A tart, filled with key lime custard, and drizzled with a glaze made with the melted maple rock and a splash of rice wine—food of the fucking gods!  As soon as the “g” sound spills out of Lucius’ luscious lips (no, they’re not luscious, but I do like alliterations), we both move in a blur—the custard is easy enough, but I need to make the shell from scratch, and I know the Chopped pantry will have what I need.  Making a bee-line from my station, I zoom towards the pantry shelves, you at my side.  wtf?  Well, I mean, she could be needing virtually anything from there, so I really…Your hip collides with my side, and I drift to the right, losing my bee-line, fuming as I hear the ‘whoops” smugly ooze from your maw.

“Oh bitch, it’s on…” I mutter, making sure my lips stay closed so no viewer lip-reads me.  I see you reach the pantry first of course, cheating whore, and start scooping up your items.  I veer over to the veggies, and stop myself from planting my chest in the produce by putting out one hand, which grips an heirloom tomato.  Do I need it?  Well, in a manner of speaking. Pushing off from the veggie shelf, I half-run to the pantry, squeezing that heirloom like a stress ball, keeping the package of generic Oreos (which I intend to crush for the tart shell) in my sights.  Slowing as I approach, my right hand filled now with heirloom goo, I place my hand on your shoulder as you finish your collecting, making sure I smear as much as I can on to your skin.  

“Oh my God, I’m SO sorry!” my cutesy-pie voice chirps, “I didn’t realize it was so fragile!”  Flicking the gooey remains onto the floor, I scoop up my faux-Oreos, some butter and vanilla,  and turn, ready to head back to my station.


I’m grinning to myself, humming “My Fist/Your Face” by pintSize as I grab up my ingredients, just about to turn and head for produce to get my peaches when I feel your slimy hand on my shoulder, and it takes me a moment that’s MORE than your natural slime. You smear fucking tomato on my tattooed creamy shoulder, and for a moment I shudder and snarl into the depths of the pantry shelves as you apologize like fucking saccharine spills from your lips

I hiss. “Oh, of course – and as you scamper off with fucking Hydrox or some shit, I cut my eyes at a nearby camera and give it a conspiratorial smirk as I slew the tomato off my shoulder and fling it aside. “Line cooks never know what to do with their hands,” I purr, mocking you the meanest way I know how as I snatch up two beautiful peaches and flip a bottle of chartreuse in my hand like Tom Cruise in Cocktail, slithering back to my station. I let it slide for now, knowing we’ve both pushed our luck already. Bobby is back on set, headset on, watching us from behind the cameras with his arms folded even as Jeff watches like a cartoon wolf in a Tex Avery cartoon and Andrew and Giada peer at us with increasing interest

Gotta hold back. Gotta make this proper. Gotta –

  • I stop and grab a big canister of Morton’s –
  • gotta be GOOD TV personalities! I move back to my station where you’ve already set up tidily and are working away like a good lil’ beaver, and I see those sandwich cookies are already crunched up in a bowl as I set my shit down, professionally set out a mixing bowl, professionally pour in the egg and toss the maple rocks into the mini-processor, and professionally pour a tablespoon of Morton’s finest table salt, drawing curious looks from the three judges and Ted, as even Jeff Mauro knows that much salt doesn’t go in a pie

And then I theatrically look at the spoon and rollllll my eyes. “Oh, WAY too much!” I scold myself, and flip the salt over my shoulder as if banishing the devil – but actually trying to scatter it all over your station, on you, and ideally all up in your stupid fucking cookies.


All is going swimmingly so far—I seem to have recovered nicely from your body-check, and I managed to make Andrew guffaw with your tomato body-wash. Set up now at my station, I need to focus, crushing the cookies in the mini and then drizzling in some melted butter. The eggs are on the stove warming for the custard, and things seem to be falling in place. “Ooops!” I chirp as my teaspoon measuring set mysteriously falls to the floor. I not so quickly turn my back to the camera and bend over to pick it up, grinning as I hear Camera #3 whirring to get a close-up. Rinsing the spoons off, I swiftly remove the cookie-butter mixture from the mini and pour it in a bowl, ready to start molding the shells.

My attention is diverted for a moment as I hear you dramatically lament, “Oh, WAY too much!” having no idea what you are babbling about, until I, and my station, are assaulted, literally, by shower of—I wet the tip of my finger and taste—salt. SALT! FUCK! I peer into my bowl, and see the white coating on my cookies, already dissolving into the melted butter. How the fuck can I be pert about THIS?! “Oh no!” Giada and Andrew groan, while Jeff just cackles. Pert takes a dive as I scowl, cutting my eyes at you, but I can’t waste time tantruming—I’ve got a round to win and skank to beat. Trashing the salty mess, I race back to the pantry and grab another bag of cookies, quickly smashing them and repeating the process.

Placing the bowl on the far side of the counter, making sure I draw attention to the cover I place on it, drawing laughs from the judges as I shrug and wink, I pull the blender closer and slowly pour some of the warmed egg mixture in to froth it up. Peering at the buttons at the bottom of the device, I start to mutter, “How the heck…?” as I try to read the setting on each button. To get a better view, I tilt the blender away from me, and then, finding the speed I need, my index finger pushes, and an explosion of warm egg and vanilla is propelled from the angled, uncovered blender, raining pre-cooked custard on you and your swill.


I’m busily working away after my innocent mistake, betrayed by nothing more than a slightly toxic smirk on my soft lips. The graham crackers whizzed up right after the maple sugar is processed into a proper brown sugar, and mixed with melted butter, pressed into the pie pan – on the side AWAY from you – along with a little of the processed rock sugar for some caramel crunch. That goes in the oven and I get to work on the key lime filling, starting to juice the lime – I’ve got everything fucking open, pans working, knives, stirring, a fucking dervish with tattoos and piercings.

Confidently ignoring the little brat who I figured has learned her lesson even if it did make her a little salty, hearing you fumble with kitchen equipment like the bus-girl you are as you try to make some sort of Play-Doh cookie cake for the judges to choke down. I juice the limes by hand since the camera digs that move, my tendons standing and knuckles standing out as I SQUEEZE the juice and catch the seeds and pulp in my fingers. Everything is starting to look


I’m suddenly fucking rained on with some dreadful improperly balanced mix of not-egg and too much vanilla and badly tempered sugar, wincing as it splatters me on the cheek and shoulder – same fucking shoulder, making a little tomato bruschetta custard – and my tank top and all over my fucking workstation. And my hands go to my station and push down there as I take deep breaths. Andrew starts to get up, Giada saying – “Oh, can we get her a towel or something?” – and I hold up one hand. “It’s fine. It’s fine!” I say, my voice as sweetly toxic as I can make it as I snatch a hand towel from my apron and clean my face off, turning to glare at you.

“She can’t even make a fucking two-minute egg in less than an hour, so it’s no fucking surprise she can’t use a blender.” There’s a red light that flashes and a loud BEEP from the editing bay as the catch that, Bobby throwing his hands out in the NONE OF THAT gesture as Andrew hides a grin, Giada looks away with a slight smirk, and Jeff Mauro horse laughs.

And then, with calm patience, I clean off as much of the egg as possible from my station, spooning some out of my cream base.

And with a Zen look, I lean under my station to where the standard cooking aides and seasonings are, and stand back up with a plastic squeeze bottle of EVOO that’s under every station – and without looking at the camera, the frantically waving Bobby, or the approaching Ted, I calmly and with Zen grace squeeze the fucking bottle to try to splatter your face and tits with olive oil.


The inside of my lower lip HAS to be bleeding right now, as I bite down on it, trying not to laugh as you stand there, like in a bad sit-com, with viscous egg mixture dripping down from your hair onto your station and spattered all over your arms and tank-top. The judges try stifling their laughs as well as they search for a towel, but you act like the hero, using your own, swearing like a merchant marine. The buzzing to edit you out is almost constant for about 10 seconds, and I wait until it stops before, in my cutesy-pie-est voice and grin, I offer, “Wow, Meg, you really have egg on your face now!” And that does it—the three judges explode in laughter, as does the crew, and I glance over at Bobby, who, just buries his face in his hands.

From my periphery, i watch as you clean up as best you can, and I continue with my tarts, taking the remainder of my un-flung egg mixture and tempering it, preparing it for chilling. Closing the fridge door, I turn back to my station, and—fuck! A stream of oil hits my lips and then oozes down to my chest, puddling at my feet. “COMMERCIAL” Bobby screams, and, commercial or not, I’ve had it! Reaching out, I grab the slippery bottle and try to pull it from your claws. “What the fuck! THAT was a deliberate attack!” Curling my hand into a fist, I have to look up just a bit, the height difference now a factor—or at least now I’m noticing it. My jaw clenched, I try to look all mtc

big and bad, but I can’t, seeing more raw egg drip from your hair on to your nose. I just start to laugh, while Andrew slips and slides on the set as he tries to make his way to us. “Girls, girls! Come on!!” he pleads, trying to assuage me.

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You make your way to me with oil all over your big mouth and tiny tits, nicely outlined in your clinging tank top at least. Since you’re a shitty chef, maybe you’ll make a decent oil wrestler someday. You grab at the bottle, and I hold it tight for a moment – and then play my favorite card, my eyes going wide and innocent. My big hazel eyes can look surprisingly soft behind my heavy riot grrl eyeliner, and can sometimes make people feel like they’re seeing the “real” me, the “vulnerable” me. I bite my lip and draw back a sliding step, hands still on the EVOO bottle but lowering it a little.

“I’m … I’m sorry, Michelle,” I say, with none of the swagger in my voice, a surprising softness there instead. “That was … that was just cheap and bitchy. I was just .. it’s so frustrating, and there’s so much pressure …” and I squeeze my eyes shut, turning away to make sure you and Andrew can’t see the tears that are probably maybe shimmering there. And man oh MAN do I hope you’re buying this because I feel like a fucking idiot, my head downcast.

“I just … all I want … is to …”

And I sniffle a little, hoping your grip on the bottle has relaxed in the face of my onslaught of sudden feelings behind my tough sarcastic exterior.

“… watch you drool more oil onto your tits.”

And I SQUEEZE the bottle again, aiming the nozzle up.

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Gripping the bottle, but unable to wrest it away from you, I see your eyes go wide as my laughing subsides. Andrew kind of slides right by us, and then like a cartoon character running on ice, tries to turn and get back to our stations. I squint suspiciously as you launch into an apology, your face softening, backing off just a bit. And then, turning away from us, are you…no fucking way—is the Purple Sith Lord actually….crying?? I feel Andrew’s hand on my shoulder, and I know its message—forgive her and let’s move on… As you sniffle, I relax my grip, my hands dropping, feeling a bit like a douche for escalating things with the blender. I look over at Andrew, and then at Bobby, who has brought us back from commercial, and told the cameras to focus on this heart-warming scene. I hear something slide from you lips about drooling oil and tits, and as I turn back to you to clarify—FUCK! Another stream of olive oil, right in my face! My hands dart out and grab the bottle, and as if Kylo and Han are battling for control of the saber, we vie for the EVOO, the stream continuing to soak me, my tank top clinging snugly now and, well, glistening. Trying to bend your wrists to aim the opening of the bottle at you, I try to dig my heels in, but the floor is one oil slick now—Andrew sliding back to the safety of his judge’s chair, and a quick glance over there reveals Giada simply staring, slack-jawed, at us, and Jeff with his hands interestingly under the judge’s table, a salacious grin from ear to ear.

Making one final effort to jerk the bottle free, I pull it, and you, toward me, and with no friction below, we both slide towards my station, my back hitting the counter, and that’s all she wrote—slipping and falling down to the floor, your grip on the bottle unrelenting, you join me, first landing on me and then rolling to the side, banging into the bottom of my station.

Looking up, I see it coming, but I can’t move—the bowl of crushed Oreos and butter topples over the side, lid falling to the floor, coating our oil-covered bodies with fine chocolate crumbs. The Assistant Director looks to Bobby—Cut? Commercial?

“Keep rolling!” he orders, “We’ll edit later (maybe).”

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I get into what I wish I could say is my first squirt-bottle-of-EVOO fight, but this is definitely the first one I’ve had on national television. My ruse worked perfectly on your dumb and cute lil’ ass, making you think I was one of those bitches who feels feelings aside from greed, lust, gluttony, pride and three other cool feelings. I spatter you with oil, admiring how it drips over you and makes that blue top almost translucent – too bad you don’t have more tit to show off – but then you tilt it back the other way and I get a hit of EVOO, and fuck me, this tastes like a sunflower oil blend, those cheap fucking BASTARDS.

I stagger and snarl, spluttering as oil traces over my creamy cleavage and inked skin and traces my ribbed tank like paint on my skin, outlining the barbells in my nipples, and my classy battered old purple Chuck Taylors skid on the oil – Chucks are okay on wet surfaces, but on oil any shoes are basically roller-skates – and we CRASH into your station, jostling whatever awful muck you were splatting together. I don’t have time to appreciate the way you crash your back into the counter as I’m busy flopping on you, briefly intensely aware of how fit your smaller body is before I grunt and flop off you, crashing against the essentials shelf and hissing as it bites into me, sprawled next to you.

About to offer some pithy observation on exactly how much I hate you, i don’t get a chance as we’re suddenly cookie-dusted.

“Pfffffffft.” I spit a fountain of lardy cookie crumbs, and roll over and away from you, slithering on the oil, moving for the grip mats near the stoves where I can get a better footing – or at least a better kneeling, rising to my knees, my hands smearing oily cookies from my eyes so I can fucking glare at you properly.

Intently aware of the cameras circling us as I snarl at you with uncontained venom. “FUCKING PROCESSED COOKIES? YOU GOD-DAMN APPLEBEES LINE COOK SELL-OUT!”
What can I say? I get mean when I’m angry.

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As the hail of cookie crumbs subsides, you start to roll away from me, but I’ll have none of that, thank you. I reach out after you, grabbing the back of your top, trying to jerk your body back over to me. I manage one good pull, feeling some stitching pop, but the oil on my hand and all over your top makes it impossible to maintain my grip, and you manage to roll over to the stoves, getting a little traction on the rubber grip mats. Rising to your knees, you let loose with a processed cookie tirade as I try, unsuccessfully at first, to scramble to my hands and knees as well. reaching up, I grab the handle of one of the drawers on my my station, and try to haul myself to my feet.

“I don’t recall seeing you harvesting graham flour for that crust, you Grimace wannabe.” The cameras close ranks, six in a circle around us. The operator closest to me gives a wink, and in a stage whisper, advises, “Kick her candy-covered ass, cutey!” “Cookies, actually…” I correct, and I already know, with or without his sage counsel, that’s now my goal. Having the high ground, although tenuously slippery, I push off from the counter, skating/sliding toward you, that purple mane my target, hoping I can get to you and sink my oily fingers into it before you get to your feet.

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Damn it, I was kind of hoping you were too stupid to notice the graham crackers thing. I’m pretty sure they’re even by Nabisco, same as your sandwich cookies, just with the packages helpfully re-labelled by the Food Network’s production team to disguise all trademarked content. “HIGH FRUCTOSE CORN SYRUP HARRIDAN!” There. That’ll teach you. I work my tattooed folded legs on the rubber mats, reaching for a counter to try to get myself upright, really wishing I was wearing proper chef’s whites instead of this truck stop waitress outfit Flay had us tucked into, but if wishes were fishes, everyone would eat ahi. The cameras gather around us like wolves, impassive glass eyes watching, and I flick my hazel eyes around –

For a moment I wonder if this is a good idea. Cheating and cursing are one thing – those suit my media friendly riot grrl tattooed rebel image – but being seen squirting oil all over some little brat? That seems like it could go another direction entirely, and I don’t want skeezy guys bringing their girlfriends to my PDX Gastropub and demanding I squirt oil on them. Maybe I can flag down Flay, call this idiocy off. Maybe you can see r- WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SKIDDING TOWARDS ME YOU FUCKING LUN-

“AAAAAAGH!” I yowl as you LANCE your oily hands into my bunned-up purple hair, cranking my head painfully and sending eye-watering pain lacing over my scalp like an agony doily, which is oddly the name of the house punk band at PDX Gastropub —

Tendons stand out on my neck as I respond instinctively, the same way I respond if a customer pinches my ass or someone grabs at my backpack in the streets. I throw a fucking punch, balling up my fists tight enough that the knuckles stand out white on my inked hands and launching them in a hooking combo aimed low on your belly, trying to pound you the fuck off me. The thoughts of anyone seeing reason went right out with my unraveling bun. Fuck that. I’m just going to have to fucking tenderize you.


As I slither across the kitchen-set, the camera crew boundary sways and morphs, amoeba-like, maintaining some type of ever-shifting perimeter. But my tunnel-vision kicks in, and they fade into my peripheral vision, my focus clearly becoming that hair. Lacing my fingers partly into that tight bun, partly on the side of your head, I try to jerk you up from hands and knees to just knees, and—shit—I surprise myself at how easy it is, because—–oh crap—because you’re helping me—jolting up as I yank you, fist curled, and you launch straight at my tummy. As your knuckles tear into my abs, my grip loosens, but not fully, and I start to double over—a nice bit of wind having been driven from my lungs.

—but not fully. Pulling my left hand from your hair, my right still gripping the decaying bun loosely, it drops to run/protect my stomach from another attack, and with my right, I try to pull your head a little closer and a little lower. “This purple shit better wash off my knee, slut!” I hiss as I try and bring my knee cap up and formally introduce it to the side of your skull, tufts of olive-oiled Oreo crumbs slaking off my shin and thigh as I thrust my knee at you.

Writer 2:

I pound a couple of unprotected fists into your belly, but you’re apparently a little tougher than you look – I mean, you’d have to be, or a strong breeze would’ve tossed you across the street and crippled you on the way to the studio. I drive into your abs, but you don’t by any means let go of my hair, and aside from a little jiggling in your modest chest I don’t think I left a lasting impression. Fortunately, you’re full of social graces and try to keep the party moving, offering to let me meet your good friend Ms. Knee, who seems very direct considering how much time you probably spend on her out behind the kitchens

Hissing through my teeth as my eyes water from the grip on my hair, my bun unravelling and sliding down my shoulders as my long silky lovely purple hair unfurls, I fortunately get a warning from you as you’re attacking, which is super helpful since I can bring my hands up, and let your knee crash into them, and then THEY crash into the side of my head, and while that doesn’t feel GREAT it’s always nice to have an intermediary when meeting new people, and they absorb enough of the shot that even though my head is rocked on its moorings and my own fingers scrunch into the side of my head, driven by your knee, I’m not too dazed

Which is good, because if you keep fucking with my hair I’m gonna’ fucking scream, so I try a different approach and grab for the hemline of your little denim shorts, digging my fingers in brutally tight and YANKING down as I try to HAUL myself up off my knees, aiming to accomplish the dual purpose of trying to yank your stupid shorts down over your skinny ass and chicken legs, and ideally driving the top of my purple head up into your chin or maybe chest or nose or whatever is above me.



The knee hits—kind of—you read the move, and cushion the blow by jamming your greasy fingers between knee and skull. Still, the impact is bold, and your head rocks to the side, almost toppling you over—but not quite. Your bun having fully dissolved into purple strands of—grease—-I release it fully, intending to take a step back and regroup, but you pursue.

At first thinking Bobby was looking to get a little dessert of his own, I feel fingers curling over the hem of my cut-offs, sliding against my smooth thighs and then gripping the shorts. the camera guys seem to be moments ahead in time, because I hear this synchronized whirrrrring as the lenses all suddenly burst forward, like six excited guys watching a catfight—ok, exactly like six excited guys watching a catfight, and it’s only then that, duh—it hits me.

My hands reach down to grab your wrists, and lock on—tenuously—that damned oil!! At just the moment that you YANK on my shorts, jerking them down, helped no doubt by the EVOO still dripping down my body, and manage to pull them over my hips to about mid-thigh. “Awesome! Totally awesome!” screeches Jeff, sounding more like Jeff Spicoli than himself.

So focused on trying to prevent the partial stripping, I’m blind-sided as you rocket up, the top of your skull ramming into my sternum, knocking me up for a sec, and with my thighs kind of bound and the floor covered in oil, I am gravity-obligated, falling unceremoniously backwards onto my thong-covered tight little ass. “I could take you both!” growls Giada, causing Andrew to spew out a mouthful of my custard that he had swiped his finger through on his way back to the judge’s table. Mtc

On my back and ass, sliding on the floor like some spastic upside-down turtle, I do the most obvious, and quickest thing I can: Jerking my legs in, bringing knees to chest, I coil and then SPRING—firing my feet out like pistons, hoping to slam into one or both of those knobby knees of yours and bring you down to share my little piece of kitchen gutter.


I manage to haul your shorts down your legs, and NATURALLY, you’re wearing a fucking thong. I’m surprised you bothered. Seems like it’d be faster to just tattoo ENTER HERE front and back. I grin a little as you topple backwards onto your ass, skidding across the oily floor off the little kitchen mats. I hear Giada and shoot my eyes up at her.

“Bitch, I will knock that fivehead in if y-AAARRGH FUCK!” I REALLY shouldn’t let famous Italian cooks distract me while I’m fighting underdressed little hellcats on the set of famous reality competitions. I don’t know how that life lesson will apply beyond today, but it’s one I certainly won’t forget.

And I’ll probably remember it with a limp as your bony feet in whatever shoes you’re wearing – I don’t get a chance to look and see, but I’m sure they’re not as cool as my custom Chucks – drive into my left knee, plowing my leg out from under me! My face twists up in pain as I topple sideways, hitting the oily floor with a jiggly thump and clutching at my knee, backpedaling with a snarl as I shove my good foot against the floor with an oily squeak to try to get some space between us so I can knead my fingers into my knee, because I’m pretty sure I’m Mr. Miyagi and this will fix it.

“You sniping little cxnt!” I hiss. “YOUR SAUCE BROKE LIKE CHEAP CHINA IN THE FIRST ROUND!” So mean.


I allow myself a little smirk as you fire a salvo over at Giada—after all, the enemy of my enemy, well, fuck, you’re still my enemy, but it was amusing nonetheless. My pink checkerboard Vans SLAM into your left knee, and down she goes, crumbling to the mat in a jiggling heap. As you clutch your knee and jut out your right foot to try and pedal backwards, away from my obvious Terminator-like, fear-inspiring presence, catty comments about my culinary craftsmanship cutting me to the quick, I try not to let you leave, lunging forward, wrapping my fingers around your Chuck, trying to stop your backward progress.

Straining to keep you in place, I give your foot a sharp TWIST to the left, and then keep it there, pressing it down, pointing it away from your body, trying to squirm my way closer to you, hampered a bit—no, a lot, by these FUCKING SHORTS wedged tight around my thighs. “Bitch!” I hiss to no one in particular, and give one last sharp twist to your foot before I release the Chuck.

Figuring, hoping, that your left knee is fucked up, and now your right ankle is a bit sore, I flop to my back quickly, trying to pull my shorts back up—-uuuuuungh—-the crushed cookies all over my thighs and hips bunch up, and make it all but impossible. Fine—give the people what they want—I go the other way, easily pushing them down my legs and kicking them off, and then, wedging my toes into the vans, kick them off as well, thonged and barefooted and ready to kick some purple ass. Stretching my arms up, I grab the edge of the counter and haul myself to my feet, noting that the cameras—“Hey, douchebags—I’m up here!” are still focused on my thong.


I start to backpedal to give myself time to ease the bite of bruised hurt in my knee, but you come right after me like a little pitbull, and grab a hold of my shoe like an untrained bitch puppy. “OI! HANDS OFF THE FUCKING MERCHANDISE!” You TWIST at my foot and I hiss sharply, moving with it as much as possible, and TWIST my foot back – and fortunately the oil on my foot and the relatively poorly secured nature of old vintage-looking canvas sneakers means that instead of sustaining an ankle lock, you help wrench my sneaker off as I twist my foot and KICK out with it, letting you fall to your back. You spend some time stripping your shorts off.

Which I’m sure is just your natural reaction to ANY situation as I toss my half-wrenched shoe off my slightly aching foot and go ahead and remove the other as well, jerking the oily laces and kicking the damn thing off. My tattooed feet wriggle in the studio lights with a light gloss of oil as I get my hands on a countertop and haul my bigger and taller form up, favoring my left knee a little and growling at the little bite in my right ankle but at least not crippled entirely by your attack.

Shucking cookie crumbs off my skin with both hands as I keep the high ground – literally, since I’m a regular person and you’re a Smurf in a thong – and keep the prep counter at my back a moment as I glare across at you, giving the camera boys a nice shot of my glossy cleavage in my clinging black tank top but no thong to ogle, awww.


Hoping to have snapped whatever tendons or cables or ligaments or whatever the hell attaches ankle to leg, instead I manage to loosen your damned Chuck, which you kick off and then knock me back—your bare foot pushing into my abs. As I free myself of shorts and shoes and get to two feet, I see you do the same, albeit a bit more slowly. “Geriatric grape…” I mutter, eyeing you lean against the counter, your chest glimmering under the hot studio lights, one of the cameramen with obviously ailing eyesight deciding to move from me to a pan of your chest.

I know I’ve hurt you—your damaged knee and slight limp a testament to that. You’ve hurt me as well, but I can hide a throbbing chest with more stealth, so I try to project as unaffected by your attacks and ready to rumble. You can’t move backwards anymore, stopped by the counter, so I start to move in on you—slowly, cautiously…I can’t afford a mistake now… The amoeba morphs as I move, the crew growing quieter, now and then an excited “This is soooo hot!” oozing from the judge’s table.

Quickly glancing at the countertop, I spy the familiar red and green bottle—I use it rarely for the type of cooking I do, but right now, it’s number one on my shopping list. Fondling the bottle of Sriracha sauce, thumb covering the top, giving it a good shake as I approach slowly, I say nothing, just a cocky little smirk and a playful lick of my lips.

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I glower at you as you come at me, moving with an obvious ill intent now. You went after my fucking legs like a poodle in heat, and while I’m not crippled by any means, it certainly doesn’t feel good. I flex my legs – years and years of yoga toning have made me able to deal with a lot of joint pain as well as letting me fold up like a well-cooked noodle when I need to get behind a stove or wriggle under a counter for a rarely used pan, and that helps. I flex my legs and go through my prana breathing as you close in on me, and my shadowed eyes narrow as you snatch up a bottle of Sriracha and smile unpleasantly.

I know from firsthand experience that a shot of fucking Thai pepper sauce in the wrong place will end with a night full of towel compresses soaked in cold milk and tears. I lost a perfectly good girlfriend who wanted to get naughty in the kitchen after I’d been making Thai shrimp poppers, and she didn’t give me time to wash up before she started snuggling. I’ll never forget those screams. So I’m not ABOUT to fuck around with some cold-eyed bitch in a thong with a head full of bad thoughts and a hand full of hot sauce.

I go straight back to my time in the reform school cafeteria, and just start snatching shit up we were cooking with to throw. Handful of flour. Wooden spoon. Spatula. Dirty hand towel. I whip a little saucepan with custard residue in it low and inside, seeing if I can’t tag your arm and break your grip on the incapacitant flavoring, tossing everything I can at you in a mad flurry – and if (and ONLY if) that Sriracha goes bouncing across the floor WELL out of reach and you haven’t grabbed up a steak knife or something do I dig my bare feet into the floor and come after you, trying to get in close at a slight limping rush and aiming for nothing more complicated than another shot in the stomach, since I wanna see if I can make those abs crumple.

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Some ominous music and a studio audience gasping would be perfect right about now, but all I hear is Bobby muttering ‘shit, shit shit….’ I’m thinking— a quick little squirt (yes, those words have been applied to me—shut up!!) in the face—between the legs?, hehehe… a little incapacitated, and then—WHAM! You are mine, you ditzy dimetap dame. A little shake of the bottle, a little shake of my hips—come on boys, extend your lenses nice and looooong……

Your eyes widen—you know what’s coming— and as I take another sultry step, your hands lash out, and—FUCK! It’s a pantry assault—dish towels, spatulas, a rasp zester—all come flying at me! “Is that your best, skank??” I taunt, my smirk quickly knocked off my face as a still-hot saucepan comes whizzing at my chest. Shit!! I turn quickly, and the pan, crashing into my arm and then falling to the floor, clattering against the bottom of the stove, knocks the bottle from my grasp, flinging it against the rear wall.

And then, as the finale to the barrage, you launch at me, your bare feet pushing off from the still oily but not quite as slippery floor, and I try to do instant calculations with me as the immovable object and you as the idiotic force. Too fucking late! Your bigger body invades my space, fist flying, aiming for that sweet spot in my tummy again. I try to steel myself against it, tightening my abs, trying to get low, bending a bit—OOOFH! Fucking fists of steel tear into me, and my bending becomes folding, draping over your arm like a dishrag. With a quick whooosh, the air is swept from my lungs, and I simply lean into you, my hands on your shoulders, gasping, trying to suck in some O2 , trying to stay close to avoid another assault.

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I really, really wish I could leave this studio today, whatever else happens, and proudly say “Yeah, I got into a fistfight on national television but at least it didn’t turn me on even a little!” But THAT’S not gonna’ happen, because as my fist buries into your slim belly and I feel my knuckles hit that firm flesh just barely bared by your oily tanktop lifting, just above your thong, and when you sag into me and clutch my shoulders, I can FEEL my pierced nipples eagerly responding, a flushing heat running through me that’s very different from the bright rage I still feel for you. I growl, fighting it off as you clutch my shoulders. “Get your slutty hands off me!” I growl —

And then defy words with action as much as I defy logic just by being in this situation, my tattooed arms looking to wind around your body as you clutch my shoulders, too close for a punch – but not too close for me to press my breasts in close and jut my ass backwards in my clinging and oil-shiny denim shorts, drawing another long howl from the Sandwich King and the sound of a groan followed by a muttered “Get in close there” from our producer, and then I PISTON my right knee up, aiming to drive it into your aching belly as I try to keep you from covering up by getting my arms under yours! And if that works, what the heck, I might as well try for another since I’m already here.

Except this time I growl and squeeze you closer and flex my leg down and up, gritting my teeth as I put my weight on my bruised left knee, aiming to smack the slab of my inked thigh up between your own slim legs with a bona fide cheap shot, trying to make physical reality out of the salt and sniping that we’ve been exchanging on the show.

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Leaning against you, fingers pressing into your skin on either side of the shoulder strap of your tank top. Part of me just wants to drop to the gross floor and curl up so I can get my breath back…but part refuses to yield, needing to stay upright, to show the viewers—to show YOU—that I can take whatever you can dish out (ok, lame, but I AM oxygen-deprived). “Get your slutty hands off me,” you growl, as your arms curl around my smaller body, your chest pressing into mine, my cheek brushing against yours. Fighting for breaths, I turn my head as you press into me, my lips lightly caressing your ear, and wheezily toss out, “you fucking love me touching you, slut…” but I have no idea.

whether my raspy words landed, because your knee roars up from below and SLAMS into my stomach, once again blowing any semblance of air out of my body, doubling me over even more. My fingers clutch your shoulder straps out of a combination of pain and desperation, and as strange noises squeak from my mouth in attempts to reduce the vacuum in my lungs, I try and scrunch up the straps in both hands and drop my weight, pulling your tank top back, the U-scoop rising, heading for your throat—SO wanting to pull down from the back a little more and choke the shit out of you…

but my little fantasy dies mid-pull, as your knee rockets up once again—this time wedged between my legs, assisted by the remnants of EVOO, and although I try to tighten my thighs and lock my ankles, your knee jams into me. At the moment of impact, all I can mutter is a guttural groan, and my knees liquefy, the only thing holding me up is your inked arms.

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I flush an alarming brick red, almost as if you DID get me wrapped up in that imaginary choke, but it’s in unwilling response to your soft lips at my ear and your husky whisper, curling my bared toes on the shining floor. I respond as I so often do, with brutal and unnecessary violence (“The Most Brutal and Unnecessarily Violent New Chef in Portland,” – The Portland Mercury) even as my belly tightens and I feel my panties flush with heat under my clinging shorts. Fuck you for being so fucking sexy! Why the hell aren’t you a fat shrill bitch? You yank my tank up after I drive my knee up into that sore tummy, and I feel the oily ribbed cotton slide up to bare my belly button piercing and tight sun-shy abs.

And my breasts are tight in the strained fabric as you draw it up before I manage my dirty shot, wriggling my knee in after it strikes home – to, uh, cause more hurt and humiliation, NOT because the feel of your soft sex through your sweaty thong is achingly erotic. That first thing instead, yes – against your tightened thighs. I feel you saaaag down into me, melting like sugar into a caramel, and I can’t resist a throaty purr of satisfaction, although I try to fade it up into a growl on the end. “Awww, think the judges are gonna call me out on flattening your soufflé?” I grin in your ear, and add a teasing swipe from my pierced tongue that I realize too late is exactly the kind of thing I SHOULDN’T be doing on TV to someone I’m fighting, FUCK, too late now, make the best of it.

I have my arms around you and you’re already pretty limp from those shots. Maybe I could … yeah. Moving quick like someone making an appetizer from Fruity Pebbles, venison, oat soda and okra, I slide my linked arms closer together at your back, trying to lock my fists around my opposing inner elbows, planting both feet again even if it means withdrawing from your squozen thighs and soft warmth and flexing my aching knee as I grunt through locked teeth and try to LIFT you to your toes, SQUEEZING with my arms around the center of your back and ribs, trying to CRUSH your smaller form against me in a blatant show of power that COINCIDENTALLY grinds you against me in what could be construed as an erotic way.


Fuck you—just let me drop! I think as my body oozes into yours, hanging limply, fire blazing between my legs and shooting shards of pain throughout the lower half of my body. I manage to raise an eyebrow as I feel your warm, soft tongue dart in and about my ear, and with body on a break but mind still active, I file that tidbit of info away for future processing.

I feel your arms snake fully around me now, your hands joining in the center of my back. Your knee stops grinding into me—no moans slipping from my lips as I continue to fight to breathe— and as I see you plant your feet firmly, widening your stance just a bit, your arms tightening around me. My breasts flattened against your body your pierced nipples frictioning against mine as your chest rises and falls with your steady breathing. Your biceps flex, the compression around my ribs begins to hurt, making it even more difficult to regain my breath, and——uuuuuuungh…..a long, raspy moan slips from my lips as you lift me, squeezing my body tightly and against yours, my toes barely brushing against the floor, arms swinging slightly at my sides.

“Stick a fork in her,” quips the Sandwich King, “‘cuz’ she is DONE!”


I grin at you with my teeth gleaming, my body racked with sweat and oil so it gleams. My muscles are outlined, lithe kitchen muscles from hoisting huge trays from ovens and shoving big racks of food almost all by myself in my mini-gastropub, tattoos shifting and dancing on my shining skin. I FEEL that moan against my lips and fuck me if it doesn’t get me genuinely wet, but I don’t care, and no one can tell anyway with my shorts all shiny oil and sweaty as it is.

The pain in my bruised knee throbs as I hoist you to your toes, so I flex my legs, trying to press you down and lift up, down and up, down and UP, each time squeeeezing with my arms on the upstroke. Moving on pure carnal motivation along with a childhood full of TV pro wrestling (Woo, Portland Organic Wrestling!)

And the desire to rub your groaning form against my warm and achingly aroused breasts, my pierced nipples grinding you with each iteration of the crude kitchen bear-hug. “Where’s that big talk now, bitch?” I coo at you as you moan. “Where’s that trash, huh? You worried about your fucking custard now? Gonna’ bitch about the blast freezer some more?”

I snarl a little as my leg throbs, setting you down lower but trying to shake you side to side as if to bullyrag air from you – and to give the camera nice bouncy shots of your ass in that thong. I’m nothing if not a gracious contestant. I pant, sweat running down my face from the crushing intimate heat. “Say something NOW, Meeeeee-sheellllll,” I drawl your name out into your face with a sneer.


Hanging limply in your muscled arms, my own swinging loosely, bumping into my own body as you out-muscle and dominate me, I feel rage mix with embarrassment as the Sandwich King pronounces me “done.” His mocking seems to energize you, as you literally bounce me up and down at whim, our bodies rubbing together, my breasts and nipples having a little party as the rest of the corpus suffers. “Little sluts” I think, hating that any part of you is making any part of me feel good. As you squeeze tighter, my groan of agony seems to re-activate your trash-talk program, as the taunting escalates, and you effortlessly start to whip my body from side to side—arms and legs swinging wildly, my exposed butt cheeks shimmying.

Eyes half-open, I see the sweat running down your face as you maintain your hold, shaking me from side to side, taunting me, prodding me to respond. I can see your smug lips curling into a smirk, confidence and imminent victory coursing through your body as you play for the crowd now, lapping up the attention, slurping up my submissiveness. Another whip to the side, my arms akimbo—-and I lift them, quickly cupping my hands, desperate to end this agony, as you squeeze even harder, your arms trembling, tiny coughs and gurgles all I can muster as air incrementally enters my lungs, I lift my arms to the side and swing them in, hands cupped, mustering whatever strength I have left, hoping to slap them against your ears and, oh, I don’t know, make your head implode!?


I have literally never felt anything this good. Squeezing you in my arms like this, rag-dolling you, fucking DISPLAYING you on camera. Why don’t I do this for a living? I could fight sexy bitches for a living. It’d be easier than cooking. I’d get less grease burns and no garlic under my nails. The feeling of your firm little tits being ground against my bigger chest and my pierced nipples raking yours is almost too good to be believed, powering my hungry and dominating squeezes of your smaller form as muscle traces in light crystal sheen. I LIFT you up off your toes, intending to wring out your last breaths and maybe steal a kiss – a taunting one – from your slack lips. Yeah. One of those taunting kisses boxers and MMA guys do all the time.

But before I can proceed with my statutory smooch, you manage to swing those ragdoll arms up and CLAP your hands on either side of my head, and it doesn’t make me happy, and I know it, and my face SURELY shows it when you clap your hands because it makes LIGHTS burst behind my eyes and a huge white NOISE explode in my head! “NNNAAGGGGGGGGGH!” I howl, tendons standing out from the force of my pained cry as I drop you as roughly and quickly as a date who tries to take me to church, hands coming up to clasp my own ears as I stagger back with no clear horizon to balance on, walking like a drunken sailor.

“Oh, come on, is that legal?” Mauro asks, since he was enjoying watching your ass bouncing. “Jeff, they’re fighting in the kitchen and the tattooed one kneed the little one in the crotch. I don’t think this is Marquis of Queensbury,” Andrew adds with his usual eerie calm and jollity, watching with an interest that’s avid. Giada growls, downing a shot of limoncello. “I’d knee ’em BOTH in the crotch. It’s how we do it Italian style,” she grumbles, glaring at the cameras not on her.


The moment my hands slam onto your ears, it truly feels as if circuits became instantly overloaded. Your arms loosen and I drop to the floor, the tightening belt of muscle and skin around my ribs gone. My knees wobbly, but I manage to remain on my feet as you stagger back, your hands clutching your ears, your face scrunched up in pain. My breath still not steady, but enough to keep me moving, I know I have to take advantage of this immediately. Keeping you in range as you stumble back, I step into you quickly, raising a wobbly leg, and fire a side-kick into your chest, propelling you backwards, your back and head slamming into the wall.

Energized by what I think might be actually my first successful offense against you, I move in quickly, lowering my shoulder, your hands still holding your ears, and plow ahead, ramming my shoulder into your tight abs, feeling you fold over, your chest on my back, hands now hanging down on each side of me. Digging my bare feet into this clean area of the floor, I continue to push against you, digging my shoulder deeper into your abdomen as my fingers curl over the waist of your cut-offs, fingertips tracing lightly against your smooth skin, thumbs sliding to the middle of the waistband mtc

pressing against the brass buttons, one by one, gently forcing them through their corresponding holes, and as each button passes through, I jerk my body forward, a little grunt synchronized to the passing of the button through its hole.

Pushing my bony shoulder into your body harder—deeper, as your shorts become loose. As the last button passes through, I push with vigor, energized by your own moan of pain. Sliding my hands from the front of your body slowly around your silky thighs, I press my fingers into the backs of your thighs, and, mustering whatever I have in reserve, quickly try to stand, lifting your bigger body on my back as I do, and unceremoniously dumping you over my shoulder to the floor, watching the monitor as you land on your back, your shorts pooled around your knees, your breasts jiggling casually under your tank top



These and other cogent thoughts race through my head as it rings like a fucking gong after your ear clap turns my equilibrium into fluffy scrambled eggs. I clutch at my ears, staggering back, and you nicely recover your feet after your near-crushinating and rush me, tackling into my belly, bared a little with my arms up to plant my hands on my aching, ringing ears. “PFFUHHHH!” I grunt, driven backwards until you manage to PLANT my ass against a wall, rattling some of the set and sending hanging pots to swaying.

You drive in deep, and air blasts past my lips. I’ve got good abs for a chef – the trade tends to create more Stay-Puft bodies than hard-bodies – but they’re not up for stopping a little brunette battering ram from putting me between a shoulder and a hard place. I fold over your back, my tank rucked up and scrunching Jellica, the little pigtailed girl-skull who serves as the mascot for my gastropub as my breasts mash firmly into your back. My pierced nipples were all perked and attentive and hot from the earlier bearhug, and now they’re mooshed into you, barbells pressed into you. And then you start to drive in, deliberately.

Pounding me, spilling air from my body with each little thrust, robbing me of strength. “UNNH. UHGH. UNhh … hunhh …” I groan, with each drive of your shoulder. I feel your hands on me, then, and there’s a twinge that shimmies my hips against your sly little fingers. “Nnnooo ya d-UNNH!” I grunt again, and my arms swing down at your sides as I rest my cheek on your back, breathless. “Oh, she’s WELL done now,” crows that traitor Jeff Mauro as my ass juts against the wall, hanging, panting on your back as you unsnap my cut-offs and slide them down my tattooed thighs, baring my pretty striped panties in Beetlejuice black and white —

My shorts bunched at my knees as I’m HAULED up by your shoulder and your grip behind my legs, and my head slides down your back, my purple hair hanging in a curtain over your adorable thong which my face briefly caresses as I slide over your back, humiliatingly hauled up into the air by the smaller girl and DUMPED onto my ass, my back smacking the floor! “UNHHHHHH …” I groan, arching my back briefly and then flopping back into a sprawl, one hand resting on my battering-rammed belly and the other draped over my head, my chocked in my bunched shorts and my jiggling tits, pierced tented nipples, and crumpled warm panties making a whole visual FEAST for the camera crew as I pant for breath.


Watching the monitors above, I fight, but can’t control, the rapidly spreading grin on my face as I watch you sprawled on the set floor, half-clothed, wheezing and raspy (that great new asthmatic singing duo releasing their first hit—Breathless!), as the crew closes in on you, lenses whirring on different portions of your sexy, inked body. Riding the wave, I try not to hesitate, weaving my way through the boom and camera jungle to get back at your prone body before you scramble to hands and feet. Wending my way between two massive cameras, I stand briefly over you, barely straddling your head, and then drop to a seated position on the floor, my bare legs framing your head, my smooth thighs brushing against your cheeks.

Reaching forward, I join my hands, lacing my fingers together, and try to slide them under your chin, while I place my bare feet on your shoulders, ready to PULL back while pressing my feet into your shoulders, pulling your head back and pushing your body forward, possibly giving you that long, slender neck you may have been wanting.

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I’m laying there with my eyes closed enjoying not having to look at anything even as the stage lights burn my view into shades of orange and red. The lights are dying down from my ringing ears as my battered eardrums settle back down to just the occasional tormented wail like a ghost in a cave. Your shadow falls over me and blocks out the whir of cameras and the soft chuckles around us as I manage a breathless snarl up at you with the effect of a dog snarling at the end of a leash – scary, sure, but, y’know, there’s a leash.

My breasts rise and fall, glossed in sweat as my crumpled tank-top clings to me, and I start to work my legs. While I’d like to get my shorts UP that’d be a lot harder, and this way my legs will be free to KICK YOUR STUPID ASS. Once I get my breath back. And get off the floor. Of course, then you JOIN me on the floor, giving me a heartstopping view of your descending thonged ass – which isn’t cute or smackable at ALL, so I don’t know why you’d even bring THAT up – before you settle above my purple head, your warm thighs framing my face, turning my snarl into a puckered growly smooch at the air. “Mnrrrrhhh …” I growl, glaring up at the lights as I start to shift before you plant your tootsies in my shoulder and lock your fingers under my chin.

And then my growl is brought up dramatically in volume like the THX sound test as you POUR pressure on, STRETCHING my neck and digging your feet into my shoulders, hauling my chin up so I can glare hatefully at you upside down, because you’re even worse to look at this way – and I don’t even LIKE the way your warm soft fragrantly sweaty mound in your skimpy thong feels against my head, what a STUPID thing to say – and tendons stand out on my neck as I growl “NNNNGRRRRRGHHHH …” and grit my teeth. My legs kick and fish-tail as I try to snap them free of my tangled shorts, tattooed feet flexing, and thrashing, and my hands curl up, my shoulders braced but my hands free to clutch at your legs, intent on raking my kitchen-short chipped black nails over the curves of your calves!

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The gurgles and grunts oozing from your lips and throat are simply melodious, and I can feel ’em—yep, here they come—-the dimples forming as I enjoy streeeeeeeetching you out, thinking briefly of Mike TeeVee, and how Mr. Wonka tried to stretch him back from being a tiny speck of a thing to a kind-of boy-size thing.

But no—this—this is just a bit to the side of that—as I see your face deepen from red to dark red, I think in my Wonka-est wiki reference—“Violet, you’re turning violet, Violet!!” My toes curl into your shoulders, my back arches as I wrench your neck back, my arms taut and trembling. I can see your legs flailing wildly, and at this point, I’m thankful for the still helpful sheen of EVOO on the floors, making it impossible for you to get any traction.

The judges have moved from their table and line the periphery our food infused ring, standing side by side with the camera guys, a salacious grin on Jeff’s face, a furrowed brow dominating Giada, and a look of pleasured curiosity from Andrew, as if he had just tasted a new caramel infused South American cockroach and found it palatable. As I take in the surroundings and try to calculate how long it might take for you to throw in the dishtowel (God, is there no end to our kitchen punnery??!!) my musings are burst as your nails tear into the creamy flesh my calves, slowly burrowing in, leaving growing red trails of torn skin and rivulets of blood.

“Bitch!” I sneer, trying to bend my knees and move my legs farther away from your talons, but I can’t—not if I want to keep pushing against your shoulders. Your gouging continues, small ribbons of my flesh curling under your short, stubby nails, and try as I might, the burning pain becomes too much. Releasing your chin I lean back on my hands pull my feet from your shoulders, and then give one mighty kick down, SLAMMING my soles into those shoulders one final time before withdrawing my legs to a safe distance from your claws as I try to scramble to my feet.

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I was intending to just rake you, figuring you’d let go when the pain sizzled across your skin. But no, NO, not YOU, not perfect little Miss Michelle who has to just MAKE HER POINT by stretching my neck like fucking taffy. So I dig my fingers in tighter as I grit my teeth together so hard they grate like improperly stacked china in a dishwasher, the pain of the brutal improvised hold racking my lithe body. I manage to twist my legs enough to kick my fucking oily shorts off, leaving me in just panties and as much of a crumpled sweaty low-scoop tank top as can be considered to be actually covering my jiggling tits. My cheeks are flared a deep red as I’m strained in the hold, feeling the ache in my neck and my shoulders.

I dig in deeper, twisting my fingers, and start to rake skin from you like a pair of forks pulling roasted pork, although I’m pretty sure if I make a sandwich out of what I’m raking I’m gonna’ get hit with some health code violations. I manage to break your stubborn grip after enough clawing to leave my forearms aching from the tension of my clawed hands, and you drive your bare feet into my shoulders as a parting gift! “NGGAGH!” I groan, rolling over as you scoot backwards from me. You’re at no risk from my claws at the moment as I lie on my side, one hand cradling the back of my aching neck and my other arm flexing to work my bruised shoulder as I try to ease the terrible strain you put on me.

I lay on my side making sure I can see you, your blood staining my fingertips like cherry juice after a summer day making jubilee, and I glower at you, panting as I lay down and recover as much as I can, kneading my neck with firm warm fingers, flexing my shoulder, working my back in little nagini stretches to soothe my yoga-toned frame as I watch you and just wait for now. Because I’m being strategic, not because I can barely move. Yeah.

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Rolling to a safe distance, I start to get to my feet, but I wince as I straighten up, and instead crouch down, noting the parallel Adidas-like clawmarks running from right below my knee almost to my ankle. While there’s no gushing blood, it does continue to trickle down the burrows, and both calves sting like hell—whatever vile, vomit-inducing vermin the violet vamp has under her nails is probably infecting my blood at this very moment. Gingerly rubbing legs, I slowly get to my feet, noting that you are still down, stretching and flexing. This gives me time to check out the surroundings—we’ve moved far away from our own cook stations at this point, and are closer to the pantry.

I quickly survey the shelves of food and spices and herbs and small gadgets and appliances, and then make a move back to you, hoping to keep pounding on your larger body (oh, I note that you are now also shortless—no wonder Jeff has studiously kept a clipboard in hand in front of his pelvis). But as I move, the side door the set bursts open! “What the BEEP is BEEPing going on in here? I’m trying to BEEPing tape next door and all I BEEPing hear is….” Ramsay stops suddenly, surveying the kitchen—GrapeHead on the floor, mostly nude, me standing—mostly nude, bleeding, both of us wearing remnants of EVOO and Oreos. His eyes dart around to the stations, the counters, “PIGS! BEEEEPing Pigs!!

And—what the BEEP! How did someone’s ass print get in the BEEPing flan!?” With that, he storms through the set and blasts through the far door, leaving me star-struck for a moment, but only a moment, as I head over to you to maybe finish you off.

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I take slow breaths, easing myself. I do this all the time, I think. A rough night in a kitchen, especially as small as Jellica’s PDX Gastropub, can beat the fuck out of you. I’ve taken hot baking sheets to the side of the head, seared my hand on cast irons left on the burner by inattentive souses, had an oven door opened into my knees as I was growling an answer back to waitstaff by a pastry chef who went on to have her head driven through the back door as I bodily threw her out of my fucking kitchen. It’s bad. I mean, no one’s ever actually tried to TEAR MY HEAD OFF MY NECK or flattened my shoulders with their feet to try to ruin me for strapless season or beaten my belly into custard, but fuck, one beating is just like another, as my mom used to say. She was a bitter lady –

I work my neck, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, taking prana breaths that smell and taste of key lime and olive oil and Oreos and sweat, a not altogether unpleasant little cocktail. I roll my aching shoulder, narrowing my eyes as you survey the shelves, no doubt getting all sorts of horrible id-

The door bursts open.

And Gordon FUCKING Ramsay comes bulling in.

And aside:

Years before I begged, borrowed, stole, slept with skeezes for, cajoled, blackmailed and stole sufficient lunch money to open my gastropub, I was a sous at a place in Portland over near the Avalon Theater. Salvador Molly’s, the hipster pirate restaurant. Great joint for what it was – we drew couples and jokey kids taking selfies in the over the top decor and tourists – but with a huge overhead for the size of the place and the vastness of the menu. I KNEW how to cook all 61 dishes we ran each night, God damn it, and Kitchen Nightmares had NO FUCKING BUSINESS telling me otherwise. I KNOW the fiery crispy cheese balls I served him were good. I’d made them six thousand times.

But his fucking PRODUCTION STAFF takes them and fusses with them, surrounding the plate so I can’t see it, and I hear a spray bottle, and then the waitress gets them, and then Gordon is bustling back with his mealy-mouthed fucking Scots “Oh dear oh dear oh dear” telling me they’re fucking COLD AND SOGGY, and GOD DAMN IT, I FUCKING HATE REALITY TV. FUCK YOU, GORDON FUCKING RAMSAY.

Fortunately, it doesn’t take him long to rampage through at full volume, and even more fortunately, he’s drawn YOUR big innocent eyes with his wind-blown fucking mess of blonde hair and his face like a wrinkly leather sack. And then you’re coming at me, your plans to get a weapon forgotten, and I play it up, working my way slowly to my knees and rolling my shoulder, lolling my head to soothe my neck, glowering at you as I glisten and sweat and … crumb. I’m intently aware that we’re both in our panties now. And intensely aware of how little my tank-top does to stop me from being topless. And intensely aware of how you want to kick my ass.

And like the Buddha, I focus my awareness, and lunge off my knees at you, grabbing for your shoulder with my left hand as my right swings in a short brutal mallet shot right for the waistline of your skimpy thong, trying to batter your body even as my bruised abs ache complainingly about me moving so fucking much, snarling at you in my throaty bruised voice.



Half-swooning as Ramsay exits, I am greeted by your resurrected form, springing from your knees, your fist burying itself at my bikini line, your left hand grabbing my shoulder. Your quickness and my brains up my ass give me no time to prepare, even to tighten my abs, and your fist plows into me deeply, air jettisoned through my lips, followed by a guttural groan as I fold over your fist. My hands grope forward, grabbing your tank top, almost using the crumpled garment to hold me up as I try to suck in whatever air I can.


I drive my fist low into your belly, almost feeling the silky rise of your mound under my knuckles in those skimpy sweaty panties, and you groan and fold over me like I was folded over you just moments ago. We must be making quite a show for these fucking pervs … which gives me an evil fucking idea that’s only enhanced as you clutch at my sagging tank, almost baring my creamy tits as you haul the scoop down low. I grab for your brunette hair with my left hand, trying to yank your head back.

Moving forward with you, trying to muscle you back and aiming to just SLAM your lovely back up against the blast chiller – and if you look dazed for that crucial moment, I drop both hands, clutching at your wrists to try to rip your slender arms out wide and slam your hands against the freezer doors – wanting just a moment to grab for the hem of your little blue tank-top, to give you a flash of a Cheshire Cat grin – and to YANK up, trying to haul the sweaty oily crumby slutty tank-top up and OVER your face, and dragging it up and yanking it back behind your head – and trying to leave you muffled in it with your tits bare – and my fists curling, ready to lash into your bared body.

My tongue curling over my lips as adrenaline and arousal and pain hormones all flood through me and make me into a very irrational and cruel creature indeed.


Simply draped over your fist, trying to will my knees not to buckle, I feel you walk me backwards, your fist still in my gut, pushing, preventing me from catching my breath, until UUUNGH! you SLAM my body into the door of the chiller, the back of my head making a unique cracking sound as it hits the metal door. “Ooooh….” chants the chorus of washed-up chefs and grips and best boys, and although I try to slide down onto my butt, you keep me on my feet, holding me up first with your embedded fist, but then withdrawing it, grabbing both of my wrists, and then slamming THEM into the freezer door, the bones in my wrist shooting our shards of pain as they hit the cold metal.

Catching a groggy glimpse of you through squinty eyes, it’s impossible not to notice your grin, and then the feel of your fingers curling under the hem of my tank-top, your fingertips briefly tracing my firm but now bruised abs, and then you JERK my top up, covering my face, leaving it half-tangled on my arms. My bare back feels the cold of the blast freezer door, and as I struggle to free myself from the shirt, I can feel my exposed nipples harden as gooseflesh spreads over my body. Flailing my arms wildly, trying to escape this Houdini-like trap (OK, it’s just a tank top—dial down the drama, Mishy), I panic at my current vulnerability, knowing your fondness for pummeling my body with your fists.

As I yank and pull and twist trying to extricate my head, I lean against the door and try to shoot my leg out at you—blinded, so I have no idea if my aim is true, but hoping I can smash my dirty sole into your spleen or some other important internal organ.


I really, really intended to just punch the stuffing right out of your perky little tits and battered belly. Fists curled, knuckles clenched, boxer’s stance like I’m on the heavy bag at the YWCA, everything was all ready to go.

But then I got a look at your bare breasts bouncing as you struggled, and your nipples perking up so hard and hot, and those little bumps running along your smooth skin from the chill … but I mean, excitement makes goosebumps, too … and just for that one moment I look a little too close, and my eyes gleam, and my pierced tongue curls over my lips, which the camera doesn’t miss at all, at least one of them since there’s five getting angles on your bouncing bare breasts.

And that costs me dearly, as in that one moment before I can punch you to fucking custard you jam your bare foot up and out, catching me roughly in my battered belly! “HUNNHHHHHH!” I groan, staggering back with my hand clasping my left side, my own tits barely contained in my stressed top as I stumble back panting, purple hair clinging to my cheeks and neck and my creamy ass in my skimpy striped panties swaying alluringly enough to draw its own camera.

“These two are both REALLY determined,” Andrew observes, his fingers steepled as he takes us in like a rare kind of primitive barbeque pit.

“These two are sluts,” Giada grumbles, “And I could take ’em.” She’s slurring a bit now, a half-empty bottle of Limoncello -or as she says it “Ah-LEI-mon-CHAY-llloooh” – in one fist.

The Sandwich King is just giggling and bent over to watch us closer, and because a clipboard won’t serve to protect what passes for his modesty any more.


I feel the bottom of my bare foot collide with your tummy—feeling the subtle ridges of those abs yield to the force of my kick, stretching them into your body deeper, your groan of pain an indicator of my blind-luck. As you stagger back, I finally free myself of the tank-top, peeling the food and sweat-drenched garment off my body and dropping it to the floor, causing all of the cameras to leave your suffering form and zoom in on my 5’2″ 100 lb tanned, toned, tight little body—with subtle hints of muscle definition on my arms, calves, and tummy, there, in all its glory, save for a floss-like thong.

With visual acuity returned, I growl—mostly for myself, and pounce grabbing for your tank top as you clutch your side, curling my fingers around the shoulder straps, and then trying to whip your body to the side—but I don’t let go, hanging on, trying to spin you around with me as the focal point, dragging you in a circle around me, timing, planning, and then—as we hit what I think is maximum speed, releasing one hand but yanking with the other, pulling the top off your bigger body and sending you hurling, topless into Giada. “Order of purple slut—to go!” I announce, my cutesey-pie voice returning, an impish grin playing to the cameras.


You come at me basically naked, which is the kind of thing I normally want 5’2 pixies with toned bodies and perky tits doing, like at all times, but I feel like you’re not going for a kiss here. It might just be my multiple contusions or it might be the adrenaline talking, but I FEEL like you’re picking a fight here. And I’m proven right as you come at me in just your lil’ thong and grab my shirt, and WHIP me around, twisting us in a madcap spin like I’m on a fucking merry-go-round except this one has a topless smirking brunette at the center instead of a laughing clown head –

My bare tattooed feet dancing over the tiles as I’m spun around and around in the big space in the pantry where the camera normally pans while Ted says “- and use of our pantry -” (And where is Ted, you ask? Checking his fucking phone out in the hall and having a smoke with Ramsay, of course. What the fuck interest does he have in half-naked sluts wrestling?). I’m spun around and around and around, purple hair streaming in glistening sweaty ribbons as the smaller girl WHIPS me around – and then with a graceful YANK you peel my Jellica top off and bare my creamy C-cups tipped with raspberry thick rosy nipples pierced with silver barbells!

And the camera can barely shoot it as I blur by, tits bouncing deliciously, my bruised abs on full display, stripped to a pair of low-riding sweat-clinging striped panties as I SPRAWL into Giada. And while Giada may be a LITTLE bigger than you at 5’2 and 115 pounds with a 35-24-34 frame (according to, at least, but they have reporters you can trust) – but that bitch carries all her weight in her fucking enormous forehead, and so when I BARREL into her torso, staggering and bent low and dizzy, I fold her in fucking HALF like an NFL nose tackle hitting a high school quarterback. She curses something in Italian that gets cut off as she’s driven to the floor, and I bounce off her and tumble over like I’ve been in a small car wreck.

And I lay there, panting, my bare breasts heaving, my legs sprawled, my body glazed with sweat. My tattoos stand out beautifully on my creamy skin, my toned kitchen muscle in full glistening effect, making a MAGNIFICENT shot as the camera team is split in half now, on you and me, spreading all over the kitchen. I lay there groaning, thinking Fucking hell, this little fucking cheerleader is kicking my ass on national television … and flushed with humiliation, my head spinning – and then Giada’s rolling limoncello bottle fetches up softly against my fingers. I glance at it with my head craned, panting – and glance up and see the bulk of Andrew and the Sandwich King bent over and checking on the fallen Giada between you and me.

There’s a moment. Just one. It’s a dirty move, and I won’t be PROUD of it, but fuck it, I’m in my FUCKING UNDERWEAR on Chopped! and I just got bullywhipped by a girl the size I was at 13.

I take the open bottle, and tilt it to my lips, and glug sweet sticky citrusy sharp Limoncello, half-filling my mouth – and then I let the bottle roll away from my fingers and I lay there groaning, sprawled out, looking for all intents and purposes like you just fucking ragdolled me …

… because I want you to come nice and close to finish me off.


“It’s like slut-dominos,” I muse as I see your almost-nude body fly into Giada and you both go tumbling down, a tangle of arms and legs all I can see from my vantage point, with the cameras—half of them anyway, rolling over to the trampled judge and her purple protagonist. The other half, of course, stay on me, panning from my heaving chest, glistening with sweat, little beads trickling down from my neck to my breasts, now and then a small drop collecting at the end of the nipple, and then dripping onto my sexy little toes. I glance up at the monitor—you’re down, but not on Giada, and her colleagues are crouched beside her, trying to help her up amid a barrage of Italian curses.

The red light flashes as the set door opens again, and Rachel Ray peeks in, taking in the spectacle, her raspy voice about to exclaim some banal observation, but she pauses—something caught her attention, and—if she had a tail it would be swishing wildly right now—she holds still for a moment, and then pounces, finding an unscathed pile of crushed Oreos, and hovers over it, on hands and knees, greedily lapping it up off camera.

Ignoring her, I make a bee-line for your downed form—maybe a few quick stomps on your chest or tummy with my bare feet will pound you into submission and end this battle. I straddle you from above, standing over you, but your eyes remain closed, your chest slowly rising and falling, those breasts hypnotically following that rhythm, a slight jiggle each time you exhale, the studio lights making the beads of sweat scattered along your chest sparkle like jewels with each breath.

Stepping to the side, I crouch down, deciding not to pummel a KO’d foe, but rather to drag her back to the center of the set and finish her off. Wrapping my fingers in your hair, looking down at you, I prepare to get to my feet and drag your limp body across the oily floor to your final chance at center-stage.

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The risk of playing possum is always that the bear will just take a bite out of you while you’re laying there. I’d kind of counted on you dragging me somewhere or hoisting me up to taunt me or something, so when you stand over me and your shadow falls on me I feel a very real, very hot, very sizzling fear and pain and a dark sort of ecstasy because holy fuck I’m looking up at the taut gorgeous body of a sweat-glistening little brilliant dangerous feisty hellcat who wants to destroy me – and if you HAD stomped me down then, you’d have fucking finished me, because I can feel my will sagging warmly against like melting butter against the heat of your passion —

But lucky for me, Rachel Ray comes in to start chipmunking food scraps in her huge cheeks as she does after every single studio taping of every show on the network. And in that moment you’re lured in by my gently heaving breasts, creamy and sweet, rising and falling, drops of slick sweat running down the curves. And you bend down lace your fingers into my purple hair, and I play right along with you, moaning in my throat and biting my lip to both show a state of aroused helplessness – which is MOSTLY performance art – and to keep the disgusting fucking lemon liqueur in my mouth. My hands come up, slowly, pawing at your legs, caressing them almost, smoothing over your hips and settling there half-limp as you haul my bigger form up to drag me over.

And I move along once you’re convinced I’m ready, giving you everything you want. My ass swaying behind me, stumbling a little, moaning softly and curling my fingers delicately at your hips … wanting it all to get soaked in for you, rum for your ladyfingers …

… and when you turn to set me up, to taunt me, to flaunt me, in that one perfect moment where your eyes and lips are on my defeated face, I open my big hazel witch’s eyes – and take a deep breath that lifts my glistening breasts high as I SPEW a kissing mouthful of warm Limoncello at your eyes and mouth!

…. and I’m assuming here it’s your first golden shower.

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Wrapping my fingers in the sweaty violet mess atop your head, I start to lift you, dragging you to the center of the set—more easily than I thought, actually, given your bigger size, but maybe it’s just the effects of the adrenaline, like when a panicking mom can lift a car off her kid or something—and of course, the oily floor helps as your nudish body glides almost effortlessly across the floor. The cameras back off a bit, falling back into that first large amoeba-like perimeter they had started with in what feels like eons ago. Andrew and Jeff have helped Giada back to their table, where she angrily looks from side to side, yelling something about her lemonaide or her rented chello or something.

Rachel is still working on the last little bit of Oreo, and I glance down at you, ready to end this—-when your eyes snap open, your mouth puckers, and Aaaaagh!!! some type of vile venom spews from your lips, hitting my eyes and face. My eyelids immediately snap shut, the burning so intense, tears already pooling in the corners of my eyes. I quickly release your hair and drop to a seated position, my fingers clawing at my eyes, futilely trying to rub the burning sensation away, when, in fact, I think it’s only making it worse.

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“PFFFFFSSSssssAAAAHHHHH thank fucking GOD that shit is out of my mouth!” I snarl, panting as I face you, rising up. My abs are fucking bruised like I’ve been doing Tae-Bo all day. My back hurts, my shoulders hurt, my neck hurts. My pride hurts. My nipples are starting to hurt from being so fucking perked. I’m dripping sweat and shiny with oil and streaked with faux chocolate and tasting of lemon – and I’ve never felt better in my fucking life. I watch you clutching at your face, dropped to your cute ass, and a thousand thoughts go stampeding through my head. Kick her! Kick her in the fucking head! Yank her hair back and Rocky punch her! Give her that move the guy does on TV, the one where you pick her up and do the thing with her arms and her head goes to the floor!

But no no no.
I wanna … I want to …
… this needs to be …
… intimate.

I slither to my knees, sliding across the olive oil glossed floor, pressing myself to your back as you sit on your ass, pawing at your face. I press in close, my tattooed thighs and bruised abs and pierced breasts pressed hotly against the firmness of your bare back and shoulders. My left arm slithers across you, hand caressing your breasts without a care for the fucking cameras and then curling, looking to wrap my tattooed bicep across your throat – and my right hand slides into your dark brunette hair, looking to splay out, to cradle the back of your head – and PUSH your throat against my folded inked arm.

Pressing close to you, close as a morning in bed before Sunday brunch, when the air outside is crisp with early spring frost like magic ice, and the sheets are warm from sleep.

Pressing my cheek up against yours from behind, to hiss in your ear.

“… I figured out what I’m serving this round, Meeee-shelllllll.” I drawl, slow and warm and taunting.

… thinking this is probably not what my ladies’ self-defense and intro to MMA instructor had in mind.

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As I claw at my eyes, no relief in sight (get it? God, even crippled, I’m a riot), shouts of orders are peppering in from onlookers—kick her! yank her hair! I have to assume they’re yelling to you, because on the list of my priorities, extinguishing the fire in my eyeballs is job #1.

I try and open the left eye, hoping that despite the pain, I’ll be able to at least see what’s going on, but as soon as I crack the lids open, searing pain makes me tear up, and I close them quickly. Knowing that you have something planned—the spitting of—whatever this is—at me had to be only the opening salvo of some nefarious plan, I try and prepare myself, but sightless, there’s little I can do. And just as predicted, a moment later, I feel your body press into mine, knowing that your breasts are pushing against my back—the little steel bars in your nipples feel slightly cool as compared to your flesh, as it melds with mine, which is moist and warm.

I clench my fingers into fists, but have no idea what I might throw punches at, since you’re in back of me. Then it all becomes clear—in my mind, anyway—as your arm snakes its way around my throat, your bicep pushing into my neck, and your other hand pressing against the back of my head. “Nooo,” I whisper softly, my hands flying to your forearm as you start to squeeze, pushing my head forward into the choke, tightening your hold around my throat.

My fingers press in to your arm, squeezing that bicep, amazed at how solid and hard it is as I sputter my first cough. Pawing at you, trying peel your arm away, this is where your greater size and strength shine, as my efforts turn out to be useless, coughing and gurgling beginning to intensify. My fingers slide against your skin, and then, taking a page from your playbook, morph into claws, my nails digging into the flesh of your arm, trying to carve into your bicep, while my legs kick and sweep the floor, my back arching away from you—your hand applying more and more pressure to the back of my head, pushing me into your arm, I can feel my face start to get hot—not from the liquid you sprayed at me, but from turning red due to lack of oxygen.

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I’m almost naked, wrapped around a gorgeous brunette in a passionate embrace, and we’re being filmed – and if it wasn’t for Bobby Flay and a bunch of aroused camera guys, this would be the end of a perfect date night. We’ve even had drinks and dinner! Well, served it. And rolled around in it. And it was mostly olive oil and Oreos, so this restaurant needs work. But the important thing – the IMPORTANT thing is that this hold seems to work just as well on you as it does on Beat-Em-Up Billy, the padded guy who gets kneed in the crotch and choked by a bunch of tattooed girls at the Gorilla Self-Defense School on Alberta Street in Portland. I tighten my arm, flexing.

My biceps shifting to squeeze your – fuck, what are those called, Sensei Skye was so on about these fucking things … carotids! Yeah! My hand cradling your head, squeezing tight to force your head down into the vice of my arm. I can feel you pawing at my arm – and I bite my lip, tucking my head against your brunette hair and breathing you in, and grinding my bigger form against you, my breasts mushroomed against your back and my hips rubbing against you, slyly, so not even the cameras can really catch it as my warm panties rub against you.

And then your nails sink in, MAULING my inked arm, dragging curls of red ribbon down my arm. “NNHGHHHHHHHHHH FUCK …” I scream out – and I sink my teeth into your shoulder, tucking my head and BITING down as you claw me, using the pain. Fucking USING the pain, flexing my arm even as blood pulses over my tattering tattoos.

My bicep quivers, my arm jolting – and I snarl, teeth sunk into your shoulder and flex my right arm to SHOVE your head harder against my trembling bloodied arm.

The pain is hot and sizzling like spattering grease from a cast iron. Like brushing my arm against the salamander while it’s on high.

I hold on, because THIS is my fucking menu … although if you don’t fade out soon you’re gonna’ stop that arm from doing anything but hanging at my side and bleeding.


Your screech as I tear into your flesh gives me hope—and as I keep up the mauling, I await the release of my neck—but when one, two moments pass and the choke continues despite your scream of pain, reality slowly sets in, and I MOTHERFUCKER!!! My shoulder and back explode in pain as you sink your fangs into the muscle between my neck and shoulder-blade. I can feel the canine and incisors tearing into me, and recalling your nails carving me, that would be the equivalent of butterfly kisses compared to this.

Immediately I retract my claws, hoping you’ll take that as a squid pro quo (culinary humor—it’s what’s for dinner…) and pull your teeth out, but that doesn’t happen. Maintaining your lock on my shoulder, the hold around my neck becomes even more intense, if that were even possible, your bicep flexing, pressing into my carotid, slowing the blood as well as air supply (here I am, the one that you love) to my brain.

My feet kick furiously at nothing, tears careening down my cheeks as I paw feebly at your arm, and then, as my chest heaves, my hands slide from your arms down my chest, my fingers tracing a path down my breasts and settling limply on my thighs. I feel my body shudder, and my head lolls forward, drooping, my body relaxing and then flaccid against yours.


I can taste your blood. Salt, rich and complex, like pink Himalayan salt. A tang of copper like you get when you slow cook sprouts in a copper pan. A little hint of sweetness. A sauce this elegant would work with almost anything, really. I can feel my arm burning, searing, pulsing. I can feel your naked back against my breasts. I can feel the shift of your muscles. I can smell your sweat, slick and spicy. I can hear those rich screaming gurgles. I can feel the satin tangle of your sweaty hair in my fingers. Every single sense is wrapped up in you. —

Your claws release – and then your hand slowly fades. My mouth lifts from your shoulder, my lips swollen and slick with red, my pierced tongue dragging that taste from my lips. And you’re sagging. Melting. Slumping. Collapsing like a soufflé in a slammed oven.

You relax … and then … all that strength, all that passion, all that cunning, all that cuteness, all that sly deceitful vicious bitchiness under that sugar-sweet pixie icing … it all …
… fades out.

That feeling almost makes me orgasm on national television, shuddering against your back with my hips rocking, groaning softly in my throat. I’ve never felt anything quite like this.

I lower you, settling you across my thighs and looking down at you, panting. I’m blood-streaked and sweat-soaked and oil coated and a fucking hot mess. But fuck you, honey, because I’m fucking awake.

I look up, and see all those indifferent alien camera eyes staring at us. At me. Waiting. Waiting for more.

I glare back and forth, a caged creature noticing the zoogoers for the first time.

And then an evil smirk crosses my lips as I hook my hands under your arms – and stand, dragging your limp body over to the judges’ table. I haul you up and hook my hand in your flossy thong, yanking it into you as I drag your ragdolled body up onto the table, and lay you out on your back in front Giada who has an icepack on her ribs and is glaring smoldering fury at me, the drooling and panting Sandwich King, and Andrew, who crooks that funny little smile of his as his eyes flicker over your unconscious form.

I stand there, panting, my hands on the table, wearing nothing but a sweaty pair of low-riding panties I bought last fucking Halloween. I look around at the cameras, my sweaty purple mane tossing, and rub my bloodied bicep – and then stroke the blood over your breasts, caressing them with a slow, exquisite touch.

“Judges,” I purr softly, my eyes smoldering as I run my hand over your breasts, smearing them in crimson, and then caress your sleeping face, turning it towards the three celebrity chefs.

“For the dessert round I’ve prepared for you a tenderized bitch.”

“She’s basted in her own juices. You’ll notice how fucking SOFT she is on the mouth.”

I lap my bloody lips and slap your bruised belly, drawing a soft dreaming groan from you as your body jolts softly.

“She was DONE a while ago, but she didn’t fucking realize it, so I hope her temperature suits you.”

I hook my fingers in your thong, and peel it down your legs, leaving it bound around your knees in a little sweaty knot, baring you for the Sandwich King’s boiled-egg eyes, wide and white and steam coming from his collar like a wolf in a Tex Avery cartoon.

“It’s a simple fucking dish, but one that ANYONE can enjoy.”

And I give your naked pussy a demeaning SLAP that echoes across the pin-drop silent studio.

“Bon fucking appetit.”

And with a snarl, I turn, and shoulder my way out of the room, back towards the dressing room. Bobby Flay takes a step towards me, one hand extending – and I turn on him like a fucking tiger with my fist cocked and back him off, topless and bloody or not, and I shove my way out to the dressing rooms – with one last look back at you on the judges’ table, drinking you in.

A half-grin on my face as I move past Ted Allen, reaching up to take his cigarette as I go. Puffing smoke from my nostrils as I shoulder past him, I confidently mutter, with a slight smirk, “She’s been chopped.”

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