It takes a special kind of woman to a) stand up to Gordon Ramsey's verbal violence and b) jerk him off. But Paula Deen had managed to do both.
Gordon watched Paula's work, entranced by her movements and the way her shirt stretched around her plump stomach as she leant over the bench to reach for the container of caster sugar. He sat perched on a wobbly stool, unfamiliar with the domestic surroundings. His elbows polished the bench top and his chin rested in his hands, his watery eyes never wavering from Paula. Her hands were a blur of precision as she combined her dry ingredients in her favourite mixing bowl. Her brow was deeply furrowed in concentration as she tried to remember the exact method her great-grandmother had passed down through the generations.
For the first time in his life, Gordon was able to sit in a kitchen without yelling. And it was all thanks to the lovely soothing effects of Paula, or more specifically it was all thanks to the unmentionable sexual deeds they exchanged.
Regardless, the atmosphere in the kitchen was surprisingly pleasant. The stove was giving off a warm orange glow, heating up the room as it baked the over-glazed roast chicken. Sticky and succulent, it peered out at Gordon and Paula through the grease-smeared glass of the oven door, almost as if it was spying on them. Almost as if a fibre optic camera had been secretly installed in its little chicken bum-hole while nobody had been watching. The producers were expecting things to get steamy in the kitchen again today (as they so often did) so they'd slyly prepared for more interesting camera work. If you were going to make a cooking/porn show you might as well do it well.
"Gordon, dear, I need your help with desert," Paula sung out, her nasally voice grating to the ears. Gordon visibly winced. She insisted on calling him that even though he'd repeatedly asked her not to. Some women just didn't get it. She was really starting to get on his nerves. Still, he gave the Kitchen Goddess his full and undivided attention, scooting around to the other side of the bench to meet her needs - because he knew what needs she needed met.
Immediately, without consideration of her surroundings, Paula's hands flew to Gordon's crotch like a hungry pig diving into a trough full of slops. She licked her lips with greedy anticipation and her beady eyes gleamed as she took his limp dick in hand. A hint of silver gleamed at the tip of his cock, catching her off guard. She frowned and peered a little closer. It was...a dick piercing? Yes, there was no mistaking it. Red, swollen and inflamed, it was a fresh Prince Albert piercing (Paula had a secret fetish for genital piercings so she knew all about this kind of thing). She was amazed, bewildered even, that Gordon hadn't told her he'd had it done. It wasn't as if she'd never find out.
A small smile curved at the edges of her thin, cracked lips as a dark thought danced through Paula's head. Gordon, now totally tame and blissfully ignorant (who knew all these years he just needed to get some), continued to stand there with his hands in his pockets, waiting for the blowjob that had just been derailed. Paula had a new plan. She winked at him sensually, her long false eyelashes tickling her makeup caked cheek, and she turned away momentarily to rummage around in her cupboards. As she bent down, however, Gordon unexpectedly tried to mount her, clearly misunderstanding the situation. She let out a mighty shriek and he shrieked in response and suddenly the kitchen timer was ringing and the kitchen was enveloped in a crescendo of screaming and buzzing for a good four and a half minutes.
Recomposing themselves and regaining their professionalism, Gordon and Paula collaboratively finished off the final touches for the main course. But Paula still needed to finish the desert and now they were running out of time. This time making sure Gordon could control himself, Paula produced from the cupboard a small gas bottle with a flexible hose attached to it. She grinned, exposing her needle-like fangs. Gordon was a little apprehensive and needed to be encouraged to step closer, but he gave in eventually.
Connecting the nozzle of the hose to Gordon's dick piercing was the easiest part. The hard part, the part she always struggled with, was lighting a match. She sparked the flame up and held it to the tip of Gordon's member. As soon as the match neared the steady stream of gas a tongue of fire streaked across the kitchen. Paula cackled with glee, commenting under her breath repeatedly about how awesome this was, and she'd sure proved them wrong.
Gordon was shaking his head slowly, feeling the muscles knot in his stomach. His throat felt dry and his chest felt extremely heavy. For one thing, he couldn't believe he'd agreed to do this, and for another he really needed to yell. The fact that he hadn't yelled at anyone all day was building up inside him, threatening to tear him apart from the inside out. While he watched Paula bring the small round bowls to his crotch, he finally realised what she was doing.
Carefully, she held the dishes to the flame, toasting the tops of what appeared to be crème brulee. A smile touched Gordon's mouth and he felt immensely proud, excited to each such a fine desert despite the fact that he knew it would taste like a solid bar of burnt butter. But the nice thought was that Paula had tried.
Her hands hovering so close to his penis made his thoughts run a little too wild though. His cock twitched slightly and the flame veered off to the side, suddenly out of control. Paula screeched and jerked her hand backwards, narrowly avoiding being burnt by Gordon's fire breathing ding dong. The bowl she was holding was not so lucky. Her grip failed her and the bowl went flying out of her taloned hands, shattering on the floor and oozing melted butter across the tiles.
That was the final straw. Gordon drew in a deep breath and gripped his love stick firmly in both hands. "How could you ruin a perfectly good dish, you ultimate ninny!" he yelled violently, his voice turning hoarse. He aimed his (still blazing) crotch in Paula's direction and continued to yell. "I was looking forward to blowjobs and crème brulee and now you've taken BOTH OF THOSE THINGS AWAY FROM ME! HOW COULD YOU!"
Paula dove forwards into a roll, tucking her head to her knees and landing safely out of harms way. She snarled, baring her fangs and brandishing her manicured nails as if they were filed to points - oh wait, they WERE filed to points. She hissed at Gordon. Last time things had gone so well and he'd even been lulled into a false sense of security. She'd thought this time would work without complications, but she supposed life just wasn't that easy. He was quickly becoming independent again, and that wasn't a good thing.
Meanwhile the cameras were still rolling. The chicken butt camera had achieved a nice panty shot of Paula. The producers couldn't ask for better television than this. Next week they would air the Final Showdown: Paula Deen VS Gordon Ramsey.
