"And I suppose you can cook better than that?" he said, rising up from his chair.I sighed and shook my head. "Look, I'm not here to fight. If you want proof, let me finish this, and I'll run your kitchen for dinner service tonight. After that, we can talk."The man looked at me and laughed. "A boy like you running the kitchen here? The men on the trawlers would pay to see this. Better be ready to fall on your face, sonny."Fifteen minutes later I was looking over an extremely filthy and disorganized kitchen and wondering what I had gotten myself into. The stocks of seafood were good, but there was little in the way of vegetables or spices. I probably wasted nearly an hour trying to figure out the menu that was in place before asking the man if I could make changes. His only reply was a snort of amusement, so I quickly wrote out a couple chefs' specials for the entry chalkboard and began trying to clear an area of the kitchen to cook in.The dinner staff turned out to be a young lightly. He stood paralyzed, close, watching, fascinated with the breast and the cleansing process unfolding before his eyes. Not only was he paralyzed; he was almost numb. Something was happening and he wasn't even aware of it until it was well under way. The Redhead's other hand -- the hand not holding a breast -- had turned outward; its fingers had crept under the crotch of his trousers and cupped his balls through the fabric. Not until the hand started sliding up the front of the pants, inscribing the shape of his erect cock, then gently squeezing it, was he sure it was there. He looked into the Redhead's eyes. She smiled broadly at him and raised her eyebrows, her expression knowing and impressed, as if saying, How nice, hard as a rock.Then her expression changed, turned petulant: "It's starting to itch," she said."Yes," the Printer managed to say. "You need to wash it... with soap and water..." Show me?" the Redhead said.The Brunette stepped back out of the way, and the Redhead, her.
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