Spiced Vanilla

by Victoria Blisse

  He rubbed my shoulders and my back and kissed my neck. He spun me around, and we kissed, water dripping over us both, his arousal evident. Joy had filled me when I’d dropped to my knees and pleasured him right there, with the water tickling my back.

  He was not a particularly bold lover, and that instance was a startlingly enjoyable break from the bedroom only routine. I loved John dearly, but I always felt guilty for longing for more than he’d ever give me.

  I’d brought it up once, over a silly scene in a television programme.

  “I think spanking is kinda sexy,” I said. I bit my bottom lip and prepared to play the naughty little girl.

  “I don’t,” he replied. “It’s not right to exert power over another.”

  And that had been the end of that. I hadn’t argued. John would have won out in the end, and I did not want to reveal my perverted nature. I love to be submissive, to be held under the power of a man. I never had that with John.

  And suddenly my mind flicked back to the patisserie and Jack commanding me to stay where I was. My stomach tightened, and arousal ran through my veins. Jack seemed like a man who would take control well. His hands were big and hard, and I could just imagine them pulling down my trousers and knickers, to spank me for being bratty and wilful.

  He would just bend me over his lap. I’m not a small person, but he’d manhandle me into position, and he’d spank me, ignoring my kicks and yelps. He’d punish me, for being a dirty, naughty girl, and I’d love every moment of it. My fingers had sneaked into the soft springy down on my pubis, and they slipped lower, the wetness between my thighs, thick and unctuous and nothing to do with the warm trickling droplets of the shower.

  I swallowed down the guilt and imagined myself on my knees between his thighs, the musk of his skin so apparent, the spiced vanilla luring me in to taste him. I imagined my bottom on display, red from his ministrations and his cock in my mouth, his fingers in my hair. I wanted to worship this man like that, my hands behind my back, my mouth the only tool available to pleasure him.

  My fantasy flicked to another scene as my fingers rubbed urgently at my clit. The need for an orgasm had taken over me and I would do anything to come. I was back in the shop, but I wasn’t sat on the chair. I was kneeling on it, my hands clasping the back, my arse stuck out, naked, wet and wanting. He fucked me then, hard and without a moment’s thought to my pleasure. His cock slammed into my cunt, and as he violently thrust into me, he held onto my hair like reins.

  I exploded, yelped and shook. I felt warm and peaceful for a moment, then guilt pricked me. It was too early to think of replacing John, surely. It had been barely a year since his passing. We had been in love. That shouldn’t be forgotten so quickly, should it?

  I stopped the flow of water and stepped out onto the thick bath rug. I wrapped a towel around myself and remembered John. He’d want me to move on. I’d known that for so long.

  “No regrets,” he would tell me time and time again. “Learn to live with no regrets, and you’ll find peace.” It was always so black and white with John, whereas I was always a cloud of grey. How could I not regret having our love terminated so sharply and so prematurely? I wondered, if it had been reversed, if he’d been injured and I’d been dead, whether he’d be over me, living with no regrets. I concluded that, probably, he would be.

  Maybe, I should have moved on, but just because I fantasised about Jack did not mean he would fantasise about me. He only wanted me there to talk to. He was a little lonely, and probably, he felt sorry for the strange, fainting unemployed girl. I’m not the kind of woman a hot man like Jack would be interested in. I have far too many curves in all the wrong places.

  Chapter Two

  “I thought you weren’t going to turn up,” Jack said as I walked through the door a good half hour later than I’d said I would. The sweet shop scent wrapped around my senses and embraced me, the traces of spice and vanilla heating my body as I thought of Jack and the fantasies I had enjoyed the night before.

  “I know. I’m so sorry. I was just about to leave the house when the cat decided to puke all over the place. Bloody animal.”

  “But you love it really,” he laughed.

  “Yeah, something like that. My mum bought it me after the—” I pulled myself up, I didn’t want to reveal so much so early on. “Well, so I wouldn’t be lonely. I prefer dogs.”

  Jack laughed again, and my heart thumped harder.

  “I reckon I should only give you half a cake for your services today.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to bother with that.” I blushed. “You were so good to me yesterday.”

  “No, a promise is a promise. Any cake you like. Choose.”

  “Oh, well, can I have a slice of the cheesecake? I’ve been fantasising about your cheesecake for so long. I’ll take it home, if you don’t mind.”

  “Okay, but watching you eat it is my favourite bit, you know. I don’t get to see people enjoying my cakes enough. Especially if you’ve been fantasising about it.”

  My stomach was too full of butterflies to swallow even a mouthful, though I really did want to please him.

  “Not today I’m afraid, Jack. My stomach couldn’t take it.”

  “All right, I’ll box you up a slice. Take a seat, do. Would you like a drink?” I shook my head, and his brow crinkled a little.

  “How’s business been today?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Oh, not bad, not bad,” he replied, “I had a good morning anyway. It’s been dead this afternoon. Here, let me take your coat.”

  I undid the buttons on my sensible, woollen coat. It looked a bit past its best, though it had been expensive when I bought it all that time ago. It still kept me warm, and as autumn was rolling in, I needed it against the bitter cold wind and the freezing rain that came in unexpected bursts through the end of summer.

  I did have a cat, though it spent most of its time outside, and I was pretty sure it had two or more homes, and it hadn’t puked up at all. I’d just taken a very long time deciding what to wear.

  It was too cold to wear anything particularly revealing, not that I owned anything particularly revealing. As a teacher, I had learnt to dress conservatively, especially with seventeen year old boys in the mix. I did find a deep, dark orange top with a long floaty hem and a deep V of cleavage that covered up my tummy nicely and brought attention to my abundant breasts. I’d paired it with a long, heavy brown corduroy skirt that came down to my ankles and covered the tops of my boots. I felt pretty sexy, especially as I wore my favourite red lace underwear underneath.

  “Orange is a good colour on you,” he said, as he walked back into the shop, and I blushed.

  “Oh, thanks.”

  “Compliments the creamy colour of your skin.”

  I almost felt the words caressing the exposed flesh at the V of my top. I bit my lip and surreptitiously rubbed my thighs together. This man drove me crazy with lust, and he’d not even said anything that intimate.

  “I don’t know how you manage to work here day in and day out. I’d be eating all the stock,” I said. “Just the delicious smell is enough to make my mouth water.”

  The air was dense with vanilla, cream and chocolate with that special light air of sweet baking that any baker will tell you lingers long after the cake in question has been cooked.

  “I do my fair share of tasting,” he replied, his tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip. He smiled. “But I enjoy profit far more.”

  “It seems a crime to eat these. They’re all such works of art.”

  “You flatter me.” I was rewarded by the light flush to his cheeks. “I’m not that good.”

  “Oh, stop with the false modesty. You could display these in an art gallery, and people would pay just to look at them and smell them.”

  “Ah, but if you do not touch them or taste them you are missing out on most of the sensation.”

  His eyes seemed to have darkened to the colour of cooked spinach and instead of bei
ng focused on his cakes they were fixed firmly on the pale mounds of my breasts.

  “Oh, well, yes, they taste divine,” I replied, in a fluster.

  “I bet they do,” he quipped and cocked an eyebrow. I blushed not just on my cheeks. It leaked down and suffused my chest, too.

  “Which is your favourite?” I asked, directing my gaze from his darkened eyes and towards the cake display beside us.

  “Oh, it’s so hard to choose.” His voice purred, but the softness was belied by the sheer power of his tone. “I am a fan of chocolate,” he said, “and fresh fruit. I like to mix them with cream and soft sponge and maybe just the sweetest, smallest touch of exotic spice. The new, the exciting, the just discovered are my favourite cakes to create.”

  “You’re very talented.” I did not see him take a step, but he seemed so much closer to me when I looked back towards him. Had I moved? I was confused and a little hypnotised by his gaze and just as I thought his lips would fall down to mine, the bell on the door jingled.

  I jumped. He just smiled sardonically and transferred his attention to the customer. Lust pounded through my bloodstream, desperate to get out. I took a shuddering breath, and as Jack bent to box up the lady’s cupcakes, he winked in my direction.

  I tried to get a grip on what was happening. I was pretty sure Jack had been flirting with me. His words had certainly seemed suggestive at the time, but surely, I was imagining it. He was tall, lean and very handsome. There was just no way he could fancy little, dumpy old me, was there?

  “I think it’s about time to call it quits,” he said and walked over to the door through the now empty shop. “I don’t think we’ll get anyone else in today. School holidays are bad for the late afternoon trade.” He turned the sign in the window and pulled the bolts across the door. “I’ll lock up properly later. Now you can come and see my kitchen.”

  I was a little annoyed at his lack of manners. Who said I wanted to see his kitchen and who said I wanted to be locked in with him, alone? Then annoyance faded, and nerves took its place. I was sure I actually shook with tension.

  He took my hand as he walked past. For him it seemed a natural action. For me, it felt like he was claiming me, marking me as his. His fingers were long and hard, and they gripped mine fiercely but with a tenderness that took my breath away. We walked together around the back of the displays and into the kitchen. He led. I followed. I enjoyed his touch and discovered his deep musky smell. It was nothing pretentious, not aftershave or expensive product. It was just a suggestion of a fresh soap like scent with a hint of lemon and something more exotic.

  “This is my sanctuary,” he announced as we walked into the large, industrial kitchen. In the middle was a large, wooden table with thick legs and a worn top, all around the walls were ovens and hobs, stainless steel sides and a big, huge sink. “This is my pride and joy.”

  “It’s amazing,” I gasped, awed by its size and humbled by its homeliness. I knew this was an intimate place for him, and he would not invite just anyone into his kitchen. It felt as if I had been granted access to his innermost being, even more intimate than being invited into his bedroom. I felt slightly uncomfortable with the new step in our budding relationship. I struggled not to show it.

  “I love this table.” I ran my hand along the warm, soft edge. I felt the undulation of the time worn grain beneath my fingers, the varnish light and the table obviously antique.

  Just as I contemplated asking about its history, my hand slipped, knocking a silver bowl with a clang and spilling the contents all over the table.

  “Oh, hell, I’m sorry.” The unctuous, shiny chocolate goodness oozed across the clean top and made an awful lake of gooey mess. The warm, embracing scent filled the air and made me long to taste it. “Let me clean it up. Have you got something I can use?”

  “Yes,” he said, removing the silver bowl from the tabletop. “Your tongue. You can lick it up.”

  I looked at him. He wasn’t joking. His face was set. It was a command, yet I saw a glint of amusement in the green depths of his eyes. He was playing with me. “Hang on, though. I don’t want you to get that beautiful top messy.” He turned me to face him, his hands on my hips. He lifted my top, and I raised my arms so he could pull it off completely. I don’t know why I did let him undress me like that. Maybe it hadn’t been fear beating in my chest but arousal.

  “Oh, wow, that is a beautiful bra,” he whispered as I lowered my arms. “We better remove that, too.”

  “But,” I started to protest but he fixed me with his stern gaze, and I bit my lip to keep quiet. My breasts are big, round, and soft, but they are not perky. I held my breath as he walked behind me and unclasped the hook, then slid the straps down my arms. His strong hands aroused every spot of skin they skimmed over. My breasts dropped to their more natural positions, their artificial perkiness removed. When he stood before me and devoured me with his eyes, I did not detect a single note of disappointment. I straightened my back and pressed out my chest. I enjoyed the objectification of his stare.

  “Now clean up the mess you made. Come on. I haven’t got all day.”

  I looked from him to the table in front of me. The puddle was located towards the middle of the table. I took a deep breath and obeyed his command. I had to shuffle close to the table’s edge and lean right over to get my tongue to the pool of chocolate. It smelled creamy yet bitter the milky softness broken by a harsh edge of cocoa that seemed exotic and tempting, and as I lapped, I realised it was a mixture of good, bitter chocolate and smooth, silky cream. It tasted good, and I imagine this concoction finished off many of his confectionary creations.

  It was strangely erotic, the wood beneath my breasts and stomach, the chocolate smearing on my skin where it touched, and the action of lapping made several sexually explicit images leap to mind. I opened my eyes and looked straight ahead. Jack was there, kneeling or squatting so his face was level with the table edge, and he stared intently at my tongue.

  I blushed yet kept on lapping up the delicious chocolate-slick before me. He caressed his lips with his tongue and I felt my pussy spasm with pleasure. What a slut I was.

  “Keep licking,” he commanded and moved from sight. I wondered what he was up to. I continued the rhythmic licking, imagining it was his chest, his thigh, his cock, then I yelped in surprise as his hands grasped my hips.

  He unzipped my skirt, and it dropped to the floor. I was about to protest, but he silenced me with one, sharp command.

  “Hush.”

  I hissed as his hand contacted my butt with a heavy slap. I wished I had put on a different pair of knickers, the thong-back of these provided no protection for my buttocks at all.

  “Hush, I said. I’m punishing you for making a mess.”

  It was what I’d always wanted. The bitter sting of his hand clapped down on my tender butt-flesh and turned to pleasure by the purring eagerness of my pussy. His slaps rained down harder, and I tried my best not to make a sound.

  It hurt though, and soon, I was pushing my hands down to my bottom in an attempt to shield it from his blows.

  “No,” he snapped. “Move those hands, young lady. Now.”

  I did, and he continued to spank my heated flesh. Although I was turned on to the point of saturation, I could not take the bitter sting and moved my hands to deflect his again.

  “Right, fine,” he growled. “Stretch your arms straight out in front of you.”

  I hesitated.

  “Now,” he barked, and I complied, chocolate sticking and slipping along each limb as I extended them forward through what was left of the chocolate slick. He walked around to the front of me again, his apron in his hand. He wound the cotton cloth around my wrists and tied it in a knot so my hands were held immobile above my head.

  “Right.” He picked up a wooden spatula from the table opposite, the kind with little rectangular holes running down the middle and walked away again out of my sight. I questioned how I ended up like that, tied, covered in chocolate and
at his mercy. I could only think that he’d harnessed the secret submissive in my soul and I was helpless to resist his domination.

  The slap of the spatula was lighter yet more torturous than the tap of his hand. The whooshing sound scared me, and the crack and sting to my buttocks had me screaming with pain and arousal.

  “Beautiful,” he crooned, as his fingers gently traced over the point of impact, his tender touch aroused me even more than the spanking, and I craved more of it. After each slap of the spatula, his fingers soothed my flesh, and I began to welcome the stinging as the prelude to his sensual caress.

  “Enough,” he growled the word. “Stand up, and turn to face me.”

  I straightened, bending my elbows and bringing my bound hands together in front of me as if I were venerating him as my leader. He stared at me for a moment, his gaze taking in the bound hands, the chocolate-smudged breasts, the long, exposed legs in little ankle boots, that must look ridiculous with my general nakedness. A noise rumbled from his chest to his lips and sent my senses into overdrive.

  He ripped off his T-shirt, his apron already wrapped around my wrists, and strode over. He pushed me until my bum was level with the table. His legs rested between my thighs, his arms around my waist, and he lifted me onto the table, with no outward sign of exertion. I wanted to run my hands up and down his shoulder muscles. They bulged so magnificently, I guessed that baking built good upper body strength. It must have done for him to lift me with so little effort.

  It was strange how his next action seemed so much more intimate, so much more sexual than anything that had gone before. As he rested between my thighs, he cupped my cheeks with his strong, slightly sticky hands and leant in for a long, hard and demanding kiss.

  It pulled my desire through me and I found it all to be displayed there, where our lips touched and met. He could feel how turned on I was. I smelled my own heavy, sexual musk and I was sure he could too, how desperate I was for this, for him, and I did not feel embarrassed. I felt empowered as he forced his tongue between my lips and I pressed my pelvis up, longing to feel his fingers, his tongue or his cock thrust inside me there.