A Taste of Passion

by Ashley Lister

  He pressed the button on the remote again.

  The image on the screen changed to show a graph of financial predictions.

  ‘Our projected figures show that we’d be turning a twenty-five per cent profit within the first quarter.’ Another click revealed another graph. ‘Investors should have received a full return on their investment within the first year. By the end of the second year we’re hoping to be independent.’

  ‘This all seems quite impressive,’ Charles murmured.

  Rebecca nodded.

  Bill’s mouth was tight.

  ‘Within our three year goals we plan to open a local outlet for our products,’ Donny said. He’d clicked the remote control mouse in his hand. The screen now showed a picture of the local high street. ‘If that proves successful we’ll be looking into franchising opportunities for the Sweet Temptation name.’

  Another click on the mouse.

  This time the image showed a series of supermarket logos.

  ‘Within the next ten years we’re hoping to produce speciality lines for the major names in the food industry.’ He clicked the mouse again and the image returned back to the Sweet Temptation website: the ultimate in satisfaction.

  ‘I appreciate that I’m trying to sell this idea to you,’ Donny told them. ‘And I apologise if this comes across as a hard sell because I’m aware that this investment doesn’t need much selling. We have a top quality range of products. We have a top quality team working to achieve success with this venture. All we need is your initial investment so we can make this dream a reality.’

  There was a long pause.

  Donny’s smile remained fixed as he considered Charles, Bill and Rebecca. He summoned Charlotte and Trudy to join him before the potential investors and said, ‘Does anyone have any questions? We’ll do our best to answer anything you care to throw at us.’

  ‘This does sound quite well-considered,’ Rebecca admitted. ‘And I can see the potential for success here. The packaging looks very attractive. I imagine that would be popular in offices for birthdays and special occasions.’

  ‘It sounds absolutely thrilling,’ Charles agreed. ‘What do you say, Bill? What’s your verdict?’

  Bill shook his head. He stood up so abruptly his chair fell over. Without looking back he started towards the doorway. ‘Don’t waste your money.’

  Then he was gone.

  Chapter 13

  She fell into Bill’s arms as soon as he opened the door. He lived in a cottage at the back of the restaurant. The cottage enjoyed the same rural ambience she had seen when she’d been admiring the rustic setting of Boui-Boui. Black rock chickens, each plump with ebony plumage and sporting a crimson comb and wattle, clucked their way around his garden. She had noticed ornamental carp flitting majestically back and forth in the large pond that dominated the grounds at the rear. There were colourful strains of herbs growing in regimented rows beside the pathways and beneath the ornamental ivy-covered arches. In nearby fields there were grazing cows lowing and gambolling lambs baaing to each other. On the horizon, before the rest of the world was hedged off by a border of poplars, she thought she had glimpsed a faraway cottage looking picturesque, idyllic and remote.

  But these were details she would inwardly catalogue later.

  When Bill opened the door she stepped into his embrace and held him tight.

  ‘Trudy? What are you doing here? You’re chuffing freezing, lass.’

  She had rushed all the way from the Hadfield Hotel without bothering to retrieve her jacket from the cloakroom. It had seemed more important to visit Bill than worry about such small matters as clothing.

  ‘I’m a little cold,’ she admitted. She barely registered the modern design of his cottage’s interior, or acknowledged that the decor was more akin to the glossy sleek lines of his commercial kitchen rather than the rustic charm of the restaurant’s public face. The walls were brilliant white and the fixtures and fittings were ultra-shiny ebony. The floor was shiny dark wood, polished and lacquered to a smooth, clean finish. But, again, Trudy decided these were all details she could contemplate later once she had made peace with William Hart.

  ‘I thought our date was eleven tonight.’ He sounded surprised but that didn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around her and returning her embrace. ‘Is something wrong? Has something happened?’

  ‘I wanted to see you before our date tonight.’

  She could have told him that she desperately needed to see him but she didn’t think there was any reason to explain the situation in such melodramatic terms. She was there and they were holding each other and nothing else mattered.

  He sighed. ‘This is about the way I walked out of your presentation, isn’t it? I should explain.’

  She shook her head and silenced him with a kiss. His lips were soft beneath hers but there was the slight prickle of a looming five o’clock shadow. The combined frisson of pleasure and pain was delightfully exciting. She could feel her body immediately responding to him. Her pulse raced. Her breasts seemed to swell within the restrictions of her bra. She was acutely aware of the growing heat within her panties.

  ‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘You have no need to explain anything. You were there as a consultant. If you didn’t think Sweet Temptation showed any promise then you were absolutely right to walk away.’

  ‘It does show promise, but –’

  He broke off suddenly. One hand had curled into a fist and she could sense he was trying to contain a mounting fury.

  ‘Dammit, Trudy. I haven’t known you twenty-four hours and this is –’

  She guessed he was going to say it was complicated. She figured he had good reasons for walking out on the presentation and, whilst she was curious to know what those reasons might be, she didn’t want him to feel obligated to tell her.

  ‘– this is difficult,’ he admitted.

  She shook her head. ‘I didn’t come here for an explanation.’

  She stopped short of telling him that she had only gone there because she wanted to make sure he hadn’t left because she was there – as though he might be suspicious that she had planned to meet him and seduce him the previous night because she had known he would be at the investment presentation the following afternoon.

  ‘I honestly didn’t come here for an explanation. I came here to make sure you and I were still OK.’

  He waved a dismissive hand as though that much was obvious. ‘But I want you to know about this,’ he said. ‘It’s just an awkward situation. I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. The idea came to her on a whim. As she was saying the words Trudy realised it was the perfect solution. ‘Whatever it is I’ve done here to cause an issue, I’m genuinely sorry.’

  ‘You’ve got no need to say sorry.’ He frowned and looked confused. ‘You haven’t done anything. You’ve got no need to apologise.’

  ‘I have,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t know what it is that I’ve done. But I’m sure I’ve done something really bad. Something that needs atonement.’

  He stared at her blankly, his expression uncomprehending.

  She drew a deep breath and fixed him with a purposeful stare. She hoped he had been serious with his suggestion in the market and that she wasn’t about to embarrass herself with a more severe humiliation than any she had ever known. Given the way her day had gone so far, she did not think a severe humiliation would buck the trend.

  ‘Whatever it is I’ve done, I probably need spanking because of it.’

  He studied her in silence for a long moment.

  She watched the understanding creep slowly over his face.

  Eventually, the threat of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. The kind creases around his eyes deepened. He nodded agreement. ‘You probably need spanking?’ he repeated.

  She struggled to contain a grin. She half turned and bent, showing him the swell of her backside in the tight black dress she wore. She chased one hand over the smooth fabri
c, stressing the large rounded curve of one cheek. Of all her features, Trudy knew she had good legs and a great backside.

  ‘I’m sure I need spanking,’ she drawled huskily. She hesitated and then shook her head. ‘In fact, I don’t just need it: I deserve it.’

  He licked his lips and then feigned an air of gravitas whilst nodding. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I need to bend you over now and tan that arse of yours.’

  The prospect had excited her when he made the suggestion at the market earlier in the day. Now the thought had her weak at the knees and desperate to suffer the flat of his hand against her buttocks. The inner muscles of her sex clenched and convulsed as though the mere suggestion of punishment had inspired a rush of hot liquid longing.

  ‘Come into my kitchen,’ he growled. ‘That will be the best place for this matter.’

  Obediently, and only a little puzzled, Trudy followed him.

  It was a large room, not the typical compact kitchen that belonged in such a small home. This room was kitted out with all the professional equipment she would have expected to find in a master chef’s residence. The double oven was oily black and piped with steel trim. It sat beneath the shadow of a silver hood and immediately under eight hobs: four gas and four electric. On the opposite wall was a huge double-door fridge freezer in the same design of oil blacks and steel piping as the room’s other electrical goods.

  The wall cupboards had been decorated in matching materials. The shiny slate floor tiles looked as though they had been polished that morning. The windows overlooked the rustic greenery of his chicken runs, the carp pond, a modest stable and the faraway neighbour in a distant cottage.

  There was an island-cum-breakfast bar in the centre of the room. The island was cluttered with various appliances, including an espresso machine and an electrified glass dome with silver nipples that Trudy recognised as a croissant warmer. Blenders, grills, kettles and mixers sat on every counter. Knives, tongs, spatulas and oven mitts hung like regimented aspects of the wall design. The work surfaces gleamed with the polish of meticulous hygiene.

  Trudy ached to be able to work in the kitchen. More than that, she ached for Bill’s touch. She wanted to turn around and tell him as much.

  ‘You’ll call me Mr Hart whenever I’m spanking your backside.’

  He spoke with an uninflected matter-of-fact tone, as though this was an instruction he gave every day. She wondered if he did give such instructions regularly and almost swooned with the sultry heat that thought inspired.

  ‘Do you understand that?’ he demanded.

  ‘Mr Hart,’ she repeated. Saying his name with such strict formality sent a thrill of excitement chasing through her sex.

  ‘Stand with one foot there and one foot there,’ he demanded, pointing in front of a sink.

  She did as instructed, placing the toes of her shoes on the corners of slate floor tiles two rows back from the work surface and separated by two tiles. The tiles were large and it felt as though she was stretching to put her feet exactly where he wanted. It was slightly uncomfortable but she figured she was sufficiently limber from her exercise regime and she reasoned he knew what he was doing.

  Because she suspected this might prove to be fun, Trudy tried to accommodate his every instruction. She was aware of small muscles at the tops of her inner thighs becoming overly taut from the posture.

  The air in the room seemed to thicken.

  Hart nodded approval. She could see his smile starting to broaden. She could also see the bulge at the front of his pants pushing forcefully forward with his arousal.

  ‘Place your hands on that counter. One on either side of the sink.’

  She had to lean forward to do as he asked. Locking her knees, she realised she was pushing her backside out and upward for him. Her stomach muscles folded with raw longing. Her need for whatever satisfaction he could provide growled like an insatiable hunger.

  He stepped behind her and stroked her rear through the short black dress. His hands were exploratory and didn’t just caress the curves of her buttocks. She could feel his fingers pressing inquisitively against the swell of each cheek. He was lightly probing the crease of her sex.

  Her breathing deepened.

  The air in the room had been thick before. Now it was heavy and so laden with the prospect of intimacy that she could barely fill her lungs. It took every effort she possessed not to tremble with need.

  She swallowed.

  ‘Are you comfy there?’ he asked.

  Trudy nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Her words would come out in a nervous squeak. It was better he thought her a silent and willing submissive rather than a cowed and frightened fan.

  ‘This isn’t causing too much stress on your legs, is it?’

  His fingers crept to her inner thighs as he asked the question. She was treated to the sensation of his fingertips sliding slowly against the soft skin and pressing against the muscle. His touch was commanding but sensitively light. Each caress inspired a rush of heightened need. As his fingers slid upwards she realised she was holding her breath in expectation of his touch slipping against the crotch of her panties.

  Trembling, she realised that was what she wanted.

  ‘No, Mr Hart,’ she murmured. ‘It’s not causing too much stress.’

  She liked calling him Mr Hart. It was a sign of deference and respect. She liked addressing him with her tone muted in such a way. It made her feel as though she had melted in her centre.

  He grabbed the hem of her dress and lifted it up.

  She thrilled to the sensation of knowing her rear was exposed to him. Her nipples hardened and the muscles inside her sex clutched and convulsed with desperate need. She felt lightheaded with a sudden rush of animal need.

  ‘You’re ready,’ he murmured.

  Her cheeks flushed.

  She wouldn’t allow the blushes to deepen.

  ‘I’m getting wetter, Mr Hart,’ she admitted.

  He chuckled and hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties. Slowly, as though he was taking pleasure from the act of unwrapping her secrets, Hart drew the panties downwards. The fabric caressed her buttocks and got as far as her knees before he seemed to decide they were sufficiently lowered. She could feel their elastic stretching tight across her knees. The sensation was not comfortable but she savoured the suggestion of bondage that it implied.

  Her heart had been racing before. Now it pounded like a timpani.

  Knowing that she was bent over for him, her private parts exposed and her body vulnerable and ready for his punishment, was more excitement than she believed one person could possibly tolerate. She imagined the lips of her sex would be glossed with a lustre of fluid arousal. She suspected, if he looked close enough, he would be able to see the pulse of her clitoris as it throbbed with building need for his touch.

  She wanted to groan.

  The idea of William Hart inspecting her exposed sex, his nose so close she could feel the exhalation of each breath caressing her febrile lips, was almost enough to inspire an explosive thrill of pleasure. When his fingertips returned to the bare cheeks of her backside, stroking the sensitive flesh with subtle circles, Trudy wanted to moan with the demands of her growing, greedy need.

  ‘You look like you’re very excited,’ he remarked.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hart.’

  ‘Once I’ve finished spanking you I’ll have to take advantage of you and fuck you over the kitchen counter.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Hart.’

  Saying the words made her want to squirm with fresh need. She had just given William Hart permission to fuck her over a kitchen counter. Admittedly, they were already intimately acquainted. But the previous night had been a mutual exploration of each other. This was a situation where she was giving him permission to use her however he saw fit. She told herself that she needed to take a moment and make sure he understood that there would be some limitations or reservations. Then she decided those practicalities could be discussed later if t
hey were potentially problematic. For now she wanted to bask in the thrill of taking a risk.

  ‘I’d like that very much, Mr Hart.’

  He landed the first slap against her backside.

  It came without warning and struck sharp against her unsuspecting flesh.

  She chugged breath. A blossom of heat erupted against one cheek. It spread through the muscle and began to warm the tops of her thighs and the crease of her sex.

  ‘Too hard?’

  ‘No, Mr Hart.’

  ‘Then let’s try another one.’

  Before she had a chance to understand what the words meant his hand slammed swiftly against her other cheek. The sound was a deafening snap that echoed hollowly from the kitchen’s flat acoustics. The pain was a rich and delicious sting that she wanted to savour. The ensuing warmth was delightful and exciting. She could feel the centre of her sex growing wetter and wetter and knew that it would take little more than a caress of her clit and the orgasm would rush through her body.

  He slammed his hand hard against her.

  And again.

  And again.

  The orgasm had been starting to build slowly inside her. Now it hurtled to a point where she knew she would not be able to stop it. Her inner muscles clenched and convulsed. Her backside was warm and her sex was molten. Her flesh tingled with the promise of a volcanic eruption. It was golden.

  ‘Do you think you’ve been punished enough?’

  She wanted to say no, and tell him she yearned for more, but she wasn’t sure that would sound right. Trying to find a way to subtly tell him that her appetite had been aroused rather than satisfied, she said, ‘Perhaps I’ve been punished enough for now, Mr Hart? Maybe I could be punished some more, later?’

  His chuckle turned to laughter.

  ‘Stay in that position whilst I take you over the counter,’ he commanded.

  She heard the rasp of a zip being pulled down and then felt his strong hands land on her bare hips.

  He held her firmly, his palms against the tingling flesh where his slaps had excited so much marvellous sensation. When he pushed the rounded end of his hardness against her moist centre, Trudy almost buckled from the overload of sensory stimuli.