by Неизвестный
“I said no touching.” His reminder was spoken clearly and calmly, and while I knew my face was suddenly red hot, he looked as relaxed as ever. There was a pulling sensation between my legs, and I sucked my bottom lip between my teeth. Fuck.
“S-sorry…” I whispered and before I knew it, I was smiling up at him. “Sir.”
If I was hoping to surprise him, I failed. He just offered a crooked smile in return, calloused and strong fingers running along the sharp edge of the ruler.
I watched them and found myself quite faint at the sight. Before my cheeks exploded, I swallowed and turned around again. My hands on the rough wooden counter, I breathed and counted to five. Had he moved? I had absolutely no idea. Finally, I reached for the book again—a challenge, his move to make now.
I only got halfway there before the crack of the ruler stopped me again. Harder this time, hard enough to make me wince and shudder. I knew I was breathing more rapidly, too. I couldn’t turn around, couldn’t look at him—not with the way my clit was suddenly pulsing in response—but then he spoke again and I realized I didn’t have to turn around at all.
“Bad girl,” he rasped, leaning over to brush the bristles of his stubble over my ear. “Keep your hands on the console. Spread your fingers…wider. Good.”
Were I to examine the course of events, I might have come to the conclusion that the best decision I could have made would have been to turn around and leave the shop right then—but I neither examined, nor left. Instead I breathed and followed his instructions. He didn’t touch me, and I still didn’t know exactly where he was standing.
“Close your eyes.”
They fell shut before I could protest. The flash of fear mingled with the excitement to interesting effects: the soft, rhythmical contractions of my left thigh; sweat in the small of my back; a tiny shivering whimper that sneaked past my lips. The smells were even more overwhelming now, but this time, instead of paper, I smelled the leather more—leather and old wood.
A sudden flash of pain across my knuckles made me exhale a curse. I pulled my hand away, cradling it in the other. Tears pooled in my eyes but my clit was thrumming, too.
“Did I tell you to lift your hands from the counter?” he asked in his maddeningly calm voice—maddening because it was so warm, so simple, so perfect.
I shook my head.
“I can’t hear you.”
“No…no, Sir.”
“Good girl. Put them back.”
I did so, and just for a moment, I eyed my knuckles as though expecting them to be raw and bloody. But they looked nothing more than slightly pinkish, and I felt silly for pulling away like that.
“Eyes closed,” he reminded me, with more of a growl this time. I should have remembered this on my own; that much was evident in his voice and in the shameful flush across my cheeks.
“Why are you being punished?” he asked then. I shuddered as he brought the ruler to the side of my face and used its sharp edge to brush the hair away from my cheek and behind my back. It was distracting enough to make me fumble the answer.
“Book,” I almost coughed out, “I t-touched your book, Sir.”
“No.” As though for emphasis, he cracked his ruler over the back of my abused hand again. I whined—louder, kept my mouth closed to avoid the fuck! I wanted to utter. Instead I drew the sound out until the last bits of air left my throat with a low groan. I didn’t take my hands off the counter.
“Be… Because I tried to touch it when you said not to touch it,” I tried again. No crack this time. The relief made me almost dizzy—or was that disappointment?
“Why did you try to touch it?” he asked. I could hear he smirk in his voice.
“I…” I knew the answer, but it was hard to say. I hesitated only a second or so, maybe three, but the ruler found its mark again with agonizing precision—never the fleshy part of the back of my hand, always the sensitive, bony knuckles. I think I wailed out loud this time. “Because you…because you smacked my hand!”
“Good girl…”
I don’t think I could feel my head in that moment—an empty floating thing, utterly happy to be led around like a helium balloon on a string. Finally, I could feel his hands, too. He was running two fingers down my spine, easily traceable under my tight sweater. When he reached the small of my back, I curved my spine inward, pushing out my rear, and I could feel more pressure resting on my hands.
“Eager…” he whispered, smiling, and took his hand away. Now I definitely wanted to cry. I don’t know how evident this was on my face but it had to have been visible because he tutted instantly. “Punishment first, young lady.”
I think I came a little bit right then and there.
“Don’t move,” he instructed again and this time, I did hear him move away. There was that temptation to see where he was going, what he was fetching, or just to remind myself what he looked like again. My head was foggy now with the vaguest recollection of clear green eyes and graying hair, a lack that was not quite fitting the physical and emotional response I was suddenly having toward him. I didn’t move though. Maybe I wanted to prove I could do as I was told; maybe I just didn’t know how to disobey him anymore.
When he came back, he stopped next to me. For a few seconds, nothing happened and my breathing accelerated nervously. Was he watching me?
Suddenly, a soft band was placed over my eyes. My lips formed a protest I didn’t utter but I stiffened slightly, swallowing hard. I could smell it now, soft buck leather, and he was tying it at the back of my head. I wondered if I was still standing straight or swaying on the spot, genuinely unable to tell.
“Turn around,” he instructed then, and I lifted my hands from the relative safety of the counter. It was harder than I thought—blindly turning. In the end, he stopped me before I moved too far. It was just a hand on my arm, pressing softly, pulling me back—but it went in little shivers all through my body.
“Hold out your palms, higher, farther out. Farther. Good girl.”
I was just able to lean my rear against the counter but my hands were stretched out far in front of me now—far enough to hurt a little without him doing the slightest thing. Panicking slightly, I wondered how long I would be able to keep them there and whether he would stop if I let them fall or even just sink a few inches. I wanted to see him, I wanted to touch him, I wanted his cock in my mouth and I wanted to stand right there, stomach in knots and wondering what he would do next.
Why, why is fear so intoxicating?
Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, he made his move. I heard the swish a fraction of a second before the ruler connected with my palms. A loud smack, a grunt of pain, a dark and desperate twinge in my clit. But however fervently I tried, I couldn’t push my legs together hard enough to press against it and relieve just a hint of that pent-up need.
“Up,” was all he said, and the moment I lifted my hands to their original position, the same crack, the same smacking strike. I think I cried out this time, but so many of these moments are a blur now. He started smacking faster, harder, and I cried into the buck leather until I begged him to fuck me, begged him to stop, begged him to touch me just a little bit before I might implode.
I hadn’t realized it at first but I had slumped forward far enough to press my temple into his chest, breathing hard and trying to recuperate. He too smelled like leather; leather, old paper and expensive coffee beans.
“Shhh…” he whispered, fingers cradling my head, curling in my hair and behind my ears. I could feel the small caresses, petting me and giving me time. I tried not to think about what a shaking, crying, sweating mess I was becoming.
“What do you say?” he finally whispered. Again his lips were so close to my ear, I could hear each plosive sound as a tiny click reaching deep into my conscience.
“Thank you…” I breathed without thinking, “Thank you, Sir.”
“Such a good girl.” He held me a little longer until I nosed and gingerly pawed at his chest. “I w
ant you on your knees, little girl.”
And onto my knees I sank. The ground was hard wood but I didn’t wince, neither did I moan when he took my hands and rubbed his rough thumb into my sore palms.
I heard the sound of his fly, then the dull snap of old elastic and finally, he brought my hands to his cock. It was glorious, warm and hard—the skin so soft at the same time. Letting my fingertips wander carefully, I explored his length and girth; I found the beautiful distinction between its head and the shaft and finally traveled down all the way to his ball sac.
“Take it in your hand,” he said then. There was something about the grumbling, growling quality of his voice that was like warm thunder. “Really take it in your hand.”
I tried, hardly feeling his skin against the sore numbness of my palms and fingers.
“Harder.”
I whimpered, swallowed hard and then found my stride, pumping up and down his shaft as he guided the direction. With the darkness surrounding me under his blindfold, each sensation seemed multiplied, echoing across my sensory landscape: my aching fingers, his steadying hand, the tiny grunts from somewhere above. My own clit seemed ready to burst, but I didn’t quite dare to plead with him anymore. Finally, oh, finally his hand found the back of my head and pulled me forward. My mouth opened without prompting and he used his cock as a brush to paint a stroke of precome over my bottom lip. Warm shudders danced down my spine.
“Good girl,” he growled again and already, my chest seemed to swell with pride at the compliment.
His finger on my chin, he pulled my jaws even farther apart and finally let his cock enter. It didn’t feel like a blow job, it felt like a ceremony of claiming. My mouth was now his and when his grip tightened in the back of my neck, my throat was delivered into his property as well, spluttering and choking. And in trade, he gave me wings or a hot-air balloon and I was flying feet from the ground, moaning softly around his cock as he pushed it against my gag reflex over and over.
My fingers pawed at his trousers, at his belt—sore as they were, I couldn’t stop the desperate need to touch him. I hardly remembered his face at all now; he had become a voice, a cock, a pair of hands, incorporeal and immensely powerful—and I was kneeling at his feet.
“When I come,” he said then, voice straining just a little away from the calm and powerful air he exuded and turning to a growl, “you will feel the need to swallow, little girl. But I want you to keep it on your tongue. Do you understand? Keep it. Keep it and show me.”
I could feel it then, the little tremors and shivers that went through his cock, the way he wanted to dance and wriggle in my mouth but was forced over and over into a wet tunnel too narrow to do much of either. In this heightened, desperate state, I could even feel his seed, pumped through his shaft a second before it sprayed into my waiting, hungry mouth. And I resisted the urge to drink it down. The sharp taste burned on my tongue; it sent my body into wild shudders, but I kept it there anyway.
“Good girl,” he said again, and pulled out and touched the side of my face so gently. “Show me.”
On his command, my mouth fell open to display the viscous liquid pooling on my tongue, and he patted my cheek.
“Good. Good. You may swallow once you’re back in your car, little one.”
Panic, red hot and burning, shot through me. I whined, unable to beg him with a mouthful of come, unable to show him my need in any other way with my eyes hidden behind his soft leather blindfold. He chuckled, and I whimpered again, desperately rubbing my cheek against his hand like a pet, like a kitten begging for attention. Don’t send me away, please, please don’t send me away!
“You may come back tomorrow to choose a binding.” Once more he petted my cheek and then bodily lifted me to my feet and led me back to the front area. “Oh, and if you really have to touch yourself—nothing but your hand. Understood? I want you to feel your punishment.”
I nodded. “Y-yes…Sir.” My head swung around once or twice trying to catch my bearings in the darkness.
Then suddenly, the blindfold was lifted, his hand moved away and a door closed behind me before I could turn around to him. I was standing there, blinking at the display case full of beautifully bound diaries, his come in my mouth and my clit throbbing.
I noticed my bag at the side of the door, and, as in trance, I reached for it. I put my phone on the floor next to it—I would come to collect it the next day.
KNEADING LESSONS
Tilly Hunter
I’d smiled at the line of flour crossing the pockets of Tom’s jeans as I followed him into the back of the bakery. He had a firm ass, but I couldn’t decide if the soft denims were super-expensive or just hadn’t been washed for a month. I’d been flirting with him over the counter for weeks. Ever since I’d first seen that program with celebrity chef Joel Watson that had enlightened me on the horrors of factory-made bread.
I’d gone on a quest for a decent bakery and found Tom’s quaint little shop just outside the ring road. Wild-haired, thick-armed Joel had merged in my fantasies with shaven-headed Tom’s sparkly eyes and cheeky grin. I suspect it was the shared Scottish accent, all soft and rounded with that oh-so-correct pronunciation of all the wh words. All I could think about at night was a deep voice whispering oh so correctly in my ear as strong hands kneaded my flesh.
Now I had a momentary reality check. Within minutes of arriving on the pretext of getting some baking tips from this virtual stranger, I was lying naked on his table, my back and butt grinding into flour and grain and crumbs of dough, legs open and cunt on display. And it felt so good.
Single for over a year, I’d nurtured my new obsession with real bread as the latest substitute for sex. Joel had captivated me from the TV screen as he kneaded a floury lump until it responded like a live being in his hands, turning soft and silky and smooth. I’d always had a thing for men’s forearms and Joel’s were well muscled and covered in dense, golden hair that ended up tangled with specks of dough. His talk of wild yeasts and stone-ground rye and hand-pressed virgin olive oil was an enchantment. But right now I wasn’t thinking of Joel’s firm grip on my butt but that of Tom, not a celebrity chef but a real master baker with real strong fingers.
I’d gone to his bakery for help, after yet another disaster that morning. As I’d lifted my hands from the worktop, the dough clung to them and I already feared the worst. It slowly peeled from my fingers and hit the lightly floured surface with a thud.
“Wetter is better,” said the recipe from Joel’s book. Chance would be a fine thing, I thought. After precisely ten minutes of stretching and pummeling, I dropped the gooey mess into a bowl, covered it with plastic wrap and placed it in the airing cupboard, where my thermometer confirmed the correct temperature of eighty degrees Fahrenheit.
I’d spent the next two hours on a report for work, having long since forgotten my rule of never working on a Sunday, now that I had no significant other to distract me. Sure enough, the dough had risen in its allotted time, although I was finding it hard to judge by eye exactly what “doubled in size” meant. I thought about Joel Watson’s cock doubling in size when it was kneaded and warmed.
As I’d set to shaping the dough, the doorbell rang and I placed a floury fingertip on the intercom. “Hello?”
“Hi, Emma, it’s Paula. Do you want to come out for lunch?”
“I’m a bit busy, but come up and have a cuppa.”
I buzzed Paula, my colleague and closest friend, into the building and knocked the latch off the door with my elbow.
“What the hell are you doing?” Paula asked, looking at my hands.
“Making bread.”
“Why?”
I wouldn’t expect Paula to understand. We’d eaten many a takeaway together. Paula admitted she’d never used her cooker, only the microwave for frozen ready meals. But for me, Joel’s show and book had been a revelation and I’d vowed never to touch a plastic-wrapped, presliced lump of cotton-wool white again. Instead, Tom’s bakery had introduced me
to chewy-crusted Campagne, dense and nutty rye bread, flaky, butter-rich pastries and tongue-tinglingly sweet sponge with dark candied cherries on top.
“I saw this TV program with a guy called Joel Watson about how bad the industrial bread-making process is for you,” I said. “That’s why so many people are becoming allergic. The process is too fast. So I thought I’d make my own.”
“Joel who?” said Paula. “A slice of toast never made me ill. I’ll put the kettle on.”
I’d carried on shaping, flattening, folding, rolling. I placed the dough in the tin, seam side down, and returned it to the airing cupboard.
“So are you too busy for lunch, then?” Paula asked. “I fancied the Royal Oak. They do a very nice steak baguette.”
“Yeah, semi-baked in a factory and delivered frozen to be finished off in five minutes in their chemically cleaned ovens. I’ve got to wait for this dough to prove. Why don’t you stick around and try it?”
“It’d better be good,” Paula said. “Why don’t you get a machine?”
“It wouldn’t be the same. Bread’s one of the simple basics of life; I want to be able to do it myself.” And I have nothing else firm and organic and wholesome to get my hands on, I thought.
“You’ve lost me already. That new trainee starts tomorrow,” Paula went on. “I heard he’s a bit older than usual. You could be in there. He’s tall too, apparently.”
“I’m not that old,” I complained. “And I don’t like lanky blokes.” I couldn’t talk to Paula about the kind of men I liked; she was no good at being discreet.
“You’ll never get anyone with that attitude. My Mikey isn’t exactly the hunk I’d always imagined. You have to compromise once you hit your thirties.”
“I’ve only just turned thirty. And I certainly don’t want an office romance.” I had particular tastes. I didn’t want some suited office clone but a real man who could take charge.