‘Bend over, Ms McLaughlin.’
She assumed the same position that she always adopted for punishment in the cottage’s kitchen. She stood before the kitchen sink and stared out through the window. Glancing down at her feet, and the grey slate tiles on the floor, she placed the toes of her shoes at the corners of a pair of floor-tiles two rows back from the kitchen sink. The tiles were separated by two tiles. The distance was uncomfortable and, for Trudy, it felt as though she was stretching to put her feet exactly where they were needed. The muscles at the tops of her thighs felt strained but she figured she was sufficiently limber from her daily exercise regime that she could take pleasure from the discomfort of a little overstretching.
Not that it was just the discomfort of an uncomfortable posture that weighed on her thoughts. The position also made Trudy stand with her legs far enough apart to make her feel exposed.
Bill knelt down and stroked the back of her calf.
His fingers were warm. The palms were callused and rough against her smooth bare skin. As he stroked upwards, his caress smoothing the back of her knee and beneath the hem of her modest charcoal skirt, Trudy could feel her excitement growing. She was desperate to feel his touch go higher and she wanted to sob out a desperate command that he should hurry up and satisfy her.
Knowing that such a demand would either be ignored or earn a punishment, Trudy refrained from crying out. She tightened her grip on the edge of the sink.
Slowly, as though he knew of her impatience and was making her wait, Bill’s fingers inched higher. He stroked her thigh with a languid, lingering hand that was deliberate and unhurried. He chuckled softly to himself and she understood he was drawing as much pleasure from the intimacy as she was enduring.
‘You’re wearing white cotton panties?’ he mused. ‘How innocent.’
She stumbled for a response. Was she supposed to thank him? Apologise? Or simply squirm from the satisfaction of knowing that he was now studying her panties and probably preparing to remove them?
‘Yes, Mr Hart,’ she mumbled.
He stroked the crotch of her panties, his fingernail scratching against the weft of the cotton fabric. The sensation was subtle enough to be described as featherlight, but it was also powerful enough to have her quivering.
The single caress was almost enough to ignite a climax.
It took an enormous effort to stand still without trembling.
His finger chased lazily back and forth against the crotch. She could feel herself growing wetter and more desperate for him. She swallowed repeatedly, choking down words that would encourage, coax and beg him to do more.
‘I need to remove these,’ he decided. ‘They’re getting in my way.’
She nodded and tried to speak. Her throat was too dry to do anything more than croak. ‘Yes, Mr Hart.’
He tugged gently at the cotton.
She was so acutely sensitive to what he was doing that every movement felt like the sort of caress that would make her body explode with an orgasmic release. Even though he was doing little more than removing her panties, slowly sliding his fingers beneath the fabric and then slipping the underwear down her legs, she could feel her responses growing more profound.
She was reminded of the previous evening in Boui-Boui’s kitchens where he had left her half-naked, exposed and vulnerable. She wondered if that was his intention this morning. The idea of revisiting that thrill made her throb with longing for him. Admittedly, it was something of a frustrating tease. But, if she was going to be teased and frustrated by any man, she was happy for her torment to be at the hands of her Mr Hart.
She stepped awkwardly out of the panties.
He peeled her skirt upwards to expose her cheeks. His roughened palms stroked the peach-like flesh of her buttocks. She wondered if he was chasing the shape of the red lines that remained from when he had spanked her the previous evening.
The idea made her tremble.
She had checked her reflection before climbing in the shower and knew the shadow of the marks remained. Did he get the same excitement from seeing those handprints that she had enjoyed? Trudy wanted to ask the question but she knew that speaking would break the spell of the moment.
Bill absently slid a finger against her wetness.
Her lips felt oily with the greedy need he inspired.
Then he was stepping away from her and demonstrating the domination that she always adored. He slapped a steadying hand against her backside, his right palm landing smartly on her bare right cheek. The blow stung briefly but she knew that was not proper punishment.
‘Six minutes,’ he reminded her.
She moaned softly. She had a good idea of what would be coming next.
At the back of her mind she knew she should be pressing on to see if Finlay’s pumpkin-pie spice addressed the shortfall in the flavour of the muffins. She should be telling him about Harvey’s offer, Donny’s threats and the anomaly of seeing a strange man outside Aliceon’s cottage that morning. But the importance of those considerations was pushed to the back of her mind and drowned out by the more urgent needs of her libido.
‘Six minutes,’ she repeated.
She tightened the muscles in her buttocks, trying to make herself ready for the blows. He stroked the bowl of the wooden spoon against her rear. She could feel him drawing slow S shapes with tails that crept close to the crease of her sex.
He didn’t stop drawing the shapes until she’d shivered with need.
Then, without any warning, he shocked her with six smart slaps from the spoon. There were three for each cheek. They were harsh, sharp and exactly what she wanted. They left her panting, excited and breathlessly expecting more.
Bill tossed the wooden spoon into the sink.
‘You were going to work on your muffins, weren’t you, Ms McLaughlin?’
She nodded. She felt momentarily stunned by the size of her unsated craving.
‘Get on with your muffins,’ Bill growled gruffly. ‘We can finish playing once you’re done baking them.’
She nodded obediently, making no attempt to let him know how desperately she wanted him. Pulling herself away from the sink she allowed her skirt to fall back into place. Then she began preparing the muffins as he had instructed.
Before sifting the flour or measuring out the sugars she needed, Trudy pulled an espresso from the machine in the centre of Bill’s kitchen. She set the drink aside to cool while she began work on the pumpkin-pie spice.
Carefully following Finlay’s instructions, grinding two teaspoons of cloves with a pestle and mortar and then adding them to two teaspoons of ground ginger, two teaspoons of ground nutmeg and two teaspoons of allspice, she finished the mixture with three tablespoons of ground cinnamon.
Bill was watching guardedly.
She liked that he didn’t interfere. Occasionally, when they were in Boui-Boui’s kitchens, he offered helpful suggestions or tips based on his years of experience in professional kitchens. But when they were alone together, he seldom did more than watch.
‘I still say that’s a chuff of a lot of cinnamon,’ he mumbled. ‘There’s times when I worry that Finlay might be losing it.’
Trudy shrugged uneasily.
She turned on the oven, adjusted the shelf and dropped a dozen dark-brown muffin cases onto a bun tray.
‘If it was anyone else I’d share your worries,’ she admitted. ‘It seems like an enormous amount of cinnamon. But this is Finlay West’s recipe for pumpkin-pie spice, and I trust his wisdom.’
Bill shrugged. ‘Let’s see how it turns out.’
She placed the mixed spice in an empty jar and labelled it Pumpkin-Pie Spice – Finlay West recipe. She added the date to the label and then put it aside.
Bill lifted the jar and sniffed warily at the contents. He raised an eyebrow and she saw the quirk of his smile on his upper lip. Was that approval? Did he think the mixture was right this time? Or did he still believe that Finlay West had lost it?
Trudy said not
hing. She began to work on the remainder of the dry ingredients, sifting flour and baking powder into a bowl. She was about to weigh out the turbinado sugar when Bill stopped her.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m adding sugar.’
‘That’s turbinado.’
‘I know. That’s the sugar this needs.’
‘Turbinado is too delicate. You’re using coffee and pumpkin-pie spice. This recipe needs a demarara.’
She considered the suggestion. The differences between turbinado and demerara were negligible. Personally she enjoyed the suggestions of honey that were sometimes found in a turbinado, whereas demerara could be rich with the remnants of its syrupy molasses content. But she supposed, balanced against the coffee and the spices she wanted in the muffins, it would be as well to try Bill’s suggestion.
‘Very good, Mr Hart,’ she demurred.
He laughed as she weighed out the demerara sugar.
She added the eggs and double cream, along with a dash of sunflower oil and the cooled espresso. After folding wet and dry ingredients together, combining them rather than mixing them, she scooped spoonfuls of mix into the dozen muffin cases. Briskly, she pushed the tray onto the shelf, set the timer app on her smartphone for fourteen minutes, and then turned to grin at him.
His smile was an eager reflection of her own.
‘We have quarter of an hour,’ she told him.
He kissed her.
It was the contact her body had needed.
His lips were firm and strong and surprisingly commanding. He nibbled gently on her lower lip as his hand went to the back of her neck and held her face still for his kisses. If she hadn’t been wet for him before, Trudy knew she would be melting after he had kissed her.
She could feel herself responding to him. The inner muscles of her sex tingled greedily as though they yearned to have him inside. Every erogenous zone on her body throbbed in anticipation of what she hoped they were about to enjoy.
‘I’ve been waiting for this moment since I woke up,’ he whispered.
She could have said the same thing.
She rubbed her pelvis against him. The bulge of his arousal was a thinly veiled hardness beneath his dressing gown. She moaned quietly, confident that he was about to satisfy all the broiling urges that he’d awoken in her loins.
‘Resume your usual position, Ms McLaughlin.’
She hesitated. Weren’t they going to make love? Did he feel a need to spank her again? She wasn’t going to object if he did want to spank her. The punishment never failed to excite her. But she had hoped –
There wasn’t time to finish the thought.
‘Resume your usual position,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t like repeating myself.’
‘Yes, Mr Hart.’
She placed her toes in the corners of the tiles and bent over the sink. Her hands found the single stem of the tap. She gripped tightly on the stainless-steel pipe and pushed out her backside for him.
He slipped her skirt up again, uncovering her rear.
The kitchen’s air was cool against her exposed flesh.
His hand slapped hard against the bare cheek of her backside. The shock of the contact was brisk and exactly what she needed to excite her senses.
But, she realised, he had no intention of subjecting her to another spanking session. She felt the weight of his erection pressing between her legs and knew that he was going to take her rudely from behind.
Yes, she thought eagerly. That was what her body craved.
She pushed herself back to meet him and was immediately filled with his hardness. Trudy cried out loudly as he thrust himself deep inside. Her fingers clutched the tap more tightly. The rush of delicious sensations flooding through her body was so sweet it brought tears to her eyes.
‘Thank you, Mr Hart.’
Then he was pulling out.
Then he was pushing back in.
He rode her with an accelerating rhythm that matched her body’s needs. His hand occasionally landed heavily against her backside, adding a fresh impetus of excitement to the exchange. The friction between them was fluid and swift and, within moments of them starting, Trudy knew he was about to push her beyond the limits of restraint.
He thrust into her repeatedly until she could feel the climax erupting through her centre. It was swift, sharp and intense. It was the release that she needed and she groaned as the pleasure tore through her body.
The spasmodic contraction of muscles was so intense she could feel the response wrench the orgasm from his shaft. He held her tight as they both basked in the climax and savoured the dwindling vestiges of satisfaction.
It was good, she thought. As always, it was very good.
But she wondered if they could have done something more. She wasn’t quite sure what else it was she needed. She just thought the climax lacked an indefinable quality that was needed to move it from something enjoyable to an experience beyond incredible. Perhaps, she thought, her body needed something more than simple spankings and sex.
Before those thoughts had a chance to form into anything more substantial the alarm on her phone was ringing and she had to snatch the muffins from the oven.
The smell was an improvement.
The kitchen was filled with the intricate scent of the muffins seasoned with pumpkin-pie spice and enriched by the heady aroma of the coffee.
Bill regarded her quizzically.
Trudy didn’t trust herself to say anything.
She put the muffins on a cooling tray while she went to the bathroom to clean up. When she returned Bill was still sitting at the counter. He’d poured fresh coffees for them both and was examining one of the muffins.
‘I was wrong,’ he admitted. ‘The cinnamon doesn’t overpower these.’
‘How does the demerara sit?’
He nodded. ‘I think it works better than the heavy crystals of a turbinado.’
Trudy chose one of the muffins and tried it.
Whatever had been missing, the issue was now rectified. This was the flavour she had wanted. The balance of coffee and spices was perfect. The flavour was intense without being overpowering. She only wished everything in life was as simple as finding the right flavour. She saw her reflection in the chrome pipes of the espresso machine and noticed she was frowning.
Bill clearly saw the same thing.
‘What’s wrong?’
She shook her head.
‘Tell me.’
‘I have to go. Charlotte and Daryl have been holding the fort at Sweet Temptation all morning. I don’t pull my weight down there as it is. I have to go.’
He considered her with obvious concern. ‘Do we need to talk?’
She nodded. ‘This evening.’ There were so many things they needed to discuss, she wondered if a single evening would give them sufficient time. ‘This evening. It’s important that we do talk.’
He gave her a sober kiss, stroked her cheek with an affectionate finger and told her to have a good day at Sweet Temptation.
Chapter 7
The factory floor of Sweet Temptation was a splendour of stainless steel, polished glass and bright gleaming surfaces. The two industrial ovens at the back of the unit gave out a constant drone. The noise was loud enough to make the three shop-floor staff, dressed from head to toe in sterile whites, shout to be heard. They dragged a clatter of trolleys, holding rows of freshly baked pastries, to the shop floor’s packing area. There, another couple of employees started to box and label the muffins, preparing them for dispatch. Trudy could hear snatches from a couple of the shouted exchanges. Someone mentioned the names Yates and White and she realised the conversation was still buzzing about the weekend’s showing of Master Baker.
Drinking in the air as she stepped into the building, Trudy recognised the scent of blueberry and citrus muffins. It was a fragrance so rich she felt as though she could chew it and savour the texture. It was a fragrance that never failed to bring a smile to her
face. Sweet Temptation was building a reputation on the success of her blueberry and citrus muffins. Now she wanted to see if the company could reach the next level of success with the coffee and pumpkin-pie-spice muffins.
Charlotte was on her mobile. She was dressed in a white coat over her business suit. She looked immaculate and competent and …
Trudy struggled to identify a mysterious quality she could now see in Charlotte’s bearing. There was something about the way she had thrown back her shoulders that strengthened her posture. There was something in the way she strutted across the factory floor that made Trudy think of Charlotte as she had been when they were studying together at university. The word that now came to mind was not one that Trudy had associated with her friend for a while. When she did make the connection, Trudy’s grin blossomed.
Charlotte looked confident.
Ever since the unfortunate incident with Donny half a year earlier, Charlotte had lost some of her usual self-belief. Throughout university she had always been assured, eager and driven. After falling into Donny’s bed her confidence had taken a knock. But now it seemed like she was back to being her former capable and driven self.
Charlotte nodded when she saw Trudy. She waved an imperious hand in a gesture that might have been a welcome or a command.
Trudy smiled blithely at her. She wasn’t sure what message was being conveyed but she was delighted that her friend was now back to the stage where she felt comfortable making such magnificent gestures.
‘You finally turned up,’ Daryl observed.
The skinny blonde was walking down the steps that led from the offices in the mezzanine above the factory floor. She was dressed in impractical heels, stockings with their tops showing and an obscenely short scarlet miniskirt. Combined with a white blouse and the reading glasses perched on her nose, the whole getup made Daryl look like some schoolboy fantasy of a saucy secretary.
‘Some of us get here for nine in the morning,’ Daryl said drily. ‘Did you know there was also a nine o’clock in the morning?’
‘Wow!’ Trudy exclaimed. ‘That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?’
Turning Up the Heat Page 6