Turning Up the Heat

by Ashley Lister

  In her headphones Trudy heard the crackle of a telephone line being connected. The sound quality was so good she could hear the woman’s respiration.

  ‘Hello, Betty,’ Trudy began cheerfully. ‘How may I help you today?’

  ‘I did have a question about main courses,’ Betty admitted. ‘But, following on from that Donny person before, can I ask a question about when you lived with those other students?’

  Kevin and the producer exchanged wary glances. Kevin was glaring at the producer. The producer raised her hands to shoulder level and shrugged.

  Trudy sympathised with the pair of them. This was not how she had envisioned the afternoon progressing. She closed her eyes and prepared for a barrage of intrusive and inappropriate questions. She wondered how scandalous the questions were going to be and how bad they might make her appear. She could feel a scalding blush burning the hairs on the back of her neck. But she knew she couldn’t back away from the questions without looking as though she had something to hide.

  ‘I guess you can ask a question about that,’ Trudy allowed doubtfully.

  Betty cleared her throat. ‘Did you cook for them?’

  That wasn’t what Trudy had expected. She paused and heard herself say ‘um’ and then ‘er’ and then ‘ah’. Eventually she said, ‘I usually cooked for them. Yes.’

  ‘What did you cook?’

  ‘I cooked various dishes.’ She could sense Betty was building to a point and she wondered if it might be a lot more innocent than she had first feared. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Again, Betty cleared her throat. ‘My daughter’s living in student accommodation at the moment. I worry that she’s not getting a balanced diet. I wondered if you had some suggestions for what students can cook and eat that’s affordable and healthy.’

  Trudy did have some suggestions.

  She could have sobbed with gratitude.

  She had spent three years living on a tight budget when she resided at Eldorado with Donny and Charlotte. Admittedly, Charlotte’s wealthy parents had always made sure that their daughter and her friends lacked for nothing. The fridge had never been empty and they’d even managed to keep a second freezer stocked with frozen joints, an array of vegetables, and ice cream and various other necessities. But Trudy had always tried to be frugal with the household budget while providing the tastiest and most nutritious food possible.

  She spoke for ten minutes on the subject of healthy student eating. She offered advice, tips and practical suggestions. Kevin kept interrupting with exclamations of surprise and enthusiasm. It turned out that he also had a son, studying away from home, and he thought Trudy’s tips might be beneficial for him. He kept prompting her to expand on a point or develop a theme.

  Betty was clearly thrilled with the response.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That’s a lot of useful, practical advice. I can see my little girl making use of what you’ve said.’

  ‘I hope it helps,’ Trudy admitted.

  ‘And I hope that the person who said those unpleasant things about you in this morning’s paper gets their comeuppance. He sounds like a dick.’

  Trudy laughed and thanked Betty again.

  Kevin was studying his producer in slack-jawed amazement. Watching the silent exchange between the pair, Trudy guessed it was because the producer had allowed the word ‘dick’ to be broadcast without intervening.

  Kevin was clearly incredulous.

  The producer shrugged blithely.

  Trying to finish the call, and acting as though he hadn’t heard a mild expletive being transmitted on the airwaves, Kevin told Betty, ‘If Trudy’s advice doesn’t help your little girl, I’m fairly sure it will help my little boy.’

  He introduced Julie London singing ‘Black Coffee’ and then, with his microphone off, called through to the producer, ‘You let a swear word go through.’

  ‘So I did.’ The producer had an inscrutable smile.

  ‘Is there a reason you’re letting profane language through today?’ Kevin asked.

  The producer nodded. ‘You have to admit, this Donny guy does sound like a dick.’ Through her headphones, Trudy heard the producer ask, ‘Was he our first caller this afternoon?’

  Trudy nodded.

  ‘Then I’ve got no qualms that someone called him a rude name live on air.’

  ‘Just so long as I don’t get the blame for letting that one through,’ Kevin insisted. He went from talking with the producer to announcing a station break, and then moved on to the next caller.

  This was a man and he sounded young. He was also another caller who also wanted to talk about Trudy’s student days.

  ‘Did you ever need to make student hangover cures for any of these people you lived with?’

  She laughed. ‘No one ever associates students with brain food, do they? We always associate students with a need for hangover cures.’

  The caller laughed. He stayed on the line while Trudy outlined a couple of the basic hangover remedies, all the time cautioning that moderation, abstinence and prevention were far better approaches to dealing with hangovers.

  The calls went on for the remainder of the hour. The focus was fixed on how to feed students in the healthiest fashion and on the most meagre budget. By the end of the show Trudy felt hoarse from talking. She had gone through three bottles of mineral water. Then she realised Kevin and the producer were telling her they needed her on the show as a regular, weekly feature.

  It had been so much fun that she didn’t bother thinking about her response. She didn’t even think to tell them that they needed to discuss the matter with her agent. She simply told them she would do it.

  Chapter 18

  ‘You should have told me about Donny’s threats,’ Bill insisted. He took the wooden spoon from its place on the wall. She heard his footsteps as he walked behind her.

  Her insides smouldered with excitement. He had already warned her that she wouldn’t be permitted to speak when he punished her. He said, if she did attempt to excuse herself or apologise, he would find a gag and then make her punishment all the more intolerable.

  He then mumbled something about how he didn’t like using gags, because it wouldn’t allow her the chance to call him Mr Hart, but Trudy had barely been thinking straight by that point. She had been too excited by the idea of being forced to wear a gag.

  She had seen images online of women wearing ball-gags: large rubber balls fixed with straps that fastened at the back of the head. The idea of having her mouth forced open, and filled with something that made it impossible to speak or make a sound of protest, was almost too exciting to contemplate. Trudy knew, if she was wearing a gag, she would be entirely at Bill’s mercy.

  It was only because he seemed so serious and solemn about the fact that she had earned this punishment that Trudy didn’t press the idea of being made to wear a gag. She mentally made a note to try and find a way to earn that level of punishment for the next time they were playing this sort of game. And she idly wondered if she should purchase such an item in readiness for that day.

  She crushed her thighs together at the thought.

  He sat down and faced her across the kitchen table.

  He placed the wooden spoon between them. It lay there like a promise of what was to come. She could feel her gaze constantly being drawn to its pale, wooden length and its heavy, rounded bowl.

  Her nipples grew stiff.

  Bill told her how much he had enjoyed the radio show. He complimented her on the professional way she had handled Donny’s unwanted call and said he was impressed by the way she managed to advocate cheap and cheerful cookery without coming across as condescending.

  Trudy barely heard him.

  She was desperately trying not to look at the wooden spoon.

  ‘It’s a difficult balance to make,’ he said. ‘But you managed it. You’re working in a gourmet restaurant. You’re selling designer-brand muffins with Sweet Temptation. Yet you’ve just told a substantial radio audience how to m
ake beans on toast taste superlative by using nothing more imaginative than a peppermill and a handful of rosemary cuttings.’

  His comments sounded sincere – even when Bill went on to say that, if he ever did get the chance to meet Donny again, he was going to slap him into the middle of next Tuesday, Trudy didn’t mind hearing the macho threats of violence. If she was being honest, she thought Donny merited such animosity.

  And still all she could focus on was the wooden spoon that lay between them and the promise of the painful pleasures it represented.

  They shared an espresso and discussed the arrangements for the restaurant that evening. Bill was planning to return to the city because he had a night’s filming scheduled. That meant Trudy would again be working as chef de cuisine. He told her that advance bookings were up, said they would be low on fish dishes for the evening, and added that Aliceon had called to say she wouldn’t be in again tonight.

  Trudy willed herself not to look at the wooden spoon.

  ‘You should have told me about Donny’s threats.’

  ‘I know,’ she agreed. ‘I should be punished.’

  ‘You will be punished.’

  She snatched a breath, amazed by the sudden rush of excitement that coursed through her body.

  Bill picked up the spoon and gestured absently in her direction. ‘Undress,’ he commanded. ‘I want to see you naked before I stripe your backside.’

  Stripe? She had no idea what he meant. Was that another of his Yorkshire expressions? The county seemed to speak a different language from the rest of the English-speaking world.

  She stripped down to her underwear: black bra and thong with matching stockings and heels. After folding her skirt and blouse neatly and placing them on one of the breakfast stools she turned to face him. She knew that he liked the look of her when she was wearing stockings and heels. Softly, she asked, ‘Do you want me to take everything off, Mr Hart?’

  Bill studied her with a sly smile.

  ‘You don’t think this is going to be a proper punishment, do you, Ms McLaughlin?’

  She considered him uncertainly, not sure how to respond. She expected he was going to spank her backside. After that, she thought, they would probably have some enjoyable sex. Hopefully he would take her from behind over the kitchen sink. That was her favourite location for sex in Bill’s cottage and she knew he enjoyed taking her in that position. Was that what he meant by proper punishment? What other types of punishment were there?

  Bill went to the back of the kitchen door. Trudy hadn’t noticed the cane hanging there when she entered the room. Now she could see Bill testing its flexibility by bending it between his hands. It reminded her of the sort of cane a schoolmaster would use in an old-fashioned comic strip. Bill smiled with grim pleasure as he tested it.

  Trudy swallowed.

  The cane looked like a formidable weapon. She instantly knew he was going to use it to strike lines across the pale expanse of her buttocks. He was going to stripe her. Understanding why he had chosen that word was a revelation. She didn’t know whether to be dismayed or thrilled.

  ‘We agreed that we were going to be honest, Ms McLaughlin.’

  She nodded and tried not to splutter an apology. He had told her not to speak and she had already asked him if he wanted her completely undressed or still wearing stockings and heels. She suspected there would be genuine punishment if she went against that instruction again. At the back of her mind she was worried in case the punishment he was planning turned out to be more uncomfortable than she could tolerate.

  ‘We agreed that we were going to tell each other everything.’

  She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the bite of a blow from the wicked-looking cane. It was long and thin and she suspected its sting would be vicious and unforgiving. The prospect made her wet. Her breathing became laboured. Her nipples stiffened inside the lacy cups of her black bra.

  ‘I know you’re going to enjoy the stripe of this cane across your arse.’

  She kept her eyes closed and considered his words as he spoke.

  ‘And I know you’d enjoy it even more if I was to tie your hands and your feet before I gave you your punishment.’

  She groaned.

  The idea of being bound fuelled so many positive urges in her loins that she didn’t dare contemplate the prospect for too long. It was enough to know that Bill was aware of her needs. It was enough to know that he was going to satisfy her desires.

  ‘But I’m not going to bind your hands or your feet today,’ he admitted.

  She opened her eyes and stared at him in bewilderment.

  The words had struck her like a slap.

  ‘You’re NOT going to tie me up?’

  ‘Not today,’ he assured her. ‘I know that you want to try bondage. I know that you’re desperate to try bondage. But today we won’t be trying it. That’s your punishment, Ms McLaughlin. That and the stripes from my cane.’

  She pointed at the spoon on the table. ‘If you’re going to use a cane on me, what’s that for?’

  He picked up the spoon and walked slowly towards her. He held it horizontally in front of her face, then placed the handle in her mouth and told her to bite down.

  ‘Bite down and keep it there,’ he insisted.

  She felt like a horse holding a bit between her teeth.

  Unable to speak, Trudy silently glared at him.

  ‘That will serve two purposes,’ he explained. ‘First and foremost, it will stop you from asking any more questions. Second, and perhaps most important for you, you can bite down on the spoon’s handle if the pain gets too much.’

  Trudy’s eyes opened wider. The muscles in her buttocks clenched tight in anticipation. Was it possible that the pain might get too much?

  ‘Now bend over,’ Bill demanded. ‘Assume the usual punishment position and take the dozen stripes that you deserve.’

  Even if she hadn’t been holding the spoon in her mouth, she knew there would be no point trying to discuss the matter. He wanted to punish her, and she yearned to be punished. Eager to feel the cane across her backside, Trudy bent over the sink, gripped the tap and braced herself for the impact.

  She was staring out across the field again towards Aliceon’s cottage.

  Usually, when she was in this position, Trudy could see a spiral of hazy smoke crawling from the chimneypot, suggesting the maître d’ was at home. There was no such sign of occupancy today.

  The cottage looked far away, sad and deserted. Given the excitement Bill was generating in the kitchen, it was easy to put the cottage and Aliceon’s issues out of her thoughts. It was easy to focus only on the punitive discipline she was about to enjoy and the pleasure she hoped it would give.

  Trudy imagined what it would be like to have her wrists bound to the tap. The idea was enough to excite a warm, fluid longing in her loins. Her breathing deepened. She held the muscles of her thighs rigid in readiness for the first blow.

  But, when it struck, she was far from ready.

  Bill sliced the cane against the tops of her legs.

  The blow was harsh, more severe than anything she had previously endured. A sting of raw bright sensation tore through her flesh. For an instant the impact was so acute that she couldn’t feel its effect. Then a burning wire of discomfort began to brand her skin. The sensation was so intense she was left chugging breath, biting hard into the spoon’s wooden handle, and struggling to remain in the agreed punishment position.

  ‘Are you sorry, Ms McLaughlin?’

  She panted twice before she understood how to respond. She nodded vigorously and tried to make noises that sounded like an apology.

  Another slice of the cane.

  This blow was just as hard as its predecessor. She could imagine parallel lines of crimson skin flaring dark against her pale, white flesh. The inner muscles of her sex were a liquid flurry of unbidden desire. Her clitoris throbbed with the need for his touch.

  ‘Are you really sorry?’

  She cho
ked back a sob of despair. She nodded again. An excess of saliva had begun to drool from the corners of her mouth. Trudy let the liquid flow. It spilled like tears onto the tiled floor.

  Bill delivered another slice.

  She heard it whistle through the air. She heard it crack as it slapped hard against the sensitive flesh beneath her buttocks. And then her world was a blazing mist of discomfort focused solely on the delicious sensation burning through her rear.

  It crossed her mind that bondage would have been wonderful for this level of discipline. If her hands had been bound to the taps she would have been able to pull at her restraints and vent some of the excess energy that the punishment was now exciting. Because she was unbound, and having to use her own will power as a form of restraint, Trudy felt as though she was being cheated of a special part of the discipline.

  A knot of frustration tightened in the pit of her stomach.

  She tensed the muscles of her thighs as hard as she could.

  Bill put the cane down on the counter and then stood behind her. She could feel his hands on the punished flesh of her buttocks. She could feel him tease the crotch of her thong to one side.

  She bit down more firmly on the spoon.

  His fingers were warm against her hypersensitive skin.

  His touch was strong, firm and manly.

  Trudy was aware that her sex was dewy with need for him. She could imagine the slick liquid lustre of her arousal as he exposed the most intimate secrets of her body. Her excitement grew more profound when he stroked a finger against the lips of her sex.

  After the punishing pain of the cane, the subtle caress of his finger was an exquisite contrast. The touch was almost enough to squeeze the orgasm from her centre. She moaned softly as the ripples of pleasure flooded through her body.

  Her breathing was reduced to a feral rasp.

  Her muscles ached for the cathartic explosion of release.

  She wriggled against his finger until he snatched his hand away and slapped her lightly across the rear. There was a gruff chuckle of perverse satisfaction in his voice as Bill said, ‘We agreed there would be no more secrets.’