Chapter 29
Paul
The next morning I woke before Anne did.
I lay there for several minutes, watching the early light find the angles of her face, and I let myself feel the full weight of what had begun to happen to me.
I had shown her a vulnerability yesterday that I felt not the slightest desire to take back today.
I could feel my life rearranging itself around the shape of this girl sleeping in my bed with her lips slightly parted and one hand curled beneath her chin.
I got up and made coffee. By the time Anne joined me in the kitchen, blushing and unable to meet my eyes at first, I had decided how to handle the thing that had arisen between us like a force of nature: a tectonic shift that had somehow occurred with the speed of a tornado.
I put down my own mug and poured one for Anne. I put it on the counter instead of handing it to her, watching her eyes follow it hungrily. Then I took her in my arms.
“This first,” I said softly, into her hair. “Then, coffee.”
I felt her body collapse into mine.
“What…” she started. “Master…”
Just the sound of those two syllables from Anne’s mouth made my chest swell.
I have it bad, I said to myself, and tightened my embrace just a little, knowing somehow that the pressure would communicate everything I wanted it to.
“What happens now?” she finished.
“What happens now,” I told her, “is that we let go a little with our rational minds, and see where our chemistry and our dynamic take us.”
I broke the hug and held her at arms’ length for a moment, looking down into her sweet, no-longer-utterly-innocent face. She swallowed visibly.
I bent down and kissed her gently, then more firmly as I felt her yield. I raised my face, stepped away, handed her the coffee at last.
Anne smiled.
“You know what I need, don’t you?” she said. Then the full weight of her words seemed to sink into her, and her cheeks went red.
“Yes, Annie,” I told her, feeling the left side of my mouth quirk upward. “I do. And I’m going to give it to you.”
* * *
We shot on the kitchen set that day—the third day of the shoot, but the first when Anne and I knew we had something more going on.
The set was a full residential kitchen: marble countertops, a six-burner stove with copper pots hanging from a rack overhead, open shelving stacked with ceramic dishes, a window above the sink that Darlene had backlit to simulate late-afternoon sun.
The set was warm-toned and domestic and designed to communicate a very specific fantasy: a young wife, at home, preparing dinner for the man who owned her.
Anne stood at the stove in a green teddy.
I could feel myself getting hard just at the sight of this latest item in Melissa’s Surrender line: a deep emerald silk that looked almost black until the light caught it, with thin spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline that exposed the inner curves of both breasts.
It fell to the snap-fastening between her thighs, skimming her body rather than clinging to it.
The green silk on her sweet bottom… her bare feet on the kitchen tile…
the blonde hair she’d pulled into a loose twist at the nape of her neck…
they all raised a new challenge to my self-control.
The knowledge that I could and would unsnap the teddy down there to gain the access to which I had a conjugal right threatened to make me hasty.
Take your time, I told myself. It was easy enough to tell Anne to let go with her rational mind, but I couldn’t quite do the same, or I would ruin both our fun, wouldn’t I?
As serious as this thing could turn out to be, and as uncomfortable as the training Anne got from my firm hand and my hard cock would sometimes feel to her, I wanted to make sure she enjoyed it the way she should.
Physical enjoyment represented part of that—my sweet new fuck toy would have orgasms aplenty.
I wanted Anne’s real enjoyment, though, to unfold at that much deeper level she had only recently started to understand.
* * *
Anne
I pretended to cook. Melissa had given me simple blocking: sauté vegetables, stir something in a pot, move between the counter and the stove with the domestic ease of a girl who did this every evening.
The teddy’s snap closure sat at the joining of my legs—three small fastenings that held the silk together between my thighs, a design feature whose clear purpose made me blush and nearly whimper every time I thought about it.
I reached for a wooden spoon and stirred the pot, and I felt how the motion lifted the back of the teddy. I could almost feel Master Paul’s eyes, watching the smooth, bare curve of my bottom catch the light for a single frame before the silk fell back.
“Alright… action, Paul,” I heard Melissa call from the side of the set.
There was nothing fictional about the way my heart flipped when I turned my face over my shoulder to see him enter.
He’d changed into the character’s evening clothes: slacks, a button-down with the sleeves rolled to the forearms, no tie.
The returning husband. The man who comes home to find his young wife in green silk, barefoot in his kitchen, the domestic fantasy made flesh.
He walked onto the set through the kitchen’s mock entryway. I turned back to my pot, blushing furiously. I kept stirring.
“Something smells good,” Master Paul said.
“I’m making that pasta you like,” I replied without turning around, and my voice carried a warmth and a slight breathlessness that the microphones would capture beautifully. “It’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.”
I heard him cross the kitchen. He came up behind me and placed his hands on my hips.
I felt him press the cool silk beneath his palms against my warm body.
I inhaled sharply but kept stirring. I knew he could see the side of my face from this angle—the flush already rising along my cheekbone, the way I bit my lower lip, the flutter of my pulse in the hollow of my throat.
He pressed himself against me from behind. My master let me feel him—the full length of his erection, already straining against his slacks, pressing into the cleft of my bottom through the thin silk. I made a small sound. The wooden spoon hesitated in its circuit of the pot.
“Keep cooking,” he said against my ear.
His hands slid down from my hips. His fingers found the bottom edge of the teddy and traveled around it, down the smooth skin of my inner thighs.
I felt the heat of my pussy and knew my master would feel it too, before he even reached my center—a radiant warmth that would tell him everything he needed to know about what the last ten minutes of anticipation had done to my body.
“Sir,” I whispered. I made the spoon keep moving, but my hand was shaking. “I’m trying to—”
“I know what you’re trying to do.” His fingers found the three small snaps at the crotch of the teddy.
He unsnapped them one by one—click, click, click—each tiny sound deliberate and audible in the quiet kitchen.
The silk fell open between my thighs, and the green fabric draped forward and back, framing my bare, shaved pussy like curtains parting on a stage.
I sensed him freeing himself from his slacks. The sound of the zipper in the domestic quiet of the kitchen set held its own kind of obscenity—the intrusion of masculine intent into a space designed for nurturing, the predator entering the hearth.
“Keep stirring,” he said.
Then he entered me from behind in a single, slow thrust.
My spine went rigid. The hand holding the wooden spoon froze mid-stroke, and the spoon clattered against the rim of the pot. Master Paul’s hand closed over mine and pressed the spoon back into my grip.
“I said keep stirring.”
His voice sounded low, dark, and amused.
The amusement was worse than sternness in a way because it told me he knew exactly what he was doing to me and he enjoyed the cruelty of making me perform a mundane task while his cock split me open from behind.
I stirred. The spoon moved through the sauce in jerky, uneven circles while his hips pressed flush against my bare bottom, his slacks rough against my bruised skin, his shaft buried to the hilt inside me in a fullness that made my eyes water.
He pulled back and thrust again, harder, and it drove my hips against the edge of the counter.
The marble bit into the tops of my thighs and I gasped, and the spoon kept moving because he’d told me to keep stirring and my body had learned, over the last three days, that his instructions were not suggestions.
“Good girl,” he murmured against my ear.
His hands returned to my hips, gripping the silk that had bunched around my waist, and he set a rhythm—slow, deep, overwhelming.
Each thrust pressed me into the counter’s edge and drove the breath from my lungs, and each withdrawal left me aching and empty for the fraction of a second before he filled me again.
The sauce bubbled. The wooden spoon circled.
I made dinner for my husband while he fucked me from behind in his kitchen, and the domesticity of it—the sheer, obscene normalcy of vegetables sautéing while a man’s cock moved inside me—made me feel like I was living inside a fantasy I hadn’t known I’d had.
“Tell me what you’re making,” he said, and his voice had thickened, the words coming between controlled breaths that I could feel against the back of my neck.
“P-pasta,” I managed. “With… oh, God… with roasted tomatoes and… ah—”
He thrust particularly deep and I lost the recipe entirely.
My forehead dropped forward, nearly touching the range hood, and the spoon made a wild, arrhythmic scrape against the bottom of the pot.
Master Paul’s hand found the nape of my neck and held me there—bent over the stove, stirring, impaled—while his hips moved with an increasing urgency that I could feel in every nerve ending I possessed.
“Keep cooking,” he said one final time, and then his rhythm broke, and he drove into me with the hard, urgent strokes that I had learned meant he was close, and I came around him with a sob that I muffled against my own shoulder while the sauce threatened to burn and the spoon clattered against the pot’s rim and my master’s release flooded me, hot and possessive, in the warm light of the kitchen set.
“Cut,” Melissa said, the single word somehow conveying deep satisfaction. “That’s fabulous, folks. The spoon… the way she kept trying to stir… Paul, you’re a genius.”
That evening, in his apartment, in the real kitchen with no cameras and no Melissa, my master made me dinner.
Just copper pots and the smell of garlic and olive oil and Master Paul in a plain gray T-shirt, moving between the counter and the stove with the easy competence of a man who actually knew how to cook.
I sat on a cushion he’d placed on one of the kitchen chairs: a thoughtful gesture that made my eyes sting, because my bottom was still a landscape of welts and bruises that made sitting on hard surfaces an exercise in careful positioning.
I wore one of his T-shirts and nothing else, and I watched him cook with a feeling in my chest that I could only describe as fullness.
Not the physical fullness of his body inside mine, though the memory of that was still vivid enough to make me shift on the cushion.
A different kind. The fullness of being cared for by the same hands that had punished me.
He made pasta. The irony wasn’t lost on either of us—the real version of the meal I’d pretended to cook on set, prepared by the man who’d fucked me while I pretended to cook it.
He moved through the kitchen with obvious skill and clear enjoyment.
He sliced tomatoes with a chef’s knife, adjusted the flame beneath a pan of sautéing garlic, tasted the sauce from a wooden spoon and added a pinch of something I couldn’t identify.
“Sit,” he told me when I tried to help. “You’ve cooked enough today.”
The smile that crossed his face was private and warm and a little wicked, and I blushed and sat back down on my cushion.