Turning Up the Heat

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 nothing. 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.