Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
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.