Ashley Lister - Turning Up the Heat

Trudy could hear Harvey’s half-hearted protest but Bill spoke over him.

Then there was a clatter of chairs being moved, footsteps making an exodus, and what she recognised as the babble of friends and staff members as they left the restaurant.

She wanted to sigh with relief.

A few of the friends pushed their heads through the kitchen door and called polite farewells which Trudy took the time to acknowledge. She heard Charlotte and Daryl tell her they’d see her in the morning and Trudy assured them that she’d try to get there on time.

With early evening coming on, and a day’s worth of photographs taken and stored, she could imagine it was easy for Bill to clear the room, thank everyone who had contributed and then send them all on their way.

She heard cars grumble loudly through the gravelled forecourt.

The chatter of friends and acquaintances faded to a whisper. And then there were only two voices.

‘It’s been a long day, Harvey,’ Bill told his agent. ‘We’ll talk more tomorrow.’

There was the sound of a lock being fastened, followed moments later by the growl of a final car driving away, and Trudy knew they were alone.

Her heartbeat quickened.

The kitchen door creaked open.

She heard the familiar clip-clip-clip of Bill’s shoes walking crisply along the tiled floor of the kitchen. He didn’t bother addressing her. Instead he walked straight to his office in the centre of the kitchen.

Trudy could feel herself stiffening in anticipation of what was going to come next. She struggled not to shiver. This was what she’d been waiting for throughout the day. The yearning in the pit of her stomach throbbed greedily.

Music came from the kitchen’s speakers.

Bill let light jazz pump into the kitchen when it was busy with staff. Even when he and Trudy were working there together, he made a point of playing music as a background for them. His tastes in music matched so perfectly with Trudy’s that it was almost as though he knew what she wanted to hear.

This was Etta James singing ‘At Last’.

The hairs on the nape of Trudy’s neck bristled. She believed she could echo every sentiment in the song.

She heard Bill step out of the office. There was the familiar slap of him smacking something hard and heavy into the palm of his hand. And she didn’t need to turn round to know he was holding the wooden spoon.

‘How did the photo shoot go, Mr Hart?’ she asked.

She tried to keep a measure of innocence in the tone of her voice, as though she had no idea what he was planning. She called the question while checking on the progress of the curly kale and without looking back at him. She didn’t dare make eye contact for fear he would see the eager anticipation in her expression. Her need for him was so strong it pulsed like a physical ache.

‘It were fair t’middlin’,’ he conceded.

His gruff northern accent always sent shivers of anticipation tickling down her spine. She held herself steady and tried not to dwell on the excitement he always fired in her. Fair-to-middling, she had learned, meant it had been an average experience and Bill didn’t want to discuss it further. She clenched the muscles in her upper thighs and savoured the certainty of what was going to come.

‘The photographer and the models all acted in a professional fashion,’ Bill told her. ‘In fact, it would be fair to say they all acted in a professional and timely fashion.’

He stood so close behind her she could feel the warmth of his breath on the nape of her neck. He lowered his voice to a sultry whisper.

‘I imagine,’ he said, ‘if I’d asked any of those models to prepare a meal for me by six-thirty, I’d have been eating my meal at six-thirty.’

His hand fell to her backside. He clutched one buttock and squeezed with only a little more force than was necessary. Trudy stiffened. She wanted to melt for him. Studiously, she remained focused on her task of prepping the other vegetables that would be served al dente to accompany the kale.

‘I’m sorry for miscalculating the times, Mr Hart.’

‘Sorry doesn’t put the meal on the table, does it?’

‘If you think I need punishing,’ she began. She had to pause because the idea left her breathless. Steadying herself, concentrating on the words so that she delivered them without stumbling, Trudy said, ‘If you think I need punishing, I’ll make myself available for your discipline, Mr Hart.’

He chuckled and placed an arm around her waist.

She was sensitive to the fact that his fingers were now lingering over the waistband of her trousers. It would only take the smallest of actions and he could unfasten them and leave her standing half-naked and completely vulnerable.

The idea made her shiver.

‘Perhaps I’m the one who needs punishing?’ he suggested.

‘Mr Hart?’

‘You saw me at front of house,’ he reminded her. ‘I had my hands on half a dozen attractive women. They were all topless. Surely, under our agreement of what’s allowed within our relationship, that’s not acceptable, is it?’

‘Under the terms of our agreement, Mr Hart,’ she returned, ‘whatever you deem to be acceptable is acceptable.’

‘Good answer.’

He chuckled and kissed the nape of her neck. His hands remained on the waistband of her trousers.

She was acutely conscious of his nearness and it made her need for him swell. If she closed her eyes, Trudy knew she would be overcome by a dizzying array of images reminding her of all the pleasures and thrills they had shared since first meeting.

She didn’t dare close her eyes.

She was already too excited by his nearness.

‘How long until the steaks are ready?’

She checked the curly kale, still looking verdant and fresh in the steamer. ‘We have five minutes until that’s done. I can plate up everything else to serve at the same time.’

‘In that case,’ he began, whispering the words into the shell of her ear, ‘I just have enough time to discipline you.’

The fingers at her waist unfastened the clasp on her trousers. As soon as he had unzipped them they puddled at her ankles. Trudy didn’t bother trying to look shocked. This was what she had been waiting for all day. She tried to blink the shine of excitement from her eyes as she glanced up into his stern, forbidding features.

‘I’m sorry your meal wasn’t ready for six-thirty,’ she mumbled.

‘Fifteen minutes late,’ Bill grumbled. ‘That’s fifteen kisses from the wooden spoon.’

The inner muscles of her sex trembled with excitement. She bent over the workstation where she’d been preparing their meal and held herself ready for him. His fingers fell to her panties. With infinite care, he began to draw them away from her skin. He slid them slowly over her cheeks and down her legs. The cotton lazily caressed her flesh as it was pulled down towards her ankles.

She was immediately conscious of being exposed.

The room’s air was cool against the bared secrets of her sex. She wanted to shiver but she didn’t know if that was because of the chill or because she felt defenceless. Her heartbeat raced at a quick, excited thump.

‘Fifteen,’ he promised. ‘Count them.’

He slapped the bowl of the wooden spoon smartly against the left cheek of her backside.

The punishment had begun. Trudy wanted to moan with relief. This was what she had been craving all day.

The punishment was not so severe that it genuinely hurt. It was a thrill of intimate contact that always left her giddy with heightened arousal. He struck the spoon repeatedly against her buttocks, first the left cheek then the right, waiting to hear her count the number of the stroke before proceeding to deliver the next blow.