Turning Up the Heat. Ashley Lister
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slipped from his embrace and hurried up the stairs. The lycra running wear felt as though it had been glued to her body with a sticky blend of warmth and perspiration. She pulled the clothing away with clumsy snatches. After dropping the garments into the laundry basket she hurriedly stepped into the shower.
The stream of misty-hot water dissolved the sheen of sweat on her shoulders and back. She smoothed soap over her skin and tried not to think of how much Bill would be pleasuring her when she was clean and had returned to the kitchen. The knowledge that they were about to share intimate time together sent a tremor of smouldering need through the muscles of her sex. Her nipples stiffened and she felt momentarily dizzy beneath the spray from the showerhead.
It crossed her mind that she should mention the messages she had received from Donny. Her former friend was clearly trying to make some point that would likely be unpleasant and inconvenient. She supposed it would also be prudent to mention the invitation from Harvey. Under the policy of honesty and openness to which they’d both agreed with the new arrangement, Trudy thought frank discussion would be the cornerstone of what they did together. But she knew that talking about Donny or Harvey could kill whatever passion she hoped to share with Bill. And, remembering that she had put her own arousal on hold while she went for her run this morning, Trudy didn’t want to do or say anything that was likely to spoil the satisfaction of their shared passion.
Promising herself that she would mention both subjects when she was working alongside him at Boui-Boui in the evening, Trudy finished her shower and dressed quickly. She found matching pants and bra in her drawers in their bedroom. She also found a modest charcoal skirt and a pair of black heels and completed the outfit with a silver-grey blouse. It was more stylish than what she usually wore – she preferred function to fashion – but she thought the results were pleasing. Aware that she had probably gone beyond the ten minutes Bill had allowed, Trudy hurried down the stairs calling an apology ahead of her.
Bill glanced at his wristwatch.
‘You’re six minutes late,’ he muttered.
Six minutes? She was surprised it hadn’t been longer.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Hart.’
‘Pass me the wooden spoon.’
The pulse between her legs beat more swiftly. She snatched the wooden spoon from its hook by the sink and handed it to him. She noticed that her fingertips were trembling. Some days the arousal he inspired was so strong that it was impossible to contain her reactions. Seeing her hands shake with anticipation was now such a regular occurrence it was almost commonplace. But, even though it happened so frequently, it felt far from commonplace.
‘Bend over, Ms McLaughlin.’
She assumed the same position that she always adopted for punishment in the cottage’s kitchen. She stood before the kitchen sink and stared out through the window. Glancing down at her feet, and the grey slate tiles on the floor, she placed the toes of her shoes at the corners of a pair of floor-tiles two rows back from the kitchen sink. The tiles were separated by two tiles. The distance was uncomfortable and, for Trudy, it felt as though she was stretching to put her feet exactly where they were needed. The muscles at the tops of her thighs felt strained but she figured she was sufficiently limber from her daily exercise regime that she could take pleasure from the discomfort of a little overstretching.
Not that it was just the discomfort of an uncomfortable posture that weighed on her thoughts. The position also made Trudy stand with her legs far enough apart to make her feel exposed.
Bill knelt down and stroked the back of her calf.
His fingers were warm. The palms were callused and rough against her smooth bare skin. As he stroked upwards, his caress smoothing the back of her knee and beneath the hem of her modest charcoal skirt, Trudy could feel her excitement growing. She was desperate to feel his touch go higher and she wanted to sob out a desperate command that he should hurry up and satisfy her.
Knowing that such a demand would either be ignored or earn a punishment, Trudy refrained from crying out. She tightened her grip on the edge of the sink.
Slowly, as though he knew of her impatience and was making her wait, Bill’s fingers inched higher. He stroked her thigh with a languid, lingering hand that was deliberate and unhurried. He chuckled softly to himself and she understood he was drawing as much pleasure from the intimacy as she was enduring.
‘You’re wearing white cotton panties?’ he mused. ‘How innocent.’
She stumbled for a response. Was she supposed to thank him? Apologise? Or simply squirm from the satisfaction of knowing that he was now studying her panties and probably preparing to remove them?
‘Yes, Mr Hart,’ she mumbled.
He stroked the crotch of her panties, his fingernail scratching against the weft of the cotton fabric. The sensation was subtle enough to be described as featherlight, but it was also powerful enough to have her quivering.
The single caress was almost enough to ignite a climax.
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