“No, Madam Secretary, I did neither,” I said in a soft voice. “You buzzed earlier that you wanted something different.” Although a hot, relaxing bubble bath, or a full-body massage, might have been her preference on other days, I’d learned from the evening news that her day had not gone as planned. Treaty negotiations had bogged down between the United States and a Middle Eastern country. Her buzz of number nine had told me she needed to work off her frustration rather than soak it away. She was not planning to use the hotel’s stationary bike.
She grabbed me by the nape of my neck and pulled me closer. Her other hand seized my breast as her mouth took mine in a bruising kiss. I tasted raspberry, knowing she had probably popped a candy in her mouth while in the elevator. She rubbed her thumb back and forth over my nipple.
I whimpered.
While her tongue tangled with mine, she yanked my bra up, and pinched my nipples. She drew back and flashed me a wicked grin before leaning forward to bite the skin over my collarbone.
I would wear her mark tomorrow.
She rasped her tongue over a nipple, wetting it before drawing it into her mouth. She sucked and tugged. She rolled my other nipple between her fingers.
I moaned. My legs were weakening.
She pulled her head up to look me in the eyes. Her lips quirked. She glanced down and no doubt saw the pulse I knew was pounding in my neck. With a satisfied smile she said, “You’re creaming in your panties now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Madam Secretary,” I managed to say. I swallowed hard, not certain what was coming next.
Reaching around me, she unfastened my bra and tossed it aside. She ran her smooth hands down my arms. Hooking a finger in the band of my thong, she tugged me toward the bed. “On your knees,” she said in the authoritative voice she normally uses in front of Senate committee inquiries.
I knelt on the cool, sweet-smelling sheets with my toes near the edge of the bed, my back straight and proud. She pushed my upper back down with one hand. I rested on my elbows. I turned my face to watch, but she was quicker. She slapped my left buttock. Hard.
I yelped and blinked back the moisture in my eyes.
“Who’s in charge?”
“You are, Madam Secretary,” I said, embarrassed by my quavering voice.
She grabbed the thong and tore it off my body. She stepped away and reached for the tube of lube on the nightstand, then smoothed her hand across my back. She spread my cheeks, ran lube around the tight opening and worked her finger inside.
I gasped.
“Now I have you right where I want you,” she growled.
Uh-oh. The meeting must have been worse than I suspected.
She held me by my left hip while she plunged her finger in. Out. In. I trembled with excitement as moisture ran down my legs. The musky scent of my arousal filled the air.
I groaned.
“I love fucking you in your ass,” she said with a husky voice. “I love how excited you get.”
I groaned again.
She cleared her throat and withdrew her finger until only the very tip was inside. “I can’t hear you. Tell me you want me to fuck your ass.”
“Yes, yes. Please fuck my ass, Madam Secretary,” I panted out.
She thrust her finger in, twisting and turning all the way.
I nearly came.
“You may not come until I say you can,” she commanded. She always knows how close I am.
“Yes, Madam Secretary,” I gasped. I bit my lip and tried to steady my breathing. No telling how long she would make me wait. Damn those diplomats.
She twisted and wiggled her finger as she slowly, quarter inch by quarter inch, withdrew. Her silky hair caressed my skin as she ran her tongue up my back—my erogenous zone. She brushed kisses over my shoulder, before trailing her tongue down my spine once again.
I whimpered; all my nerves were on fire.
She plunged in fast and hard, her knuckles hitting my flesh.
Oh my god. I’m going to die right here.
She pulled out—gradually. Tormenting me. Teasing me. Tantalizing me.
“Please, Madam Secretary. I need to come.” I wasn’t too proud to beg. Not when she was so unmercifully screwing my ass. So wonderfully. So completely.
She gave a throaty laugh—then plunged in again. I shook with need.
“Please,” I croaked.
She released my hip and ran soft fingers across my stomach to my moist folds. She swirled the moisture all over my clit. I bit my lip, tasting blood.
“You’re so wet,” she said in a husky voice that turned me on even more, if that was possible.
“You do that to me, Madam Secretary,” I somehow managed to say.
With one finger buried deep in my ass, she sank two other fingers into my cunt.
“Yes! Yes,” I sobbed in relief.
All fingers stilled.
I drew in a breath, remembering. “Yes, please, Madam Secretary. Please fuck my cunt.”
“Excellent.” She resumed. With a slow motion, she would withdraw the finger from my ass, while thrusting two into my cunt. Plunging one finger in while she withdrew the others. Back and forth. In and out her fingers moved with a slicking sound. The scent of my arousal blended with what I knew was her scent.
I tightened around all her fingers, knowing I was close.
“May I come please, Madam Secretary?” Please, please don’t make me wait any longer.
“You may,” she said as she pushed in and out of my two holes.
Waves of pleasure raced through my body as I came. I yelled her name. Spasms rocked me, and I came again. She trailed gentle kisses down my back and across my buttocks.
She withdrew all her fingers, grasped my hips and flipped me over. She pushed up her skirt, climbed onto the bed and straddled my thigh. Her wetness had seeped through her panties and coated my leg as she thrust against me. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her closer. I kissed her until she moaned into my mouth, shook and collapsed on top of me. Her heart pounded against my chest as she drew in breaths. I pressed kisses against her moist forehead. I stroked her damp curls. After a few minutes, she rose up. No longer did her face appear haggard. Instead, her eyes twinkled and she smiled.
I love my job.
KITCHEN SLUT
Olivia Archer
I confess: my kink involves kitchenware. Fucking my kitchenware to be precise. Whisks, also called whips in the culinary world, are my favorite go-to devices. Their stainless-steel handles are perfect phalluses and the whipping ends come in a dazzling array of selections to tickle and tease. My whisk collection is proudly displayed on my kitchen wall because I find their shapes beautiful to view. And touch. And they make wonderfully convenient dildos. I don’t want the vibrating, silicone rabbits sold at sex shops; useful utensils work best for me.
But it’s impossible to fulfill my deepest needs alone. Heated honey dripped on my own nipples holds no thrill of anticipation, no surprise. Where is the lover who will bend me over the bar stool with my ass in the air and tightly tie my ankles and wrists to the chair with linen butcher’s twine? I want to feel the smack of my favorite wooden kitchen paddle as it turns my cheesecake-hued cheeks the color of fresh strawberry granita. Alas, my last decent whisk man and I parted company last year, shortly before I moved here. I’m tired of sitting alone at the kitchen table, masturbating against the back of a beautifully curved soup spoon while checking my inbox. That’s why I reluctantly joined one of those dating sites. You know, where you indicate the inane: dogs or cats, toilet paper up or down, favorite TV shows and movies. It’s much too vanilla for my taste, but my kinky men couldn’t get past their leather cuffs and collars and into my kitchen drawers.
The endless charades of this game annoy me. I mean, really. In truth, we are all just animals looking to mate. Except, as evolved animals, females don’t just wait around with our rears in the air and moan for a male to mount us. No. We use other means to satisfy ourselves. My fetish just happens to involve o
bjects found at your local high-end cooking store, and another set of hands adds a much-needed dimension to the equation. In my ad, I merely answered the turn-ons question with the words whisks, spoons, and tongs. Then I waited.
Men contacted me. Lots of men. They seemed to be looking at my picture, but I needed them to move past my short blonde hair and blue eyes, and be interested in my words because they were the true window to my soul. None of the men mentioned my kitchen kink in their responses. So, my reply to all was: “Hi. Thanks for contacting me. What do you think of my turn-ons?”
They disappeared into the ether. The ones that answered sent back responses along the lines of confused questions such as, “Do you mean like the kind you cook with?” Or, my favorite, “Is that the name of a band?” Uh, no. Well…not that I know of anyhow.
It was hopeless. These e-men just didn’t speak my language. I deactivated my account to keep my sanity and get some of my spare time back. Online dating had been consuming my mornings and keeping me from one of my new Sunday morning activities: rolling out of bed early, all rumpled and warm, throwing on my worn jeans and a favorite shirt, then walking a mile to the little café near downtown.
After coffee and a pastry, it got even better. While the good people of the world were still at church, I walked farther into the shopping district and took a gander at the gadgets in the well-known kitchen store. You know the one. You throw their catalogues into the recycling bin after a quick glance. You’ve even bought something tasteful for your boss, who’s a gourmet cook.
The same two employees had opened up shop each Sunday since I’d discovered this place. Connie, a cute salesgirl around my age, would yell, “Good morning, Laurel,” as I entered, then follow me around. She was upbeat and always trying to draw me out. Though it took away from my shopping experience, I did look forward to listening to her chatter about everything under the sun. It was probably apparent that something was missing from my life, but I’m not sure she was picking up on what my desires entailed. She kept after me, playfully trying to get me to meet her and hang out at a bar, or go clubbing, but I’d done too much of both in my twenties and was over it.
Connie’s boss was there every Sunday morning, too. When he caught my eye, he would smile, his steely eyes intense but friendly. She’d refer to him mock-seriously as “The Manager,” then roll her eyes at me. From his starting-to-gray temples, I guessed he was about ten years older than me, and trying to keep it professional since he never responded to Connie’s lively taunts. She tried again today to draw him in, but he ignored us, focusing on something on the computer screen instead. She pointed at him and whispered a little bit too loudly, “He needs to lighten up.”
Just then, another customer entered the store and Connie was diverted, trying to score a sale. I was glad to finally look around by myself. Autumn had arrived and the displays were promoting their holiday fare. I looked longingly at the turkey lifters, hoping mine would be doing more than lifting my Thanksgiving turkey. But in reality, no one would be tying me to my baker’s rack and raking the turkey lifter tines down my back. I sighed and pulled myself out of that daydream, waving good-bye to Connie as I left the store.
The following Saturday was Halloween weekend and the time change. In a funk, I had blown off all outings and stayed home, handing out candy, and calling it a night around ten. Though the clock moved back, my body was up at its normal time, and I made my Sunday excursion to the café, but only got as far as the front door.
My walk downtown usually took me to the kitchen store as they were first opening. Today, I would have to kill an hour at the café, or just head home. Standing there was getting me nowhere; the season’s chill was really starting to set in. I needed to move. I decided to stick with my routine and took my walk knowing the store would be closed but I could see if its window displays had changed.
As I glanced into my favorite store, I noticed “The Manager” fussing around in the back, dressed in his usual button-up shirt and business casual slacks. He saw me, so I gave a short wave and continued to walk on by. To my surprise, the door opened when I was about to round the corner. When I turned, he called my name and gestured me inside. I walked over and said, “Oh, no, it’s okay. It just takes me a few days to get used to the time change.”
“Please, come inside where it’s warm. There’s something you’ll be interested in.”
Lured by curiosity, I took him up on his offer, and felt a secret thrill at being able to shop before store hours. Maybe I had spent too much money here, to get this kind of indulgence. He was right, it was warm inside—very warm. I was a little startled when I heard him lock the door behind us but I figured Connie would soon round the corner and come bouncing over with her latest news.
He walked past me and began working on a display, spreading a beautiful jacquard tablecloth over a table and setting out a small bowl of olive oil, presumably to dip some bread for tasting. I felt comfortable perusing the store alone, without having to worry about touching the items in front of someone’s watchful eye. With pleasure, I allowed myself the time to caress the clean curve of the large black KitchenAid stand mixer, and to palm the perfect weight of a Henckels knife. The metal items still held the chill of the night.
As I paused to ponder the tiny ceramic turkeys that held sexy little pumpkin-colored tapers, he came up behind me—very close behind me—and said, “Laurel, I have something that will interest you.”
Turning, I gasped, because he was holding the biggest ball whisk I had ever seen. The handle was a good twelve inches long, with a girth that any man would envy. All I could muster verbally was, “Wow!” but my body responded like a trained animal and all of my senses came to full attention, awaiting pleasure.
We appreciated its beauty as he strummed the tines with his thumb and said, “See, it’s as finely tuned as any instrument.”
The Manager stated that he had ordered this professional series model with me in mind since I had purchased all of their more unusual and interesting whisks. The sensitive hairs along the nape of my neck shivered in anticipation of those cold spheres prickling me.
“Yes, I collect them,” I answered, as if justification was needed.
This whisk definitely qualified as a keeper. It was beautiful—the outer circle consisting of eleven tines with shiny, silver ball-tipped ends, and one tine with a large silver ball in the center. Seen head-on, it looked like eleven silver planets orbiting a sun. Stunning for its design and impressive for its size. The home cook would need some strength because the sheer weight of it would test your muscles as you whipped the cream into what my mother called schlag to top your perfectly spiced gingerbread.
He handed the whisk to me and watched as I considered the weight of it in my hand, then he asked, “Think you can handle it?”
I nodded. Oh, I could handle this indeed. It would be a lovely addition to my collection in the kitchen. I would for sure see if I could handle it in the bedroom. As soon as I got home. Maybe after heating up my body and mind with a lovely cup of hint-of-mint cocoa and a bit of erotica. Those cute little spheres on the whisk would remind me of his steady gray eyes as I whisked up some ecstasy.
Bringing the implement between us, he turned the handle toward me. At this angle it looked like a huge silver erection with a dozen antennae on the other end, something out of a sci-fi porn movie. Oh, yes, I was taking this baby home. But did I offer to pay him for it, or was it a special gift for being such a valued customer? I didn’t think I could fit something of that size in my ass comfortably, and giggled at the image I would make trying to fuck myself with something this big. Okay, enough with the daydream.
As I reached for my wallet in the universal I’m-going-to pay-for-it gesture, he stilled my hand and took the whisk from me. Then he carefully pressed its smooth handle against my warm lips. When I purred softly with pleasure, he responded with a knowing laugh. Walking over to the display he’d been working on, he lifted the bowl of olive oil, then spread the tablecloth on the flo
or behind the register so it was out of sight to any passersby.
“Laurel, lie down. We have thirty minutes before the store opens. It’s time you learned how to properly use those whisks that you keep buying.”
I obeyed wordlessly, going behind the register, kicking off my shoes and stretching out for this man whose name I still didn’t know.
“Off with your clothes, Laurel. Every last thing.” It was not a question.
I stripped, wondering if Connie was part of this.
The Manager carefully placed a silver serving tray with various items on it down on the floor next to me, then knelt between my legs and traced the tines around my erect nipples. It was comfortably warm down on the floor, which amplified the whisk’s cool dance on my receptive skin.
When his eyes assessed every inch of my naked body, I decided I was his alone for this brief interlude. This angle gave me a great view of his hard-on, which was nicely tenting the front of his trousers. My hand reached out to stroke his cock, but he shook his head and said, “That’s not on the menu today. You are.”
Drawing circles on my skin with the whisk, he rubbed his way down to my closely cropped pubic hair and used the ball-tipped tines to gently push between my labia. My mind could hardly focus on anything except the throbbing in my pussy.
Slowly, oh so slowly, he used those tiny spheres to massage me; my swollen sex pulsated in response. I couldn’t tell if five minutes had gone by, or fifteen, as the center of my world became the area on my skin where his whisk gently prodded into my folds. I raised my hips, pushing myself against the tines with as much force as I could, prodding the balls into my wet lips.
He stopped. What? I looked at him questioningly. Consulting his watch, he held up his finger in the universal wait signal and said, “I have time for this.”
Hungry for More Page 5
