A Taste of Passion

by Ashley Lister

  Her body was ready to explode in a climactic rush of pleasure.

  ‘Hold that position,’ he said, sliding deeper inside. ‘Don’t move.’

  She groaned. She closed her eyes so hard she squeezed tears from the corners. Her knees wanted to give way. Her thighs were an agony more severe than the one she had experienced that morning when she returned from battling the quad killer. Her sex longed to clutch and grasp at him with wet and warm greed but she refused to let her inner muscles have any freedom. She was determined to obey Hart’s instruction and not move.

  ‘Hold that position,’ he insisted. ‘Hold that position for as long as you’re able.’ To illustrate that it would not simply be a matter of remaining motionless, he again slapped his hand against her rear.

  His length was inside her – filling her.

  His bare hand was slapping blows to her backside. The sting of his hand was intense. Her orgasm began to build as she gritted her teeth and grunted, ‘Yes, Mr Hart.’

  ‘Don’t move,’ he pressed.

  She didn’t answer. She wanted to shake her head or mutter agreement or assure him that she would do as he asked. Instead, because she feared such a response would likely spark her body’s climactic reaction, Trudy simply held the position and basked in the sensation of having him inside her body.

  Again, he slammed the palm of his hand hard against her rear. She stiffened and willed herself not to melt from the delicious thrill of sexual elation.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he said, ‘until you’re willing to thank me for giving your backside the spanking it deserves.’

  She moaned. She wasn’t sure how long he expected her to tolerate such duress and she was torn between wanting to obey him and needing to give in to the climax that yearned to rush through her body.

  Her muscles began to shiver from the effort of remaining motionless.

  It was the beginning of the end, she thought. As soon as her muscles did start to tremble the movement would be enough to push her beyond the brink of climax. Unable to resist the impulse for a moment longer, knowing that the response would be torn from her whether she wanted to let it go or not, Trudy groaned.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hart,’ she gasped.

  She relaxed and allowed the tremors to course through her frame.

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hart.’

  ‘Scream the words,’ he insisted.

  ‘THANK YOU, MR HART.’ The effort of shouting was too much. It was in that moment that she allowed her inner muscles to clench and convulse. The reaction proved cataclysmic for both of them.

  Trudy felt the climax tear from his length and shoot deep inside. His hardness pulsed and throbbed and twitched. His fingers buried deep into the reddened cheeks of her rear, thrilling her beyond any point she had thought possible. As her own inner muscles clutched, clamped and gripped around him, Trudy listened to Hart sigh with satisfaction from their shared pleasure.

  She remained bent over the counter even after he’d slipped his spent length from her. Standing there with her legs spread, her used sex open and dripping, and her panties taut around her knees, she wondered why sex had never felt so good before. She stared out of the window with the defiant bliss of the supremely satisfied.

  Without seeing, she stared at the rustic greenery of his chicken runs, the ripples on the carp pond and the provincial charm of the modest stable and its neighbouring cottage. She caught a glimpse of Hart’s reflection in the glass.

  His smile told her that everything would be OK.

  He leaned forward, stroked a hand through her hair, and placed a tender kiss against her cheek. ‘I enjoyed that.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hart,’ she murmured. ‘That was wonderful.’

  He shrugged. From the corner of her eye she could see that he had already pulled his pants up and, once more, he looked like a bastion of respectability. ‘One of these days we’ll have regular sex in a bed and then you’ll find out how good I am.’

  He placed his hand lightly against her exposed backside and gently squeezed. Trudy understood the gesture meant that she had now been granted permission to stand up and adjust her clothing.

  She laughed at his idea of them having sex in a bed, surprised the suggestion did not strike her as presumptive on his part or even coarse. The concept of having sex in a bed with William Hart was simply not something that had crossed her mind. Now the notion was there, she found it deliciously exciting and something that she needed to experience.

  Slowly, she eased herself away from the counter. She stepped out of the panties that were around her knees, allowing them to fall to the floor.

  She wondered if now would be the right time to ask why he had said no to Sweet Temptation. She was curious to find out what his thoughts had been but she felt sure there was no way of broaching the subject without sounding insecure or challenging. She also worried that such a question would come across as though she was expecting him to change his mind in return for the sexual favours she had just granted.

  The idea made her blush with distaste.

  Hart checked his wristwatch and groaned. ‘Come with me and watch how my kitchen works,’ he commanded. ‘I think you’ll like the look of the place when it’s populated with staff.’

  Chapter 14

  Hart introduced her to his staff as they arrived but there were too many names for Trudy to remember. She noticed there was an even balance of men and women working in the kitchen and they all addressed him as chef with genuine respect apparent in their voices. It was, she thought, the same level of respect she had shown when she was calling him Mr Hart in his private kitchen.

  That thought spurred a flurry of unbidden arousal that fluttered in the pit of her stomach. She willed herself not to get excited. She was not wearing any panties and she didn’t know how Hart would react if she started to become amorous in his kitchen whilst his staff were present.

  Within moments of the first chef de partie arriving the kitchen was a clatter of noise and excitement. The metallic sounds of blades slicing and shearing rattled from the tiled walls. Voices called jokes and instructions across the sizzle of heating griddles. The chaos of a busy and bustling kitchen began.

  Hart gave her whites and a toque. Both were emblazoned with an appliqué of a silver spoon dripping golden liquid to form the words Boui-Boui. Whilst she donned the uniform he shrugged himself into double-breasted chef’s whites and then took a wooden spoon and began to beat it on the bottom of a skillet. He continued banging on the pan until long after everyone had fallen silent.

  ‘Fuck, chef!’ someone muttered. ‘That’s chuffing loud.’

  ‘It’s meant to be chuffing loud,’ Hart agreed. ‘It’s meant to get your attention.’ He rolled his eyes as though exasperated by the stupidity of the observation and then gave Trudy a discreet wink. ‘This is Trudy McLaughlin,’ he called across the kitchen. ‘She’s a recent graduate and tonight she’ll be learning how I operate such a brilliant kitchen despite having skiving wazzocks like you lot working for me.’

  ‘Thanks chef,’ someone mumbled. ‘Your praise means so much to us.’

  The comment got a few chuckles, including one from Hart.

  ‘Was that the Smurf?’ Hart demanded.

  A commis chef at the back of the kitchen raised his hand and nodded. He had a narrow face with sharp eyes that could unkindly have been described as rat-like. His smile was crooked but seemed genuine enough. His whites looked scruffy and his chequered pants were scuffed at the knees. There were catering plasters around three of the knuckles on his raised hand.

  ‘We call him the Smurf because his fingers are permanently blue,’ Hart said.

  Trudy nodded having figured as much. It was a common nickname in catering kitchens. No one worked in a kitchen for long without eventually suffering an accidental cut. It was one of the inescapable hazards of the occupation. Trudy had once heard a boucher describe all first year students as Smurfs because they had permanently blue fingers.
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br />   ‘As I said,’ Hart continued, raising his voice so it reached the furthest corners of the room. ‘Ms McLaughlin is learning from me tonight. You’ll be treating her with the respect you’d give to a sous if we had one here –’

  Trudy blinked and tried to contain her amazement. According to her understanding of the hierarchy of a kitchen, an understanding that she’d scrutinised meticulously when she wrote a paper on Escoffier’s Brigade de Cuisine, the sous chef was second in command to the head chef. Hart was telling everyone to treat her with the same respect and authority they gave him. She struggled not to show her surprise.

  ‘– so I expect her to be given the utmost deference and courtesy at all times.’

  ‘Yes chef.’

  The words were muttered in a mass mumble of consent. No one seemed to begrudge her the unearned privilege she was being accorded. Everyone seemed to think that Hart’s decision was grounded in some practical reasoning. Trudy wondered if he was giving her this honour simply because she’d taken pleasure from having his hand slap against her backside before he fucked her an hour earlier.

  She pushed that thought from her mind, convinced that Hart had more integrity than to simply give out jobs to sexual conquests. Then she inwardly cringed at the idea of being considered anyone’s sexual conquest.

  Hart seemed oblivious to the helter-skelter direction of her thoughts.

  ‘This evening Trudy will be overseeing everything that goes out of the patisserie,’ he added. ‘So I suspect Kali will despise her by the end of the night.’

  A raven-haired woman at the back of the room grinned easily. A handful of the other members of the kitchen staff glanced at her. The woman had black eyes, olive skin, Mediterranean features and a smile that sparkled brightly. If this was Kali, Trudy could not imagine being despised by someone so attractive.

  ‘Do you have any questions?’

  The Smurf raised a blue-knuckled hand. ‘Isn’t this new sous the nutty bitch that was stuffing her face with muffins all night last night on table thirteen?’

  ‘That’s her, lad,’ Hart agreed. ‘It’s obvious you’re paying attention to some things round here, even if it’s not the sharp in your hand.’

  A couple of the chefs chortled.

  The Smurf’s cheeks reddened.

  ‘And you should take something from the fact that she still has a high opinion of the food that comes out of this kitchen even though you were working in here last night.’

  The laughter in the room increased. Even the Smurf joined in.

  ‘So get on with your work,’ Hart concluded. ‘We’re booked up again for another busy night. I look forward to seeing how much each one of you can impress me tonight with your talents.’

  A handful of the staff grunted, ‘Yes, chef.’

  The others were already on their way back to various stations to get on with all the evening’s preparation. The noise rattling from the tiled walls was already overwhelming. Hart slipped on a CD for background music.

  And the night had begun.

  For Trudy, the remainder of the evening disappeared in a whirl of raw and wonderful excitement. The chaos of pre-preparation seemed like the epitome of organised civility compared to the noise and bustle of the kitchen in action. Names were called back and forth. Plates and pots clanged together like re-enactments of historical battles. The flurry of flavours and scents that rushed through the room was overpowering and bewildering. Trudy had no idea how a single dignified plate could be served from such an atmosphere of apparent disorder.

  She went through to the patisserie and watched as Kali started work preparing a handful of caramelised banana puddings. The woman was a model of efficiency organising layers of uniformly sliced bananas in glass ramekins. She was about to pour a syrup of sugars and butter over the fruit when Trudy stopped her.

  ‘What sugar did you use?’ Trudy asked.

  ‘Muscovado,’ Kali said. ‘It’s what chef insists on for this recipe.’

  Trudy shook her head. ‘Try it again with a simple light brown sugar.’

  Kali raised an eyebrow. ‘A simple light brown sugar?’

  ‘It won’t have the heavy molasses taste of the muscovado, which will make the dish seem lighter.’

  ‘I tried telling this to chef when I first started here,’ Kali explained. ‘But he told me to stick with his original recipe.’

  ‘Try it now,’ Trudy insisted. ‘If he has any problems with the change I’ll take full responsibility.’ She smiled to herself as she said the words. A small part of her hoped that Hart did feel her decision would merit some level of punishment. She had already experienced his discipline once and the prospect of enduring it again was not undesirable. In truth, the idea served as a reminder that she was working in the kitchen without panties. The thought was enough to make her acutely aware of air caressing her most intimate folds.

  Kali passed her caramelised syrup to a commis chef for disposal and then went back to the pantry to source the specific ingredients Trudy had recommended.

  Waiters and waitresses rushed in and out of the kitchen, calling an indecipherable babble of demands that seemed to go ignored. Trudy and Kali shared a hurried evening exchanging thoughts and ideas on pastries as they prepared a modest variety of exquisite desserts. The noise became so loud and constant it went unnoticed and, by the time Hart was tapping her on the shoulder and motioning for her to join him in his office, Trudy had almost forgotten that she was in his kitchen.

  ‘Do you want to make a start on those steaks?’

  ‘Steaks?’

  ‘The ones we’ll be eating after the kitchen has closed tonight?’

  She had forgotten that they had planned to dine together at the end of the night. After an evening working in his kitchen it was automatic to say, ‘Yes, chef.’

  He raised an eyebrow and graced her with a wry smile. ‘Yes, chef? Don’t you mean: yes, Mr Hart?’

  She flushed. Not for the first time that evening, she remembered the punishing sting of each slap he had landed against her rear. She could recall the burning discomfort so clearly it was as though her buttocks were again being warmed. The memory was enough to make her excitement return. Her need for him was sudden, fluid and inarguable.

  ‘Yes, Mr Hart,’ she repeated dutifully.

  He grinned. ‘Get on with cooking the steaks, Ms McLaughlin. I want to eat as soon as I’ve finished in here. There’s a lot I want to do with you tonight and eating is only a small part.’

  She leant close to him. The movement meant her breasts were pressed against his arm. Even though they were both protected by the stiff, thick cotton of the chef’s whites, she felt sure that her excitement and need for him were radiating through the cumbersome clothing.

  Dropping her voice to a husky whisper, she asked, ‘What else do you want to do with me, Mr Hart?’

  He grinned and placed his lips as close as a kiss. ‘I want to offer you a job.’

  Chapter 15

  They sat on either side of table thirteen. The restaurant was empty and they were the only ones remaining. The last of the customers had left thirty minutes earlier. The staff had all gone their separate ways with Aliceon, the maître d’, being the last to leave. The woman wore an overcoat over her uniform and had closed the door quietly after wishing Trudy and Bill a goodnight. The expression on her face should have been inscrutable but, before she left, Aliceon gave the distinct impression that Bill was insane for socialising with Trudy.

  The meal had been a success. Trudy was pleased with the sirloin she delivered and Hart conceded that he had not had many fillet mignons that tasted much better.

  ‘It was tender and succulent,’ he conceded, ‘but a mignon would have stopped you needing to work against the meat’s shortcomings.’

  ‘It was top quality sirloin,’ she said, dismissing his argument. ‘It didn’t have any shortcomings. I seasoned that cut with a variety of peppers. Quality, tenderising and sealing are only part of the equation. It’s like you’ve said bef
ore: respect the flavours.’

  He nodded solemn agreement. He looked thoughtful. When she reflected on the evening, the way she had repeatedly glimpsed him brooding and rubbing distractedly at his jaw, she figured something was troubling him. She wanted to wait patiently, hoping he would feel comfortable enough to confide in her. The Chivas Regal they were sharing helped to dull the edge of apprehension gnawing inside her, softening the fear that Bill thought their relationship was a mistake and was trying to find a way to tell her they wouldn’t be seeing each other again.

  Eventually she had to break the silence and ask, ‘Is everything OK?’

  He flashed an easy smile in the face of her concern.

  ‘I’m thinking of spanking you again this evening, Ms McLaughlin.’

  She nodded and tried not to swoon with relief. His words sired a thrill of raw and electric need deep in her loins. He had already taken her to a climax of exhilarating proportions earlier in the day. She wondered how many times a day they could potentially pleasure each other. She hoped that Hart would suggest that one day they should test their limits with that question and find out a definitive answer.

  The prospect of such an experiment made her need for him broil with furious heat. She could imagine a torrid day of tawdry passion, sweated nudity and tingling, torturous satisfaction.

  Matching his measured tones, and feigning a pretence of detachment that sounded like Hart’s usual insouciance, she said, ‘I enjoyed the spanking experience earlier, Mr Hart. I’m sure it would be equally pleasurable this evening when done a second time.’

  He replenished their glasses with generous measures of whisky. ‘Mr Hart,’ he repeated. ‘You say that with such appropriate deference.’ He raised his glass and said, ‘If you’re truly amenable to the idea, Ms McLaughlin, we shall be revisiting the spanking before the night is over.’

  She struggled to suppress a shiver. She liked the way he called her Ms McLaughlin. The sound of the words made her insides squirm with a delicious syrupy wetness.