With concise, quick strokes, he sliced up a dozen or so button mushrooms that he threw into a lightly oiled pan, letting them sauté until they were a golden brown. Finished with these, he piled them into the churning pot, which I saw contained multicolored risotto. Next some cilantro was diced and into the pot it went. Next he grabbed a pack of chicken breast from the fridge, slapping each one onto the board to slice away the fat. The cuts were clean, professional. These were placed into a glass pan, drizzled with olive oil and lemon juice, and lightly sprinkled with salt and pepper before being slid into the oven. A few dashes of spices, which he grabbed from the cupboard without looking, went into the pot before he stopped to take a breath. I clapped.
“What’s that for?”
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
“I’m pretty good at number of things, as you know.”
I let this comment slide, pushing on.
“Where did you learn to cook like that?”
“My parents taught me. Do you want some wine?”
“Sure.”
He grabbed a bottle, wrapping it in the towel before uncorking it. He grabbed two glasses, pouring into each without spilling a single drop. His presentation was perfectly rehearsed. We moved to the living room, sitting on the couch. The wine was tart, dry, refreshing. Scott continued.
“My parents had a passion for food, Italian, French, Japanese, you name it and they could cook it. They ran a joint called Castiglione. Some of my earliest memories are in the kitchen. Dad used to joke that mom would breast-feed me while working the grill. I must have worked every job in that place from about the time I could start walking: dishwasher, busboy, line cook, bookkeeper.”
“Why aren’t you running the family business now?”
“I could have. When I graduated high school, I could have moved on to some of the best culinary schools. But there was a reason that I got to work so many positions at the family restaurant. We were going under. Even if you have the best cooks working under you, if you haven’t got a head for business, you’re not going to make it in the culinary world. My parents, they worked so hard, but were barely getting by. That wasn’t what I wanted and I told them as much. They weren’t happy about this, so I left home, got a flat of my own.
“As a teenager, I’d been spending less and less time in the kitchen. When I really wanted to get away from everything, I went to the movies. I’d watch anything while I was there, fantasy, romances, comedies, didn’t matter, just as long as I wasn’t thinking about home. Through high school, my friends and I would fool around with the camera, throw together costumes, and make our own little scripts. Kid stuff for the most part, but we got good at it. Gary was there from the beginning, you know. Known each other since we were kids. After leaving home, I called him up with a proposition: make a go at it with the movies. We had the talent and the creativity; we were already in the home of the industry, so why not just make them ourselves. Those first few years, I thought I had made a huge mistake. We were struggling more than Castiglione had. Worse since we weren’t making money. We were working third shift jobs by night, trying to film during the day. If we ever slept, it wasn’t for more than a few hours at a time. But it would count for something in the end, once we were rich. How’s the wine?”
I was thrown off by the interruption in his story. I stammered, “Very good actually. Like nothing I’ve ever tasted.”
He smiled. “Good. That’s what I hoped. Hold here for a second.”
He crossed to the kitchen, checking the pot, the oven. The smell of the chicken in oil wafted over the room. Scott returned to his seat.
“Just about ready.” He took a sip of his wine. “I hope you didn’t eat before coming here. I couldn’t decide whether it was too late for dinner.”
“I didn’t but I would have come anyway.”
“Well isn’t that something.”
“So what happened with your movies? What changed?”
“Oh right, well we were living in this desperate kind of hope at this point. We swayed back and forth from utter despair to a driven madness, thinking we were on the verge of really making it. Gary would come in each week, new script in hand, saying ‘This is it, Scott, this is the one to break us through.’ Of course none of them were. We had a bit of a local following, but were still unnoticed by the big studios.”
He smiled at this point, his eyes glazed with memory.
“It was the stupidest fucking thing. Wasn’t even one of our best-written scripts. But we loved it, and thought it would be a ball to shoot, to step back from trying to break in for a while. This campy horror movie, Mirror Woods. We got our regular actors to be in it, used the same equipment, and even brought in some new guys to do creature effects and costumes with us. Learned a good deal during that production. We were working on nothing, but we were having fun. Something clicked. Maybe it was just the right time for a movie like that. We got noticed at film festivals, were winning awards. ‘Reinventing the genre,’ was one of the reviews. And that was when the offers started coming in. I worked for a number of studios directing after that, but what I really wanted was something of my own. Gary and I and all of the old crew got back together, pooled together our resources, and founded Mythic Studios.”
Scott blinked a bit, the excitement receding into the cool mask of his face. “I think the food should be ready.”
He got up quickly, bringing our glasses to the table. I sat down, and waited as he served up the chicken, risotto, and a salad that had been chilling in the fridge. Everything was perfect, presented on the plate in the best fashion. And it tasted even better. The chicken was tangy and moist, the risotto smooth and earthy with the mushrooms, and the salad was refreshing. After a few mouthfuls, I looked across at Scott.
“This is impressive.”
He wiped his mouth, raised his hands as if to wave off the compliment.
“Nothing special at all.”
“Well I’d like to see what is special, because this is truly amazing.”
I set down my knife and fork and picked up my glass of wine, dissecting Scott with my gaze.
“You take great care in everything you do.”
“I should think so.”
“I think you really do. You made this dinner, it is beautiful, it tastes great, and I know that it got this way because you enjoyed making it. You do the same with your movies don’t you?”
It was his turn to put me under a scalpel stare.
“What makes you say that? How many of my movies have you seen?”
“Few actually. I’m not familiar with a whole lot of films these days. But I’ve worked on one of your films and I’ve seen the attention to detail that has been put in. Now Chimera, I have only seen the parts of the script that involved my own work. Honestly, my guess is that this movie could be terrible or really great. I don’t have the knowledge to judge that. But I’ve seen the set. I’ve seen the costumes and the props. As an extra, I was given this dagger that had so much detail put into it, I was genuinely surprised.”
I couldn’t read Scotts look as he stared into his wine glass. “You’re lucky to work on a film I believe in. This one is a bit of a pet project for me. If I think a movie is going to make us money, I put in a little bit more on it. If I really love what the film does, I get my best people to create the world for me. Luckily Chimera satisfies both of these criteria. If I could, I would spend all my time making movies that I love, that I could spend all of my time on. Like the ones I used to watch as kid, where even if the cast and crew were working with absolutely nothing, they did their best to keep you from knowing that; did their best to suspend your disbelief, and completely immerse you in the moment of the film.”
Again, he blinked, and started cutting into his food. I felt like something had been hit. I could swear that he was blushing.
“But this is too much talk about work. You must be bored.”
“No I enjoy it. Reminds me of how I felt when I used to paint.”
“Th
at’s right, you studied art history in college.”
Now it was my turn to blush. I didn’t think that he would have remembered. He smirked, having one some small victory over me.
“What did you like to paint?”
I was baffled by the question. Up to this point, he had never really, honestly asked about me.
“Anything that I observed. I specifically liked doing portraits, was good at them, but anything that got a reaction from me. I always wanted to make people feel what I was feeling.”
He nodded.
“Have you kept up with it? Since you graduated?”
I looked down at my plate. I thought of the two years I spent putting everything into the farm in Elgin, my time on the road working in diners and the like. Most nights I would come home feeling like I was just getting ready to head back to work. I shook my head.
“No, things haven’t been settled enough for that. I don’t have the same drive as you.”
Scott laughed, and I felt hurt that he should mock me.
“That’s one of the things I like about you. How much you haven’t realized about yourself.”
I was taken aback. We ate in silence, the clink of silverware against our plates the only sound that filled the apartment. When we both were full and settled, Scott nodded his head.
“I think it’s time for dessert.”
I was expectant to see what Scott had whipped up for us. He got up, but instead of heading back into the kitchen, he took me by the hand and led me into the bedroom. The lights were on, the bed simple and clean. In the middle of it was set a plate of strawberries and a bowl of melted chocolate. Pleased with himself, Scott made to drag me to the bed, but I stopped in my tracks. He turned, a questioning look. Before things went further, I knew had to make a stand. I took in a deep breath, steeling myself for what I was about to broach.
“Scott, are you going to record us again?”
He looked as if I couldn’t have asked him anything funnier.
“Of course.”
“Scott, I’m going to have to ask you to not record us.”
His face went blank.
“I thought we already talked about this.”
“We did. Or mainly, you did. You’ve made a lot of demands of me, most of which I am more than willing to give in to. Hell, I’m excited to. But the taping goes too far.”
He was about to respond, but I stopped him.
“Let me finish. I understand that this is something that you feel you need. You’ve told me you’re taking precautions from another of them leaking. But the fact is, one has already. Another mistake could be made. If people want to get them, they will find a way. You may have your whole career to back you up, to give you the strength to weather these scandals, but I don’t. I don’t have a suite on the top floor of an expensive building. I don’t have a studio where I can produce my own work. I have very little to call my own, and I want to keep it that way. I lost one job thanks to this scandal; it won’t happen again. If you’re going to be with me, get the privilege of having me, then you must give in to this demand.”
A series of emotions played across his face, his mouth moving to find something to say. A look, not defeated, but strained took a hold of his lips. Without a word he nodded. Turning to me, he looked stark naked in his jeans and shirt. I wrapped my arms around his neck, hugging tightly.
“Thank you.”
He brought a hand to the back of my head, kissing me with intensity. My skin felt golden with the victory, and I gave myself over to him.
After a few moments, he pulled away, moving to the bed. He placed the plate and bowl on the side table and leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
“Take off your clothes.”
I did as he said. Self-consciously, I unbuttoned the front of my blouse, letting it fall to the floor. Next I took off my shoes, one after the other, and tossed them to the side. I reached behind to undo my bra, but he spoke up sharply.
“After the pants.”
These I slid down and threw over to the shoes. Again I reached behind to undo my bra, but looked for his approval first. He nodded. I undid it, revealing myself to him. I was quick to remove my panties, finally fully naked in front of him. I was strongly aware of the fact that this was the first time I’d been fully nude in front of him: either I was in costume or he asked me to remain clothed. I felt uncomfortable under that cold stare, feeling that it could only be judging the way that I looked from the spacing of my eyes to the brown hair between my legs. Automatically, my arms moved to cover my breasts and vagina.
“Hands at your sides”
When I had done so, he came towards me, arms still crossed. I had the urge to throw my arms around him, but he anticipated this.
“I want you to remain still.”
He circled around me, his eyes burning brands into my skin. I felt my mouth dry and my skin began to prickle. I wanted him to touch me, but he wasn’t, just walked around me, staring. It may have been only a minute, but the seconds seemed to drag on and on. I wanted something to happen, and finally broke. He was passing behind me again, and I reached out with my left hand to touch his chest. With great force, he spanked me across the backside, never breaking his stride.
“Did I say you could touch me?”
“No.”
Another spank.
“No what?”
“No, Scott.”
The third one landed in the same spot, and I choked back a cry of pain.
“No what?” he repeated.
“No, sir.”
“Good.”
He passed in front again, having produced a black handkerchief. This he slithered across the front of me, from left hip, across my right breast, and passing over the shoulder. My whole body shivered and I bit my lip. He had stopped now, hands on either side of my head, the silk draped between my breasts. It felt smooth and cool.
“Do I have your permission to blindfold you?”
It took everything in me to not turn around and look at him.
“Yes,” it almost escaped me, “sir.”
The blindfold was placed over my eyes, and I was blind. His breath came hot against my neck as he whispered to me.
“We need a safety word. Something to stop all this if it becomes too much.”
“Like what, sir?”
“Something innocuous. Something we can recognize that is removed from what we are doing.”
I thought a moment.
“Orange, sir.”
“Agreed.”
His warmth moved away from my neck and I was cold in the void of sightlessness. I let out a squeal when it returned, brushing the hairs of my hip. Next it appeared on my ribs, then a moist kiss above my breast. It continued like this, breath, kisses, and even nips interspersed in uneven periods of time, some longer, some shorter, each action a surprise. I felt my body stirring, grow wet and heated for the feel of his mouth against me. But each action, each contact left me yearning, wanting more. I began to feel my breath labor in my chest. After a long absence of touch, I felt his fingers seeking out the folds me, sliding my moisture across my stomach.
“Ohhh,” I moaned.
“Do you like that?”
“Yes, sir. Very much, sir.”
“Do you want me to touch you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What else do you want?”
“I want you to take me, sir. I want you to do me, sir.”
“Then come.”
His hand upon my shoulder, the feel of the sheets against my skin had never before been more overpowering. Silently, quickly, I was arranged, splayed across the bed. My hands and feet were tied, soft cuffs pulling me open. I rested in a state of firm support, close to the border of distress. I felt the bed sink with the weight of Scott sitting down. Something cold and flat was placed on my stomach, which I almost knocked over as I squirmed. A firm hand clutched my mouth.
“Stay still.”
Unable to speak, I nodded. As I settled, I realized it was the pl
ate of strawberries. The bowl of chocolate was placed between my breasts, and I was warned that I would be punished if I knocked either of them over.
Scott was lying next to me now. I could feel the shift of his body as he changed positions. The cold touch of the plate and bowl became as white noise, assuming the heat of my body. The rest of me had returned into a state of anticipation, waiting, yearning for Scott to command or touch it.
“Would you like a strawberry?”
His Dark Secret - Part 1 (Erotic Romance Serial Novel) Page 7
