by Tawna Fenske
I take a big gulp of wine and wonder if this story is supposed to be turning me on. It is. “And they bought your story?”
“Yeah. I knew they would. Their book club read 50 Shades of Grey a couple years ago. I heard them all talking about the spanking parts, and they sounded scandalized.”
She says the word with a tone of reverence, and I can see why she’d want that. Why she’d crave that sort of response from people who’ve looked down their noses at her. I watch as she takes a small sip of wine.
“I love my sisters,” she says at last. “It’s complicated.”
“Family usually is.”
Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment we just look at each other. I feel like I’m swimming in those bold green pools, and I’ve almost forgotten what I came here to do.
“The thing is, my sisters are really—uptight,” she says. “And really, really girly.”
“Girly,” I repeat. “You keep using that word. What do you mean, exactly?”
She shrugs and takes a sip of her wine. “They’re always in skirts and dresses and heels. Well, unless they’re going to their country club for the latest trendy workout. Then they’re all decked out in pink Lululemon.”
“I don’t know what pink Lululemon is, but it sounds delicious.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “It’s designer workout gear, but you’re on the right track with the delicious thing. They’re always drying herbs and testing out gourmet recipes or hosting these elaborate wine dinners. They’re the ultimate put-together, ultra-feminine hostesses.”
“I see.” I sip my own wine and stretch one arm over the back of the sofa. I’m not trying to put my arm around her, exactly, but I do enjoy the feel of her hair tickling my wrist. “Are you saying you’re not the ultimate put-together, ultra-feminine hostess?”
“God, no!” She looks horrified for an instant, then softens her expression. “I don’t mean to disparage my sisters. They mean well. It’s just—well, I play with dirt for a living. Lisa—she’s a couple years younger than Missy—she asked for a curling iron for her eighth birthday. I asked for a microscope.”
“This is starting to make sense now.”
And it is. Just these few tidbits of information about Cassie are letting me understand where she’s coming from. What makes her tick.
“They loved the kitchen spanking story,” she says a little wistfully. “Know what’s dumb?”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not even sure I know what a spatula is.”
“A spatula?” I frown and try to conjure an image of my own collection of kitchen gadgets. “What do you mean? It’s that tool you use to flip pancakes, isn’t it?”
“That’s the thing. When I told them the story, I was picturing one of those wand-looking gadgets with the rubber-smacky part on the end.”
I frown, completely clueless what the hell she’s talking about. “Like a turkey baster?”
“No, that’s not it at all.” She stands up and starts toward the kitchen with her wineglass in hand. I follow suit, not sure whether I’m more intrigued by the mystery kitchen gadget or by the sway of Cassie’s hips in that skirt.
She halts beside the stove and drags a big terracotta pot of utensils across the counter. Plucking one from the bouquet of silicone and metal, she holds it up for me to inspect. “This. Isn’t this a spatula?”
The tool she’s holding is what my mom used to scrape brownie batter off the sides of a mixing bowl. I feel a pang of sadness at the memory of my mother, who died in a car wreck with my dad ten years ago. It’s a weird contrast to how turned-on I feel with Cassie standing in front of me holding the kitchen implement like a flogger.
“That’s a rubber scraper,” I tell her. “At least that’s what my mother and grandmother always called it.”
“A rubber scraper?” She frowns like I might be making this up.
“It’s true.” I lean against the counter and take a sip of wine. “Then I got to middle school and learned what a rubber was. I started snickering every time my mom asked me to hand her the rubber scraper, so she stopped calling it that after a while.”
Cassie laughs and sets the gadget down on the counter. She plucks another utensil from the collection and holds it up. “So, this must be a spatula, then?”
I can’t believe she’s asking me, or that I’m honestly not sure. Is it more surprising that we’re having this conversation as foreplay to BDSM or that I’m not actually certain about the names of kitchen utensils?
I look at the one she’s holding up and shrug. “I always called that a flipper. You know, for flipping pancakes?”
“You make pancakes?”
“Sure.”
She looks oddly in awe of this, and I feel an unexpected swell of pride. I came here hoping to wow her with my hair-pulling, ass-smacking alpha-maleness, and here she is looking impressed by my culinary skills.
“That’s the tool I grab whenever I need to flip pancakes or grilled cheese sandwiches,” I continue. “I guess that’s why I’ve always called it a flipper.”
Cassie gives the flipper a rueful glare. “Then which one is the spatula?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe different people call them different things?”
Cassie sighs. “Getting through The List is going to be more complicated than I thought.”
I love that she’s trying so hard to get this right. That it matters to her that the kitchen gadget I use to smack her ass is called by the correct name.
“You said your sisters cook a lot, right?”
“Right.” She leans against the counter, distracting me with the sight of those rounded breasts in profile. “They’re like Martha Stewart on crack.”
“So why don’t you ask them?”
Cassie blinks. “Call my sisters to ask which kitchen gadget you should use to spank me?”
“I wouldn’t phrase it quite like that, but yes.”
She sets down the flipper and gives me a curious look. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”
Before I can say anything else, she’s grabbed her iPhone off the table and is hitting a speed-dial number. She’s four feet away, but I can hear a woman’s voice answer on the other end of the line.
“Hey, Missy, it’s me. Listen, I have a question about cooking.”
There’s some chatter on the other end of the line, and Cassie seems to hesitate before responding. “Uh—brownies.”
I can’t make out the sister’s reply, but I hear a muffled squeal of joy or surprise. Cassie glances at me and rolls her eyes. She mouths the words, “I told you,” but all I can think about is how amazing those lips would feel wrapped around my—
“I’m licking them right now,” Cassie says. I almost drop my wineglass. I’m glad Cassie just turned her back so she can’t see me gaping at her like an idiot. “And yes, I turned off the beaters before sticking my tongue in them. That’s not what I wanted to know, though.”
She turns back to me, and I pick up the rubber scraper and the spatula and pantomime a two-handed spanking using both tools in rapid succession. It looked a lot cooler in my mind, but in reality, I probably look like a dork playing air drums. Cassie giggles.
“I just need to know which tool is the right one,” she says. “The brownie batter keeps getting stuck to the side of the bowl. What should I use to get it off?”
Her sister prattles on for a helluva lot longer than it should take to answer that question. I catch snippets of the lecture, words like “silicone head” and “spreader,” which sound a whole lot dirtier than Missy probably means them to.
“Oh,” Cassie says. “So, that’s not a flipper or a turner or whatever?”
More words from Missy. Cassie seems like she’s only half listening now. Her gaze has dropped to the tool gripped in my right hand, and I can tell she’s imagining what it might feel like smacking hard against her soft flesh. I set down the flipper and draw back the rubber scraper. That seems to be the gadget that piques her interest the most. The one
she mentioned first. Regardless of what it’s called, I suspect it’s what I’ll use to fulfill her fantasy.
I hold my left hand out flat and open my fingers. Cassie watches, mesmerized, while her sister drones on. I draw back the rubber scraper in my right hand, winding up like a batter. She licks her lips, gaze fixed on my open palm. I bring the scraper down hard, whacking the rubber head against the center of my palm.
Smack!
“Oh!” Cassie gasps. Her cheeks flush pink, and I hear her sister asking what just happened. “Nothing,” Cassie says. “I—uh—I’ve gotta go. Uh-huh. Love you, too.” She hangs up the phone before her sister can ask more questions.
Her eyes are still fixed on the tool in my hand, and I watch as she licks her lips again. “We can call it a spatula. Um, I could tell you all the etymology Missy just explained, and how—”
“That won’t be necessary.”
She nods once. “Good.”
“This is the tool you wanted?” I ask. “What you imagined when you told them the story?”
She nods and watches me set it down on the counter. I swear she looks disappointed, but there’s something I need to get out of the way before I lay a hand on her. “Do you want to have a safe word?”
“A safe word?”
“Yeah. It’s a word we agree on beforehand that—”
“I know what a safe word is. I’ve read Fifty Shades, remember?”
I don’t know why I’m happy to hear she’s not working from personal experience, but I am. “I think it would be a smart idea to have one. For both of us.”
“Okay.” She frowns. “How about Jory?”
“Jury? As in trial by?”
“No, Jory. As in Oregon’s state soil.”
“Oregon has a state soil?”
She sighs and picks up her wineglass, then takes a small sip before she sets it back down on the counter. “Fine. You come up with something.”
“Okay.” I think about it for a few beats. “How about a computer term? Something like gigabyte?”
“Gigabyte?” She rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to remember to yell gigabyte if you smack my ass too hard.”
“All right.” I step a little closer, brushing against her on purpose as I grab a second spatula from the container. This one is bright orange with a bigger head than the first one she’d grabbed. She watches me turn it over in my hand, and I tap it softly against my palm. “Maybe we should choose a sexy safe word,” I suggest.
“Sexy. Yes, that’s good.”
“Lube?”
She shakes her head. “What if I’m actually asking for it?”
“You are kinda asking for it.” I grin, and Cassie rolls her eyes again. I love that she can be simultaneously turned on and playful. I set the spatula down and reach for her. I take my time sliding a hand down her side, memorizing the curve of her hip. She shivers under my palm, then shifts her weight to lean into my touch.
“How about salacious?” I suggest. “Arouse? Stimulate?”
I’ve never used vocabulary words as a seduction technique before, but it seems to be working. With Cassie, anyway. I caress her hip again, then continue up. My palm dips into the curve of her waist and keeps going, barely grazing the side of her breast. Cassie gives a soft groan.
“Don’t you think there’s a chance words like those might come up in conversation?” Her voice is high and strained as I cup her left breast in my hand. The fabric of her shirt is cool and slippery, but underneath I can feel how warm she is. I stroke my thumb over her nipple, rewarded by another soft gasp.
“Perhaps.” I run my hand down her body, taking my time stroking her waist, her hip, her ass. I find the hem of her skirt and slide up until my fingers make contact with the edge of her panties. Cassie gasps and grips the counter.
“How about undulate?” I suggest. “Rhythmic? Lubricious?”
She moans aloud as I ease a finger under the elastic of her panties. I’m surprised to find her already wet, and I wonder if she was touching herself before I got here or if this happened in the last couple minutes. Either way, she feels fucking amazing. I dip a finger into her, and she moans again. My cock strains at the front of my pants.
“Oh, God,” she groans when I slide my finger inside her, all the way to the second knuckle. Her hips seem to move without her consent, tilting toward me to offer just the right angle.
With the hand that’s not touching her, I lift my wineglass to my lips and chug the last of it. Then I set the glass aside and turn my full attention on her.
“Surely, we can find a good safe word,” I say. “How about plunge? Or maybe erotic.”
Cassie gives a low little moan in the back of her throat. I don’t even know if she’s hearing my words. Her eyes are closed, and she’s rocking against my finger like she’s fucking my hand. The rhythm is slow and sweet, and I’m not certain she realizes she’s doing it.
“Susurrus,” I whisper, leaning close so she can feel my breath on her throat.
She laughs, though it comes out more like a moan. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“Susurrus,” I repeat. “Whispering, murmuring.” I lean closer, letting my lips brush her earlobe as I draw out each syllable.
“Simon—”
“I don’t think Simon is a good safe word,” I whisper. “I plan to make you scream it by the time we’re through.”
She whimpers and grinds herself against my finger. “Please.”
“Definitely not a good safe word.”
She turns and grabs me by the front of the shirt. Her eyes are a little wild, and she’s tight around my finger, her pussy slick and hot. She slides her fingers up my arms, and her eyes are pleading.
“Please,” she whispers again. “I want you. Now. Please.”
Then she presses her lips to mine.
Chapter Six
Cassie
There’s something absurdly sexy about the contrast between the two sides of Simon. There’s the guy who makes goofy jokes about rubber scrapers and plays drums with my kitchen utensils.
Then there’s the alpha-male version who made my whole body scream with need the instant he slapped that spatula against his palm.
I kinda like both.
But right now, it’s the alpha version who’s making my blood sing as he yanks out my low, padded barstool and points to it. “On your knees,” he says, spinning me around to face the counter. He pushes me down with a gentle palm in the small of my back, and I go willingly. I brace myself on the edge of the counter the instant my knees sink onto the cushioned stool.
We’re both still fully clothed, and something about that makes it even hotter than if we were totally naked. He reaches over and hits the dimmer switch for the light over my kitchen bar, transforming the bright glare into something soft and warm. Then he slides his hands up my thighs and pushes my skirt up around my hips. I suck in a breath as his palm skims the satin of my bikini panties. From the corner of my eye, I see his other hand grab the orange spatula off the counter.
“Very nice,” he says, and I’m not sure if he’s talking about my ass, my undies, or my taste in kitchen gadgets. His hand grazing my ass leaves me feeling fiery and eager for him to keep doing this. Goosebumps ripple up my arms as he continues caressing me. His touch is feathery and light, and I lean into it, craving more.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he says, pushing me back into position. One of his hands leaves my body, and I hear myself give a small moan of frustration.
Simon laughs. Then I hear the unmistakable sound of his belt being unbuckled. My mouth starts to water, and I try to imagine what he has in mind. When his other hand leaves my ass, I crane my head to look.
He’s standing there in boxer briefs and pulling his shirt off. Tossing it aside, he gives me a stern look and picks up the spatula. “Did I say you could turn around?”
“Just enjoying the view.”
The smack is quick and unexpected, jolting me forward against the counter. My right ass cheek stings,
and I gasp aloud—half shock, half pleasure.
“Turn around,” he commands.
I’m tempted to disobey, hoping he’ll punish me with another smack. But I do what he says, my flesh still tingling where the spatula made contact.
“There you go.” His voice is low and close to my ear, and I realize he’s leaning down over me. Then I feel it. Something hard and smooth grazing the back of my panties. It’s his cock, and he’s skimming it over the very cheek he just smacked, soothing it through the thin satin of my panties.
I moan and press into him again. I’m soaking wet and dying to have him yank the panties down my thighs so he can sheathe himself inside me again, just like he did Saturday night. I’ve been feeling him for days, craving the thickness of him sliding all the way to the hilt.
But he keeps my panties in place and continues to tease me. He glides all that glorious length into the cleft of my ass, rubbing and pressing until I moan again. The head of it grazes my tailbone, and I close my eyes. Jesus, I had no idea my tailbone was any sort of erogenous zone. The pressure feels amazing, and Simon seems to know it.
His fingers slide into the hair at the nape of my neck, then tighten around it. I feel my eyes go wide as he wraps his fist around my makeshift ponytail and pulls back. The pressure is firm, but not a yank. Not anything that’s going to snap my neck, but it’s sure as hell letting me know he’s in charge.
“You like that?” he murmurs into my ear. “You like feeling my cock up against your ass like that?”
I nod, and since he’s still gripping my hair in his fist, it pulls tighter. I’m amazed by how much I love it. He gives another soft tug, sending tingles of sensation from the root of each hair all the way to my toes.
The next smack lands on the outside of my left ass cheek, and I yelp and buck against him. He pins me in place, his body pressed against mine, his lips still grazing my ear. His fist still grips my hair, and my flesh sizzles where he slapped it.
