Chapter 6. In which our narrator takes our heroine’s breath away

To say that Cynthia was a bit anxious about her dreams that night would be an understatement. She lay down as a supplicant on her own bedroom floor twice. The first time she never really made it to sleep, eventually getting up to get a glass of water. Then she had to psych herself into going back to “bed”. The second time she did fall half asleep, but before she began to dream she felt the call of nature, got up, peed, then failed to pep talk herself into sleeping again. But Cynthia was nothing if not a creature of habit, the last several days of “hooky from heroing” notwithstanding. So as she sat in her living room, on her couch, hours after her bedtime, trying to convince herself that she needed to go back to “bed”, she managed to drift off to sleep right there.

It took over an hour before she began to dream. And tonight’s dreams were particularly jittery and fragmented. It was almost as if her subconscious mind didn’t want to give me an opening in which to swap her out. That would be a first. But eventually the opening came. She was hacking her way through a dense jungle with a machete, when a giant translucent pink python attacked her, wrapping coil after giant coil over her helpless body. Now seemed like as good a time to swap her as any. And so I did.

Lying prostrate before me she felt like a straight-A student who had failed to finish her assignments, dreading that moment when her teacher called for them. But I was “noticing” none of that. I was on the couch watching the baseball game. “ ... Swing and a miss, strike two...”

Finally she screwed up her courage and begged to serve her Lord.

“Beer me, baby bitch.”

She hurried to comply. After presenting the beer to me on her knees she remained there looking at me with equal parts fear and longing. Soon the longing was beginning to win out. The delicious smell of her Lord was everywhere, and the feeling of emptiness, of lack, of “something missing” was beginning to prey on her mind.

“Can you cook?”

She was ripped suddenly from her thoughts of yearning. But what a great way to be surprised!

«I’m a world-class gourmet chef! No! No! Humbly!» “I, I like to cook, My Lord. Would you like me to cook for you?”

“You should find everything you could possibly need in the refrigerator, the freezer, the cabinets. I expect dinner promptly at six-thirty.” I pointed at the clock on the entertainment center, which at that moment read “3:14”.

“Don’t disappoint me.”

Of course, disappointing me was now the last thing on her mind. She had started this “dream” certain that I would order her to do something she couldn’t do. Instead I was ordering her to do something she could do blindfolded. She was literally jumping to comply.

In the fridge she found two fresh filets mignon and a large selection of veggies, fruits, other staples. The cabinets were well-stocked with baking supplies, oils, spices. She had time to make her own sauces. She had time to make soup from scratch. She had time to bake freaking bread.

She saw a chef’s apron hanging from a hook and debated with herself over whether or not she was implicitly allowed to wear it. Ultimately she decided that her Lord would not want his property ruined by ugly burn scars and put it on. In twenty minutes she had the beginnings of a creamy butternut squash soup simmering. She was pounding out the bread dough and thinking about sauces, salad dressings, condiments, and, of course, sex.

Well, romance that is. In her mind she saw our dinner together, and the vision was making her warm and drippy between her legs. She saw my heart soften as I experienced what she truly had to offer. Over a taper-lit table, looking out onto the city skyline, enjoying the fruits of her labor. We would hold hands. We would smile. We would talk. Clearly her Lord would always be in charge; she wouldn’t have it any other way. But tonight I would begin to see her as a person to be respected, not just a slave, a pet, a fuckdoll.

I could work with that. In the midst of her reverie, her daydream-within-a-dream, she noticed me walking into the kitchen. As she started to turn and drop to her knees, I barked, “As you were.”

She turned her attention back to the dough, kneading it somehow more coquettishly. Standing behind her, I reached up under her apron and cupped her breasts. I began squeezing them in time with her own squeezes on the bread dough. She moaned and leaned back into me. I bent down and began nibbling her neck. She moaned again, louder and began to lose her rhythm.

“Something smells amazing in here,” I whispered in her ear.

“I nngghh I love to cook ... My Lord!”

“Yeah,” I pressed my nose into the crook of her neck and inhaled, “I guess the food smells okay too. Bend over.”

She had just enough presence of mind to sweep the dough out of the way, but there was nothing she could do about the thick coating of flour all over the counter in front of her. Arms, hair, apron, and side of face all were painted with fine white powder as I slid into her warm wet pussy.

Slowly, gently, I pushed my cock all the way to the base and said “cum”. She did, loudly and vigorously. Slowly I withdrew until only the tip was still inside. Her moan caused a small cloud of flour to swirl atop the counter.

Slowly back in until scrotum met pelvic bone. “Cum.” New orgasm washed over still-twitching old.

Slowly out. Slowly in. “Cum.”

And so it went. For next twelve minutes and forty-three seconds, Cynthia’s universe exploded over and over and over again, until finally I grunted “Cum” for the last time and added my explosion to her own.

“Well, I guess you better get back to work.”

Through loud ragged breaths and a long groan she finally got out a coherent “Yes, My Lord.”

“I hope I didn’t ruin the bread.”

“No, ha, wheez, hah My Lord. It nnneeded to sit hah and rise for hah a while anyway.”

“Okay.”

Then I was gone. Back to the game. I had knocked her world off its axis, but clearly to me it was just a pleasant distraction.

Fast forward to six-fifteen, and Cynthia was in the home stretch. It had taken her a few minutes to recover from my sneak attack, but, truth to tell, she still had plenty of time. Soup and salad and bread were ready; asparagus and shallots were back down to a low simmer; salad dressings: raspberry vinaigrette and catalina, were prepared; the burner under the dijon bearnaise was off to prevent accidentally scalding it, but the lid on the pan would keep it warm. Then there was the meat. The most critical detail in cooking tenderloin was the fat with which it was cooked, so these filets were each wrapped in two slices of bacon with a good-sized dollop of butter on top as well, all sitting at room temperature. I didn’t actually already know that; I learned it while eavesdropping in her head just now. Mind-reading is so-o-o educational!

Speaking of what’s going on in her head, she was pretty proud of herself right then. «Paula Deen, you amateur, eat your heart out, » she thought to herself, grinning.

Filets would go in after the soup and salad went to the table.

«Gotta have some quality time with my man, er, Lord!»

She had already set the places, lit the candles, brought out the salad dressings and a large carafe of ice water, selected a cabernet sauvignon from the wine rack. Now she was going back for the soup and salad. She and I arrived back at the table at the same time.

“Well, this is all very nice,” I said, “but these dishes are not for you. I have a special dish for you. You can find it in the lower cabinet, under the sink. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Um. Yes. My Lord.” Cynthia was confused.

«“Special dish”? What kind of special dish?»

After putting the filets into the oven and setting the timer, she began rummaging around under the sink. She couldn’t imagine what I meant. And then she found it. Her “dish” was a metal double-bowl doggy dish. Tears began to flow. Her dreams of a romantic dinner crumbled.

«“I’m a horny bitch, a desperate, yearning cunt, a needy, whining child”», she heard herself saying in her head. «“I’m your slave, your toy, your plaything.” “I’ve been bad, please punish me. Teach me how to be pleasing to you! I want to be a good girl again!”»

She brought her dish back to the table. She had wiped away her tears and was wearing a forced smile, but her sniffles and wet, red eyes — not to mention her thoughts — gave her away. Even so her nipples were hard rubber; her humiliation was fueling her arousal, but it was still difficult for her to swallow this demeaning symbol of her true status. She knelt and sat back beside my chair at the head of the table. She held the doggy dish in her lap and looked down at it. Even with her plastic grin she could not look up at me.

“Where snif should I put my d-dish, snif M-my Lord?”

“Right there beside the table is fine,” I said, pointing to a spot on the floor off my left. “And keep yourself here alongside me where I can reach you.”

Warmth washed over her at the thought of me “reaching” her.

“Yes, My Lord.”

She laid down the dish, then another thought struck her. A wonderful thought, from my perspective at least; it showed that she was already past mourning her “perfect, romantic dinner” fantasy, and facing the challenge I had set before her.

“My Lord, may I braid my hair? I can do it quickly!”

“Because?”

“I want to stay clean for you. I don’t want to get hair in my food or food in my hair.”

“Yes. But if you prefer there are some rubber bands in the kitchen junk drawer.”

“Yes, My Lord. Thank you, My Lord.” She was up and moving.

Talking to her back I asked her if she wanted some water and some soup.

“Yes to both, please, My Lord.”

“Oh, and bring a corkscrew.”

I poured some water into the right depression of the dog dish, then ladled some soup into the left. She was back in less than a minute, unruly tangle of a low but tight pony tail draped down her back. She knelt and presented the corkscrew, then turned toward the first course of her meal, kneeling, sitting back, hands on knees, waiting.

“You may begin.”

She bent herself down to the dish, knees down, ass up, supported by her elbows with her head above the dish. Slowly I began to stroke her lower back and buttocks, petting her. As she slurped and lapped at her soup and her water, she snuggled closer to me, her thigh and hip now pressed against the side of my chair. With every movement of her head, she felt an electric thrill of her hard nipples scratching against the parquet floor. With that and with the thrill of the humiliation, my gentle touches and strokes had her as aroused and ready as she had ever been.

“This soup is excellent, creamy, sweet, spicy. What is it?”

Rising up a bit from her noisy meal, she responded, “It’s a sort of butternut squash bisque, My Lord. It’s my own recipe.”

“Well, it’s delicious. If the rest of the meal is this good I will be impressed.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” she said, returning to slurping and smacking in the bowls.

I was taking my time, I wanted her to finish before I did, and she did. She sat back. My hand on her ass trailed up her side, her shoulder, finally to her messy, soup-covered cheek.

“I’m sorry, My Lord!”

“It’s okay, just clean it up.”

She first used her hands and mouth to clean her own face. Then she turned to my hand, licking the palm, sucking each finger clean. My thumb apparently inspired her somehow. She began sucking and suckling my thumb suggestively, even though she was still afraid that I would be displeased with her actual fellatio.

“Would you like some salad?”

pop “Um, ah, yes, My Lord.”

“Which dressing?”

“The vinaigrette please, My Lord. Just a little.”

“More water?”

“Yes please, My Lord.”

She went back to elbows and knees and noisily munched her salad. I went back to my soup and my stroking. The backs and insides of her thighs were sizzling hot. Reaching further up under I could feel her wetness, her readiness. She moaned as I lightly stroked her engorged sex, but resumed eating. I was finishing my soup as she was licking up the last slice of radish from the bottom of her dish.

I stood up, dropped my pants, and sat back down again. “Whatever will you do until the next course is ready?”

There was certainly no need for even that bit of faux subtlety. She was, after all, my property. Still she struggled. “My Lord, m-m-may I give you ... may I...”

“Give me a blow job?”

“Y-yes, My Lord.”

“You’ve worked on it?”

“Not entirely ... successfully, My Lord.”

“Well then, let’s see what you’ve got.”

As I dished out my salad, she crawled under the table and grasped my semi-erect cock. «It’s huge, but thank the Gods it’s not as big and thick as the Monster» She kissed the tip. She fondled my balls, eliciting a grunt from me.

«Oh, no! “Discipline”» she thought, briefly panicked. “Um, t-too rough, My Lord?”

“No, no, it was just right, carry on,” I reassured her.

Grinning now, she licked and kissed all up and down the shaft, flicking her tongue all around my glans, kissing and sucking the slit as the first drops of my pre-cum emerged. She savored the taste, knowing that this flavor would be a significant part of her life from now on.

Now she went down in earnest. She had decided on a strategy, a “plan of attack” as it were, and I must say I was enjoying it. As she went down, pushing my cock further into her hot wetness, she pushed the glans up against the rough roof of her mouth, while slathering the soft underside of my member with her tongue. When it reached her tonsils she pulled back. Her lips, which up to this point had been perfect pillowy pads, now became a tight vacuum seal as she sucked in as hard as she could, pulling away from my cock. It was ... effective. After several cycles I was hard as a rock. But I wanted more. As my member reached the back of her throat one more time I grabbed the back of her head and grunted, “Further, all the way.”

She prepared for the worst. She shuddered, but pushed further, trying in vain to suppress her relentless gag reflex, and ... succeeded! My cock slid down her esophagus. Her nose was soon buried in the thatch of my pubic hair. I could feel rather than see as her lips tried to stretch into a satisfied grin. She enthusiastically began to explore my scrotum with her tongue. After more than a minute, she finally surfaced from her dick-diving expedition, not forgetting to maintain suction throughout the up stroke.

“I did it, My Lord! I did it! I did it! When I practiced I couldn’t deep-throat at all. I was so scared that I was going to fail and make you mad, but, but I did it!”

“That’s nice, baby bitch, and I’m happy for you, really. But right at the moment I’m annoyed that you stopped sucking me!”

“OH! Oh, I’m sorry, My Lord. I’ll mmfft.” The last was a bit muffled by my prick as I forced her face back on top of it again.

Soon she was slurping, moaning, humming, as she went about her happy chore.

But she only got five or six long, deep strokes in before the kitchen timer began to buzz. She looked up at me and whined, cock head still in her mouth, eyes pleading to be allowed to finish what she had started.

“Little fucktoy, if you ruin this perfect dinner just because you can’t get enough cock, I will thrash you until all you can do is whimper and whine. Go!”

Actually, she had started moving as I was saying “perfect dinner”. She was already tossing on her apron by the time I had finished speaking. Pride trumping lust? A little bit. Fear trumping both? A little bit of that too. But mostly it was the realization that she wasn’t doing my bidding. She suddenly saw herself as a “bad, selfish slave” — while sucking my cock, no less! — and she needed to finish that “perfect dinner” in order to truly be my “good girl”.

So now she was in the kitchen and not sure how to present the main course. Before, she had planned to bring out loaded plates for both of us. Now she knew that she would not be eating her portion from a plate, so she was at a loss. She didn’t want to overreach again. She decided that she would put one filet and one portion of shallots and asparagus in a small bowl instead. Balancing a plate, a bowl, and a gravy boat full of dijon bearnaise sauce, she returned. Kneeling she presented everything to me individually, trying but not succeeding in hiding her pride. She presented the bowl as “extra portions”, careful not to presume that it was hers at all.

Well, I needed to deal with that right then. “Would you like some meat, little cocksucker?”

“Yes, please, My Lord.” She blushed at her well-earned appellation.

I cut up about a third of the filet on a bread plate and scraped it into her dog dish. “Some veggies?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Again I cut the asparagus and shallots into bite-size pieces and scraped them into the bowl. “Some sauce?”

“Just a little, please, My Lord.”

“Bread?”

She thought a second. “No, thank you, My Lord.”

“You may eat.”

Soon I could feel her warm, smooth, up-raised hip against my bare thigh. I idly petted her ass, back, and thighs while I ate, liberally praising the flavor and quality of the meal. Every happy noise out of my mouth sounded like “good girl” to her. She shivered with joy and arousal, all the more so with her erect nipples again pressing and rubbing against the floor as she ate. She was now more ready than ever to get back to her unfinished work between my legs, but still took some time to enjoy the fruits of her work in the kitchen.