Whetting the Appetite

Serving Dinner by Lynn Townsend

Serving Dinner by Lynn Townsend

The collar bell jingled in counterpoint to the music as Helen danced around the kitchen. The music blared, a rumbling salsa beat. Her body moved, lithe and graceful, snapping her fingers and swiveling her hips as she prepped dinner. She was humming under her breath as she scraped batter into the baking pan. Sautéed onions and garlic perfumed the air, sizzling in the pan. She frowned, added salt, stirred.

“Go go gadget cheese grater,” she muttered, brandishing the tool playfully. She topped the dish with chopped chives and placed the stoneware in the oven. She set the timer.

Jim watched the entire performance, unnoticed, from the kitchen door. She had not turned around, not even once, to see him there. “Pet?”

Instantly, Helen dropped to her knees, pressing her forehead against the cool tiles. “My lord?”

The music blared, raucous. P!nk declared that she could be run down by an 18-wheeler. For a long moment, as his disapproval was made more and more obvious, the music seemed abnormally loud.

“Turn that off,” Jim said, his voice mild. Helen stood—her form graceful and easy as she raised herself from her knees. She’d obviously been practicing the smooth movement. Any other day and Jim, her master, would have been pleased. Not today.

The radio snapped off. Silence was deafening. Without orders, Helen stood, eyes on the floor, hands clasped behind her back. Waiting.

“You didn’t greet me when I came in, pet.” He’d opened the door, disabled the security system, hung up his coat, knocked the sleet from his boots, and stashed his briefcase, entirely unattended.

“Crap.” Her eyes wide, Helen checked herself. She knelt again, hands outstretched. “I’m so sorry, my lord.”

“Stand up. Did I say you could kneel? Apology not accepted.”

Helen stood. She opened her mouth to speak, then pressed her lips together firmly. Her eyes were downcast, but could not quite conceal sparks of mixed shame and anger. Jim kept a leash on his smile; it was always pleasurable to see her so responsive. That would make tonight’s punishment even more sweet.

“Take off all your clothing. Fold it up and lay it at my feet.”

She flushed, blotches of red blooming in her cheeks and across her throat. She toed her shoes off, wobbled a bit as she removed each sock. She balled her socks together and placed them in one sneaker. She unbuttoned the blue-checked blouse, revealing a plain white bra underneath. Helen slid her arms out of the straps, then, naked from the waist up, she fastened up the shirt, folded it neatly, and placed the bra on top of the stack. Her n*****s peaked in the cooler air, breasts swaying as she struggled out of the tight-legged jeans. She knew better than to lean against the table, wobbling gracelessly, one leg, then the other. Her panties were unappealing, plain cotton, and Jim was happy to see them off. Stripped bare, she folded the jeans and knelt to lay her discarded clothing at his feet.

“Very good, pet.” He walked around her pliant form, admiring her nakedness from all angles. Her shoulder-length, brown hair hid her face like a curtain.

“Here, pet.” Jim picked up the bag that he’d left in the entryway. “Put these on, then continue with your dinner duties. You need not talk.”

Helen opened the bag, pulling out the treasures within. Inside were thigh-high stockings, a garter belt, black, patent leather high-heels with ankle-straps, a black apron, and nothing else. She slowly dressed in the costume while Jim watched. It was a strain, sometimes, to keep the lust off his face, but when his facade cracked, she grew more bold, more disobediant. When she tied the apron around her slender throat, she was mostly covered, the side swell of her breasts visible, and of course, her curved buttocks were clearly exposed. She stepped into the heels and bent to fasten the straps at her ankles.

“Turn.”

Helen wobbled and spun in place awkwardly. Her bare buttocks were tempting, perfect, clenched, as she bent over in front of him to affix her shoes. She quivered and bit down on a yelp as he smacked one round cheek. A red hand-print rose dully to the surface of her pale skin. She twitched, bending one knee and prominently displayed the other buttock. He ignored the offering. She waited, then stood straight, arms behind her back. It was the way she’d been taught, but it displeased him.

“When you’re not actively doing something, lace your hands behind your neck.”

She swallowed, then raised her arms as he directed, thrusting her breasts forward, the tips straining at the rough canvas apron, revealing her smooth, waxed armpits. She flushed again, squeezing her thighs together.

“Very nice. Stand that way until dinner is served, and then we’ll see if you can earn my forgiveness.”