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Extra Whipped

Extra Whipped

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Submitting fully to her new lover comes naturally to a woman who has been trained to serve.

“Would you care for extra whipped cream?”

The man stared coolly at me. “I only give extra whippings,” he said in a voice so low that only I could hear him. “I don’t take them.”

I stood there, hovering with my silver spoon in hand, unsure of what to do next. It was clear to me that Mr. Stevenson, the party’s host, had intentionally misheard me, and my cheeks went instantly pinker than the filling in the homemade berry pie. The fact that the man was my type of perfect ten — black hair going to silver, chiseled features of a silent screen star — didn’t help the situation. Nothing in my training as a caterer’s assistant had prepared me for this type of situation. Should I put the spoon back into the bowl of whipped cream and move to the next guest? Or should I repeat my request in a clearer voice?

Saving me from my obvious embarrassment, Mr. Stevenson winked at me and said, “If you tell me your name, I’ll make an exception this once.”

I was catering an event at a ritzy house near the university on this wintry Sunday evening. Up until this point, everything had gone exceedingly smoothly — except for the fact that each time Mr. Stevenson entered the kitchen or asked for a favor, I felt as if I would melt into a puddle of liquid lust.

“My name’s Agatha,” I said. My heart pounded, but I managed to spoon the homemade whipped topping onto his pie without spilling any of the frothy white sweetness. Then I rushed back to the kitchen, feeling as if my loins were on fire. The host was simply too delectable. Dark, powerful build — eyes you could write poems about. Unfortunately, I wasn’t allowed to hide out in the kitchen for long. At my boss’s instruction, I grabbed the champagne and returned to the dining room to refill the guests’ glasses. I thought of the room as if it were divided into safe and unsafe zones. The part of the table away from Mr. Stevenson was “safe.” The closer I got to him, the more excited I felt.

Each time his eyes met mine, I felt drunk, and I hadn’t had a drop of the bubbly myself. All I wanted to do was upend the bottle down my throat, but I knew my boss wouldn’t be happy with that.

When we were through with the dessert, the rest of the staff packed up the gear. It looked as if I was going to make it out of the house and back to my studio apartment, where I could use my trusty vibrator to bring me to climax while imagining Mr. Stevenson doing all sorts of kinky things to me. That’s when my boss announced we’d run out of aluminum foil. She wanted to leave the leftovers for the host. That was going to put me in dangerous proximity to the attractive man, but I did my duty. I asked Mr. Stevenson if he had any to spare.

He told me where to look, and I hurried to the hall closet, opening the door to find… sex toys. Every domination device you could imagine. I stood, staring, with my jaw dropped, when I heard his deep voice behind me.

“Not that closet, darling. The one there.” Darling. He’d called me darling. My heart hammered. He pointed, and I slammed the door shut and hurried in the other direction. When I returned to the kitchen, the chef — Marlene — asked if I felt okay. “You look so flushed,” she said, but I shook her off. I helped her pack up the last of her supplies and was about to go to my car when Mr. Stevenson found me.

“I hope I didn’t shock you earlier,” he said, and he offered me a glass of champagne. I was no longer working. My boss had left. The partiers were gone. I suppose if this had been my catering company I would have been wary about fraternizing with an employer. But I was only working part-time to subsidize my grad school payments. I didn’t have anything to lose by having a drink with the attractive host.

“You wanted to shock me,” I told him, guessing right then that he’d meant for me to open that closet. I took the champagne and tentatively drank a sip. “But what if it takes more than that to shock me?” I asked, feeling the bubbles go instantly to my head.

With my wrists still bound, I felt stretched in the most luxurious way.

“So you’re jaded,” he said, and he ran his fingertips along the line of my jaw. Instant sparkles of pleasure danced through me. I felt a jolt in my pussy that indicated I’d found a dominant I could give myself to. Being put in my place by a powerful man is something that turns me on like nothing else. Maybe my innocent appearance fools most people, but I love when a true Dom spots me.

“Not jaded,” I responded. “But certainly I’m nobody’s novice.”

He seemed to appreciate my response, because he leaned closer and took the glass from my hand. “Did you see anything that piqued your interest?” he asked next. I tried to remember the different items I’d caught sight of in the closet: a paddle, a crop, a pair of handcuffs, a ball gag — basically a treasure trove of devices destined to make any submissive vixen’s heart beat faster.

“Do I have to choose only one?” I asked. I sensed the heat between us, and in all honesty, I had been wet from the whipped cream exchange earlier.

He didn’t say a word after that. He held my hand and led me back to the closet where I’d fumbled earlier. He opened the door for me and began to gather up some devices. He didn’t make me choose. He did the choosing for us, and then he brought me to his bedroom.

I looked around at the sumptuous furniture. Everything in this house had been chosen by a person with particularly austere taste. The frame of the oversized bed was created from metal tubing, a burnished silver color more matte than shining. The spread was black and looked like silk. On the hardwood floor was an oval-shaped throw rug made of thick, luxurious-looking shag. I thought of my apartment — the floral curtains, the antique quilt I’d bought for a song at a French flea market and paid more to ship back home than the original price. What would he think of my teacup collection, or of the row of tiny blown-glass vases lining the windowsill in the bedroom?

“I want to see you naked,” he said, breaking me from my reverie.

Our furnishings might not have jibed, but the man and I definitely seemed to be well connected. I was more than happy to get out of the catering duds. For the job, I was wearing a simple uniform of a white shirt and black cigarette pants. The only indication that I had a personality of my own was my footwear: glossy black high heels that I’d spent the money from two catering gigs on. At the time, the purchase had felt frivolous of me — but now I was glad I’d given in. The ebony pants came down low enough that only the tips of the toes emerged.

I stripped out of the clothes and then, at Mr. Stevenson’s instruction, slid the heels back on again. Now, I was entirely nude wearing only those fuck-me shoes. Mr. Stevenson walked around me, observing my body from all angles. He pulled the barrette from my hair to let my ponytail down. Then he combed his fingers through my butterscotch-colored curls.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said. I looked down, feeling suddenly shy, but he forced me to meet his eyes. “You’re going to be even more stunning when I have you captured.” With those words, he spread me on his bed on my back and locked my wrists over my head. I felt as if I’d just come home.

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