Cooked

"Now, on that sweet potato I want you to sprinkle some of this sea salt.
Liberally, but not too much."


She watched me intently. You'd have thought I was putting in the combination of
a bank vault on a high stakes job with the way she was watching me, or wielding
the scalpel in some particularly delicate surgery on the Queen Mum.


"No, that's too much. Add some more."


I realised just then that I was in fact down the rabbit hole and somewhere,
somehow, what she had just said actually made sense to the woman.


"What? Don't look at me like that."


Oh, lady, you have no idea.


"Now, I'd like you to dice an onion."


She was entrusting me with knives now. This was progress.


"Oh, not like tha-"


Perhaps the knife was clenched rather tightly in my hand, but what the hell, she
clamped her mouth shut.


Judging that the first half of the onion met even the most stringent definition
of "diced", I held my tongue and started on the second. She was hovering over my
shoulder.


"Oh, no, we don't need that much."


I placed the knife on the cutting board and counted to five. No way I was making
it to ten.


"You said dice an onion. I have diced an onion. This onion is as diced as it
could be."


"Yes, but what I meant was maybe a third-"


I could hear friends now: "You know, it was the meatloaf that brought them
undone.It was spring and the oven was a balmy 350 degrees."


"Is there some other meaning to "dice an onion" that my brattish designation
precludes me from understanding? Is it, perhaps, a secret only made known to
Tops upon admission to those hallowed ranks? Is it something I am only privy to
upon purchase of my first paddle?"


Her face assumed a pinched expression, rather like someone getting a whiff of
slightly turned meat in a butcher one normally avoids but must turn to in a last
minute search for ingredients on the way home from work.


"No need to be rude about it."


Any way you care to define it, I'd like say that what happened next was
emphatically not deserving of any sort of serious hands-on response on her part.
Men have hung for lesser crimes than her direction in the kitchen that day.


Now I'm normally one to eschew the more obvious devices available to the brat,
including but not limited to, foot stomping, tossing cooking implements in the
sink, slamming pots and general huffing and muttering. Normally. This warranted
-and got-the lot, some of it supplemented by gestures to further convey my
displeasure with the culinary state of affairs.


Looking back, I'd say it was offering to house the onion in a readily available
orifice on her person that may have tipped the scales against what was 'til then
a righteous rant. Mentioning that it would not matter, as no part of me would be
making similar intrusions in the foreseeable future and she could just see to
her own needs also served to underline my response. And hers.


You know how being manhandled into place can be oh so much a turn on? Yeah, you
have to do your bit and play along enough so that no one's back goes out and you
don't trip over the aged cat intent on wrapping around your ankles and asking
for food at the worst possible time, but it is still fun and sends all things a
bit closer to happiness, be it legs splayed out or bum up over a knee. Or both.
So, yeah, it does it for me.


So when she grabbed my arm I was half way between squawking and laughing. Hell,
I could always throw out the onion. I didn't care that much, really. But I
thought, brilliant, we were onto something good here and sod the meatloaf. She'd
usher me where she wanted me with a hard slap on the bum, and I could wriggle
just enough as she was undoing my jeans and all would be grand. Think I was
getting wet with those few thoughts alone. And really, I *was* naughty. Good
times.


Until I flailed a bit too convincingly in the narrow galley kitchen, sending the
uncapped olive oil to the floor. Neither of us are that athletic to begin with,
quite frankly, so we did not stand a chance. She went down first in a mad whoop
of surprise and I had just a second to gape at her startled look before her
momentum pulled me down on top of her.


Good thing I'd grabbed the spice rack for support.


No broken glass, thank god; those bottles are pretty dense and compact. And
turmeric is pretty, in its own way. I raised my head once the last jar rolled to
the far corner, leaving a heavy silence that lasted just long enough for my bum
to clench and send "Save yourself!" messages to my limbs. I pushed up onto my
hands and knees, only to slip again in the now vibrantly and variedly-hued and
scented gloop.


You'd think someone laughing that hard would have trouble getting in a proper
spanking. Not true.


She grabbed my waist band and used me as an anchor point as she scooted her bum
through the olive oil until I was close enough that she could throw a leg over
my thigh. Her right hand pressed down on my upper back and her left- what a
bloody time to discover her aim was not so bad with that one!- she cracked me
across the bum rather convincingly. I was trying to turn over when I heard the
drawer being tugged open, followed by her blind fumble for the spoons within.


She played that thing over my bum in wicked fashion. It was light enough that it
stung like hell, and small enough that there were few places it could not reach.
A fierce smack to my inner thigh had me yelping with real feeling, and the
matching one the other side had me hoping she'd return to the fuller parts of my
backside that seemed more kindly served by evolution for such things.


I was scrunching my eyes shut by this point, when I heard her tap the tile in
front of my face. I opened them to see the damn spoon in duplicate, it was so
close to my nose. I was just about to open my gob and politely inquire what she
was playing at when I felt her hand dip between my legs, rubbing first one thigh
and then the other. She then cupped her hand over my crotch. Her thumb rubbed
back and forth over the seam of my jeans, pressing hard enough that I could feel
it all the way where it counted in the centre of my stinging rear.


My jeans were ruined, no doubt about it, so I gave up worrying about that and
just pressed myself against the floor, trying to gain some friction and
pressure, to little avail. Just the wrong angle and so frustratingly near, too.
So in the end it was me that was fumbling with slippery buttons and zip and her
tugging down my jeans, followed in short order by the realisation that we
couldn't do much right there, not with spices on her hands, thank you very much.
Once we'd crawled out of the mire and stripped off there in the kitchen, she'd
chased me up the hallway and into the shower, smacking me on my way and growling
about the glowing backside I was going to be sporting as I scrubbed that
kitchen.


And waited for the pizza delivery.