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“Make me a sandwich”

Sorry, what? Before I can react in any way I feel the hard sting of his hand across my tightened arse cheek. Offended two ways, I pull back and look at him. His neck still draped in my arms.

He grins wickedly and offers a wink as I place my feet back on the floor.

“There’s a good girl” and he kisses my cheek with a smirk and half chuckle “I’m gonna get cleaned up” he adds before leaving me stood there. Ass stinging, and a powdered hand print on my shorts, marking me yet another way.

I’m entirely unsure what to do. Am I offended? Was he playing? Am I some kind of domestic servant now or is this how a real King treats a Queen? Flustered and my flabbers truly gasted I… I go to the pantry for bread and start making him a sandwich.

Moments later I’m sawing away at a stubborn bloody tomato when I feel his arm around my waist, without warning. I can never hear him coming unless he wants me to. He floats around the house like a bloody ghost, always catching me off guard. His head hovers over my shoulder with sage wisdom he offers “that’s the wrong knife” I roll my eyes so hard he can probably see it through the back of my skull.

“You’re meant to be slicing, not squashing” he opens my hand with his, removing the inadequate knife and replacing it with another “try now”

“Yes, chef” I tease back, pushing myself back against him at the hips

“Don’t push it” he warns flatly, and I smirk, wondering what can possibly go wrong

“I’ve got a knife” I correctly inform

“Wouldn’t help” he dismisses without missing a beat

“Pretty cock sure of yourself, you don’t know what I’m capable of” I tease, trying to get a reaction out of him. Suddenly aware and terrified that it probably wouldn’t actually help. But I’m committed to the bit now.

Like lightning my knife-hand wrist is pinned to the chopping board, and the knife has been slid out of reach. I’m pinned to my own kitchen worktop by the shovel-hand on the side of my face, whilst my arm remains restrained.

“Show me… what are you capable of?” he teases, voice almost a whisper. I don’t have to be able to see him to know exactly what face he’s making.

I pull the only move I have available to me. And because I want to. I gyrate my hips against the gigantic body pinning me down.

“Careful now…” he warns before sucking in a big deep breath “…you’re playing with fire”

“Actually, I was playing with fruits” playfully, instinctively, foolishly. Emphasis on was.

His body pushes against me beginning to demonstrate his sheer size and power. His weakness exposed. He’s throbbing for me again.

“Shut up, Sawyer. Make me a sandwich, Sawyer. I’ll smack your ass, Sawyer. I can’t keep up with your demands, Sir Chef Nik” I tease some more, making myself laugh. My laugh makes me wiggle my jiggle a little more as he crushes me against the kitchen side.

Releasing my head, but bringing my wrists together behind my back, his free hand works the elastic of my shorts pulling it down and exposing my bare cheek to the sting of another slap. It makes me smart, but I don’t move, I won’t back down. Through gritted teeth I pull in a sharp breath, and I won’t deny the consequences this is having on my aching front. His hand rubs over the redness he’s just drawn, taking his rough handful of surrendered flesh. Before he places another slap, drawing a small yelp.

“Nothing smart to say?” he teases as I quiver, the pain and pleasure mixing and the pit of my stomach begging for him. He smacks again, the tiniest tear brings itself to my ducts. My bite on my bottom lip and hard-won battle to control my breathing. “Are you done being a brat?” he asks. I’m too focused on everything my body needs to respond at first, but another spank brings me back to the land of the living

“Mmhhm” I practically groan as he massages my soreness, before planting a kiss in the same spot, and begins to trace it with his tongue before standing up straight again. His jeans pushed against my naked lower half, his knee doesn’t negotiate when it pushes between my thighs. I open my legs and expose myself to him further.

Igniting every inch as he touches it, I feel his hand charting every inch of his new territory. Every fibre of my being needs his attention, craves his touch.

“Please” I manage in a panted whisper as his hand traces the very top of my inner thigh for the third time.

“Please… what?” his words are carefully paced, slow, chosen

“Please…” I don’t know how to word it, my brain is a fog, my eyes are practically crossed with the anticipation “… I need to”

His hand cups lightly over my whole, aching centre dragging his hand across everything and avoiding every good bit. An involuntary squeak highlights my desperation as his hand hovers again, this time fingers starting at the back and moving forward, splitting and passing either side of my clit - lighting every nerve ending and sending waves of desperation to the bottom of my stomach. I try to angle and shimmy myself onto his fingers.

“Nuh-uh” he warns “stay still…” and he moves his hand, teasing some more. Hand-bound and writhing, I await the next wave of tease. Until the tease becomes pleasure. Unrivalled, unparalleled, unadulterated pleasure as he tours my whole self, and settles at my clit.

Starting with an excruciating feather touch before applying just the right amount of pressure, at just the right pace, my hips naturally circle and match him. Our bodies finding synchronicity as I ride the waves over and over again. The pressure builds to ungodly levels, I feel the desire turn to need, turn to absolute desperation to finish and he keeps me there. Dancing somewhere on the fence-line of need to finish, and needing this to never stop. Eventually desperation turns to frustration.

“Nik… I need to…”