“Get your arse out of my bloody kitchen!”  I yell, pouring batter into bubbling hot oil.

“But, darling—“

“You can wait ‘til they get here to start on the fucking alcohol. I need to rest the meat, cook the Yorkshires and make gravy and your family will be here in twenty minutes, Piss off!”

I love cooking when I can do what I want, how I want and with no deadline. It’s not a great joy when I have the fussy in laws to satisfy. Any time it is a solitary occupation. If I’m in the kitchen, no one else should be.


“They’re not…what?” I slam the door closed on the oven behind my popping Yorkshire pudding batter.

“My Dad just called, Mum’s got one of her migraines—“

“Twenty Bloody minutes before they’re meant to be here for bloody lunch, I’ve just put the Yorkshire’s in!”

“I know, I know but we can still have the Sunday roast I was looking forward to but without the added nagging of my folks.”

“I suppose.” I shrug and Richard walks from his position cowering in the doorway to wrap his arms around me now I’m no longer armed with a tray of scalding oil.

“You’ve put a lot of work into this. I’ll make enough yummy noises for six.” He kisses my forehead. “And I’ll certainly have a go at eating enough for six.”

I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head on his hard chest.

“Thank you, I appreciate that. Now get your cute butt out of my kitchen so I can finish cooking the biggest Sunday roast of your life.”  I slap his arse and he laughs.

“Oh, no, now you’ve crossed the line, madam.”

He pulls away, spins me round and pushes me forward. I put my hands down onto the counter top to steady me. I do like it when his masterful streak comes out to play but not when there’s food in the oven and I still need to the gravy.


“No buts,” he slaps my arse with his open palm and the gasp that squeaks out is as much arousal as shock. “Remember who’s Master round here.” He slaps again with his right hand. It doesn’t connect so cleanly as he’s rustling around on the drainer. I try hard to remember what’s on there.

“But the food—“

“Fuck the food!” Richard yells, slapping a hard, ungiving implement down on my left buttock. “There’s no pressure now, darling, it’s just me and you.” Another crack, my arse on fire from the hard impact, taking my mind off the meal completely. A third strike makes me yelp. It must be the spatula he’s hitting me with. So hard, so heavy and really solid. It’ll leave bruises…if I’m lucky.

He hitches my black, smart Sunday dress up past my hips over my bum and then rips down my knickers.

“Oh, there’s a pretty pink mark already,” he purrs then slaps me again. He’s a damn good shot as it feels like he’s hit the exact square he’d already marked making me yelp with the pain.

“So who’s the Master, honey?” He whispers, pressing his crotch to my bum so I can feel his arousal.

“You are.”

Another burning slap makes me yelp and arch my back, pushing my bum against him, offering myself to him.

“You are, Sir.”

“That’s better.” He cracks the spatula down on my arse again just to emphasise his point.

He moves back and I whimper. I want him, I’m wet, hot and full of need. I hear his zip and the gentle rustle of trousers falling to the floor. I spread my legs and push out my bottom even further.

“Good girl, you know what Master wants don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir. You want my cunt, Sir.”

“I do. I need it hot and wet. Check that it’s ready for me.”

Resting my weight on one hand I drop the other between my thighs and push a finger inside me. I am wet already so I finger fuck myself with rapid thrusts, relishing the sound of my arousal.

“Enough of that,” The spatula slaps down on the opposite butt cheek. I yelp and pull out my fingers. “I need to fuck you now.”

His cock eases into me, stretching me to his familiar girth. He rocks forward and back and once he has his rhythm the spatula is used to hit me again.

“Play with you clit,” He groans, “I want you to come all over me.”

“Yes, Sir.”  I cup my pubis and push my pointer between my folds to touch where I need. I rub up and down frantically in time to his fucking, the pleasure of which contrasts beautifully with the pain of the slapping spatula.

“Can I come, Sir?” I beg moments later, ecstasy only a few finger flicks away. He doesn’t answer straight away, he fucks and he slaps and I whimper then when I’m about to come anyway, damn the consequences, he speaks.

“Come for me.”

My orgasm explodes and he pumps hard as I clamp tightly around him, pleasure pulsing through my body. He thrusts even harder several times and yells his own completion.

I slump forward as he pulls back, energy deserting me, laying my head on my folded arms.

“Well,” I gasp, “I knew I was having meat and two veg today but I didn’t expect to get it like that!”

Richard laughs and lightly slaps my arse, making the marks spark with heat again.

“Cheeky wench. You better straighten up and check the Yorkshires. I’m ready for my dinner now.”

“Yeah,” I stood, letting my dress fall to my knees, the material skimming my bum making  me wince.

“Because I’m the one who just got stuffed, not you.”

© Victoria Blisse