A Scene of Pasta

I'm in the kitchen on my knees. I hope you don't notice that I'm hiding behind my hair as I pull the kitchen towel over the mess of egg and flour that covers the floor, the cabinet, the countertop. I have agreed to this. I know it. You know it. But I can't help the bit of salt water that falls from the corner of my eye.

Of course you know I'm hiding behind my hair. You are looking at me intently, taking in every tiny movement, every breath. You noticed when my breath hitched. You see what I'm trying to hide from you.

"Hey." Your voice catches slightly, softer than you probably intended. "I can see those wheels spinning. Talk to me. What's going on in there?" You gesture vaguely at my forehead as I sop up the last of the egg from the once pristine tiles. I catch the slight tremor in your hand before you steady it against your hip.

"I messed up the recipe." It's all I think I can get out without falling into full blown sobs.

"Yes." Just the single word. It's not accusatory at all. It's understanding and a question and an explanation. It's heavy is what it is. Full.

You pull me up from the floor and we stand nearly nose to nose for a moment. The moment stretches and the corner of your mouth pulls up as if you know what I'm thinking. But my thoughts are gloriously blank for the moment. I'm studying your mouth. No more, no less.

"We agreed on a punishment." Your voice is laced with mischief and is that a hint of desire? Of course it is. And you're right, we agreed on a punishment.

I remove my shirt, throwing the thin cami across the room. It lands on the couch, where it will stay for the rest of this scene. A chill falls across my skin, but I'm not uncomfortable. I remake the well in the center of the flour, carefully this time. This time I know how deep it will need to be to accommodate all of the eggs.

I think back on the conversation we'd had a week ago as your hands land on my hips. I would learn your grandmother's technique for making pasta. You would guide me, praising and punishing. Whatever I earned. We'd gone over the recipe, what I'd be doing. What you'd be doing. Consequences. A reward for a job well done.

My fingers break up the egg yolks. My hands move circularly, incorporating the flour slowly, unwilling to break the well and risk any more egg falling from the mound. Your hands move up my stomach, resting on my breasts, circular motion for circular motion. I refuse to be distracted.

Your breath is hot against my neck, moving up. Your teeth nip at my ear, sharp, surprising. The last of the egg is safely incorporated into the dough. The smallest, breathiest moan escapes my lips as you pull me against you, the soft fabric of your shirt against my spine.

I knead the dough, its stickiness covering my fingers, clumping in a way I'm absolutely certain is not right.

"Stop." Again, a single word. A loaded word. I'm not scared of you. I know exactly what to expect, but talking about it and experiencing it are different. There is disappointment in your eyes this time as I turn around. But this time I'm not sad. I'm not upset that I've disappointed you. I don't know what's wrong, but I've done everything I was supposed to do. I incorporated the flour, I kneaded the dough. It's not my fault it's sticky and gross and not coming out how either of us had expected.

You laugh at me as I pout at you. I think you know I'm blaming whatever has gone wrong on you.

"You forgot to flour the counter top. And you need to keep adding flour until it stops being a sticky mess."

Damnit, you did tell me that earlier. And I'd gotten so distracted by cleaning up the egg I spilled, I'd forgotten. I hold up my hands, covered in stickiness and you laugh at me again. Shake your head at me. Rip off my skirt and throw it onto the couch.

"You know the consequences." I nod. I'm standing before you in nothing but a black lace thong. A thong that I'm sure you can tell is soaked through from your ministrations to my breasts and the hardness you've thrust against my back.

You clean the sticky dough off my hands and point me to the sink. I run the water, rub my hands, a bubble from the soap suds floating up in front of my nose. I let the hot water run over me a few seconds longer than I really need to, needing time and the heat against my skin, knowing your eyes are on me, watching my every move.

When I know I can't stall any longer, I turn and you're standing directly behind me. You know I was stalling. You snap the strap of my thong expectantly. Your thumb remains hooked on the black lace as it falls past my thighs, your eyes following its trajectory down my calves. I step out of the garment and you fling it across the room. You gesture to the countertop where the sticky dough awaits me.

I swallow a giggle as I picture the spectacle of me, naked in your kitchen, making your grandmother's pasta. A flush creeps over my skin and I remind myself you are the only one seeing me like this. I'm not certain my body believes me.

I step up to the counter, deep breath. You've poured flour into a bowl for me and I silently thank you for this gesture. I spread flour over a clean portion of the counter top and plunk the dough on top, dusting the sticky mess with more flour.

I begin to knead the dough, adding flour, hoping I'm doing it right. You must be satisfied with my work -- your hands are on me, a feather touch to my neck, brushing hair aside. Pressure increases as you knead my shoulders, counterpoint to my work with the dough. My body reacts to your hands, heating as you rub my sides, my ass.

I'm terrified of adding too much flour, of making the pasta tough or chewy. I'm terrified I'll add too little flour and end with a horrific mess on the counter top. But I trust in your guidance and know that you're happy with my work as I hear the slow metallic grind of you lowering your zipper. You press the growing evidence of your satisfaction with my work against my ass.

I continue to knead and your hands snake their way around my hips, pressing briefly and firmly into my upper thighs, squeezing, your fingers digging into my flesh. I yelp with the brief pain and your lips are at my ear, a breathy laugh nearly scalding my neck.

I deem the dough kneaded enough and lay my hand on the rolling pin. I pause briefly, letting you poke at the dough. A single sharp tsk sounds behind me, and the flat of your hand makes contact with my ass. I yelp, but the sting of my misjudgment lasts longer than your handprint. I continue to knead.

A second time, I hover my hand over the dough anticipating another swat, but none comes. I roll the dough and your hands wander between my legs. You part me, your finger tips exploring the wetness threatening to drip down my thighs. I sprinkle more flour onto the flattening dough, staving off another episode of stickiness and you reward me with two fingers slick across my clit. I'm ready to melt into you, but your fingers retreat, teasing, tracing a 'V' around that spot I need you to touch.

By the time the sheet is flat enough that I'm willing to risk switching the rolling pin for the pizza cutter, I am dripping down my thighs. Your fingers are dipping in and out of me, but carefully avoiding the nub of building pressure I so desperately need touched.

"Good girl." I'm nearly delirious with the feeling of your fingers inside me, needing to finish, needing to explode around you. But the pasta is cut. I whine as you remove your fingers from me and motion to the drying rack.

My knees are weak, but I successfully string the strips of pasta on the wooden spokes and am rewarded with a taste of the sauce you've been simmering since this morning. It's sweet and acidic and layered with onions and tomato and a deep meatiness I've never experienced from the jarred imposters I'm so used to.

For three full seconds, I'm so overwhelmed by the unexpected richness of the sauce that I almost forget the throbbing of my cunt. You've somehow picked up on this and laugh at my bewildered expression.

"Better than sex." Your voice is slightly husky and I almost call out the lie. But maybe it isn't a lie. Your grandmother's sauce briefly superseded the throbbing need deep in my core. Holy shit, grandma knew what she was about.

You reach for the pasta timer, but your elbow catches the edge of the pot of simmering sauce. For a split second, everything freezes. Your eyes widen, my mouth sits half-open, a splash of red hits the white backsplash.

"Shit." You laugh, but it's breathless. "That's not part of the plan." You look at the sauce on the wall, then at me. Are you looking for reassurance?

"The sauce is perfect," I say quietly. Your shoulders drop with relief as you wipe the splatter with more care than it probably deserves.

I fill a large pot with water and salt it as I've been instructed. As we wait for the water to boil, you show me exactly what a good girl I've been. You kneel before me, your tongue teasing in the same pattern your fingers had moments before. Flitting around the sides of my engorged clit, dipping deep within me. In, out, around, the pattern maddening, working me up to a boil as surely as the water.

The water boils and your tongue dips once more inside me and then flat and strong licks slowly over my clit, hitting every nerve ending, sending me over the edge of ecstasy. I collapse over you, my arms clinging to your shoulders, giving out. My legs buckle as my vision narrows, darkening around the edges. Your hands are firm around me, stabilizing me, supporting me.

You sit me unceremoniously on the cold floor and I remain there, dazed as you toss the pasta into the violent water. I pick myself off the floor and stand by the sink, utterly still as you carry the boiling pot with giant mittens and set it on trivets on the counter.

You lift the inner colander from the pot, draining the pasta. In one smooth motion, you glide to the simmering sauce, the fresh pasta gently added to the lightly bubbling concoction.

You mix the pasta, coating it in the silky sauce. Then you gesture for me to plate the meal. I look to you, awed at the trust you have in me to perform this final step. You've imparted how important presentation is and I strive to plate the meal as neatly as the pictures you've shown me. My hands shake as pasta meets plate.

As I bring the plates to the table, I glance at my naked reflection. There I am, brave enough to be imperfect in front of someone who matters. The food before me is so much more than just pasta.

My eyes meet yours, and I realize something has shifted. I still feel that desperate need for approval, but also a quiet certainty that I've earned what comes next. The familiar flutter is present but also a deep trust in us both.

"Please," I say, and this time I'm able to look you directly in the eye. "Let me feed you."

Your smile deepens. "Good girl. You've earned this."