Rosanna was orderly. When she set out to cook, all the ingredients were present and accounted for, every bowl and pan needed was clean and ready, lined up at attention along the back edge of the food preparation island. Kitchen utensils hung from their own private rack above her head, waiting to be pressed into service, proud of their role. Recipes… well, recipes were the cowboys of her universe, sometimes a single index card, propped against a canister, sometimes a cookbook pulled from her extensive library, open to the correct section, spine against the unforgiving tile. Once in a very great while it was a sheet printed from the computer across the room, the fruit of an internet search. Those she had to tape onto the light above her empire.
Once she started that was it – no one dared interrupt her during the sacred rites. Her meals were memorable, her dishes divine. Boyfriend after boyfriend had sampled her wares, palate tickled, satisfied in a cuisine sort of way. None got any further, though – she couldn’t imagine sharing her kitchen with a stranger. She’d been told she was obsessive. Or compulsive. Or something like that. She didn’t exactly remember. All she knew was that she sent the men in her life away well-fed, but she definitely sent them away. They served merely as consumers of the feasts she produced. She was a little lonely sometimes, but her cooking was a comfort.
Her strong arm circled the bowl with the wire whisk while she hummed. She was happy tonight – she would please another man with her food. And then he would go home. The doorbell’s chime caught her off-guard. She wasn’t expecting Mel for an hour. She walked slowly to the door, wiping her hands on her apron. What exactly should she say? Go away for an hour? Much as she wanted to, that would be rude. It’s just – she hated to be interrupted while she cooked, or even worse, to be watched. She was very unsure as she opened the door.
“Good evening, my dear.”
He produced a bouquet of beautiful flowers from behind his back, carnations in a rainbow of colors, with baby’s breath and…
“I could not wait until you were done. I know it is a little presumptuous, but I’d love to watch you cook.”
She nodded. Words failed her, and she couldn’t think of an excuse to send him on his way. She’d have to make sure this never happened again. She walked back into the kitchen, his steps behind her loud enough to be… frightening. Her cooking was always her defense – she never had to relate to any of them. Her hands shook as she picked up the whisk.
“Would you… would you like something to drink? There is some wine in the refrigerator.”
“Of course, but you must as well. “
He took two glasses off the rack beneath the bottles – no one else had ever touched her glassware other than to drink from it – and set them on the counter, opened the door of the frig and took out the chilled bottle of Chardonnay. He held it out, looking for all the world as a sommelier as he presented it. She nodded.
“And an opener?”
She reached up to the rack above her and pulled it down, passed it over to him. She was impressed as he followed the proper protocol for opening a bottle, turned back to work as she listened to him pour their glasses. She felt his presence close to her, his male scent erotic in a subtle fashion, her glass extended. She sighed, put down the whisk, accepted the glass. She was interrupting her cooking flow – if she weren’t careful she could get off schedule.
He raised his glass.
“To a pleasant evening.”
She touched her glass to his, something she rarely did.
“To a pleasant evening.”
She took a pleasant sip, swallowed, smiled. She felt suddenly giddy. This was so different from her normal cooking. She needed to get back to her whisk, but she waited. Why, she wasn’t sure.
“So tell me about yourself.”
She took a sip, then another as he looked up for a second, then smiled.
“I have been… away for a while. But is is so good to be back with someone as nice as you.”
She felt… she wasn’t sure, but somehow different.
“Aren’t you going to drink your wine?”
He hadn’t touched his glass. She took another sip.
“Certainly. But I so enjoy watching you.”
She turned to go back to cooking.
“That is nice, thank you. But I have to finish…”
She nearly stumbled. What was wrong? She could hardly keep her balance.
“Where did you say you had been… away, I know, but…”
She had a hard time finishing.
“But… where did you go. Was it … pleasant?”
She had to put her hands down to hold herself upright, and she felt his presence next to her again.
“I spent some time at a charming little place called the George Haley hospital for the criminally insane. It wasn’t a nice place to visit, and I certainly wouldn’t want to live there.”
He started to laugh. Her heart began beating against her chest with trip-hammer blows. His laugh was, in a way she didn’t understand, threatening. Sweat broke out on her forehead. A chill shook her body.
She tried to talk, but couldn’t. She couldn’t form words. She was paralyzed.
“You mustn’t be concerned. It isn’t that hard, really. They leave the gates open all the time. I simply had to kill one of the orderlies and take his keys. Oh, and a little from his hypo to put in your wine. Did you enjoy it? It renders the patient immobile.”
Rosanna tried with all her might to run to the door, but nothing happened. His laughter enveloped her.
“And after all I’ve done for you.”
He grabbed her right wrist and pulled it over her head. She heard a few clanks, the sound of metal beating against metal, then felt her wrist encircled. She looked up at her hand, tightly cuffed to the utensil rack. She tried pulling, but nothing happened. It took him only a second to match with her other wrist. She was bent over her counter, the site of so many meals. What would he do with her? Did he want to have her sexually? She felt her body starting to awaken to arousal. Being taken over her favorite workplace – it could be really exciting. She hadn’t been with a man for a long time. Granted, it was mostly her choice, but even if it was like this it would be delicious. Sex and cooking. Together.
He walked across the room, stood where she could see his face, the grin of those with not much within contorting his face. He reached down to the block, pulled out one of her German knives, one of the kitchen tools she was proudest of. He tested the edge with his thumb.
“I’m impressed. You keep your utensils sharp.”
He walked back and stood next to her, his free hand sliding up and down her back. In its way, it was comforting. She felt herself becoming wet in that magic area she almost never shared with a man, any man. He could…
Her hair hurt when it was pulled, but in a sexually wonderful kind of way. Her head was jerked back until only the rack and the ceiling above filled her view. She squealed and jumped – the knife was cold as he lay it against her neck.
“You see, Rosanna, you aren’t the only one who enjoys cooking.”
This is part of the #wankwednesday group run by Ruby Kiddell. To look at all the entries see http://eroticnotebook.co.uk/erotic-writing/wank-wednesday/utensil-wank-wednesday/