Today's excerpt is from my BDSM short Teppanyaki, which appeared in Anything for You: erotica for kinky couples:
Wendy and Ade are hosting a dinner party for some new friends...
As I lead the way back into the dining room, my heart lifts with pride at the picture presented. Wendy has ceased fighting the cuffs and is sat up very straight with her feet tucked beneath the chair, trying to look as demure as it's possible to do with wrists tied. Her face is averted self-consciously, her lips parted and shiny.
Perfect.
“Maria, Jason, this is Wendy. She's feeling a bit shy at the moment, I'm afraid. Wendy, say hello.”
“Hello,” she whispers. “How lovely to meet you.”
I know how difficult she must be finding this. How impossible it must be for her, in that hot swamp of her embarrassment, to find the right social chit-chat. So I make things easy for her: “Wendy, you're to be silent now. Open your legs.”
She eases her thighs apart. I could explode with pride. Jason is standing with his hands in his pockets, a big grin plastered all over his face. Maria goes forward and stoops, kissing her on the cheek.
“What a lovely outfit, Wendy,” she murmurs. “Ade has told us so much about you.”
I take our guests through to the kitchen to pour the first drinks and open the rice steamer and explain how teppanyaki works, but only one tiny part of my mind is on the small-talk or the cooking. My hard-on is verging on the distressing. This is the first time I've allowed anyone else to admire Wendy so intimately and my physical reaction surprises even me.
We return to the dining table; Maria insists on helping me carry the food through. Before dinner begins I push Wendy's skirt up her thighs to reveal the plump lace-covered mound of her sex, and hook a finger under her panty elastic. The kitchen scissors shear through the fabric without effort, and I drop the ruined underwear beneath the table. Her pussy is, of course, perfectly shaven—anything less would be too untidy for Wendy—and as I pat it softly she twists and whimpers. I hear Jason chuckle and make some remark to his wife in a low voice.
Hooking a foot round the leg of Wendy's chair, I drag it closer to the table so she is within reach as I sit.
Dinner begins. Teppanyaki is a sociable, interactive way to eat. Lumps are plucked from the block of butter and dropped on the hot griddle, slicking the black metal plate. Then food is laid on with chopsticks to cook as we wait, each piece needing only a few minutes to fry, and replaced as soon as it's plucked by fresh morsels: steak slices and tuna and chicken, asparagus spears and mushrooms, crisp mange-tout pea-pods and—defying tradition—white strips of halloumi cheese that brown without melting. The smell of hot butter and griddled meat is enticing. We dip the cooked food in tiny individual bowls of soya sauce stirred with hot green wasabi paste, and my lips tingle. We talk, inconsequentially, ignoring Wendy and her predicament but each of us glancing at her often.
Of course Wendy can't feed herself. She is dependent on me to cook her food for her and offer it to her lips with my chopsticks. She seems a little reluctant to eat, preoccupied with her own woe, but she takes each piece obediently. It's not easy to be neat either. The first time a drop of melted butter falls from an pea pod onto the white lawn of her dress, Maria pipes up; “Oh—you don't want to get oil on that, Ade. It'll never come out!”
I nod, standing, and go over behind Wendy. She realises what I'm doing and the cuffs rattle as she jerks her arms, trying to stop me before she remembers that she has no chance. Shock dances in her eyes. “Please!” she squeals as I start on the little buttons over her jiggling breasts.
I grip her jaw, pulling her head back. She stares up in terror, her hazel eyes so dilated that they’re almost black. “What did I tell you, Wendy? You're to be quiet.” And, magically, she goes still in my grasp, trembling a little but no longer fighting me. I undo her blouse buttons without any fuss, revealing a magenta bra that matches the panties I've already destroyed and the creamy slopes of her generous cleavage. Scooping her breasts from the lacy cups, I bare her to our guests.
“Wow!” says Jason, a cup of saké frozen halfway to his lips.
“Your wife has beautiful tits,” Maria agrees, awestruck. As she should be. Wendy's breasts are magnificent. I take her nipples between finger and thumb of each hand and pull them out, encouraging the flesh to swell and harden.
“I'm thinking of having them pierced,” I confide, as Wendy moans low in her throat.
“You should,” says Jason. “You thought of having a chain strung between them?”
I smile darkly. I've thought of lots of things. With my open hands I slap her tits to make them bounce, one after the other. Jason shakes his head, grinning, and Maria mimes an “Ow!” and flashes her eyes. But Wendy only quivers.
Back to dinner, and from now on I make sure that the food I offer my wife is well soused in the hot butter. It drips generously upon her tits, dribbling down to grease her erect nipples. It's a little painful, of course, but Wendy is well used to that. She only jerks and moans a little with each splash, and her discipline in the face of suffering makes my blood race. What I really want is to see her self-control—that same self-control I enjoined upon her—crumble. But I get the most response when I take a stem of asparagus, brilliant green and glistening with warm butter, test its heat against my wrist and then inveigle it into the split of her plump sex before plucking it out again and inserting it, piquant with new sauce, into her mouth. Then she writhes with shame.
Despite all my culinary efforts, no one's mind is on the food now. When I follow up the asparagus by dabbing my fingertip in the wasabi and soya mix and painting it delicately over Wendy's clit, Jason sits back and adjusts the bulge at his crotch, his eyes bright and hard. “Oh, that's cruel,” he says appreciatively.
Wendy's breath hisses between her clenched teeth as the burn starts. I take a thoughtful sip of my saké as she presses her thighs together, trying to relieve the sensation. There's a dew of sweat at the cusp of her throat and I want to taste it. Soon she's rubbing her thighs against each other, her tits quivering in a breath-taking manner as she wriggles.
“
Is that hot, honey?” I ask.
Wendy doesn't speak, but she nods rapidly.
“Oh please, Ade,” says Maria suddenly. “Please let me lick it off her.”
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