Kat and I walked slowly back to our London pied-à-terre. I wrapped the leash around my hand to keep it taut and held her close so that I could give her collar an affectionate yank from time to time as we strolled arm-in-arm. We bathed and changed, then Kat prepared dinner. She was not a talented cook by any stretch, yet nothing delighted me more than to watch her gambolling in the kitchen, bare legged and costumed in cut-off jeans up to her crotch, a flimsy halter top, and spiky, strappy heels. She’d cut the pockets out of the shorts and hacked off the legs strategically to reveal that gorgeous patch of tender skin and deliciously recurved form where ass and thigh converge.
Her breasts weren’t particularly big, or particularly small for that matter; but they were incomparably firm and round and perfectly proportioned. Her nipples were milk-chocolate brown, caramel smooth—almost translucent—and looked as if they’d melt in your mouth. She wore the halter to expose her long, silky midriff. I never knew a woman who could integrate juvenile innocence and freshness with raw, red-light-district sleaze so skilfully.
Her black hair flowed behind her as she moved about the kitchen, preparing a ghastly mixture of bangers and pan-fried kimchi. She held a cigarette and a glass of wine in one hand and a wooden spatula in the other. She pranced awkwardly on the terracotta floor in her heels, smoking and sipping wine and carelessly stirring the pot from time to time.
The kitchen was a classic California Yuppie model with teak accents, a large island with a hob, counter, and sink, and far too many cabinets and appliances around the walls. An open rack of hooks above the island completed the damage, with pots and utensils dangling in the stereotypical gesture. Shadowy “dramatic” track lighting gave it a pseudo intimacy which I rather loathed, except when Kat was there to redeem it.
And redeem it she could. She put down her implements and posed, hands on hips, then gave her incredibly resilient tits a side-to-side shake for me.
“It’s my Mum’s recipe, Mistress,” she said giggling. “But somehow it smells a lot better when she makes it.”
“If it turns out shite I can whip something up,” I said.
She pranced awkwardly towards me in those heels like a little girl in her mother’s shoes and brought her cigarette to my lips. The stagey track lighting did wonders for that heavy, silken hair of hers, I do have to confess.
She teased my nipple with a fingernail and whispered in my ear, “You English ladies all have such fabulously big boobies, don’t you Mistress?”
“Irish,” I corrected her.
She pushed away from me and returned to the stove. She tasted the greasy concoction with an expression of disgust. She carried it to the far corner of the kitchen.
“Let’s order something, please Mistress,” she said as she dropped it, pot, spatula and all, into the bin. She kicked off her shoes and made for the living room.
I joined her on the sofa. She arranged flawless legs in a feline pose with her fleshy little-girl feet in my lap. I rang our favourite Chinese place.
She leaned towards my face, gently brushing it with her hair, and unbuttoned my slacks.
“Oh, yes, Ms Welles. What can we do for you this evening, Ma’am?” the telephone said.
Kat pulled my slacks down past my hips. She was kneeling on the sofa now with that magnificent black hair draped over my lap.
“Well, Mr. Shinn, what looks good today?”
“Oh, very nice lobsters today, Ms Welles. Fresh from Iceland, just flown in this morning.”
I could feel Kat’s breath on my mound as she pressed her soft, full lips onto it.
“Well now, Mr. Shinn, how would you propose to do them for us?”
“Ms Welles, today Chef has been grilling them split and lightly pan-frying them with his XO sauce, lobster stock, and mixed vegetables. Customers have been very pleased, Ma’am.”
Kat had begun kissing my pussy—little light kisses all around my outer lips. The moist heat of her breath penetrated and made me shudder briefly.
“Mr. Shinn, that sounds wonderful; but I rather think we might fancy something lighter. A cold dish, perhaps? I wonder if Chef has a suggestion?”
“Very good Ma’am; I will ask. Please hold the line, Ms Welles.”
“He’s got me on hold,” I said to Kat.
“Mmmm,” she said, “I’m gonna keep you on hold Mistress, hehehe.”
And she would. I stroked her hair lovingly as she went about it, appreciating the weight of it in my fingers. “Good girl,” I whispered.
“Ooohh, my Mistress,” she gasped.
She was bringing me along but she knew my timing and skilfully kept me from the edge. I delighted in her hair and the sight of her lush, full lips kissing me.
“Ms Welles,” the telephone said, “Chef would like to try something new with your permission, Ma’am.”
“All right, Mr. Shinn; let’s hear it,” I said.
“Mmmm,” Kat said, a bit too loudly. You could tell from the sound that she had something in her mouth. “The smell of your pussy alone is enough to make me come, Mistress.”
“Ms Welles, Chef would be honoured to present you with a raw lobster-tail tartare with whole, lightly-cooked lobster claw meats on a bed of lettuce and sesame leaves, accompanied by dollops of golden Ossetra caviar and bundles of steamed enoki mushrooms, seasoned with the raw lobster juices and a drops of reduced lobster stock, garnished with saffron threads, black sesame seeds, and a sprinkling of crumbled duck-skin craquelin.”
“Now Mr. Shinn, you’re speaking my language.”
“The dish is served chilled and the raw lobster juices will need time to gel in the refrigerator,” he went on. “The craquelin is sprinkled on just before serving to preserve the crunch, Ms Welles. It adds texture and an earthy element to the flavour.”
Kat was making the most delightful erotic noises.
“Chef will need about two hours to prepare it for you, Ma’am. Will that be acceptable?”
“It will indeed, Mr. Shinn. And please ask Chef to surprise us with the balance of the meal.”
Kat undid her cut-offs and let them drop to her knees. She reached under herself and back and rubbed her pussy with two fingers, then presented them to me glistening and fragrant. “Look how wet I am!” she demanded. “Nothing makes me hotter than worshipping your pussy.”
I licked the slippery wetness from her fingers, savouring her taste and scent. “Don’t you dare make me come,” I whispered. “We’ve got two hours to kill.”
“Yes Ms Welles,” the telephone said. “We’ll be at your door at ten o’clock or thereabouts, Ma’am.”
I rang off and led Kat to our candle-lit bedroom. “Sit with your back to the headboard,” I said.
