Powdered sugar. Coating my hands, flavoring my lips as I lick them, accenting my breasts and the black, lacy push-up bra. On my soft stomach and thin, black panties as I lean over the stainless steel counter. I had to remove my uniform since the dust sprinkled down every time I moved.
The sugar's bad enough, but with the mess of blue icing, I look as though I'm preparing for an x-rated battle. That's what I get for not paying attention to the ten pound bag of sugar as I watched Mr. Creed — CEO and owner of the renowned Baby Cakes — lower into his sporty BMW in his black suit.
In my defense, I was still catching my breath after seeing his sculpted chest and muscular shoulders through the open door to his office. My cheeks heat at the memory of his glance my direction as he slid on his blue, collared shirt. The few times he had spoken to me, my palms grew clammy from his dominant presence. Thankfully he was too rushed to say anything to further embarrass me.
I look the kitchen over. I'd already done the easy work of throwing away the damaged cupcakes and clearing the bulk of the sugar on the floor, but there was still a lot to do before morning.
Long streaks of sugary water follow the wet rag as I move to clean the center island where cupcakes had been before I tumbled off the step-ladder and smashed them. I lean as far forward as possible to wipe a glob of icing.
The back exit creaks.
I attempt to push myself upright, but my palms slip on the wet steel. Fuck, fuck, fuck! My elbows hit the surface with a deep thud.
The door to my left opens and Mr. Creed strides in.
"I forgo..." he stops, his attention on me bent over the counter. Given my lack of clothing, I don't know whether standing upright or remaining forward would be more appropriate.
He looks down to where his black suit rubbed the far counter. His few attempts to wipe the powdery sugar leave a pale patch of gray on the side. Even with the splotch, he looks stunning. Like a vigilante hero who only shows a hint of his other identity. Mr. Creed runs a hand through his dark hair as he eyes me again.
I raise and cover my cleavage with a damp palm. Now I'm the one being stared at half clothed.
He unbuttons his jacket and slides it off before placing it on a stool outside the door.
"I'm sorry, Sir." Ashamed, my gaze drops. Not that his dominant stare is one I could ever hold.
"An apology doesn't solve this, Pris." The way he said my name sent my heart fluttering.
I peek up to see him unbuttoning the sleeve cuff of his shirt. "I know, Sir."
He lifts a foot onto the step-ladder. Even the bottom seams of his elegant pants are edged in white. "What are you doing about it?"
"I...um." I bite my sweet lip, searching for the rag. I stretch sideways over the counter to reach it. "Cleaning."
He lets out a humored huff, giving me the courage to look up to the upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Cleaning." He strolls my direction, rolling up his right sleeve. Being caught like this by the grumpy old baker would be preferable to Mr. Creed. The man makes my body do more than sweat. My panties are already drenched, discoloring the sugar on the gusset.
"Yes." I turn a thigh inward to cover the evidence of my poorly timed excitement. My ass hits the counter as he nears, and I brace my palms on the edge.
"I need to call in two bakers for overtime to have these cupcakes replaced before a wedding tomorrow. Not to mention a cleaning crew. That's too expensive to dock from your pay."
"Forgive me, Sir."
He stands against me, his forearm between us as he finishes rolling up his other sleeve.
"Sir, your suit." My chest quivers at his closeness, how he towers above me, the smell of his aftershave. Even the way he unsnaps the decorative watch that grazes my chest as he removes it.
"Do you know why I hired you?" The bulge in his pants presses against my sugar-coated navel.
"Because — "
He holds a fingertip to my lips. "Yes or no, Pris."
My hot breath bounces back from his firm chest. "No." I had no experience to work in the most renowned bakery in the state. Let alone in the location with his occasional oversight.
"Because you do as you're told." His fingers tangle into the hair on my nape. At the gentle tug, my head tips upward. "I don't find traditional workplace discipline effective, understand."
I nod.
"Look at me and answer properly."
I obey. "Yes, Sir."
"Good girl." The heel of his free hand presses beneath my navel, tickling as his long fingertips find my slit. "I'm going to help you repay me for how much this is going to cost. You want that, right?"
"Y — yes, Sir." My thighs tense.
"This cunt belongs to me now, right?" he asks as one of his fingers dips into me. It's been so long since I let a man touch me there.
I squirm, but he presses me against the island counter. "I — "
The grip in my hair tightens. His eyes narrow as he demands, "Right?" Another finger presses into me, stretching my core and curling to hit its mark on that magic spot.
"Yes, Sir," I say, hoping my pleasure goes unnoticed.
When his lips brush against mine, I'm certain he'll plant a forceful kiss. He only says, "Good girl." The fingers inside me continue their magical motions, enhanced by his thumb circling my nub. For a while, it's only his dominant stare and the ungodly sensations his touch evokes drawing me close to release.
I begin to pant. "Sir."
He removes his fingers then stuffs them into my mouth, filling me with the taste of my needy core. "I didn't give you permission to speak. Lay back." His hand doesn't leave my mouth as I lower my back onto the cool counter. Not even when he braces his left palm beside my head. "Unbutton my shirt," he orders.
I obey, fumbling as I work the small buttons free. The firm planes and ridges of his upper body only add to my craving to be fucked by him. I don't realize my legs are widening until the pressure of his hard length is against my cunt. After I'm finished with the buttons, he removes his fingers from my mouth.
No man has ever looked so good as he does removing their shirt — not even in the steamy shows that have me touching myself in the late hours. The white streaks on his chest make him look like a forbidden confection.
"Take off your bra."
I raise onto my elbows and unclasp it.
"Eyes on me."
My face heats as I look up to him and slide the bra down my arms.
He steps back, pulling out a drawer and plucking several twenty-eight inch lengths of pink ribbon. But he's not planning to wrap a gift box.
I'm not usually into sex, but the idea of anything beyond vanilla worries me. I sit up, ready to protest whatever he intends.
"Now your panties." He steps closer. There's a thick, vertical line of white where his bulge fills his pants.
I work my underwear down to my knees before he is in front of me guiding them off.
He lays the ribbon beside me. "I want you to keep your arms behind your back, hands to elbows."
I put my hands behind my back.
He adjusts my forearms horizontal and places my hands to hold the crooks of my elbows. His splayed hand presses to my back, arching it so my breasts are upward. "Remain like this until I say otherwise."
"Yes, Sir," I spoke low, embarrassment reddening my cheeks as he lowers to taste my sweetened nipple. The other one receives equal attention from his circling thumb.
"Spread your legs."
