Water's Wet Erotica (Seven Stories: Including Virgin to Vixen Series) (20 page)

“Wow,” he said. “You’re an art geek girl.”

“Yes. I am,” I said proudly. “It doesn’t get me any dates on a Friday night, but I sure love it. My parents want me to pursue some sort of business degree, but all I can think about is renting a studio and buying a better wheel, a professional kiln and five hundred pounds of clay.” I could feel a blush rising.
Had I said too much?

“Follow your passion, I always
say
. Don’t let someone choose your lifework for you.”

“I’m going to try. What did your parents want you to be?”

He laughed. “Nobody could ever tell me to do anything I didn’t want to do. My stubbornness has served me well.”

I smiled. I liked Archie. He was my kind of guy.

“Please, please! Come into the kitchen, where all the magic happens.”
Archie put his hand on the small of my back as he led me through his living room and into his kitchen. He had never touched me before. His hand felt warm and strong, and I felt a train of goose bumps travel through my body.

He stopped suddenly, as if he had just thought of something.
“Do your parents know you’re here?” he asked
, intently watching my face
.

I felt my heart sink
with his question and realized he was thinking about putting on the brakes with wherever this evening was going
.
I realized that he
did look at me
as if I was
underage. I wanted to know just how young he thought I was. “Of course
they know I am here. Well, my mom does.
She
gave me the casserole to give to you, remember?”

He laughed, “Of course.” He lifted the dish of food that was still in his hands and quickly placed it in the fridge.

“You have a lot of our dishes and containers in your fridge,” I observed.

“I’ll make sure you get them back,” he promised. “I haven’t exactly gotten around to eating any of it. But I appreciate the kind gestures.”

I nodded. He was being very polite.

All of a sudden, he seemed
really
nervous.
He kind of fussed with hanging a skillet from a hook in a big rack.

“Mr.
Griff
—I mean Archie, how old do you think I am?”

He stopped and looked at me. He didn’t just look at my face; he let his eyes trail down my entire body. I saw him stop at my bare legs which extended from my small mini
-
skirt. “Not a day over fifteen, I’m guessing.”

“
Nope.
I’m eighteen.”

“
But y
ou’re still in high school right?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m a senior. My mom held me back in second grade
because I was so small and the other kids were picking on me
,” I explain
ed,
“but I’m a legal adult now. I can vote and I have!”

“You’re a voter? Wonderful!” Apparently, that was a key thing to tell him.
He quickly turned around and
began
to stir a pot of liquid on
the
stove. Then I saw him lean his head back and inhale deeply. “You smell good, Kimberly.”

I didn’t realize he knew my name. To hear him say it made my knees weak and my heart start that new rapid thudding against my chest. “Thank you, Archie.”

The thirty seconds of silence in the room had made me uncomfortable. I walked over to the stove where he was cooking.
“
Whatcha
making?
It smells like heaven.”

He glanced down the bridge of his nose at me. “It’s a surprise. I was lying in bed when this new recipe hit me out of nowhere.  I jumped up and ran to the store to buy all the ingredients. You and I are going to be the first to taste it.”

“I can’t wait
.
” I smiled at him and watched his eyes quickly turn
away
from me.
Maybe
I was repulsive to him.
I
didn’t think his
hazel eyes
took
notice of my developing womanly body
like I wanted him to
. I felt disappointed. Then he had made it worse.

“Kimberly, I’m going to be right back
. W
ill you stir this for me and don’t stop.”

I nodded. He left me in the kitchen for five minutes, and when he returned
,
he was holding one of his large button-down shirts. “Slip this over your head. You’re barely wearing anything, and you look as if you’re freezing.”

“No, I’m fine honestly. . .”

“Put it on!” he said sternly.

I felt as if I were being scolded.
I
grabbed his shirt and slid it over my head
to cover my spaghetti-strap tank top
. 

“Good girl, sweetheart. Thank you.”

I turned around with my shoulders drooped, realizing that he still saw me as a child. His fatherly instincts were greater than his manly desires when it came to me. I wanted to taste his food and leave. I was mortified
that he was bossing me around like I was a little kid
.

“Why the sad face?” he asked as he maneuvered around the kitchen
,
working on his masterpiece meal.

“I’m not sad. I’m just a bit tired. Once I taste your meal, I’m gonna go home and get some sleep.”

“If I say you can.”

I know I looked at him cross
-
eyed when I said
,
“What?”

“Well, I think it’s only polite to ask permission to leave my house after I invited you inside to share a meal with me. Don’t you?”

In some strange way, I was able to see his logic. But my defiant nature had to rear its ugly head at that moment. “What if I don’t ask?”

“Then you don’t leave.”

“My parents will come looking for me.”

“Nope, I would call your mother and let her know that you decided to camp out on my couch.”

“And you would hold me here?” I asked.

“Kimmy, is it necessary for me to teach you manners?”

I didn’t say anything. He
’d
just called me Kimmy. I felt even younger than I did when he thought I was fifteen. For some odd reason, his tone and his words,
made me want to cry
.

“
My dad is very strict.
I have
proper
manners!” I meekly said.

“I believe you do, sweetheart. That’s why I’m sure after we share a meal together; you’ll be polite enough to ask permission to leave.
Right?”

I nodded
,
still trying to hold back the tears that were stinging my eyes
that he was being so…condescending
.
And yet,
I had an odd sense of fear mixed with excitement. Something about this grown man was
intriguing
.
He was
suddenly making himself the boss of me. The big question was:
Would I let him?

He picked up the spoon
that was covered with
a
fragrant
red sauce and walked over to me. Archie calmly asked me to stand from the barstool chair where I was sitting. Without a word, he turned me around and leaned me over the barstool so that my bare legs and the bottom of my ass were exposed from my mini
-
skirt.

“Hey!” I said, absolutely indignant and mortified when I felt myself uncovered. And then, my indignation was followed by something worse.

“SWAT
!
”
I immediately felt the sting of the wooden spoon land across the top of the back of my thigh. I grabbed hold of the barstool
,
uncertain what he was going to do next.
My mouth was open in shock—he had struck me and it had hurt!
He gently stood me up and looked down
his nose
at me.

“Kimmy, I asked you a question. It’s not polite to nod when someone asks you a question.”

“No one has spanked me since I was nine!” I exclaimed
, unable to hold in my dismay and horror any longer
.
I was seconds from losing it.

“Which is why I had to do it now!” he said disgusted as he turned around to put the wooden spoon in the sink.

He grabbed a paper towel and soaked it with warm soapy water. Then
he
reached his hand to the back of my thigh and wiped off the red sauce that his spoon had left behind.
His tender gesture was not lost on me.

“I have manners,” I whispered
, trying to maintain some sort of adult demeanor
.
“I have never been in trouble at someone else’s house. I am a young lady, not a child. My behavior is impeccable at all times. I am unquestionably respectful of others.”

“Then
, young lady,
you’ll ask for permission to leave,
is that
right?”

“Yes,” I said with my eyes diverted downward.
He had trapped me with my own words, the rat!

“Yes
,
what
,
Kimmy?”

I knew what he wanted me to say, and I wasn’t about to test him again.
“Yes,
sir
.”
I resisted the urge to say it dripping with sarcasm and felt I had succeeded.

When he patted me on the head for being obedient, I felt a tear slip from
my
eyes and roll down my cheek
s
.
I didn’t understand what he was doing but the food in progress was so alluring that there was no way I was going to run home to my mother like a big crybaby. If I told my dad, surely he would come and kill this guy for touching me like that and we couldn’t have that. If I told my dad, there would be much drama, if not bloodshed. I wasn’t sure what my mother would do. She was hard to figure out these days as she hovered in her funky
peri
-menopausal world. Nope, I was on my own with Archie Griffin, and I wanted to see what would unroll next.

I took a deep breath and then another, slowly and calmly, and finally, my anger passed. I smiled sweetly at him. Everything was still good.

Mr.
Griffin
served me my meal while I sat at the table next to him and ate everything on my plate.
Delicately, of course.
The man was a chef. And this was not McDonald’s after school with my friends.

Truly, the meal was incredible. The
mingling of
taste
s
tantalized my palate. But I couldn’t help but replay the
moment that he
discipline
d
me and demand
ed
that I treat him with a certain respect.

I wondered if I should tell my parents what had happened. Then I shook away that idea. I was an eighteen
-
year
-
old woman, and I needed to act like it if I w
as
going to want others to respect me as such. Running to
M
om and
D
ad would be the last thing a grown woman would do in this situation. So
,
I decided to run with it and see what was going to happen next.

I ate politely, chewing with my mouth closed and using my cloth napkin when appropriate. He had different forks for the salad and the main course, different knives for the bread plate and the main course. And I knew what to do with them all. I wondered if he was shocked that I knew.
Thank you, Mom, for those dreadful charm school lessons at age ten,
I thought. I crossed my ankles like a lady and smiled as I ate the delicious food, thankful that I didn’t have to speak if I was eating.

“What do you think of my
Ratatouille
Nicoise
?” he asked.

I knew what
r
atatouille
was
.
Hmm,
nicoise
meant that the recipe was some derivation from the
nice
area of France. I knew that word from second-year French class. I chewed and swallowed, took a sip of water from the goblet and dabbed at my lips with the cloth napkin. I set down my fork carefully, so I wouldn’t wave it while I spoke, like a klutzy kid. I pretended I was on a cooking contest show and thanked my lucky stars that I had seen the movie
Ratatouille
numerous times, due to the regular babysitting of some little kids who were just obsessed with the flick. I myself was obsessed with the Food Network and the Cooking Channel, just because the food was so pretty on screen.