Chef’s Master Class Part Two (MF forced multiple orgasm, spanking, light consensual humiliation)

When I came through the door a few days later he was sitting in the dining room, in the center at one of the tables. All the others had the chairs upturned on them, without their tablecloths. It spoke to his utter comfort in his space, if I had chosen a table to sit at, I would have picked one in a corner, tucked away. I sat across from him and he slid a glass of tea towards me. There were just the two glasses of tea, a dish of sugar cubes and my apron folded on the table. He had clearly finished closing up and cleaning up just before I had arrived, I had, in fact, watched the other closers leave. He was still wearing his apron, and had a kitchen towel tucked through a belt loop. Something vaguely familiar was tucked into his hip pocket as well. With an embarrassed start I realized it was the underwear I had been wearing the last time I was here. I had managed to stumble into my skirt and get home, but had not even noticed that I was otherwise bare. Perhaps he noticed me noticing, or had just seen me go a little pale and he smiled, gently, not that little smirk from before. It was like being enfolded by sleep, a promise of total protection. I relaxed, sipping, watching him.
“I know you were pretty tuckered out, the other night.” I snorted, put down my cup. “But I just wanted to discuss a few things.” I felt my eyes narrowing. I hoped he didn’t expect anything from me. He was nice, but I didn’t know him at all. I was hoping he wasn’t going to get sentimental or needy. How did you nicely say to someone, “I want to fuck you, but you seem like you only just took off a wedding ring, and I’m not interested in much beyond your prick” ?
“I need honesty. For example; I like hearing you beg, I like hearing you cry ‘no’ and I want you whining, if you’re not, how do I know I’m doing my job right? But if I am doing my job wrong, I need you to say ‘stop’, okay?” I hoped he took my sigh of relief for shock instead.
“I can do that.” (Had I cried last time?) I didn’t want to puff up his ego by saying, ‘no one else has made me whine, or cry, or beg – I’ve never needed to have a conversation about a safe word’.
“I want to fuck you, with my hands, and toys, and dick and tongue.” It felt as if all the blood rushed into the lower half of my body. I opened my mouth, but he held up a hand, halting whatever I was going to say. “I’m hardly done, so be quiet. I want to hurt you in ways you’ll like, tie you up, hit you, fuck your mouth, and make you come until you pass out.” My breath caught, I almost coughed, and it felt as though my clit was throbbing. Almost full images seemed to accompany his words (threats?) but would not fully stabilize in my mind.
“Yes, I want that too,” I croaked.
“I want to bind you up, and slap you, and make you drool and defile you utterly. I want you to say yes, give into me, like it and ask for more.” My back arched a little in the chair, as if I was being tugged across the table.
“Yes, I want that.”
He shoved the apron across to me. “Put that on.” I started to drop the neck straps over myself with admittedly trembling hands, when he shook his head.
“Absolutely fucking not, I said, put that on I didn’t say anything else should be on. Come meet me in the kitchen. Oh, since you wore slut shoes, you can leave those on.” I felt my toes curl inside my stilettos, something between excitement and shame making the heels feel taller and thinner. He stalked off through the swinging doors and I walked stupidly towards the public restrooms, feeling cold and fearful and totally, insensibly aroused. I divested myself of all my clothes, tied on the apron and walked through the kitchen doors, with my clothes overly-neatly folded in my hands. He was leaning against a counter, arms folded against his chest as I approached. I felt as if the brushed cement floor would slide out from under my heels as they clicked across, sounding louder than seemed possible. Miserably aware of how bare my backside was, how short the skirt of the apron was. When I was within arms reach he grabbed the center of my apron, and grabbed a fistful, allowing my breasts to fall out towards the sides, the apron remaining bunched between. He pulled me forward, enough so that the neck straps bit in at the nape, the buckle catching against my hairline. Alarm at his athletic quickness had me dropping my pile of clothes to the floor. “Nice to finally see these,” brushing his thumbs across both nipples. My knees crumpled once more, but his grip was strong. “If you wore a low cut shirt to work I’d always think about tugging it down, and biting your tits while you sat at your desk.” Something between a gasp and a sob escaped me and I arched into his hands. Did he know how sensitive my chest was? Even other men had managed to bring me to the brink of orgasm by touching my nipples. He pinched and pulled me downwards as I bent at the waist to try to give into the movement. I braced my hands against the counter, shocked again by the cold. He swatted at my backside, lazily, without any force. “Bend over further, and spread your legs.” I did, feeling but hoping he couldn’t see the tremble going down my inner thighs. I felt the arch in my foot the way I never had before, wearing these shoes. I thought I could almost feel the heat rolling off him, in direct contrast to how nude and chilled I felt. He spanked me twice in rapid succession, and though it didn’t hurt, it startled me and I bounced against the counter. As I was getting back into position his thumb and forefinger slid into a lock around my already slick clitoris. My body reacted against my will, I wanted to stay still, stay bent and legs wide, but I started away like an animal. His hand still between my legs he bent over me. The first time we’d actually been body to body, more than just a couple points in contact. His clothes felt impossibly rough against my bare skin, he felt thick and heavy and warm. He bit hard where my shoulder connected with my neck. I breathlessly shrieked. He became rough and fast, and barely relaxed his jaw. I struggled a little against his teeth, but felt myself dropping deeply into his rapidly rubbing hand. I came with another little shriek, feeling like I must have blood splattering all over the counter from my shoulder. As my legs weakened he grabbed and lifted me with a grunt onto the counter. My hands sweatily skated along as I got pushed up and onto. I was moving so quickly and out of my own control that I wasn’t on my hands and knees so much as face and knees.
“You came too fast, and you came from being bitten like a little animal,” he growled, “I’m going to beat your clit numb so this doesn’t happen again tonight.” I wanted to use words, or even fight about it, but just slid my knees further apart, dropping my cheek to the counter. A stinging slap landed almost directly on my slippery and full clit. As I cried out I looked over my shoulder, knowing he hadn’t hit me with his palm. Wearing something close to a sneer he waved a metal spatula at me and slapped me again. My face crashed down, and I was sure I must have bruised my cheekbone in my shocked movement forward. My legs trembled holding me up as I lost count.
“I feel like every time I hit you it sounds… wetter,” teasing. Something wonderfully cool and smooth slid against my labia which felt like a pile of stinging, swollen wounds. My hips lifted again, apparently I had forgotten the assault, hungry for more stimulation. Just as I was getting into a rhythm, and panting, it slid away from my clitoris and slid into me, still cold enough to jolt. I glanced over my shoulder again with the dim realization he wasn’t using his fingers, but the handle of the spatula, rounded and cold. I had never been penetrated by anything other than fingers or dicks. I was ashamed, and appalled by how turned on I was. Although it was slim, it still felt like the walls of my vagina were clinging to it.
“You’re going to come all over this, aren’t you?”
I panted, “I don’t want to”.
“You don’t want to?”
“No…”
“Well, you’re wet, and it sounds like you’re going to come.”
“I’m wet for you,” I pleaded, hoping he understood how badly I wanted him to just finally strip, and lay me on my back and bury himself in me.
“Oh, I know you are, honey,” and his other hand went around my waist and started rubbing my offended clitoris again, and I came involuntarily, my pubis dropping into his palm, as I spasmed around an aluminum handle, entirely against my will. Neither movement stopped however, and I began weeping tearlessly against the counter, my face hot and flushed feverishly. “Guess the beating didn’t work, let’s get one more out of you.” My belly dropped to the counter, like a slithering little worm, my fingers fisting around the edge, trying to keep myself from flying. Finally he released me, as I flattened entirely, the clattering of the spatula to the floor barely calling me back to paralyzing embarrassment. He grabbed my ankles and slid me across the counter, having gone from cold to sweating, it was pretty easy.
“You can just relax on the floor for a second,” he said, lifting me down so gently I could have started crying in earnest. I wanted to cling around his neck, and feel how warm he was, feel the grain of the chambray but I was let go of too quickly to grab on. He hummed as he deep cleaned the counter, throwing the spatula into the bin in the corner in a boyish, practiced overhand throw. I shuddered and I wasn’t sure if it was because I was starting to get clammy on the floor, seeing the instrument of my torture thrown away like that, or because I wanted more.
I was exhausted but hoped the session wasn’t over. I wanted to see him naked, I wanted to be against him and I still wanted him inside me, in a forlorn sort of way. He finished his wiping down, still humming, and dried his hands on the towel still securely twisted through his belt loop. He knelt beside me on the floor, pushing me down onto my back. He undid the top two buttons of his shirt. I had never seen him less than entirely buttoned up, totally entranced by his light skin and dark body hair. I was disappointed as I saw that he did not continue, just apparently getting more comfortable. He slid down onto his belly, flat to the floor and wrapped his arms around my thighs and hips and buried his face between my legs. He was gentle and slow, seeming more to be cleaning and soothing, rather than provoking. I almost felt like falling asleep, naked except for a bunched up, sweaty apron on a cement floor, being lovingly licked. This last orgasm came with a sigh and I slid out of his arms, trying to turn on my side, the way I always slept. When I started getting cold again, he tugged me into a sitting position, holding me under the armpits and laughing.
“I didn’t actually think I could make you pass out. If you get dressed by yourself I’ll make you some dessert.” I stepped into my pants, and wearily tried to remember how I put on my bra, as I heard him opening things and moving things around on the gorilla racks lining the walls. I finally managed to get dressed and slumped against the cabinets.
“You’ll be more comfortable in my office, there’s chairs in there,” still said laughingly. I sighed heavily and flopped my way into a chair, somehow. Once again he hip checked his way through the door, where I sat in the dark. I leaned forward, turning on the light as he put down a faddy little tray, with steaming mugs and truffles. I reached for the mug as he said “cocoa”. I grunted and noticed he was waving something in front of me. Had my reflexes been anything better than totally dazed, I would have attempted to snatch it back. It was the underwear I had worn in.
“Oh, absolutely fucking not, I’m getting together a collection,” he said, stuffing it into the pocket beside the first pair. I huffed and indulged in chocolate, instead of arguing.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/z1u6ig/chefs_master_class_part_two_mf_forced_multiple