“I…” I said. This was not good.
“It’s a little tight,” she admitted, turning around and wiggling her butt at me. The floofy white ribbon on the back, whatever it’s called, ruffled provocatively. “But do you think Brodie will like it?”
“I think his wife’s going to have a heart attack.”
“Oh good!” she said, clapping her hands together. “That’s one less plate to make. Here, now you take this.” She shoved a bag into my arms and clacked past me into the apartment. “Man, your place is clean,” she said. She inspected the kitchen, checking the drawers for her tools, scoped out every cupboard, and then put her hands on her hips and nodded, the little cap falling over her eyes. “Yep, I can work with this. Bring me my things, slave.”
Grumbling, I started to cart in the bags. “You’re the one dressed like a…” She ignored me and emptied each bag onto the counter, organizing the ingredients into orderly rows.
“Dressed to impress,” she said. “And you should do the same. Go find something in your smarty pants closet and get business casual. And stay out of my kitchen if you know what’s good for you.”
I brought in the last of the bags and frowned. Despite the outrageous outfit, she was all business, and I watched her methodically begin to cut and separate and set pots to boil. I was relieved. Maybe she was taking this seriously.
Twenty minutes later, she dropped the first pan, startling me from my closet and bringing me back into the kitchen. Thankfully, it was empty of food, but she was standing over the pan as if it had tried to bite her. “What happened?” I said.
“Oh, I just seemed to have dropped it,” she said. “Clumsy me.” She bent over to get it, and as she did so the skirt rode up her curvaceous ass, exposing her completely. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. My sister’s supple, pink pussy lips gleamed under the kitchen lights.
I swallowed hard.
Crouched on the floor, Monica looked at me innocently, pan in hand. “Something the matter, Johnny?”
I would not rise to the bait. “N… no.”
She bit her lip, coyly putting her finger to her chin. “You look sick.”
“‘m’not,” I said.
She smiled. “Well good. You get back in there and you get yourself dolled up real nice, my big bad business man.”
Grumbling, I stalked back to my room and tried to find a tie.
Fifteen minutes later, she dropped the pan again.
I ran out. Once again, nothing was in the pan. Onions and chives were chopped up on the chopping board, various pots were boiling on the stove, and something delicious was already heating up in the oven; everything was perfect, but that damn pan…
“I’m so clumsy,” she murmured to herself. And she bent over, again. Her ass – perched on the tops of her thigh-hugging stockings – taunted me, again.
“Please stop doing that,” I said.
“Something wrong?” she said to me over her shoulder. She was still bent over.
“No…” I grunted, and turned back to my room. I had barely crossed the threshold when the pan clanged to the floor again. “Okay, that’s it!” I growled.
My sister cowered before me as I stalked over to her and grabbed her wrist. “I’m sorry, big brother. The pan’s just so slippery!” I all but threw her against the counter, flipped her skirt up over her ass and spanked her with all my might. “Oh, Johnny! That hurts!” I spanked her again, and again, watching her ass turn red and loving the way the springy flesh recoiled from every blow. The tight muscles in her thighs jiggled. “Oh!” she moaned. “Please don’t! I’ll be better! I promise, master!”
One last crack. My hand left her ass. I watched the puckered lips between her thighs and thought, it would be so easy. My dick hardened in my pants. I growled, and took my hand off her shoulder. “Just stop,” I said.
My sister demurely swept her skirt back over her ass, stood to her full height, and meekly adjusted her cap. “Yes, sir…” she said, averting her eyes.
Fifteen minutes later, she dropped the fucking pan again.
This time I bent my sister over the couch and spanked her until she buried her face in the pillows to scream. Then I squeezed each cheek, rolling them in my tight fingers while she moaned for me to stop. “Please, master!” she cried into the pillow. “I’ll be good! Just don’t spank me again. Oh, please, please!”
“You dirty little slut,” I said. “Your master’s going to punish you!”
“Please, no!” she moaned, shaking her blonde head into the pillow. “We don’t have much time, master! Don’t make me do it.”
“I’ll show you what happens to naughty maids who drop their pans!”
It was ridiculous, it was stupid, but I was going to take her right then and there and damn the consequences. I was pushing against her ass with my crotch, my cock hard and rising behind my slacks, ready to defile my sister, when suddenly there was a knock at the door.
I sprang from my sister’s ass and she fell off the armrest with an “oof!” Then she picked herself up and clattered into the kitchen, pulling her tight skirt over her bouncing buttocks as she fled. I coughed, straightened my tie, and tried to will away my erection. “Hello?” I said as I opened the door.
“HEEEYYYY!” Brodie shouted from the other side. His wife, Elaine, nodded at me politely and another man, bespectacled, said “Hello” in turn.
“Uh,” I said as Brodie threw his arms around my shoulders. “You’re- You’re all early? I-” I checked the clock.
“Yeah, well, I got tired of waiting,” said Brodie, loosening his already rumpled tie and ushering his wife inside. “John, you’ve met Elaine.”
“How do you do?” I said, taking her hand.
“My, how formal,” she said.
“And this is Melvin, the accountant,” said Brodie. Brodie pushed the guy ahead of him and the man gave a cough of protest.
“I’m the Financial Director,” he said to me as we shook hands.
“Uh,” I said.
“Accountant, he’s an accountant,” said Brodie. By the look of him, Brodie was about three beers or three glasses of wine ahead of me. The red flush in Melvin’s cheeks suggested he wasn’t far behind Brodie. “So what’re we eating?”
“Uh,” I said.
“We’re starting off with some stuffed mushrooms,” said Monica, carrying the tray deftly from the kitchen to the dining table. While we’d been talking, she’d already poured four glasses of wine and set the napkins and utensils down.
“Ho-ly shit,” said Brodie. “Is that little Monica? Monica, what the hell’re you dressed like that for?”
Monica preened in front of him as she offered him his glass of wine and let him kiss her cheeks. “I thought a special occasion occasioned special accoutrement,” she said sweetly.
“You’re god damn right you do,” he said. “Speaking French and everything…” Brodie shut his gaping mouth as his wife swept around the table to take her glass. “So, uh, what are these things, er, stuffed with?”
Monica gave a theatrical sweep of her hands. “Oh, just a little something I threw together. Pecorino Romano, garlic, parsley, bread crumbs and some fresh mint. Enjoy.”
She swept back into the kitchen, Melvin and Brodie watching her every airy step.
Melvin bit into one of the mushrooms. “This is fantastic,” he said.
“Yes, they’re quite good,” said Elaine.
“Uh,” I said.
“Sit down, Johnny,” said Monica. “I’m just fine in here.”
“You, uh, need any help?” asked Brodie.
She wiggled her nose at him. “Tush, tush, Brodie. Stay out of my kitchen.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He swung back around to me and mouthed “OH MY GOD” as best he could while his wife checked her cellphone.
“Terribly sorry to put you at this inconvenience,” said Melvin. “Mr. Thompson had quite a night planned but Brodie was insistent that we-”
Brodie had just about drained his glass of wine already when he pulled it from his lips. “Aw, put a sock in it, Mel. I wanted to see my old buddy here. He doesn’t mind, do ya, John?”
“Uh,” I said.
Brodie swung his glass towards me, nearly spilling the rest of his wine over the table. “See that? A real friend right there.”
The rest of the night was a blur. Monica brought forth more appetizers, which Melvin and Brodie wolfed down and Elaine took small, polite bites out of. All three of them were equally eager to drink, though I think for very different reasons. Elaine seemed perpetually mortified, Melvin sounded like he was on the verge of losing his job, and Brodie, well, Brodie just liked to drink.
I had two glasses of wine that night, drawn out over many, many hours. The others drained three or four bottles between them (and kudos to Monica for even thinking to buy that many). There was some talk of business, but mostly it was Brodie bullshitting and me doing my best to appease him.
And Monica. Even in an outfit like that, Monica was the height of class, joking with Brodie, putting Melvin at ease, commiserating with Elaine. And every now and then she’d look up from the stove and give me a warm, knowing smirk. She put everything together. She was absolutely incredible. I was so hard I could barely stand it. Indeed, if asked, I would not have been able to stand.