Chef Margo

Miss Baxter’s Girls: Chef Margo By Davina Lee I’m standing at the head of a long table with at least a dozen girls seated around it, maybe more. Most are my age—a few older and a few younger. They’re all smiling and applauding politely as Miss Baxter thanks me for the wonderful meal I’ve prepared for her birthday. I smile in return and direct some of the congratulations to the girls who volunteered to serve as wait staff and clean-up crew, leaving me free to concentrate on other things this evening. Anise rises from her seat and comes over to stand beside me. She doesn’t say anything, but she brushes against my arm and I shudder. I almost always get at least a little shiver when I’m standing this close to Anise, because—well—she’s f*****g gorgeous. And even though we’re not together any more, if we were ever really together, it’s as if nothing has changed. My shuddering increases as soon as I feel the length of rope wrapping around my wrist. I don’t know how she does it without looking, but I feel the heat rising in my cheeks knowing that I’ve been ensnared already—not only physically, but emotionally. I wonder if any of the girls around the table are aware of my current predicament. This is not my first time in this situation and I know exactly how things are going to play out from here. I’ll sit down to quietly enjoy my dessert, while all of Miss Baxter’s girls continue their chit-chat and convey their complements on the meal. I’ll eat clumsily with my left hand, because I don’t want to draw attention to the fact that Anise has bound my right and has the ends of the rope firmly in her grasp. She’s never threatened to parade me around in front of the other girls, but yet I always feel vulnerable. What if she absentmindedly reaches for something and drags my trapped wrist along with her and onto the table for everyone to see? What would the other girls think? Those are the thoughts that keep my right hand firmly anchored in my lap. And if I’m being completely honest, those are the same thoughts causing the clingy moistness that is building between my thighs. I know that when dessert is over, and all the other girls have left, Anise will lead me to her room where she will spend the rest of the evening trying to coax tonight’s dessert recipe from me, even as I try my best to keep it secret. I learned early on that Anise has a fascination with rope and knows how to use it to keep me docile and obedient while she interrogates me. I think about her instruments of interrogation—her fingers, her tongue, that maddeningly wonderful device she simply calls Aphrodite—and I feel a twinge from below. I know that I’ll eventually write out the recipe for Anise so that she can add it to Miss Baxter’s personal collection. I’ll be a sweaty, heaving mass of useless flesh by then, but she’ll make sure I have just enough energy left to press pen to paper. “Are you ready, Margo?” Anise’s breath tickles my ear as she whispers, and I am immediately jolted back into the present. As I look up from my reverie, I see that the table is empty. “Yes, Anise.” “That’s a good girl.” I feel a tug on the rope attached to my wrist and slide my chair back from the table. As I stand with wobbly knees, my eye happens to catch a shining patch of my own moisture left behind on the seat. I shudder again and promise myself that maybe this time I’ll be able to hold out a little bit longer.