Years ago, before I was even part of the BDSM scene, I accepted a position working with a pastry team in a kitchen belonging to one of the city’s top chefs. The job was not only a godsend in a tight market; it was a dream come true for a recent culinary graduate.

We were always getting called to do special catering events, which meant most of my waking hours were literally filled with vanilla activities. I spent lots of time piping frosting and rolling fondant.

Steve was the sous chef — a two-year veteran in the kitchen, but far older than me in actual age. He was a former advertising executive, who decided to change careers in his early 40s and get serious about food.

I was 24 when we met. I was very Type A and impatient to make a splash in such a highly competitive environment. Unfortunately, my eagerness sometimes caused me to butt heads with my coworkers. On more than one occasion, Steve stepped up to calm me down and smooth ruffled feathers. I considered him a mentor, but I could tell there was definitely some chemistry between us, simmering away on the back burner.

Steve was about six-foot-two with a lean, muscular body. He had started doing MMA training years back to work out his frustrations, so he was no middle-aged doughboy. He had a few flecks of salt in his otherwise peppery hair and really intense gray eyes — I could always “feel” when Steve was watching me.

One evening, I was melting down some sugar to make Italian meringue butttercream for a wedding cake. I thought I’d be alone in the kitchen since the supervisor left and the other crewmembers were off-site setting up an event. But when I glanced up from my saucepan, I was surprised to see Steve standing in the doorway, checking me out.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“OK, I thought you were off today,” I responded.

Steve shrugged and told me my boss was worried I might be overwhelmed and asked him to come in and check on me “because she knows you won’t bite my head off.”

I laughed and said, “Little does she know.”

Steve smirked, but for a half second I caught a glimpse of emotion in his eyes — something powerful.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving me off. “Do you have the butter ready?”

“I do.”

Steve squinted at the large bowl of cubed butter near the mixer and the discarded wrappers on the counter.

“I don’t know, Chrissy.”

I rolled my eyes. “What now? How did I screw up butter?”

Steve broke a small piece off and tasted it. “By using the salted kind?”

“What?” The thought of making such a huge and embarrassing mistake short-circuited my brain. “No way!”

“Don’t believe me? Go on — taste it for yourself.”

I stepped away from the burner and tried some. Dammit! He was right, and I was furious.

“Relax,” Steve said, holding out his hands. “No harm no foul. I was here to save you, as always.”

“I don’t want or need saving, OK?” I snapped back.

I felt rage throbbing in my temples as I switched off the stove’s burner and stormed off into the walk-in fridge.

“Hey, you’re just gonna leave this half-melted mess?” Steve called out.

“I’ll start over if I have to!” I yelled, muttering curse words as I gathered up a block of unsalted butter. “Just go away, Steve!”

I stepped out of the cooler and was still in such a huff that I didn’t realize Steve was blocking my path until I walked into him.

I started spouting off again, but he wouldn’t move out of my way.

“I’m not going anywhere, Chrissy.”

I rolled my eyes, and just as I was about to push past Steve, he grasped my arm and pulled me close.

“Put down the butter, Chrissy. I think you need an attitude adjustment.”

Steve’s tone was calm, yet firm. The shift away from his usual playful demeanor left me feeling intrigued and anxious all at once.

I turned and put the butter on the countertop as I said, “Look, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t good enough this time,” he said matter-of-factly.

Steve was holding a wooden spoon and tapping it gently in the center of his palm. The gesture — and the sound — triggered some kind of primal feelings inside me.

“I like you, Chrissy. I really like you. But you won’t get very far with that chip on your shoulder. So, if you’re going to act like a brat, then I’m going to punish you like one.”

I was pouting and pissed off — and yet I felt my panties getting wetter.

“You actually think you’re going to spank me?” I tried to sound indignant, but the thought was turning me on big-time.

As cool and calm as ever, Steve answered: “Turn around, put both hands on the counter. You know you deserve this.”

Now, let me be clear. I could have left at any moment and told him to go to hell. But I didn’t want to, and somehow Steve knew that.

My eyes narrowed as I stared him down.

“This is exactly what you need, Chrissy. It’s also what you want. I can tell.” Then he asked, “Do you trust me?”

I nodded and took a deep breath. My knees turned to jelly as I followed his instructions, put my hands on the counter and then leaned forward.

“Untie your apron and lower your pants.”

Once again I obeyed, letting my apron drop to the floor. I felt so aroused sliding off my black and white checkered pants to reveal my red lace panties. I glanced over my shoulder to confirm what I already sensed: Steve’s eyes were practically boring a new hole into my rear end as he looked me over.

When we made eye contact, he said, “Remember, Chrissy, this is for your own good.”

And then with one swift stroke, the wooden spoon made contact with my left butt cheek.

I gasped and shouted, “Ow!”

That blow was followed by another on the right, and he continued like that, alternating cheeks as he peppered my bottom with smacks from the spoon. Each sharp nip of pain drew me in deeper and made me want more. I wiggled my ass back and forth — away from the spoon, but then consciously seeking contact again.

Steve paused, and I turned around, my face flushed. As our eyes met, he spoke again: “Take off your panties, Chrissy.”

Without any protest I obeyed, surrendering to a bare-assed spanking.

“Now, while I punish you this time, I want you to touch yourself.”

“OK,” I answered, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. “Like this?” I asked as I stroked my clit and looked back at Steve for approval.

“Perfect,” he answered as he delivered a particularly harsh blow that made my body jolt.

I yelped, caught somewhere deep in the hinterland between pain and pleasure.

“You want more?”

“Yes, please.”

Up until that point, I had never had a partner take total control of me. But with Steve, I finally felt like I had permission to let go. He was right: I didn’t even realize how badly I needed his tough love.

I kept stroking my clit as he delivered more blows until my ass felt like it was on fire. When he finally stopped spanking me, I was on the verge of coming and he stopped me from playing with myself. I nearly wept.

“That’s enough. Now turn around and take off the rest of your clothes,” Steve commanded.

I did as ordered, shivering a little in the cool kitchen. My nipples were erect, and my pussy was soaking wet.

Steve looked me up and down and unzipped his pants, pulling out his meaty dick.

I hit my knees and immediately began gobbling his member. Steve held my hair back and guided me up and down his shaft. He face-fucked me until I thought he was going to come. But he restrained himself, pulling back, yanking me up and tossing me over the counter again.

I squealed a little as my nipples made contact with the cold steel countertop. For a moment, I wondered if he was going to spank me again. But he’d clearly moved on to the next course because I soon felt the heat of Steve’s body across my back. I turned my head, and we kissed as he drove his cock inside me to the hilt.

He hammered into me, his massive prick feeling like it might split me in two. He slammed his body into mine, his pelvis slapping against my poor abused cheeks and reigniting the fire of my spanking. I came so hard I actually squirted, soaking my thighs with my release.

Seconds later, Steve groaned and climaxed, icing my ass with pearly strands of come.

Afterward, we panted and held each other for a moment before Steve tossed me a dish towel.

“Clean up, and let’s get back to work. That cake isn’t going to make itself.”

“Yes, Sir,” I replied.

Steve and I had a lot of fun together while our relationship lasted, and our work always ran smoothly. Thanks, of course, to a heaping cup of love tempered with a dash of discipline!