There are grains of rice scattered on the floor, a trick Lucivar told me about.
My kitchen is stone tile, and the corner where he kneels is liberally sprinkled with sharp little grains of rice.
You never think of rice as sharp, until you kneel on them for a while.
I'm happily flitting around my kitchen, ignoring the boy who kneels in silent agony nearby. I'm making peach cobbler, one of my favorite desserts.
First, you blanch the peaches, letting them sit in hot water for a few minutes to loosen the skins.
Then you peel them, and then you cut them up.
Normally, I'd be making the boy do the menial labor of blanching and peeling the peaches, but I'm in the mood to draw out my cooking today.
He shifts once, and I shoot him a single, level look.
His immediate resumption of proper posture amuses me, and I smile as I return to my work.
I'm cutting the peaches into wedges now, their sweet-tart juices running messily over my knife, over my hands as I slice through soft-firm flesh.
Every few moments, I lift the knife to my lips, sucking slowly between my lips and licking the sweet juices from the sharp blade.
I know he's watching me do it. I know he's cringing and hardening at the same time.
I don't bother to look, though. I'll hear it if he moves.
The peach wedges are in the bowl now, and I'm drizzling honey and brown sugar over them, with a hint of pumpkin pie spice. Needless to say, this necessitates much more licking of fingers, with appreciative sounds for my culinary talents.
I take my time removing my sweet, wet fingers from my warm mouth.
Tossing the peaches with the honey-sugar-spice mixture, my breasts bouncing behind my apron in time with the fruit in my bowl. I can hear small keening noises from the boy now.
Layering them in the casserole dish, chopping small cubes of cold, salted butter with a santoku knife, watching him cringe from the corner of my eye. I love this knife. It's a sushi knife, originally a gift for Jack but he never uses it.
I do.
It's sharp as a razor, with a lovely ergonomic design that fits perfectly in my hand. My hands fly every time I use it, and I know he's cringing at the speed with which I bring the blade down. He know the fantasies I have about using this knife on him.
It's time for the batter now, flour and buttermilk and egg and raw sugar and spices... I'm moving quickly now, half-dancing. Baking is truly one of my great pleasures in life, and it's clear in my every movement.
He knows how pleased I am when a dish comes out well, how alive it makes me feel.
And how cruel my liveliness can be.
As I whip the batter, I watch him fromt he corner of my eye. He's not foolish enough to squirm, but there are small tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
Excellent. The grains of rice will stick to his skin when he rises, embedded so deeply that they'll leave little red marks for hours.
I hum as I pour the batter over the peaches, ensuring that it snakes through every crack and crevice, the better to sweel and rise with the heat.
With a last smile, I set the oven timer for 20 minutes, then turn and beckon to the boy.
"Come, boy, we've just enough time to apply some heat to your ass as well as my cobbler."
He whimpers as he staggers to his feet.
