Prelude in E (for Embarrassment)

I was making dinner. The brown rice had been turned to low and the timer set, the onions were frying fragrantly. I heard G at the door and called a greeting from the kitchen. He came in smiling, unusually cheerful. "Hi, Sweetie," he said, dropping a kiss on my cheek. I tilted my face for another on the lips, and he tugged at my hair as he gave it.

While I chopped carrots and threw them in the pan, G busied himself behind me pouring himself a glass of something. Our kitchen is a narrow, galley style, hard for two to cook in at once, so when he came up close behind me, I assumed he wanted something from the drawers in front of me. I took a half step back, trying to get out of his way, but only bumped into him instead. I was startled, and that always makes me irritable. When G wrapped his arms around me and squeezed my breasts playfully, I felt annoyed and constricted. He was impeding my cooking. "I have to wash the kale," I said, pulling against his embrace.

G dropped his arms but stood where he was, his body blocking my path to the sink. "First take of your shirt," he said. I stopped dead halfway through my step forward. My one foot in the air wavered and then slowly landed behind me.

I squinched my eyes at G, trying to express both incredulity and protest. Did he really mean it? G just smiled. It didn't seem worth arguing. I put the kale back down on the counter. Then I pulled off my shirt and handed to it to G. I was wearing a bra, black lace, unlined. He'd seen it before. There was no reason for me to feel self conscious, but I did.

"I think you should take your bra off, too," G said. He was still standing in my way, quite close to me. I felt his height and bulk, how he loomed over me. I didn't want to take my bra off. I could hear the carrots sizzling. It was time to get the kale in the pan. "Do you need help?" G asked. His voice was teasing, but he hadn't moved. The kitchen seemed oppressively small. I didn't say anything. I reached up for the front clasp of the bra and twisted the clasp. I felt acutely embarrassed as the cups pulled apart, uncovering my breasts. I shrugged the straps off my shoulders and let them fall down my arms. G caught it before it fell to the floor, then casually gripped my nipple between his fingers and palm for a moment, hard. A sound escaped me, not quite ouch, not quite ah. And then G took his glass and went into the dining room.

The kitchen and dining rooms are open to each other, divided only by cupboards and counter. I rinsed the kale. My back was to G, where he sat a the table. I felt very exposed. I took a long time about about the kale, examining each leaf for insects, rinsing all the nooks and crannies. Finally I had to turn back around the cutting board. G was reading the paper, but he looked up when I began chopping. He had a clear view from my waist to my embarrassed face.

I tried to just cook dinner, and not think about my nakedness. I couldn't help being aware, though, of my nipples tightening and swelling. The kale went in the pan. I opened the refrigerator and bent for the soy sauce on the bottom shelf. My breasts swayed out from my body, and landed again as I straightened. The cold air from the refrigerator crossed my bare skin, making me shiver.

G kept watching as I added the soy sauce to the pan, and a splash of white wine. I ground in black pepper. The onions and carrots were browning, the kale brightening. It smelled good, but I didn't feel hungry. The combination of arousal and anxiety swirling around in me made me almost nauseated. I wished G would stop smiling that gloating smile. I put a lid on the pan and began cleaning the counter. The rice timer was about to go off, and I turned off the flame under it. "Dinner's almost ready," I told G.

He got up to set the table, his usual role at dinner time. As he came into the kitchen he reached out at and tweaked my nipple again, hard enough to hurt. Normally, I would have swatted his hand away with a laugh and kept moving through my tasks. I felt different, though, in this state of undress. His touch stopped me in my tracks. I squeaked pathetically as he took the opportunity to roughly fondle my other nipple too, rolling it between his thumb and fingers. "I love how hard your nipples get," he said. I just stood there, sponge in my hand, my breath coming quickly. "Do you want water to drink?" he asked, and went to fill my glass. The spell was broken, and I helped carry dinner to the table.

My shirt and bra were draped over the back of my chair. "Can I put them back on, now?" I asked G. It came out a little sarcastic, though I hadn't meant it to be.

G raised his eyebrows. "No," he said, sitting down. "I think you should eat dinner without them."

I sat down across from him. For some reason sitting at the table half-naked was more mortifying than cooking. G wasn't staring at me, he was serving us each rice and vegetable quite normally, but I felt incredibly on display. My stomach was in a knot, and I knew I wouldn't be able to eat more than a few bites. My cunt was burning. My nipples felt every current of air. I didn't know what I wanted: to hide in the bathroom for the rest of the night; for G to take me then and there on the dining room table; or for this horrible, humiliating dinner to just go on and on and on.