My Submissive Boy - (Book 2)

Iris, a woman of 24 years, had an exceptional love for food. It wasn't just about sustenance; it was an adventure, a symphony of flavors that danced on her palate. Spicy vindaloos, sweet mango lassi, the delicate crunch of perfectly fried dumplings—she relished them all.

This insatiable appetite for culinary experiences led her to the newest addition, - the establishment of her lover - to the town's culinary scene: a small, cozy eatery run by a single mother and her son, Jasper, who, at 22, shared Iris's passion for all things delicious, though in his own quiet way.

Jasper preferred experiencing the adventure of cuisines through his pan. The sizzle of onions, the fragrant steam rising from the simmering broth, the delicate dance of spices – each step in the cooking process was a sensory delight for him, also a path of his heart to speak.

This shared passion ignited Jasper and Iris's heart for each other and brought them together in a shared apartment. He blossomed in the moments he cooked for her and she joyed the moments when she remarked and savoured his cooking.

On that night again, he had prepared a hearty meal for his hardworking lover, who had requested something pungent while managing the hotel staff. Jasper decorated the table with homemade pasta and a glass of wine, sat on the chair, and focused his eyes on the door.

His eyes remained glued to the door, with the steam of the food caressing his face. He craved her soft moans of satisfaction once her tongue touched his food and required her words full of flattery and criticism for improvement.

However, the hands of the clock shifted like his elbow on the chair and his palm to help his face rest. His eyes became heavy while he continued glancing from the clock on the living room wall to the door beside it.

After a while, his legs grew heavy and begged to be adjusted. Eventually, his neck, palms, and back began aching. His breaths wobbled, palms fisted and jaw clenched, but the door remained still.

Watching not even a movement on the door, he sprung up from the chair, exhaling sharp, glanced at the pasta one last time, and took the plate to the kitchen counter.

He began searching for a plate to cover the icy pasta, his hands trembling as well as his breaths. But could not locate it.

His eyes continued prancing from one corner of the kitchen to the other, and when he still failed to find a plate, he fell to the ground.

His breaths weighed his chest, his muscles gave up to the mission of remaining alarmed, and he curled his legs and sat with his hands on his head, against his knees.

His mind began talking a language that pierced his heart; what if she did not wish to return home?

He messed up his strands with clenched fingers, then rested his head on his knee, unaware of Iris's footsteps in the kitchen.

She had arrived a few minutes ago, placed her bag wherever she could not remember, and looked for him everywhere but in the kitchen. So, when her eyes found him on the ground, a breath of respite passed through her chest.

She hailed his name with the same relief and anxiety, fell to the ground, and grasped his frosty face in her cold palms. His eyes were red and swollen, gloom clouding his skin in stiffness.

"What happened?" She questioned, only to receive no answer, but his furrowed eyebrows, clenched jaw, and pursed lips.

His silence explained enough for her to speak his mind for her. "You're thinking, I don't love you anymore."

His lips remained sealed once again as his eyes turned away from her to the wooden cabinet. He emptied his chest of breaths while she exhaled the weight off her shoulders.

It wasn't a new occurrence. She had encountered him in much worse states, where he strongly believed that she stopped loving him because of something as small as an ant and denied listening to any explanation.

It was tough at the beginning to salvage his mind, but with time, she had learned the right way to do so.

Therefore, she copied his position, sitting beside him, and for a while spoke nothing. Then whispered an explanation for the delay, glancing at the plate of pasta sitting on the counter before her. However, her explanation did not come to any fruition, and the silence continued.

He just did not want to hear another word from her mouth and, aware of that, she stood tall, catching the attention of his eyes. She glanced at the pasta with no steam coming off of it. The pasta was as lifeless as he was behind her.

She then picked a fork and forked a chunk, bringing it close to her lips when he stood up and instantly seized her hand before her tongue tasted something he would hate her to do.

"I thought you stopped worrying for me." Her eyes forked through his heart, dark and honied like her tone, and his eyes instantly looked away, his hand removing itself from her wrist.

Her lips softly curled up so lightly, and she placed the fork on the counter. She shifted her body before him, looking at her quivering eyes with steady warmth, then gently pressed her palms onto his shoulders.

"Why do you always get worried? Do you not trust me?" She questioned as her fingers gently danced from his broad and fidgety shoulders to his quivering neck and then to his bashful face.

"Look at me." She whispered softer, and with her hands directed his face at her. His eyes had reduced in size, brighter yet drowsy; it was like a puppy awaiting his owner's arrival.

Jiggling inside, she steadily pressed her thumb onto his lower lip and grazed it downward like submerging the pencil's prints on the paper, leaving her stomach grumbling.

Jasper's breaths trembled, his eyes fluttered, and his heart thumped like drums and burned in his chest like firecrackers. His palms soaked with sweat, his knees began quivering and his ears took the color of her lips.

"You cried again." Her chest ached as she said that, her eyes weak, noticing the swelling around his eyes. "What must I do to take away your worries?" She questioned as she caressed his eyes with hurried but gentle thumbs, trying to wipe the redness while he watched her, his insides rumbling with unease.

Her thumbs stopped, and she rested her head against his shoulder, her mind in a mania. "I could not think of anything else but you. My soul scorched at the thought of you crying. What would have happened if I was to be held by the staff a little longer?"

"I might have died thinking you don't love me anymore." He finally spoke, his tone like a frozen lake.

She rose from his shoulder and said, "Well, I haven't eaten and since you're still alive, give me something to eat." She knew there was no benefit in protesting his words, for they'd only grow bitter if she did. But she was being bladed inside.

"Give me some time to cook." He took a few steps past her, denying any warmth to her. But she did not let him give her the coldness she did not desire. She pulled him back by the strength of her palm and then pushed him against the counter.

With a thud of his body against the counter, his eyes widened, and a sizzle ran down his spine like a creeping worm.

"I don't think I can wait." She breathed, her voice husky with desire, her gaze dark and intense. Her fingers cupped his face once again, stroking his gentle skin, and her face drew closer to his.

The distance between them shrank until he could feel her breath on his skin. He gripped the edge of the counter, his own breath catching in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs, and inched his head back.

She noticed the hesitation and slipped her fingers into his hair, clutching his strands to pull and seal her lips to his. 

His eyes blurred once the seal between their lips had been strengthened, their breaths crossing each other's lungs.

Her thawing tongue gently licked his lips as though tasting a sweet dish, her body pressed against him, and her tongue slowly entered his mouth.

Slippery warm and slimy, her tongue danced along his in his mouth while her lips continued sucking the life out of his lungs. He dug his nails into the counter edge, struggling to keep his lungs filled, then nuzzled her shoulders, breaking the connection of their lips.

Breathing with tired lungs, he stared at her with numb temples, his forehead ringing and watched her whisper with thickness in tone, "There is nothing I could want more than you." which drove chills down his spine.

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END OF PART 1.

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