Under My Boss's Control

“I know that it’s rude. I shouldn’t have done that. My parents raised me better.”

“Traditional Southern folks, huh?”

“Oh, yeah!” She laughed. “Very conservative, both politically and socially. I grew up in a pretty religious household. To them, I’m a bit of a wild child for moving out of the house on my own. Shawn was my ‘bad boy’ phase. They have no idea I was even living with Shawn. God, I would never hear the end of it if they found out.”

“I was an Army brat. My dad was pretty strict, being in the military. Can’t say there was a downside; he gave my life order and structure. Young men need that,” I said.

“Yeah, everyone does.”

“You like structure and order?”

“I like when it exists, yes. I mean, it’s comforting. You don’t have to think. You just have to follow, which is good if you trust the person giving the orders.”

“You trust me?”

She smiled. “Sure.”

“I made a pie for dessert. It’s still in the oven. Why don’t you get it for us?”

Dixie smiled and started walking towards the kitchen. She had a great body. Everything about her looked alive and vibrant. I could feel myself getting hard under the table just from watching her. She dragged out her approach to the oven and then bent over to open the door, giving me a good view.

“Careful, it’s hot,” I said.

She looked back and smiled, then stood up. She was looking for a pair of potholders to pick up the pie.

“Second drawer from the end,” I said. “The potholders are in there.”

Dixie moved over to the drawer, found the potholders, and slipped them on. She was taking her time and being careful, but also giving me a good look at her body from all angles. She was smiling, trying to contain herself, clearly enjoying our little game. Then, she purposely left the drawer open.

“Dixie,” I said.

She stopped in her tracks.

“Please, shut the drawer.”

“Yes, sir.”

She took two steps back, reached over, and closed the drawer. Going back to the oven, she bent down again, the glow of the oven illuminating her through her thin, flowing dress. I could see the outlines of her legs.

Retrieving the pie, she placed it on a ceramic potholder I had placed on the counter earlier. She closed the oven, then turned to me.

“Mr. Lamb,” she said respectfully. “Where are your utensils and plates so that I might serve you?”

“Plates are above the microwave. Please, use the reddish-brown dessert ones. Utensils are in the drawer to the right of the dishwasher. I prefer a spoon.”

Under my watchful eye, she opened the cabinets to get the plates. She stretched up to reach them, lifting one shapely leg to do so. She cut us each a slice of pie with deliberate strokes.

“Mr. Lamb, I’ve cut the pie. Would you be needing anything else with it? Whipped cream? Ice cream, perhaps?”

I put my hand on my chin, thinking about it for a moment. The whipped cream would melt too fast on the hot pie… The anticipation seemed to excite Dixie. She looked as if she were trying to contain herself. “Vanilla ice cream would be great on the side,” I finally said. “Ice cream’s in the freezer. Scoop is in the drawer next to the fridge.”

“Very good, sir,” she said.

She went to the freezer, got the ice cream, then got the scoop. She dug out two perfectly round scoops and placed them next to each slice of pie on their respective plates. Each dessert looked uniform, precisely the same. I liked her attention to that uniformity.

Returning from the kitchen with both plates, she served me first, then retreated to the other end of the table with her own plate. I waited for her to sit down. She looked back at me and waited for me to pick up a spoon. When I did, she picked up hers, and we both enjoyed the warmth and coolness of the pie and ice cream.

“Mm,” I said with the spoon in my mouth. “The ice cream was an excellent call.”

“I’m glad you like it,” she said. “Your pie is delicious. You’re such a good cook.”

“Thanks. There wasn’t much to do on the Army base when I was a kid.” I shrugged. “When I was home with my mother, I’d watch her cook. Sometimes I’d help out. You know, be a good son.”

“This flaky crust,” she said, picking up a piece. “My pies always come out soggy. Guess I didn’t cook them long enough.”

“Perhaps your oven wasn’t hot enough,” I said. “Sometimes, if you have an old oven, they don’t quite hit the temperature they’re supposed to hit.”

“Yeah, that was probably it,” she said. “The house we were in was built in late 60s. I think it had the original oven.”

“Well, this house was built—”

Her phone started buzzing again. She scrambled in a panic to reach it and turn it off.