I barely know what I'm doing as I cross the kitchen. Sam's increasingly urgent shouts of "Quincy!" barely penetrate the layers of shells built up around me: the blood-boiling fury and the fog of the drugs.
It's only when Sam grabs my wrist, hard, squeezing until I have no choice but to relax my grip, and I hear the knife clatter to the floor, that I realise that was even what I was holding.
I look at the knife for a long moment. Suddenly it's turned from something reassuring, an object -- hell, a treasured possession -- that I use every day in my baking, to something like an accusation. Its long, sharp blade is dangerous, has always been dangerous. Just because it appears benign, doesn't mean it can't be turned to other purposes.
Or like me, I can't help but think. Scratch the surface of Quincy Carpenter and the Final Girl is never too far beneath.
"Shit," I say, looking up at Sam beseechingly. "Sorry. You know I would never--"
Sam hasn't let go of my wrist. But the tension of her grip relaxes slightly, and her fingers are warm against my skin, against the impressions that they themselves have made on top of the criss-cross pattern of veins.
For a moment, I can't help thinking about Lisa's wrists. About how things might have been different if one of us had been there, to do for her what Sam was now doing for me.
And then I look back to my own wrists. I wonder if there will be bruises, if Sam grabbed me hard enough to leave a mark.
No. I hope there will be bruises.
It's only then that I look up into Sam's face. Her expression is smoky, unreadable, her pupils dilated enough that I see my reflection in them, tiny and distorted like a funhouse mirror at the carnival. I can see that my own eyes are just as wide.
And then I can't see anything at all, because my eyes close instinctively when Sam leans in to kiss me. Her lipstick tastes as cheap as it looks, her canines nip not so gently on my lower lip as she takes what she wants. As I let her, because I want it to.
In no time, our hands are all over each other, Sam grabbing at my ass, me trying to worm my way into her tight jeans. I can feel her heat radiating, I know she wants it - even though I can't tell if she planned this all along or is riding the experience spontaneously the same way that I am.
Something shifts as I start to work her belt loose. Sam was always in control, I realise, as she twists my hand behind my back, but now she's making it obvious. She frog marches me to the counter, bending me over it. My other hand is forced out of her pants, flapping uselessly at my side.
And then she's bending me over, and I can't help thinking about the way the stains all over my apron are being squashed in amongst the ones on the worktop. But then there's no time to think any more, as Sam picks up my other hand and places it next to the one she still hasn't let go of. She pulls them together, holding them down, pushing me down so that my breasts are flattened against the surface, adjusting her grip so that only one hand is clamped around both of them, and for a moment I think: This is my chance. I could burst out, kick backwards, twist around and grab whatever was to hand - another knife or a rolling pin or anything - and make my escape. Or at least turn the tables.
But I don't, and I know that deep down it's because I don't want to. Ever since Pine Cottage, I've liked it rough.
Then I feel the apron string being wrapped around my wrists, tight but not too tight, like this isn't Sam's first time doing this sort of thing, and for a moment I find myself expecting a sudden slice of Pine Cottage flashback to shoot through my brain. But I was never tied up, that much I already knew. There would have been ligature marks on the medical exams. Sam was tied up, though, I remember, and I wonder if this is something she's got into with her lovers as a way of taking back control.
She's certainly taken control now, I think, only for it to be confirmed a moment later when she yanks down my jeans and my panties in one grab. They catch awkwardly just above my knees, forcing my legs closer together.
Sam doesn't care though, she's got the access she wanted. Her hand goes straight to my mound, cupping it. As she presses against my labia, I feel a surge of wetness. Sam laughs. "You want this so badly, don't you? You've wanted me ever since we first met."
It's true, that's what makes it worse. There had been something alluring about Sam all along, something in that smoky voice and devil-may-care attitude that draws me like a moth to a flame.
Sam puts her hand to my cheek, dragging it across until I suck at her fingers hungrily, tasting the mixture of my own juices and the ingredients that are still smeared across my face that she's dragged them through.
She explores the rest of my body with her hands, caressing the sides of my breasts almost too gently, until she suddenly reaches underneath to pinch my nipples and I groan with the mixture of pain and desire.
It's only after a long, agonising teasing journey, up and down my thighs, around my ass, that Sam's hand returns to my cunt. "Fuck, you really want this, don't you?"
"Need it," I manage to say. It's not even an admission she's had to wrench from me, it's something I've freely given her.
"Say it again," Sam says.
"I need it," I say. "Please fuck me."
"Hard," I gasp.
"With your fingers," I say. "With your hand. Please fuck me hard with your hand. Please."
Sam laughs -- not cruelly, but with a certain twisted satisfaction -- as she slides her middle finger inside, swift and hard and just right. My cunt clenches around it as she pumps it back and forth. After a little while, she slides her index finger in too, and I gasp at the sensation as her knuckles rub past my G-spot.
She isn't finished, though; as I get wetter and slicker, she adds her ring finger, then her pinky. She's filling me up now, her pounding back and forth providing all manner of simulation, but I know it's only a matter of time before she tucks her thumb between her fingers to slide her hand all the way inside me.
"Fuck," I say when it finally happens. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," I repeat, in time with her fisting me. I've never done this before, but it feels completely natural when Sam's the one doing it to me.
The feelings build and build inside me as she continues to pump in and out, blocking out all other thought, any sense or reason that might warn me to do anything other than give in to the waves and waves of sensation. I can hear myself making pathetic little mewling noises and deep groans, as if someone else entirely was in charge of my voice.
"You really do need this, don't you?" Sam says as she feels me grip her even tighter, her previously laughing tone turning into something like wonder. "Damn," she adds, almost to herself, "this whole thing could have been so much easier."
Just for a moment, that distrustful feeling comes back. What could have been so much easier? Is Sam just here to bring chaos into my seemingly perfect life, or is something else going on?
Did anything like this happen with Lisa?
I don't know whether it's fear or jealousy that makes me think that. Maybe a little of both.
Whichever it is, it fades as Sam continues to pump her fist into me, and my whole world narrows down to that one feeling, a feeling that I can tell is about to explode outwards through my body, leave my legs shaking and my heart pounding--
Until the real world does manage to break through the fog as the doorbell rings. "Ignore it," says Sam, as though I'm in any position to do anything about answering it. But the jarring interruption is enough to break my arousal, and I know Sam can tell.
But she's still inside me, so it's hardly going to take long--
The doorbell rings again, longer and more insistently this time, like someone's leaning into it.
"It could be--"
Sam doesn't let me finish. "Whoever it is, you hardly want them to see you looking like this."
"Well, no, I was hoping you would let me tidy myself up."
"We're not finished here, babe. You have needs, you"--she pauses as the doorbell rings once more--"have needs, and I'm going to help you with them."
"Do you think--"
"No, I don't," Sam says. "I act." And she starts again, quickly building up that irresistible rhythm once more. There are no more attempts to ring the doorbell, and I relax back into it, as much as I can relax while being fisted like this.
"You're so close, I can tell," Sam says, and she's right, damn her. She does some sort of impossible-seeming maneuver inside me, twisting her hand around and then, within her hand, her thumb, so that the pad of it is pressing down into my most sensitive place of all. She stops pumping and instead rubs with her thumb, back and forth and round in circles, treating that little rough-smooth patch on the inside of my cunt as though it's a second clit.
I lose whatever tiny shred of control I had left as the stimulation proves much too much for me and I come hard, my cunt clamping down around Sam's fist, squeezing it, even as she keeps going, dragging a second and then a third orgasm out of me in such quick succession that I'm not sure she even realises it wasn't just one long one.
Then, finally, she pulls out. For a moment, she rests her hand on my mound, as she did right back at the beginning, and then she begins to untie me from my own apron strings.
"Thank you," I say, letting myself think that she'll think that it's for releasing me, even while I know that she knows it's for leaving me with that satisfied-but-sore feeling I crave so much.
She leaves me to stand up myself. I pull my jeans back up, having to adjust them a few times before I manage to get them right.
"Holy shit, this place is a mess," I say as I survey the kitchen. The debris from our ridiculous food fight is all around, and where Sam bent me over it's been smeared over the counter even more. I look down at myself, think about the stray bits of cake mixture stuck to my ass. "I'm a mess."
"That you are," Sam says. A psychological one, she means.
We work together to clean up the kitchen, then we strip off all our messy clothes and throw them in the washer. For me, that involves stripping down to my bra, my arousal-soaked panties well beyond the point of no return, but Sam just has to take off her apron and the top that it didn't fully protect. I feel oddly vulnerable again, even as I'm staring at her tits and imagining her asking me to worship them. I know then and there that Sam has me exactly where she wants me, that this wasn't just a one-off release of tension but a step change in the way our relationship works.
The scariest part is, I feel as though now, between us, we can take on anything.