Content Warning for profanity, sexy situations, and possible life stress triggers

The kitchen is the heart of the home.  Something delicious was cooking in the stove, producing a heat that warmed the room and producing an aroma that made this place even more inviting.

The aroma of fresh-baked bread filled the air as warmth enveloped the kitchen. A lone figure stood at the stove, pulling the loaves out with a happy hum. It was Pearl, and she was surely baking the bread for him. She was clad in a night shift which was slightly sheer and showed the shadows of her legs through the fabric. Her long curls tumbled down her back and there was a light dusting of flour on her nose as is what happens when she cooks.

Leaning on the kitchen doorway, Joe smiled widely drinking in the scene. With shirt sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons of his shirt undone, he was relaxed.
He coughed, announcing his presence. Assuming she heard him, he moved over to the stove standing close behind her.

"Looks delicious." he said wickedly.

She placed the bread on the top of the stove and closed the door to the oven. Then she turned around and greeted him with a kiss. "Hello," she whispered after a time, her arms wrapping around him. She pressed more kisses to his lips as they stood there in the kitchen.

He embraced her, his lips accepting hers readily. His hands played gently across her shoulders, his fingers toying with the loose curls of her long brown hair, as the oven provided a gentle warmth that surrounded them.

She sighed into the kisses, clearly enjoying the warmth that surrounded them. Pearl murmured into the kiss, "I've missed you." Her voice was husky as she spoke to him. She seemed to like the way his fingers played in her hair, leaning into him happily.

"I'm here now." he replied softly, enjoying her new closeness and embracing her just a little bit harder.

"You are," she whispered and pressed her forehead to his. "I am glad for that." She lifted a hand to his cheek and looked into his eyes, a most tender expression veiled halfway by lowered lashes. Her mouth curled in a smile and she murmured, "I will always miss you when you are gone..."

"I always come back to you, Pearl. Always will." Joe answered kissing her forehead softly

"Good..." said the young miss as she leaned into him. Her mouth found his again briefly and she then pulled away, taking his hand and lifting it to her face. She nuzzled her cheek against his palm and murmured words of love.

The touch of her cheek to his hands was like a spark to a trail of gunpowder, sooner or later he would explode. His fingers tilted her head upward towards his lips kissed hers, first gently and softly, then deeper.

She sighed into the kiss, her hands moving to rest between them on his chest. When the kiss deepened, she squirmed restlessly against him, her knees going weak. Her eyes drifted closed before she murmured his name into his mouth. Pearl's hands curled and gripped at the fabric of his shirt.

Her reactions to his touch only encouraged him, dared him, drove him. Joe ran his hands through her hair.

"Pearl." he whispered softly, between soft and eager kisses.

"I can't believe I'm your wife, my love," she said after pulling slightly away. Her eyes searched his. He might notice the wedding band on her third finger, indicative of the marriage she spoke of, as her left hand was now cupping the side of his face ever so tenderly.

"I finally made an 'onest women of you and you made me the 'appiest man in the world.." he answered softly

"Make love to me," she murmured. Her fingers moved over his chest again, rested over his heartbeat. Her eyes were half hooded. It was as if they had been together for a while, she responding like his touch was familiar. Her mouth found his again and she drank of his kiss deeply, molding herself against him.

He wanted to satisfy her so, feeling lucky that she chose him. Like a hero of old, given this great gift: she was a pearl to be cherished. His fingers gently traced the contour of her cheek, her jaw, her neck, stopping tantalizingly close at the neckline of her shift. In that moment, in that place, he was hers - her wish was his command.

Her head tilted back to expose her throat more to him, her pulse leaping at his touch. She was warm, her cheeks flushed with excitement. She looked at him desirously, as if he were the missing piece to a puzzle. Her fingers found the buttons to his shirt and popped them open one by one until his chest was exposed, then she let out a shuddering breath when her hands slid beneath the fabric. She peppered his skin with kisses before capturing his mouth with hers.

He was putty, and yet he greedily accepted her kisses. His fingers moved lower from her hair to running down her spine, scrunching the material of her shift in hands.

Pearl was his. The way she pressed herself to him as if they had been together for some time... She slowly raised her arms and let him lift at her shift... That was when she said his name in a whisper, "Joe..."

Accepting the gift of herself, Joe moved his hands further down her body and allowed his fingers to appreciate the curves of her form.

"Joe..." she continued to whisper his name

"JOE!" came a shout in a distinctly unfeminine northern accent.

Fantasy was cruelly ripped away from him and Joe found himself back in reality.  He was at work, surrounded by crates, barrels, and the bustle of commerce and industry.  He blinked trying to recover his senses rapidly.

"Mister Meekford wants you in his office, right away.  Bring yer cap."

---

The young clerk in the outer office did not meet Joe's gaze and seemed very interested in his current task.
 
Joe fastened his top button and his jacket before he entered Meekford's office. Joe did not remove his cap. He knocked gingerly.
 
Muffled permission to enter was given from behind the frosted glass. Joe opened the door to reveal modest office with a desk, several chairs, and a records cabinet. Three walls held paper route maps on ceiling mounted rollers and framed pictures of bygone railway scenes. The other wall was dominated by windows that looked out over the station.
 
A large, well-built, man with fiery red hair and matching beard stood in the corner of the room looking out of the window. He wore a fine darkly coloured three-piece suit and gave Joe the merest of glances as he entered.
 
"Joseph Blacke, sir.  You sent for me?" Joe asked nervously.
 
Seated behind the battered, yet tidy desk, Meekford was an older gentleman with thinned features, delicate spectacles perched a roman nose, a long-receded hairline.
 
"Close the door, Mister Blacke." Meekford ordered, and Joe complied.  Joe had known the man for years, the formality of his request alarmed Joe greatly.
 
Click

---

"You needn't sit down, Mister Blacke."

The man at the window turned away sharply from the window and bore down upon Joe.
"I'll handle this Meekford. Do you know who I am laddie?" He didn't expect an answer. "I am Sir Hugh Bell. Managing Director of the North Eastern Railway."

Shite.

"A letter landed on my desk this morning detailing conduct so vile, that I had to come over see for myself what sort of a man would treat a payin' passenger in such a fashion. I didnae want the Chairman to deal with this."

Carrington that fuck'. Dear God send a thunderbolt to strike me dead, this instant. Joe's face went ashen, his hands clammy.

"Quickly man! Don't keep me waitin' feer an explanation!" little droplets of spittle clung to the red whiskers around Bell's mouth.

"Well.." Joe hesitated.

Wait!

The fear inside Joe was suddenly replaced with anger.

That cocky little shite had written this note. No! That little man-boy Carrington, used poorer men for sport and treated her, - treated Pearl - worse than fish bait Carrington could mess me, Joe, about. Fine. but he needed to leave her alone.

His resolve stiffened with the anger, hardened with cold fury. He would get a kicking for this.

"Sir, Mister Meekford, the story is this...." and Joe recounted the events of that night from his point of view. When he had finished, he placed his hands at his side, unsure of what to do with them.

"So, you're saying that you were merely assisting the passenger, this Miss Carrington, and were assaulted by her brother? Robert Carrington -The man who wrote the letter?"

"Yes sir. I was doin' my duty assistin' Miss Carrington. She appeared most distressed at that moment, sir. I feared for 'er safety bein' near the rails, like."

"So, the suggestion of physical contact is..."

"True, sir. In that it happen, but I feared for 'er safety. I was tryin' to be like the Bible says, a sam-mar-rat-tin." Joe stumbled over a word he didn't use often before continuing. "I tried to explain to Mister Carrington, but 'e would hear nowt and then accosted me in an ungentlemanly manner -."

"Mister Carrington is a shareholder. And you are an employee lad. That's dangerous talk." Bell countered.

"But it's the truth!" Joe's voice rose nearly to a shout. The scotchman glared at temerity of the young porter.

"If I may Sir Hugh," Meekford interrupted. "How long have you been with the NER, Blacke?"

"Since I finished school, sir, 6 years." Joe answered regaining his composure somewhat.

"Indeed. It says here that you are considered a reliable sort. I understand your father, he, is also with the company?"

"Aye. 22 years I think."

"Then, Sir Hugh, might I suggest in light of the long service this man and his family have given to the company, that we show leniency in this case? Perhaps a transfer away? Until things have calmed. I believe there is an opening at Whitby West Cliff?"

Sir Hugh pondered for a moment. That moment seemed to last an age. Hope.

"It would seem," began Sir Hugh "to be Mister Carrington's word against Mister Blacke's. If what yea say is true, Blacke, your conduct does you credit. but -

Sir Hugh seemed to stare at the pastoral railway scenes.

"The man who wrote this letter is a shareholder, and he knows other shareholders. If I ignore the shareholders, then it'll be more than just one man that loses his livelihood. I'm sorry Meekford, but there are bigger concerns here. I'm thinking of the business. Mister Blacke, your services are no longer required by the North Eastern Railway."

Hope dashed.

Sir Hugh was railway royalty. How do you argue with a king?

"That settles it then. Thank you Mister Blacke, see the clerk for your final pay. That will be all."

Joe nodded stiffly to Meekford and then to the scot. His jaw was fixed, his eyes dark. He was too proud to let them see a man broken by the bucket of shite they had just dropped him in.