by Ashe Barker
A Dom is for Life
by
Ashe Barker
Text Copyright © 2020 Ashe Barker
All Rights Reserved
Cover Art by https://www.fiverr.com/designrans
A Dom is for Life
It’s been over three years since her bitter break up with her husband, and Libby Novak is over him. Definitely. All she needs to do is sign the final papers and their divorce will be final, the whole sorry chapter finished with.
So, why doesn’t she?
A slip up in a shopping centre places her on the wrong side of the law, and Libby is horrified when the head of security turns out to be her soon-to-be ex-husband, Josh. She manages to convince him of her innocence though, and he’s prepared to let her go.
So why doesn’t she just head for the exit? Why, instead, does she beg him to spank her, like he used to do, when they were together, and he was her Dom as well as her husband?
Josh was always a stern Master, and he has a score to settle with the wife and submissive who betrayed him. Will one spanking be enough?
As the heat of their marriage sizzles again, who will get burned this time?
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
About the Author
Also by Ashe Barker
Chapter 1
Libby
Mmm, nice. Michele will like that.
I take another experimental sniff of the perfume sprayed liberally onto my inner wrist, then glance at the price of Thierry Mugler Angel. At a little over thirty pounds, it’s more than I’d usually spend on a birthday present, but this is for Michele. The last couple of years have been hard, and my sister has been good to me. We were always close, but she has stood by me through everything, which has brought into sharp focus all that she means to me. The least I can do is shell out for a present I know she’ll adore. Yes, this is the one.
I’m on my way to the checkout when my phone rings. I drag it from my pocket. As if conjured up by her being in my thoughts, Michele’s smiling face lights up the screen. I hit answer, mentally crossing my fingers that she doesn’t want to cancel our plans for later.
“Hi. How are things?” I always like to start out hopeful.
“Okay. No, not okay.” Her voice vibrates with excitement. “Things are fucking bloody wonderful—with bells on and bright shiny whistles.”
“Oh? Did I miss something? World peace perhaps, a vaccine for thrush?”
“No. None of that. Well, maybe tomorrow. Today…I have a gallery.”
“A…?”
“Yes. A gallery. Not just any gallery either. This is the Riverdale. In the city centre. They want to display me.”
“Display you…?”
“I know. The Riverdale. Can you hear that?” Her voice has risen to a high-pitched shriek.
“What?”
“That. That tapping sound. That’s my feet dancing up and down the corridor in E-block. The Riverdale, Libby.” Michele’s final three words are delivered in a hushed, awe-struck whisper.
I smile to myself, picturing the scene. Michele always did wear her heart on her sleeve. “Won’t the students think it a bit odd, you dancing round the school? Not to mention the head teacher? Have I been to the Riverdale?”
“No students today, or head teachers. It’s Saturday. So it’s just me and the rest of the loyal art crew setting up the displays for the showing to parents on Monday evening. You might not have been to the Riverdale, Libby, but I have. Loads of times. And you will go, I’ll get you executive tickets, the VIP treatment. They’re known for launching up-and-coming artists, the Riverdale is. They have a mailing list to die for. If they rate my work, well…”
I interrupt the flood of exuberance, genuinely delighted for my sister. “I’m so pleased for you, Shell. You deserve it. Really you do.” She’s worked long and hard for this. She’s earned the recognition.
“I know. At least, I think I know. I mean, we all like to believe our work is special, gifted, whatever, but when a major gallery wants to display you… well, that sort of proves it. Squeee!”
There’s another shrill, excited shriek down the phone, and I can just imagine my sister dancing pirouettes and hugging herself in the deserted corridor outside the art department at St Saviour’s High School where she teaches GCSE art. I suspect our plans for tonight will be changing after all, but for the better. I decide to check.
“So, we need to celebrate? Yes?”
Michele gathers her wits sufficiently to be able to answer me. “Too right we bloody do. A girls’ night out, just us.”
“Sounds good. A meal?”
“Yes, if you insist. Then I vote we take in a movie, then on to a club.”
“What movie? And what sort of club?” I know a note of caution has crept into my voice. Michele does have a tendency to get carried away.
“Oh, not that sort of club. I know how sniffy you are since you and… Well, just since. No, I’m thinking dancing, drinking, maybe snogging someone sexy. A guy for you, obviously.”
My sister doesn’t share my sexual preferences, but that doesn’t usually interfere with our social life. “Sounds good to me. What time?”
“Come round to mine about seven. You can sleep at my flat, so just leave the car and we party, party, party.”
I laugh. My sister’s exuberance was always infectious. “Seven it is then. I’ll need to go home first, though, and get a shower.”
“Yes, whatever. Get your glad rags on, some decent fuck-me shoes, and get your arse over here.”
“On my way.” I finish the call and shove the phone back in my pocket, then I head for the exit out into the main shopping arcade. I glance at my watch. It’ll take me ten minutes to retrieve my car from the multi-story, then perhaps another forty to get to my house in the leafy suburbs. I’ll need an hour at least to get to Michele’s from there, so I have to get shift on if I want a nice shower and a spot of me-time pampering before we hit the fleshpots of Manchester.
I’m striding in the direction of the lifts and car parking pay station when a hand on my elbow halts my progress. I pause, astonished.
“Excuse me, madam. Would you accompany me back into the store, please?”
“What? What store?” I peer at the diminutive woman before me, wondering if I know her.
“The perfume store. If you wouldn’t mind…” She gestures towards the shop I just left.
“No, I’m sorry. I’m in hurry. I decided not to buy anything. Well, not for now…”
“I must insist, I’m afraid.” She reaches for my elbow again, tugging a little to encourage me on my way.
I shake off her hand, only to find my other elbow seized in a much firmer grip. I turn to see another woman, taller, more imposing, and very grim-faced.
“What the hell is this? I’ll come back another time.” Except I won’t. As a sales pitch, this bloody stinks. I just want to be rid of these two.
“Madam, you have a bottle of perfume in your pocket. Are you able to produce the receipt?”
“What are you talking about? Of course I don’t. I picked some up, but I decided not to buy it.”
“Indeed, madam, that may well be the case, but I believe you still have the goods on your person. So, if you would just accompany us inside, we can discuss this in the manager’s office. There’s no need to make a scen
e.” The smaller woman manages to maintain her even, calm tone.
Her companion remains silent, but the pressure on my arm has increased. Between the pair of them they propel me across the tiled arcade and into the perfumery I just left. A woman in a smart suit is waiting for us just inside. The manager, I assume.
I smile at her, ready to resolve this misunderstanding quickly. “I can explain. There’s been some sort of a mistake…”
“I’m sure. We hear that a lot from shoplifters.”
“Shoplifters? For heaven’s sake, I’m not a thief. I was going to buy some Angel, but I changed my mind. I had a phone call and I had to leave. I put the perfume back…” Even as I say the words I reach into my jacket pocket for my phone, as though that will constitute proof of my innocence.
My phone is not alone. Nestling next to it in my pocket is the small box containing a twenty-five-millilitre bottle of Thierry Mugler’s Angel.
Shit!
Shit, shit, shit!
Michele’s call wrecked my concentration. I have no recollection of dropping the perfume into my pocket but I must have done it while I was on the phone. Then, caught up in the excitement of her news, I just forgot all about it. It never occurred to me that I still had the perfume. I’d just charged out.
I pull the offending package from my pocket and offer it to the manager. “I’m so sorry. I do sincerely apologise. It was a mistake, though. I was talking to my sister on the phone and I just forgot…”
“Madam. Have you any idea how much revenue we lose every year as a result of shoplifting?” If the store detective I met outside seemed chilly, the manager is positively arctic. Still, her assumption is ridiculous.
“No, I don’t. Why would I? I made a mistake while I was distracted. Here’s your perfume back, still sealed up. Can’t we just leave it there?”
“Hardly, madam. We have a policy. We always prosecute shoplifters.”
Do I look like a woman interested in your fucking policy?
Still, I appreciate that, at least on the face of it, I do appear to be in the wrong here, so I tamp down my irritation and try to reason with the manager. “Shoplifters, yes. Okay, I get that. But you can’t mean to press charges on a regular customer who simply made a mistake. That’s just plain ridiculous. I must have spent a small fortune in here over the years.”
The manager bristles, and I wince. It was most definitely a tactical error to imply that her policy, and by extension she herself, might be ridiculous. She sniffs and glares at me down her nose.
“Perhaps. But we’ll let the courts decide that, shall we?” The affronted store manager turns to address the shorter of the two security guards who still flank me. “Is your boss on his way here?”
“Of course. He’ll be down in a minute. I contacted him as soon as we apprehended the suspect.”
Suspect? Me?
I stifle the near hysterical urge to laugh, convinced I must have slipped unawares into some parallel existence where this nonsense makes sense. Still, hopefully this chief store detective who is apparently about to descend upon us at any moment will know the difference between a real criminal and a customer whose mind was temporarily elsewhere.
Christ, I hope so.
* * * *
“Mr Novak, thank you for coming down. We’ve caught another one for you.”
Novak? No, surely not. The supercilious tone of the perfumery manager is aggravating enough but pales next to the awful prospect of what seems to be unfolding.
I turn, slowly, hoping, and my heart sinks to my shoes.
Josh. Josh Novak. My ex-husband and the one man I had hoped never to encounter again—or at least not until I had time to suitably fortify myself against the impact he has on me. A hundred years or so would do it, at a pinch.
If he’s surprised to see me here and in such an ignominious situation, he manages to conceal it well. For my part, I’m gaping at him, open-mouthed. Josh saunters in, nods to his apparent employees who both scuttle off about their duties. This leaves just myself, the shop manager, and him.
“Thank you, Mrs Davis. This is your suspect, I assume?” He glances in my direction but gives no sign of recognition.
“Yes. She was apprehended having left the shop in possession of a bottle of perfume valued at thirty-one pounds and fifty pence, for which she had not paid. Of course, she has some excuse, says it was a mistake, an accident. They all say that.”
Josh eyes her, his expression inscrutable. “Indeed, Mrs Davis. Shall I take over from here?”
“I wish you would. I have a store to run and I can’t be messing about dealing with these types.”
“Quite. Please don’t let us hold you up then.”
From his clipped tone, I surmise that Josh is less than sympathetic to the trials and tribulations faced by the frosty Mrs Davis in the day-to-day cut and thrust of high-end retail. I should know. I’ve heard that cool voice more than a few times myself, usually directed at me. Any pleasure I might have taken in the knowledge that at least so far he is not taking the shop’s side withers under his stern gaze.
“We’ll take this up to my office, I think. After you, Libby.”
He gestures me to precede him and the manager comes into her own again. “Oh, you know her then? Given you trouble before, has she?”
“You could say that, yes.” He offers her a curt nod. “We’ll leave you to it.”
A firm hand on my elbow ushers me from the store. Once back out in the bustling arcade I turn to him. It goes against the grain, but I ought to thank him for his help. For old time’s sake, if nothing else.
“Thank you for rescuing me. This is all so silly, really…”
“Is it? We’ll see. My office is through here, in the management suite.”
He continues to march me across the floor, his grip on my arm subtle but assured. Other shoppers may not see anything amiss, but I’m in no doubt that he means me to accompany him and will brook no argument. Oddly, I was inclined to argue the toss with the store detectives and the shop manager, but with Josh, I know that would be futile. It may be a couple of years since I saw him last, but he left an abiding impression on me. I allow him to steer me out of the public area and into the suite of offices.
“Sit, please.” Once in his own private office, the door closed behind us, Josh eases himself behind his desk. He indicates the one spare chair for me.
I do as I’m told. Old habits die hard.
I glare at him across the desk. I have to admit, he looks a lot more relaxed than I feel right now.
“So, you’re in retail security these days?” I attempt to make conversation as I sneak a glance around his office. It’s small but neat. Efficient, I suppose. Josh always did set great store by efficiency.
“I am.”
“What happened to the Paras?”
“Nothing, as far as I’m aware, though I’m not in regular contact with the army these days.”
“You left?”
“I did.”
I know I’m gaping at him. He couldn’t have surprised me more if he’d announced he’d been elected the next President of the United States. “But, why? The army was your life. You were a career soldier…or so I thought.”
His dark-grey eyes glint at me under lowered brows. “I know what you thought, Libby. You were wrong. For now, though, I think it would be simpler if we stick to just me asking the questions?” He arches an eyebrow at me, a familiar gesture, a warning I should heed.
And maybe I would, if he was still my husband, or, more specifically, my Dom. And he still had the right to expect my obedience.
“Why did you leave the army?” I demand. “And why didn’t you tell me you were out?”
“Maybe I realised there was more to life. And maybe it was none of your business.”
I bristle. “Of course it was my business. You knew how I felt about it.”
“By the time I decided to make some different life choices, you’d beaten me to it. You left me, Libby, and that made my decision n
o concern of yours. It still isn’t, apart from the little difficulty you’ve got yourself into, naturally.”
“But I…”
“Enough reminiscing. Shall we deal with your current predicament?” He lifts his gaze from the document he’s been scrutinising. “So, you’ve developed a fondness for expensive perfume. I wish I’d known.”
“Why? Would you have bought me some?”
He ignores my sneering tone. “Who knows? Yes, probably. There was a time when I’d have given you anything. I think you know that.”
His sudden change of pace has the no doubt desired effect, completely derailing my line of thought. I stare at him for several moments, lost for words.
With his dark good looks and athletic body, Josh was always insanely sexy, a dominant presence on the rare occasions he was around, demanding and edgy. That was part of his charm as far as I was concerned. He knew just how to press my buttons and get me on my knees panting for him. He was a lot of fun to be with. But he was never tender. Well, apart from during sex, but I don’t think that counts. Does it?
“I didn’t,” I reply. “I didn’t know that.”
His expression is inscrutable again. He narrows his eyes at me and shrugs. “I see. So, Libby, about this theft of perfume from Scents…?” In an instant, the passion of our previous relationship is dismissed.
I drag my mind back to the present. “Theft? You of all people must know I’m no thief. Why would I steal it? Apart from anything else, I’d lose my job at the first hint of dishonesty.” I work as a finance clerk with a firm of corporate lawyers, handling clients’ funds all the time. My reputation has to be impeccable. “And I could easily afford to pay for the bloody stuff.”
Not strictly true these days since my hours at work were reduced to half-time, though I can still make ends meet.
“But you didn’t pay for it, did you? Why was that, then?” His tone has softened, though I would hardly describe it as gentle.
“I’ve explained, but the woman in the shop wouldn’t listen. I had a phone call and it distracted me. I simply forgot. I must have slipped the box in my pocket by accident. I don’t even remember doing it.”
