by Ashe Barker
Table of Contents
Legal Page
Title Page
Book Description
Dedication
Trademarks Acknowledgement
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
New Excerpt
About the Author
Publisher Page
A Totally Bound Publication
Hard Lessons
ISBN # 978-1-78430-000-5
©Copyright Ashe Barker 2014
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright April 2014
Edited by Sarah Smeaton
Totally Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2014 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Melting and a Sexometer of 3.
The Hardest Word
HARD LESSONS
Ashe Barker
Book two in the Hardest Word serial
Once her body and her emotions have been laid bare, what other secrets is she keeping?
Freya’s chosen Master has agreed to train her, but only on his terms. He demands that she spend one month alone with him, at his home, her body his to control. He demands total obedience and absolute honesty from her. He is hard, demanding and committed to training Freya in every aspect of submission.
Nick is a tough and uncompromising Dom, but he’s also a master of his craft. From the very beginning he is able to get beyond Freya’s inability to speak to him, to release her innermost submissive instincts. She feels safe with Nick, she trusts him to take care of her, and as she willingly submits to his hard lessons, and slowly unfurls in his hands, he is more and more captivated by his silent pupil. But although her body and her emotions are an open book, Freya has not revealed to him the full extent of her wealth. And as their relationship deepens it becomes more and more difficult for her to confess her deception. How will Nick react to the news that his exquisite submissive is rich enough to buy anything she wants? Except him.
And will just a month with Nick be enough? Freya knows the Dom she wants. Can she convince the Master she adores to claim her?
Dedication
This book is dedicated, as ever, to John and Hannah in recognition of their extreme patience.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Vanquish: Aston Martin Lagonda Limited
Dirty Dancing: Great American Films Limited Partnership
Cheshire cat (Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland): Lewis Carroll
‘Keep it just for fun, for a laugh, ha, ha, ha’ (Where Do You Go To My Lovely): Peter Sarstedt
Lloyds: Lloyds Bank plc
Tote: Betfred
Pimms: Diageo plc
Asda: Asda Stores Ltd.
Lycra: Invista
Velcro: Velcro
Diet Coke: The Coca-Cola Company
Chapter One
The lock clicks smoothly as I twist the key. I turn the handle and push the door ajar, but I don’t go any farther. He wasn’t specific about just where I should undress, but as he made it clear that my clothes should be left outside I assume he means me to enter the room naked. I want to please him so I take a few moments to unbutton my blouse and loosen the waistband of my skirt. I slide both from my body, before folding the garments tidily and leaving them on the thickly carpeted floor of the hallway. That just leaves my bra and briefs, a pretty matching set in black and green lace, and they are soon laid neatly on top of my blouse and skirt. I place my low-heeled leather sandals carefully alongside, and I’m ready to enter the dungeon.
Nick hasn’t mentioned it yet, perhaps he won’t, but I’m privately relieved that I decided to take the issue of my inconveniently timed period into my own hands. It was a simple enough matter of just carrying on with my pills, straight from one pack to the next with no break. Just one time won’t cause any problems. Nick seemed very understanding about the whole business, and I have no illusions about my privacy while I’m here, but some things are just personal and that’s one of them. So it’s done.
I draw in a deep breath, then another, as I push the door fully open and step inside.
Despite my instructions regarding the waist chain, prominently positioned in the center of the windowless room, the mat a bright splash of yellow against the smooth wooden floor, I can’t help glancing sharply around me. As I slowly cross the room toward the colored rectangle of foam in the middle I take in the main items of equipment and apparatus displayed in Nick’s private dungeon. He is certainly well equipped. I recognize the St Andrew’s cross instantly and of course the requisite spanking bench. Various metal bars and leather straps are affixed to the mirrored walls, and the floor in one corner is heavily cushioned and padded. In the opposite corner there’s a white enameled sink and a tiled area with a shower head in the ceiling but no screen or curtains, a sort of open plan wet room. There is at least a private cubicle housing the loo.
Of course there’s more, much more, in the form of the impressive collection of paddles, whips, canes and floggers that are arranged on racks around the room and on three sides of a column in the center, close to the foam rug. It’s here that I stop, my eyes fixed on the length of silver chain coiled on the mat. It’s light in weight, quite thin, delicate. There’s an adjustable clasp that can be fastened into any of the links to make it the right length. It looks to be brand new, and I’m curiously gratified to know that no previous submissive, no earlier trainee has worn this before me. Maybe he bought it with me in mind. Or even had it made especially for me. I know that many Doms do commission symbols of possession for favored subs. I dismiss that fanciful notion.
I kneel beside the mat and take the length of chain in both my hands, opening it out to measure its length. It will easily circle my waist, would probably go around twice. I try it, and find it loops comfortably around me, loose enough to sit on my hips. I loop it round again and there’s still a spare length of the chain to dangle at my side. I wonder if he’ll want to shorten it to an exact fit. It feels strange to be, in effect, wearing a belt directly against my skin, but not uncomfortable.
I gulp, and stand up quickly. Nick Hardisty could be entering the room at any time, and I have to be ready, positioned on the mat as instructed. Anything else is simply not an option. Purposeful now I approach an uncluttered area of the wall to watch myself in the mirrored surface as I carefully arrange the chai
n to lie just below my navel.
Despite my sense of urgency, I can’t resist letting my eyes slide down over my nude body, freshly waxed and prepared according to Nick Hardisty’s precise instructions and requirements. My smooth mound seems vaguely childlike, but that slightly disquieting image is sharply contradicted by the curves and gentle slopes of my hips and breasts. My waist is narrow, but my hips flare invitingly, and I know Nick appreciates my bottom. I quite like it myself—it’s round and firm, and turns a pretty shade of pink when spanked. I suspect it will obligingly be changing color quite soon, but whether I’m going to like the new shade or not remains to be seen. My breasts are full and round, high and firm also, my nipples perky and a deep shade of raspberry. I know from experience now how very sensitive they are, and how responsive to both pain and pleasure. Idly I lift my hand, twirl my left forefinger around my left nipple, watching it swell and harden instantly under my caress.
A faint footfall on the corridor outside breaks my reverie and I scoot quickly back across to the mat, only just managing to position myself on my knees, as the door opens. Nick Hardisty steps inside and I glance up at him. He closes the door behind him with a deliberate click. I left the key in the keyhole on the inside when I came in, and I half expect him to turn it in the lock. But he doesn’t. I suppose he knows I’ve no intention of going anywhere. And in any case, I’m free to leave whenever I want to. That’s clearly understood. Instead he strolls casually over toward the mat, and positions himself in a nonchalant lean against the one unadorned side of the central column. This places him about three feet to my left, towering over me as I kneel on the floor.
Remembering his instructions about eye contact I’m straining my neck to keep him in sight. He watches, lets me struggle for a few moments before relenting and stepping around, bending to crouch in front of me. He reaches out, slips two fingers experimentally under the chain. Seemingly satisfied that it’s not too tight, he withdraws his hand with a curt nod. My hands are laid loosely on my thighs, my palms facing upwards, and I concentrate on remaining still as he continues to explore and test. He slowly trails the backs of his knuckles down my jaw and across my shoulder before dropping them to my left breast. His eyes follow the progress of his fingers as he continues his journey south, but snap back up to meet mine as he feels the tautness in my nipple. He knows. I know he knows, and I shiver involuntarily as I wonder if this too will have consequences for me. I chew my lip nervously, silently berating myself for not simply obeying his instructions to the letter.
He shakes his head sadly, but his murmured, “Not this time, girl, you’re already in enough trouble, but watch that in future,” comes as welcome relief.
I let out my breath, only now realizing I’d been holding it. He takes my nipple, rolls it between his fingers as he tugs sharply. I gasp as he uses his other hand to deliver the same harsh treatment to my right nipple. The pain is approaching unbearable when he leans in, whispers in my ear, “Where are your wristbands, girl?”
He straightens, releasing my nipples in order to allow me to sign my answer. “In my bag. I forgot to put them on. I’m sorry, Sir. Shall I go fetch them?”
“No. You’ll stay in this room until I tell you it’s time to leave. Do you remember the clicking safe signal?”
I nod.
“Good. Use that if you need to. But later I expect you to put those wristbands on, and then you do not remove them for any reason. Is that clear, girl?”
I nod once more, grateful to be getting off lightly. What was I thinking? Of course I need to be wearing my wristbands.
His returns to his sport with my nipples, and a few seconds later I’m clicking in desperation as the pain bites just slightly too hard, too fierce for me to bear it. He responds, releases the pressure, instead lightly stroking and flicking the sensitive buds until my eyelids droop in delighted satisfaction as I arch into him, silently asking for more.
It seems I’m to be denied, though, as he ignores my writhing to slide his fingertips down my sides, tracing the shape of my hips. He pauses, as if contemplating where next, then trails across my thigh to lightly scrape them over my smooth mound.
“Very pretty, girl. Truly naked. You will keep it like this as long as you bottom for me, is that understood?”
Again I nod, inwardly groaning at the endless prospect of painful waxing on a regular basis.
He smiles wryly as he continues. “I will be checking carefully later and will remove any remaining hairs with tweezers. You won’t like that much either, but Mike knows his job so you should be okay.”
I nod slowly, subconsciously easing my knees apart in readiness for his fingers to sink lower, to slide between my legs and touch me where I need it most. The moisture is gathering, building, pooling, and I’m sure when I stand up there’ll be a wet patch on the yellow mat. Not that I care, not really. I just want him to touch me. Please.
But it’s not to be. Not yet at least. With an agile stretching of muscle he gets to his feet, once more towering over me.
“First things first, girl. We don’t play until your earlier lapses of behavior have been corrected. You’re in here to be punished, so let’s get on with it, shall we?” He doesn’t wait for my answer, just continues to recount my errors, my crimes. “There’s the matter of your disobedience, and of your attempt at deception. Both serious issues, both requiring appropriate punishment. I had intended a spanking, but I’ve come to realize that you actually seem to like that. Rather a lot. So as a punishment it’s not much use to me. Orgasm denial would be effective I think, to help curb your lack of honesty—you do love to come, don’t you, you little slut?”
My eyes widen in surprise at the coarse insult, but if he notices—and I suppose he does, he hasn’t missed anything else—he doesn’t let up. “You’re wet and hot and gagging for it now, aren’t you, my horny little sub? Your pupils are dilated, and your lips are slack. You can hardly breathe past your lust, you’re all but drooling, you dirty little slut. My dirty little slut. And eventually I can give you what you want, if I choose to. But you have to earn it. You have to deserve it. And you haven’t earned it yet, nowhere close.” His tone is low, seductive, at variance with the harsh, contemptuous words.
I realize this is the first time he’s spoken to me like this. Before he’s always been courteous, polite—if crude and sexually explicit. This is different, and I’m cringing under his disdain. I want him to like me—I crave his approval, I need it like a drug. I have to get it back, rekindle it somehow. I simply have to, but I’ve no idea how to do that. So I stay there, at his feet, and do the only thing I can think of that might help.
“I’m sorry. Truly sorry. Please forgive me, Sir.” I sign the abject apology, never once considering it out of place to be all but groveling on my knees before him. His authority is absolute, and I’ve accepted it. Totally.
“I will forgive you. Afterwards. Take your punishment, then thank me for correcting you, apologize and mean it, and it’s finished. Over. We move on. That’s how this works, little sub. If you learn from your mistakes, and allow yourself to benefit from your punishment and correct your behavior, you and I will get along fine. More than fine.” He stops, waits a moment to let that sink in, then, “Stand up, girl.”
My legs have stiffened under me and I struggle to my feet, but he makes no offer of assistance, just waits patiently until I’m standing before him.
“I’ve decided that a beating is appropriate for your act of deception, and I’ll use a paddle again as that seemed to impress you that first night in the Collared and Tied club. Please select one, Miss Stone. There are plenty here to choose from. And I suggest you choose carefully. You need to select a paddle that will administer sufficient bite to teach you the lesson you need to learn. You know, don’t you, almost as well as I do, just how much this needs to hurt to get the message across? So have a look around, take your time and choose well.”
He steps back, resting casually against the column as he prepares to wait for me t
o do as he’s asked. At first I don’t move, just gape at him, confused. I get to pick my own instrument of punishment? What’s that about? Why not just choose the smallest, lightest paddle? That makes sense, surely?
But it doesn’t make sense, and in that moment I realize this is another test, another opportunity for me to redeem myself by being honest, open, transparent. And to accept the discipline I’ve deserved, without excuse or evasion. I know what I need to do now, as I gaze around me at the dizzying array of possibilities. I walk confidently over to the rack where most of the paddles are arranged then touch each in turn. I count ten, varying widely in weight and potential severity. Which one should it be? Which would be the right one for me, now, today?
I turn back to Nick Hardisty, still apparently perfectly relaxed against the pillar, watching me carefully. “How many strokes?” I sign.
He doesn’t straighten, continues to regard me with interest. At last, he smiles wryly. “Good question, Miss Stone. An intelligent question and I’m encouraged that you seem to have your wits about you this time. As I recall, on the previous occasion you faced me in a similar situation you were shaking with fear. Not this time, though. Why’s that?”
That’s easy to answer. “Because I trust you, Sir. And I’m ready to learn from you.” I forget to slow down my signing, and he chuckles at my rapidly swirling hands.
“That was a little fast for me, but I think I got the gist. In answer to your question, twenty strokes with the paddle should be about right, Miss Stone. But if you want me to prepare you with my hand first, as I did last time, I’d be happy to. You have only to ask me nicely. But that will not count against the required number of strokes.”
Twenty. That’s a lot, more than last time. That was only ten really, once he’d prepared me. But still, knowing that, I turn once more to the rack and make my choice. I lift my preferred paddle down from the rack, a medium weight one in a delicate shade of lilac, the blade supple and flexible. My buttocks clench as I imagine how it will feel against my bottom, especially by the fifteenth stroke. I’m sure this is the one, though, and I take it back to my Dom to present it for his approval.
