by Ashe Barker
“Open your eyes, little sub.” His voice is soft, almost a whisper behind my ear. Still the Dom, but all reassurance and tender care now.
I hadn’t realized my eyelids were tight shut, my face pinched and pursed in a way that my arse most definitely is not. This is my head still protesting, my body has entirely surrendered. And he knows it. Knows how to help me to unwind, to reach that place I need to be, the place I want to find. I prize my eyes open, my head tilted back so I’m looking up at the ceiling. He lifts his hand to cup my chin, pulling it down so I’m looking straight ahead.
“Look at us, sweetheart. Look at you.”
I’m there, right in front of my eyes, reflected in the mirrored wall opposite. My entire body is open, exposed, accessible. His skin tone is slightly darker than mine, his hands and arms even more so, contrasting sharply with the milky white of my torso. My eyes are drawn, as always, to the hairless bulge at the junction of my thighs, and I gasp as I see my swollen clit peeping out at me. It’s pink, like a pretty little cherry, and throbbing before my eyes.
“God, you’re so beautiful. I want to touch you, everywhere. Do you want me to touch you, little sub? My sexy, beautiful little slut?”
I frown slightly at his choice of word, but in fairness, I do feel decidedly slutty at this precise moment. I nod, and sign the word, “Please.”
He locks eyes with me in the mirror, smiles over my shoulder before leaning in to nibble his way along my collarbone. Lifting his face to mine again, he presses for more.
“Where? Where do you want me to touch you? How do you want to be touched? Your hands are free, show me.” To emphasize his point he drops his own hands from my breasts to rest them lightly on my thighs, my body now a blank canvas, waiting for me to paint it. We regard each other in the mirror, and it’s me who lowers my gaze first. He lifts his hands to my face, tipping my chin up so that I meet his eyes again, as he combs my hair back from my forehead.
“Show me, my slut. Show me what you want, what you like.” He murmurs the command.
This time the word doesn’t jar my sensibilities. This time, it gives me permission to be just what I want to be. His slut. His submissive, obedient slut. Any remaining inhibitions slip from me as I lift my hands to caress my breasts, lightly circling my nipples before taking the tight, hard buds between my middle fingers and my thumbs and squeezing lightly. I frown, it doesn’t feel as it does when his hands are on me.
“Squeeze harder. You like it hard. You like it to hurt. Don’t you?”
His words are enough—I nod, and increase the pressure. My eyes drift shut again, I lean back against him, relaxing into this. He shifts under me, and his cock eases back slightly before thrusting home again. The friction is delicious, delightful, and my eyelids fly open as the sparks shoot straight to my clit, exposed and vulnerable, and if anything swelling before my eyes. He sees where my attention is now riveted and chuckles.
“Ah, yes, my little slut. You need some attention there, I think. Would you like to, or shall I?”
I gaze at him, his beautiful, sexy eyes twinkling behind me, captured in the mirror. I need no further invitation, and I drop my left hand to place the pad of my middle finger on my clit. I rub, and my world starts to implode. The pressure in my anus serves to intensify every other sensation, and I’m rolling my hips now, silently seeking more, straining for more of that friction I need.
“Soon, baby, very soon. I’ll fuck you just as hard as you like. Now, we play, we explore, we just relax and enjoy. Okay?”
I turn my face to kiss his cheek, overwhelmed by tenderness at this moment. My body feels good. Tired, spent, but oh so very, very good. I’m about to come again any second, and my head feels utterly wonderful. This whole experience is beyond everything I expected. Intense, sensual, intimate and totally beautiful.
But there’s more yet. As I increase the pressure on my clit and continue to tug and pinch my right nipple, Nick reaches between my legs to slide two fingers deep into my pussy. I make a noise in my throat that I’ve never managed before, somewhere between a cough and a gurgle, and my body is clenching and spasming around his questing fingers. He knows the spot to concentrate on, and he does so with unerring accuracy. I’m lost, spinning helplessly as our shared ministrations succeed in drawing another powerful orgasm from me. Long after I thought I was completely wrung out, he has me coiled tight as a spring again and drooling for more.
And more there is. As I become quiet and calm in his arms once more, he gently but firmly presses me forward, back onto the floor. He reaches for a pile of discarded cushions to his right and uses one strong arm to lift my hips as he shoves them under my abdomen. My bottom slightly raised, he reaches for my left wrist and draws it down, under me, placing my fingers within easy reach of my pussy, a sure indication that I’m free to continue to pleasure myself if I want to. I do indeed want to, and I’m idly stroking myself as he takes his weight on his arms, and pulls his cock right back, almost out of me.
He drives it back in, deep, hard, fast, and I feel every delicious ripple as my body surrenders, gives up its secrets. The next thrust is just as powerful, and he continues, setting up a brisk, unrelenting rhythm. I’m beyond aroused, beyond surrender now. I’m totally there, with him, absolutely loving every slick stroke as his thick cock stretches and fills me again and again. It’s tight, I knew it would be, but it’s not painful. Almost not. Just enough to give me that edge I need, that tremor of wickedness, of danger, of the forbidden and the secret and the decidedly naughty. In that moment, though, I honestly don’t care what anyone might say. I’m here, I’m his. And he’s mine, though he doesn’t know it yet.
I’m whirling joyfully toward orgasm yet again, reaching for it, straining as it dances and dangles just out of my reach. I work harder, squeezing and rolling my clit as my desperation mounts not to be left behind. Nick’s thrusts are firmer, deeper as his tension builds. I’m sure he’s close, very close. Then his fingers are alongside mine, spreading my inner lips to angle my clit just so, and I have it. I’m there, with him, as the last shattering wave washes over me. He thrusts one last time, hard, deep, then holds still, rock solid, rigid, as his semen pumps into me. I feel it, warm and wet, pooling and pouring from me as at last he relaxes and falls forward. I briefly feel his weight pressing me down into the cushioned floor before he slips from me and rolls to the side. He pulls me to him, my back to his chest, his still huge cock nudging my bottom. He’s warm, hard and very, very safe. His arms are around me, across my stomach and my breasts, and I nestle farther back into him. Now, please God, he might let me sleep.
Chapter Five
He does. I’ve no recollection of how I got there, but I wake hours later snuggled deeply in Nick Hardisty’s king size bed. The duvet is around my waist, and I’m stretched out on my stomach. I shift, and realize I ache in one or two places. Or maybe three or four. Maybe everywhere. But it’s a good ache. A satisfied, job well done sort of ache. Carefully I roll onto my back, and two further things become obvious.
First, it’s only just after two o’clock according to the digital display on Nick’s radio alarm clock, and it must be afternoon because the sun’s streaming in through the open curtains. I’ve only been asleep for a couple of hours, but I feel as though I’ve been here for days. I’m totally refreshed, totally alive.
Second, I’m hungry. No, scratch that. I’m absolutely ravenous. That’s probably what woke me. I try to remember when I last ate and realize that it was the couple of slices of toast I had for breakfast, after my shower and before the mind-blowing session in the dungeon. No surprise, really, that I’ve worked up an appetite. I need to go and find food. And Nick. In that order. But before all that, I need the loo.
I come out of the en suite two minutes later to find Nick lounging on the bed, a steaming mug of tea on the bedside table. I look at it and wonder if there was ever, in the entire history of humankind, a nicer or more welcome cup of tea than that one. Probably not. I don’t even stop to enquire if i
t’s for me or not. I just grab it and sip. He says nothing, just moves along to make room for me next to him. He drapes his arm across my shoulders, and he tickles my neck slightly with his fingertips as he trails them through my tangled hair. I ignore him, concentrate on the important matter of sipping my delicious tea. Only when the last drop has gone do I carefully replace the mug on the bedside table and turn in his arms to kiss him on the corner of his mouth. He grins at me, his look one of amusement rather than lust. And this despite my continued state of nudity, as per his instructions.
“I’m guessing you’re feeling okay then. No lingering doubts or hang-ups we need to talk about?” He tips his head to one side, waiting for my answer.
I start to shake my head then stop. There is something. But I’m hungry, it’ll have to wait. I hope. If he allows that.
I sit up, my hands rapidly signing my response. “There’s something I want to ask you. But I’m starving. Can I have something to eat, please?”
“Okay, food first, then we talk. I was thinking a late lunch in Cartmel. You up for that? Or would you rather stay here?”
I look at him in astonishment. Despite him giving me my own keys and our excursion last night, I’d sort of assumed that we wouldn’t be going out much. Or at least that I wouldn’t be. He shakes his head, amused at my reaction. “I told you already, you’re a student, a trainee, not a bloody prisoner. Now do you fancy some fresh air or not?”
I nod vigorously.
“Right. Put some clothes on then. And comfortable shoes. We’ll be walking.” And with that he drops a light kiss on my mouth, picks up my empty cup, and he’s headed for the bedroom door.
Fully dressed, I follow him through it less than two minutes later.
The main village of Cartmel is about a thirty minute walk from Nick’s bungalow. It could probably be done in less, but I’m in no hurry, despite my empty stomach. We stroll along his lane for about fifty meters before he angles sharply left through a stile over a wall, dropping down onto a narrow footpath skirting the edge of a field. The meadow is bright with buttercups and other wild flowers, and the flutter of tiny gossamer wings catches my eye. I love butterflies—I’m fascinated by them, their delicate beauty, their breakneck life cycle, and their awesome capacity for reinventing themselves. The magical transformation from caterpillar to chrysalis to elegant butterfly always seems to me so wondrously senseless, a quirk of evolution. Tadpoles and frogs are somewhat similar in their charming eccentricity, but although I like frogs well enough they don’t come close to the ephemeral beauty of butterflies.
I’m stopping every few yards to stare and point, or to crouch down over some little fluttery thing trembling on the leaves by my feet. Nick lacks my fascination, but makes no move to hurry me along. He even lets me borrow his phone to photograph my favorite specimens. In my mind’s eye I’m already designing the butterfly quilt I could make to display all these bright lovelies. I’ll make the first sketch when we get back, while the ideas are still fresh and buzzing. Do butterflies buzz? Probably not, but still.
At last we reach the first cottages in the village itself as we clamber over another stile and across a small stone bridge over a bubbling stream to reach the lane leading to Cartmel’s main street. And there really is only one street. Cartmel is not a big place. Having said that, the village has three claims to fame.
One—the fourteenth-century, world famous Priory, still in use as a church and now a favorite wedding venue for those with money to throw at these events.
Two—sticky toffee pudding, a lovely—I’m told—dessert originally made in the village but now manufactured in a modern factory a couple of miles away and exported all over the world. Not good news for diabetics, though, so I’m afraid that’s the very far reach of my knowledge on that subject.
Three—a racecourse. Yes, a real, honest to goodness, National Hunt racecourse where every few weeks during the racing season hordes of the racing fraternity descend for a weekend to enjoy the Sport of Kings. I’ve been to race meetings here once or twice, but Summer’s not keen. I never managed to entice Margaret, and it’s not that much fun on your own.
As we amble along the crowded pavements toward one of several pubs in the village that turn their hands to decent food, I ask Nick if he ever goes racing.
“Yes, quite often. It’s a good day out. There’s a race meeting this weekend. Do you fancy it?”
Do I? I nod, grinning like a big kid, inordinately happy at that prospect. Mind-blowing sex, and a day at the races. Yes, life is good. Suddenly, though, I remember that I only brought a couple of outfits with me, certainly nothing suitable for a racecourse. I grab his elbow to attract his attention, and sign my problem.
He grins. “Don’t fret, you don’t need to dress up if you don’t want to.”
My scornful expression soon dispels any foolish notion that I might be going anywhere near a racecourse on a race day, other than dressed up to the nines. A girl has to have standards.
He regroups. “Right then, you can nip home and grab an outfit. I assume you do have something…?”
I nod. I have a whole wardrobe full of somethings. And I’m thinking this whole interlude is turning into the most delightful little something of all, not at all the stressful ordeal I had expected. Feared even. After that shaky and inexplicable hiccup when he first arrived home, it’s been wonderful. Well, mostly wonderful, and even the scary bits are incredibly arousing too. And it’s getting better all the time. Nick’s gentle patience in the dungeon, delicious hot tea in bed, walks through fields full of butterflies, the promise of a race meeting and a chance to go home and collect more of my stuff. Without thinking, I slip my hand into his. He takes it, laces his fingers with mine, and we head for the pub.
An hour later my stomach is satisfied. One juicy grilled chicken breast, a mountain of salad, a fluffy jacket potato, and that’s me sorted. For now. Nick settled for a chunky beef hotpot with doorsteps of locally baked soft white bread, and washes that down with half a pint of lager. I stick to the Diet Coke—not much of a daytime drinker myself. I’m considering the deep and meaningful question of whether I could have a pudding, and what there might be on the menu that wouldn’t overload my sugar levels when Nick solves that one for me.
“Ice cream. There’s a shop by the Priory that does a particularly wonderful strawberry ripple—they even have some sugar-free ones. How does that sound?”
It sounds absolutely fucking marvelous, and my beaming smile is clearly enough to convey that sentiment. A few minutes later we’re heading back through the quaint old market square. We pass a small hair salon, sporting the somewhat improbable title of The Cutting Edge across its frontage. I have to step into the road as the door opens and one particularly happy customer strides out. I can’t help noticing her hair, and have to grant her that it’s been money well spent. Her flowing locks are glossy, the layers sleek and lively, the whole lot tumbling and rippling across her shoulders. I reach up and tug at my own dark brown wavy mane, and wonder—not for the first time—if I really ought to get something done about it. I’m still standing there, peering in through the small front window of the salon, when Nick ambles back along the pavement having just noticed that I’m missing.
“Hey, I thought I’d lost you. What’s the hold-up?”
“I’m thinking I should get my hair cut.” I sign the words. He looks baffled, starts to ask me to repeat it before he notices where I am and what I’m looking at. Then the random remark makes sense.
“Ah, right. Now?”
“No, not now. I don’t have an appointment. But soon.”
He lifts his hand, gently fingers my hair. “Not short? Please.”
“No, not short. Probably. Just…nice. And bouncy. Like hers.” I tilt my head in the direction of my rapidly disappearing inspiration. “And maybe some highlights. I wonder if they do nails too.” I’m peering in the window again, craning my neck to see what delights they might have to offer inside.
“Come on then, le
t’s ask.” He takes my hand and makes to go inside with me. I pull my hand back sharply, shaking my head. He looks at me, puzzled. “What’s the problem? I’ll help you make an appointment. You can hardly ring them up, can you?”
Well, that’s true, and a few seconds later we’re inside the small salon and Nick is towering over the petite little dark-haired receptionist-cum-sweeper-upper.
“My friend wants a haircut. When can you fit her in?” He leans on the counter, turns on his most dazzling smile, and Miss Multitasker jumps to it.
“What is it you want? Just a cut and blow?”
I turn to Nick, signing rapidly. “Tell her I want highlights too. And ask her if they do nails.”
“Got it.” He turns his attention back to the receptionist, passes on my requirements. She looks at the pair of us in bemused astonishment then gathers her wits and starts thumbing through the huge desk diary that serves as an appointment book in these pre-digital establishments. Despite the name blazoned over the door, Cartmel’s not exactly at the cutting edge of technology, though I suspect someone in here knows their way around a pair of scissors if that previous customer is anything to go by.
“For highlights you’ll need at least a couple of hours. Carol can do it, but she’s booked solid until…” She turns the pages, her sad expression indicating that I’m not getting my hair done any time soon.
“Didn’t Sophie cancel?” The voice comes from the rear of the shop, where a small, middle-aged woman is merrily applying hair dye to a customer’s head with a paintbrush. “You could have her slot, love. If you don’t mind waiting an hour, that is.”
An hour! She can do me in an hour. That’ll leave no time at all, really, for backing out and deciding to just settle for a trim instead. I start to panic, start to find reasons not to be too hasty. I remember Max Furrowes and his careful monitoring and measuring of my risk aversion levels, his detailed questions that firmly established me as moderate. Prudent. I don’t do this—don’t rush headlong into mad schemes.
