by Ashe Barker
His cock is hard and solid, wide and long, and each powerful stroke bumps against my cervix. Despite my exhaustion I arch into it, instinct taking over, and I shiver as Nick takes my right breast in his hand, palming the soft mound and gently caressing the nipple before taking it in his mouth. I climax again, a slow, rippling shimmer of delight. He relaxes his strokes, leisurely now but still just as deep, just as commanding. Dominant, but tender too. He shivers slightly as he plunges deep one last time and holds that position moments before the hot swill of his semen again fills my channel.
Chapter Eight
“Where’s your stuff? Still in the car?”
“What stuff?” I place my half empty tea cup on the bedside table to sign my reply.
Nick clarifies, helpful as ever. “Your posh frock. For going to the races. The stuff you went home to collect yesterday.” His face crinkles in laughter as he sees my horrified expression. “Right, I guess not. Christ, girl, you were gone all day. How come you didn’t manage to come back with your glad rags?
“I forgot. I was thinking, and upset. And…I just fell asleep. When I woke up I panicked and…”
“Whoah, too fast. I got ‘forgot’ and ‘panic’. Go again, slowly.”
I sign it all again for him. He shakes his head, announces that I’m an idiot. Lovely, but still an idiot. I decide to live with that, but I’m bitterly disappointed not to be able to go to the racing. There’s no way I’m going along there in my tat, and I can’t expect another trip home.
“Right then. I’m assuming you’re still keen to go to the races?” Not so. Apparently I can.
I nod vigorously. Nick continues, “Okay, here’s the plan. It’s what, nearly half past ten now, and the first race goes off at one fifty-five. That leaves us plenty of time for me to fuck you thoroughly to make sure you’re properly awake, then we can shower. I’ll get my smarts on, and drive you—tatty though you’ll be—back to your lovely apartment so you can get dressed up as well. Then, when we’re both presentable, we’ll come back to Cartmel and still have time for a nice spot of lunch at the racecourse. Now, how does that sound?”
I stare at him for a few moments, thinking it all through. Then, “How thoroughly?”
“What? Again.” He gestures for me to repeat the sign.
“How thoroughly?”
“How…?”
“How thoroughly do you intend to fuck me? I don’t want any half measures.” I try for a prim expression but suspect it falls some way short.
Nick places his coffee cup carefully on the side table before lunging for me. He turns me, wriggling and squirming, across his knee and delivers several sharp, stinging slaps before shoving me face down on the bed and ramming his cock deep inside me. No preamble, no preparation, nothing much in the way of foreplay unless you count the spanking.
* * * *
Later, as I reflect on the morning’s activities on the drive back to Cartmel from my apartment, I have to agree that he was very, very thorough indeed. And now I’m looking forward to a lovely day out at the races.
My excitement is growing as we make our way, with the rest of the race day crowd, along Cartmel’s market street toward the main entrance. We arrive just after one o’clock, having decided to park my car back at Nick’s and walk the mile or so down to the course. I’m wearing a plain, long sheath dress, black, shimmering silk. I don’t spend that much on other luxuries, but I do like nice clothes. This little number left me with almost no change from a thousand pounds, and is, in my view at least, very cleverly cut to flow sensually around the hips and ankles. I opted to leave my bra off, preferring no marks or visible straps to spoil the perfectly arranged lines of the plunging neckline. Nick spotted my state of semi-undress as soon as I emerged from my bedroom in Kendall, and observed that I was perfectly free to parade around half naked all day, as long as I understood that he intended to fuck me senseless when we got back. I agreed to those terms.
Nick looks pretty decent himself in a light gray business suit and pale pink shirt. His tie is the color of wet slate with a delicate pink stripe, and I can’t help thinking it would make a nice blindfold, possibly as part of the fucking senseless scenario later on. Maybe I should suggest it.
Cartmel is only a small racecourse, and we have to walk across the course to reach the viewing areas. There’s a funfair and various stalls, mainly with an equestrian or generally rural flavor. I stop to admire some carved wooden animals at one, and I’m tempted to buy a sleek horse modeled at full gallop. Might be a good omen. Whatever, it’ll be a nice souvenir so I nod at the stallholder and hand over my much abused bank card. My teeth marks are still clearly visible, and Nick’s wry grin tells me he sees them too. My nipples tingle beneath the black silk, but this time not in a particularly good way.
We amble on, my lovely wooden racehorse swinging gaily in the stallholder’s promotional carrier bag as we make our way over to the food stalls. We settle for a delicious smoked salmon salad and crisp white wine, and I just know I’m grinning like an absolute fool. This is going to be such a good day, and I’m bubbling with excitement. Nick’s attitude toward me, both last night and again this morning, has gone beyond just that of trainer.
Surely. It must have. Please.
Our most recent sexual encounters have had nothing of the educational about them and have all been about fun, about sensuality and about enjoying each other. About loving each other. Maybe. Because there’s no doubt in my mind that I love Nick Hardisty. He’s my Master, whether he knows it yet or not. And I’m thinking that perhaps he is beginning to realize it too. Our easy intimacy, our companionship, not to mention red-hot lust—the evidence is clear, m’Lud.
And now, a wonderful day out at the races. Oh yes, my cup runneth over indeed.
“The salmon’s good, but not that good. What’s got you grinning like a Cheshire cat?” Nick crumples up his napkin and tosses it onto his empty plate as he leans back on the lightweight chair in the restaurant marquee.
I just shrug, and carry on beaming. Nick leans across the small table to frame my face in one palm. He strokes my cheek and I turn my face into his hand and kiss his palm.
He regards me steadily for a few moments, obviously considering what to say next. Then, “I remember when I first saw you, in the bar at Collared and Tied. You were so tiny, all big eyes and a mane of dark brown hair, and you looked so scared. You had reason to be, back then. But now look at you. You are a lovely woman, little Freya, and a truly exquisite submissive. Some Dom’s going to be very lucky. And I’m proud of you.”
I stare at him for a few moments, lost for words. The phrase ‘struck dumb’ seems somewhat inappropriate for me, but whatever my equivalent might be, I’m it. Nothing he might have said could have surprised me more. Or delighted me more. Or scared me more. ‘Some Dom’? No way, no other Dom.
“Why not you?” I sign my response, simple enough.
“Why what?”
“Why. Not. You?” I sign it again, very slowly. Then, “You’re my Dom. I love you. Why not you?”
He gets it that time. And from his expression it’s clear that this was not what he expected. Or wanted. I’m baffled. How could he not have known? How could he make love to me like he did last night, and again this morning, and not know?
“Freya—you don’t love me. Like me, yes. I hope. Enjoy the things I do to you—mostly, I hope. But love, that’s different. That’s—long term. And you’ll be gone from here, from me, in just a week or two…” His face is serious and saddened. His tone even more so. Chilling me, despite the warmth of the summer day, the stuffiness of this marquee.
It’s two and a half weeks, actually, until our ‘contracted’ month is up. But I’d already stopped thinking in those terms. How can he still be? I make to respond, to protest, but he catches both my hands in his, his grip firm as he effectively silences me.
“This is a contractual arrangement we have here, Freya, a business deal of sorts but without any money changing hands. You asked me to t
rain you, and I agreed. When the training program is finished, well, it’s finished. You’ll go back to your apartment, I get my dining room back and my bed to myself again. We might meet from time to time at the club—I hope we do, and we might well scene together. I’d love to. But that’s not love. That’s just…playing. You must see that. Don’t build this up into anything more. Into something it’s not.”
I can only stare at him, my confusion and I suppose my bitter disappointment plain to see. I have always failed miserably to conceal what I’m feeling, and the quiet sympathy I see reflected in his expression is almost more painful than the desolation caused by his words. He has no wish to be cruel, he doesn’t intend me to feel rejected or let down, but he fully intends to send me away. In a couple of weeks he’ll be done with me, school will be out and I’ll be sent home. An occasional, casual encounter at the Collared and Tied will be the only prospect to look forward to as far as Nick Hardisty is concerned.
I’m baffled, truly and utterly at a loss. How can we be so close in so many ways, so attuned to each other physically, and yet poles apart emotionally? And how did I get this so wrong? I may not be the most intuitive person in the world, but I’m not insensitive, I can pick up on the vibes of those around me, especially those I care about. Nick has, certainly in the last couple of days, treated me as though I was much, much more to him than just his student. Surely I didn’t imagine that? Surely I didn’t just let wishful thinking cloud my judgment?
From the grave, unsmiling expression on Nick’s face I apparently did. He shows no sign of relenting. It’s clear that he means me to take his words on board, to accept the limitations on our relationship as outlined at the outset and again just now. I see him shimmer in front of me as my eyes fill with tears. I don’t mean to turn on the waterworks, and I know it will garner me no sympathy whatsoever, but the crushing disappointment coupled with acute humiliation is more than I can bear. Suddenly, needing to be on my own to collect my shattered thoughts and regroup, I tug my hands from between his and flutter a brief sign about needing the loo. I don’t wait to see if he nods his permission or not, I just grab my bag and make for the exit.
Nick doesn’t follow me so I assume that my sudden departure has been permitted. I head for the bank of ladies toilet cubicles, the portable sort that event organizers hire in for the day, lined up discreetly behind the main stand. I stumble blindly up the wooden steps and lock myself in behind the first door.
The first ten minutes in the cubicle are spent thinking, giving myself the good talking to I so thoroughly deserve. What an idiot. What an absolute fool I am. What on earth possessed me to just blurt it out like that? The clues were there—‘Some Dom…’ Even though I still can’t quite let go of my conviction that Nick Hardisty is that Dom, he obviously isn’t of the same mind. At least, not yet. I should have just kept my hands still and waited. He’d have come around eventually. He’d have had to. But not now. Now I’ve gone and brought it all to a head. I’ve pushed him into a corner, and he’s pushed back. Hard.
And I’m quite at a loss as to where I go from here. My only immediate option is to gather my wits and go back out and face him, try to apologize for my part in any misunderstanding. And hope he doesn’t decide to cut our month short, in the interest of avoiding any further false impression. I couldn’t stand that.
So, I concentrate on breathing deeply, steadily. I use up nearly half a roll of loo paper dabbing at my eyes, then spend a further five minutes bent over a sink in the makeshift lobby outside the cubicles trying to make my face look halfway presentable. Eventually I feel ready to face the world again, and just possibly Nick Hardisty.
He’s waiting for me outside, leaning casually against one of the stilt poles at the back of the stand. He straightens as I emerge from the toilet block and comes toward me, his hands outstretched.
“Are you okay, Freya? I was just beginning to think I really would need to come in there and look for you…”
Gone is the stern, serious expression from earlier. Now his slate gray eyes are full of warmth, sympathy, and the approval I so crave. I nod briefly, flattening my lips tightly to avoid them quivering again at the mere sight of him. A few seconds, and the wave of emotion passes. I’m able to meet and hold his gaze.
“I’m fine. And I’m sorry about…what I said. I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” I sign the words quickly, but he’s watching carefully and gets it all. He nods.
“That’s fine, Freya. Don’t worry about it. This stuff can get pretty intense, and you are still learning. It’s not unusual for a new sub to become attached to a trainer. I’m the old hand here and I should have seen it coming. Let’s both just chalk it up to experience, yes?”
I feel a rush of relief, and realize that I was half expecting to be punished for my presumption. Those vile nipple clamps would have been more than my battered emotional state could have borne, I suspect. Intuitive as ever, Nick smiles at me softly. “Don’t be afraid of making mistakes, Freya. That’s why you’re here with me. I’ll correct you when you go wrong, but discipline will always be proportional. Disobedience and lying to me earn you the heavy punishments, not your honest mistakes. Do you understand the difference?”
I nod, and he loops his arm around me, pulling me in for a hug. “Great. I’m glad we got that clear. Now, you managed to miss the first race. Shall we go get our places in the stand and see if we can’t pick a winner for the second?”
I nod gratefully and trot alongside Nick as he leads me toward the entrance of the stand. An eternal optimist, I’ve not entirely given up hope for a happy ending, but I know when I’ve lost a round. For now, then, I’ll settle for enjoying his company. And if I can win a few quid at the races, so much the better.
* * * *
I managed to pick the horse that came in second in the second race, but my tired old nag was still sauntering around the course long after the rest had gone back to their stables in the third. As we’d agreed to only place our bets to win, second was worth nothing to me. I seat myself on the concrete steps of the stand to study the race card carefully.
I have a system for picking ‘winners’. I go for the horses whose jockeys wear pink. Simple enough, though not terribly effective so far. Nick is more systematic, looking at the form over the most recent three races and reading the blurb on the race card. Even so, he only managed to get third place in the second race, and repeated that in the third.
Now, the fourth race is apparently designated for fillies, female horses less than five years old. Nick suggests we go and watch them circling the paddock and maybe base our selection this time on that. I decide to go for the one with the most prettily plaited mane as that seems every bit as reliable a method as jockey’s colors.
Close up, the horses are beautiful. I’m glad I bought my wooden replica, though it doesn’t really do justice to the elegant grace of the real thing. I lean on the barrier surrounding the paddock, Nick behind me, and gaze in rapt wonder at the gorgeous creatures parading before us. Even their names seem to reflect their grace and refinement, the perfect bloodlines so carefully recorded. I gaze in awe at number seven, Arctic Princess, and at number three, The Moonstar. Then number eight, Sheer Perfection, catches my eye. They are all so beautiful. I think back to my brief flirtation with the notion of buying a racehorse, and wonder if I allowed myself to be too easily dissuaded. I can afford the odd ‘high risk’ endeavor, surely… Maybe I shouldn’t even think of it as a risk at all. Maybe I should simply write it off as a form of entertainment, and not expect to make any money out of it. Perhaps Peter Sarstedt had it right—I could buy myself a racehorse and keep it just for fun, for a laugh, ha, ha, ha.
So, it must have been fate, had to be pure destiny, that made the announcer choose that moment, that very instant, to announce that number two, a filly by the name of Dancing Queen, was to be auctioned at the end of the fourth race. An auction. A racehorse for sale, here. Now.
I eagerly scan the enclosure looking for number two. I catch sig
ht of her, surrounded by interested parties, and my heart is lost. She is absolutely exquisite. A gleaming chestnut color, her dark chocolate mane intricately braided and her tail likewise, she’s immaculately turned out. Her owners clearly intend to show her off to best effect and their efforts are not wasted. Her legs are long, beautifully formed as far as my untutored eye can make out, her neck equally proud as she prances around under the eager and assessing gaze of would-be purchasers. Like the prize she is. I wonder if her new owners will take care of her as well as her current one clearly does, and I hope so. I expect they will—a racehorse is an expensive toy at best and you don’t damage it if you can help it.
She dances over in our direction, her jockey perched high on her back, decked out in green and blue checks. Not my normal pink, but I definitely intend to place a bet on Dancing Queen. As they pass close to the barrier where I’m leaning I see the jockey lean forward and whisper something to her, his hand gently stroking her long neck.
“Easy, Queenie, won’t be long now, girl…” Then they’re gone, out of earshot but still very much in sight. Close up she’s even more beautiful, and now I know she goes by the pet name of Queenie. And that’s it, that’s all I need to convince me.
Fate is still miraculously on my side when Nick leans down to murmur in my ear that he’s just going for a pee before the fourth race goes off, and do I want him to place my bet for me on his way back? I smile and point to Queenie.
“Right. Number two to win then?”
I nod, and he’s gone. No time to lose, I pull my smartphone from my pocket and bring up my email account. I quickly type in a message to Max Furrowes at Lloyds Private Banking. Please, please be there, Max…
