by Ashe Barker
“Say you’ll come to Leeds with me. Say that too, sweetheart.”
“I’ll come to Leeds. I’ll come.” Mindless with desire now and reaching desperately for release, I can only plead with him, beg him to help me. “Please, I need…”
“I know what you need.” He bends to kiss my lips again, plunging his tongue into my mouth, in and out, mimicking what he is doing with his fingers between my other lips. That does it. I’m lost.
His mouth on mine swallows my scream, louder this time since the intensity of my second orgasm is so much more than my first was, as I shatter again. My mind and body disintegrate, fragment, the explosion of my climax shooting though every part of my consciousness as the tension he has built and stoked mercilessly bursts and unravels. My pussy clenches hard around his fingers—two, possibly three fingers now inside me—pressing back against my shuddering inner walls to extend my pleasure, increase the intensity of my orgasm. I am at his mercy, totally dependent on him, his skill and expertise, to do this right, to delight me—and he has not let me down.
The sense returns to my body and I drift back into the real world. He straightens, gently sliding his fingers out of me, a slight smile on his lips and his eyes dark with desire. His erection is unmistakable, large and rock-hard against my leg, my knees still raised, my heels on the table top. I am still wide open and very, very ready. He could most definitely pursue this matter now without any protest from me, but he makes no move to unfasten his jeans. I remember vaguely he said something about waiting, not here, not now, about people outside.
Realizing where we are, I’m somewhat belatedly embarrassed again, afraid we might be disturbed. And at the same time, I feel deeply grateful, overwhelmed at what has happened, what he has just given me. My first real orgasm. Plural—orgasms. And so beautifully done.
“Thank you,” I whisper. It seems the only polite thing to say under the circumstances.
“You’re very welcome, Miss Byrne” he replies just as politely, bending to retrieve my discarded T-shirt from the floor where he dropped it.
I sit up, perched on the edge of the table, pull my tights and briefs back to full decency, and straighten my skirt. Incredibly, he hardly disarranged them at all, just pulled them down enough to be able to slide his hand inside to work his magic. Rolling my T-shirt up in his hands to the collar, he pulls it down over my head and holds it while I push my arms through the sleeves, as if he’s dressing a child. But the impression is one of courtesy, his actions caring and gentle rather than patronizing. I like it.
“So, Leeds on Thursday, then?” he states, obviously not inclined to let me off a promise, even if I did make it under duress, of sorts.
“Go on, love. You’ll have a lovely time.” Mrs. Richardson has reappeared. I didn’t hear her come back in, so I start at the unexpected voice and jump off her table guiltily. God, what if I’ve dirtied it? Did she see anything? Apparently not, or if she did she’s not saying, as she bustles about her ordinary kitchen business, clearing the breakfast plates and empty cups from the table—how the fuck did we manage not to smash the lot? There must be dire hygiene implications involved in finger-fucking on a kitchen table, right there between the toast and the sugar bowl.
Mrs. Richardson seems oblivious to such issues, however, and goes about her business cheerfully, stacking breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. She discreetly opts not to comment on our mutual employer’s awesome erection straining against his jeans before he wisely takes a seat at the table, gesturing to me to do the same. And his housekeeper obviously agrees with Mr. Darke that I ought to go to Leeds. He’s clearly following my train of thought regarding our unorthodox use of the kitchen table, enjoying my discomfort enormously. He grins smugly, knowingly, as my face erupts in flames.
“Who’ll have a lovely time?” Rosie’s voice joins the conversation as she ambles in, still in her pajamas, her hair in tangles from her bed. She heads straight for her father, as always, and starts to clamber up onto his knee. I have to acknowledge a slight—and possibly unworthy—stirring of smug satisfaction at his pained expression, but I admire his quick thinking as he intercepts her. Instead of bringing her to sit on his knee as usual, he lifts her instead and perches her on the edge of the table in front of him, her legs dangling and swinging dangerously. He edges closer to the table, trapping Rosie’s legs safely before he visibly relaxes. Oblivious to it all, Rosie leans in to throw her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. “Is Miss Byrne your girlfriend yet?” she asks, innocently adding to my mortification. “Have you been kissing her again?”
Lord, please open up the floor and swallow me now?
“I’ve asked Miss Byrne to come to a party in Leeds with me,” he replies, snuggling his nose into her tangled hair before blowing his customary raspberry on her neck. “And I’m working on the girlfriend bit. And finally, yes, I have kissed her again. Is all that okay with you, poppet?”
Kissed? And the rest!
“Mmm, that tickles, Daddy. Will there be cake at the party? And jelly?”
“Probably, and music, and speeches.”
“Ugh, speeches. Glad I’m not going. Miss Byrne will be a nice girlfriend, and if she’s your girlfriend, can I kiss her too? And call her Eva? If you’re off to a party with Miss Byrne, can me and Mrs. Richardson go to the pictures on Thursday?”
And so it’s settled—I’m going to spend the night in Leeds with Mr. Darke. And it seems everyone approves.
Chapter Five
We leave Black Combe together a little before ten o’clock on Thursday morning, in Mr. Darke’s smart Audi A3. Or should that be Nathan’s Audi—surely after the events on the kitchen table we must be on first name terms, at least?
Neither the Porsche nor Miranda has resurfaced as yet. I make a mental note to nip down to Oakworth, or Haworth, or wherever the legendary Jack plies his trade, and ask him how much longer he thinks he’ll need to hang on to my car.
Meanwhile, I’m safely belted into the passenger seat next to Nathan—yes, on reflection, definitely first name terms—as we purr away down the lane. My heart is in my mouth. I’m absolutely terrified. And I’ve never been more excited in my life. My stomach is clenching in anticipation—crushing butterflies?
I felt too nervous to eat anything this morning, much to Mrs. Richardson’s disgust. “The girl’s wasting away. She’ll starve to death,” she protested at Nathan as he tucked in to his ham and eggs.
He just shrugged, winking at me. “She looks fine to me. Gorgeous, in fact. Is there any ketchup, please?”
“You can’t go shopping on an empty stomach, love,” she advised me, but to no avail. My guts were in a knot from the moment I woke up and remembered that today is ‘the day’. The day I go off to spend the night in Leeds with the gorgeous Nathan Darke, fully intending to give up my virginity to him. And good riddance to it.
There’s no way food’s going to help. My nerves were already rattled when Nathan drove home yesterday evening, especially to pick me up and take me back with him this morning, although I had offered to make my own way to Leeds by train. Maybe he thought I’d chicken out if left to my own devices. I suspect he might have been right.
So here we are, purring through the dramatic Brontë moorland, all Heathcliff and Wuthering Heights, and I am again struck by the sheer, dramatic magic of this glorious place. The day is clear and the views magnificent, heather and bracken glowing bright orange and gold in contrast with the dark gray of the dry stone walls that crisscross the landscape in every direction, a timeless reminder of the impact of man on nature and the eventual convergence of the two.
“You’ve an appointment with Damien at eleven,” Nathan announces suddenly, breaking into my reverie.
“Damien?” Have I missed something? Do I know a Damien?
“Yes, Damien. I thought I mentioned him. Well, maybe not. He’s an acquaintance of mine who happens to be a top stylist at Vidal Sassoon in Leeds. He’ll do a fine job on your hair, but please, don’t get it all cut off.”<
br />
Completely out of sympathy for my eternally frizzing and uncontrollable hair, I can’t help but feel such forbearance would be an opportunity lost. “It’d make life a lot simpler.” I reply caustically, but at Nathan’s sharp frown I decide I’d better compromise. “Well, maybe he could thin it all out and flatten it a bit, then. I definitely need it styling for tonight.”
“He’s good. You’ll look lovely. Even lovelier than usual.” Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Darke. Nathan. “And you’re expected at Harvey Nicks around two. The Customer Service Consultant there is called Nicola, and she’ll help you. I’ve already told her about the awards dinner and she knows the sort of thing you might be after for that, but she’ll suggest other things for you to try on as well. She has my credit card details and everything will be charged to that.”
At my gasp of protest, he turns briefly to glance at me. “Don’t argue, Miss Byrne. And don’t frown.” Quietly he mutters, perhaps to himself more than me, “I intend to cure that habit. I said I’d pay because I invited you, so that’s how it’s going to be.”
“But what about the other stuff I want? I can’t put all that on your credit card, it wouldn’t feel right. I can afford to buy my own clothes. I can support myself. I have done for years.” I know I sound a little on the strident side but can’t help it. He needs telling.
He slants a wry glance across at me. “Not sure I’d call it supporting yourself, exactly, if your deathtrap of a car and extensive wardrobe are any indication,” he replies. Then, glancing down at my legs, he adds, “Although I do rather like that skirt, on reflection. We’ll keep that.”
I flush, remembering how he lifted my denim skirt to slide his hand into my underwear at the weekend, when he treated me to the most fantastic orgasm in my very limited experience.
Not to be distracted—much—I try to make him understand. “I’m not hard up, it’s just I’m not that bothered about clothes and cars. And I love Miranda. When will I get her back?”
“Are we back to that again? Bloody junk heap,” he mutters, then he’s on the attack. “My Porsche’s going to cost over a thousand quid to put right. Maybe you might like to contribute to that, as you’re not hard up?”
Seeing red, I foolishly enter the fray.
“It was all your bloody fault, hurtling through these narrow lanes in all that rain, in the dark. You might have killed someone—you and your precious gas-guzzling penis substitute of a car. Boys and their bloody toys! Are you crackers, or just a complete moron? You need to go on one of those courses they run for prats like you. Just before you get banned from driving and do us all a favor. And you can pay for your own bloody repairs, and sort Miranda out too. You must have insurance, anyway.”
I stop to draw breath. The slight movement alongside me tells me that I have his complete attention. I feel his eyes raking me before he turns back to the road, presumably disillusioned now about his choice of company. Well, that makes two of us.
“And if you think I’m sleeping with you tonight you can think again. I’d rather make love to a toad. You can just turn round and take me back. Or stop and I’ll walk back.”
“It’s three miles.”
Smug bastard! “Just stop. I want to get out.”
“Probably nearer four, in fact. You’ve a sassy little mouth, Miss Byrne, when you stop apologizing for yourself. I like that. And just to be clear, I have no intention of sleeping with you. We’ll both be wide awake. Most of the time. And I never said I wanted to make love to you either.”
“Liar! You did say that—you made me agree to come with you today because you wanted sex with me.”
Me, he said he wanted me—God only knows why, but he did say that. The first man to show an interest, and a gorgeous one at that, even if he is an arrogant bastard, and I go and blow it by losing my temper. Shit, the sex would have been so good…
“I said I wanted to fuck you—hard, fast, deep. Make you scream. I was quite specific. Now do you remember?”
“Yes, of course. That’s what I meant…”
“I’m not sure you really understand what I meant, baby. What I want to do with you. To you.” His voice is soft now, no longer angry. I suspect maybe he never was. He was just goading me, looking for a reaction. Clearly, I have been outmaneuvered.
“Then explain.” I wait, quiet, nervous, wondering where he is going with this—but in truth, it’s starting to fall into place. My practical experience might be nil, but I defy anyone to have read more than me. On any subject.
“I like sex. I like it a lot. But vanilla’s not my thing. Not usually. I like my sex with bells on. Sometimes literally.” He shoots me a wry glance, as if to see if I am following his drift. I think I probably am, but my gaze is fixed on his profile. I’m still waiting…
“Go on,” I whisper, my heart racing.
“The nice, plain, ready-salted variety is okay once in a while, but I like my sex to be exciting, erotic, edgy. And I like to be in control. Always.” He pauses for that to sink in, then does away with any remaining doubt. Any remaining hope this encounter of ours might turn out to be the fairy tale ending I promised myself. “I’m a Dom. A Dominant. I want you to be my sub. Submissive. Do you know what that means?”
Shit. Some fairy tale… Grimm would be about right.
“I think so. Whips and chains? Gags? Blindfolds?” I can’t believe I’m actually discussing this.
“Yes, all of that. Well, maybe not the chains—a bit too medieval for my taste. And they can leave nasty bruises, especially on the translucent sort of fair skin like yours. But the rest, yes. And more…”
“What…more?” My voice is so faint even I can hardly hear myself. Can he feel my terror? Should I make a run for it now? Throw myself from a moving car? Yes, probably.
“Like I said, I like my partners, the women I fuck, to be submissive. Very submissive. Do you know what that means? Do you know how to submit? Sexually?”
He has women he fucks. How many women? Christ, what have I got into?
The car slows. He pulls into a lay-by and switches off the engine. In the sudden, deafening silence he turns in his seat, giving me his undivided attention now. He is staring at me as I crouch forward in the passenger seat, twisting my fingers together, trying to make sense of all this. Ready to leap out and run.
Not quite yet, though. “I think so. Yes. Yes, of course I know what you mean. And, of course I can submit—if I choose to.” There, a hint of defiance. Go, girl!
“How flexible of you, Eva. And yes, it’s all about choice, as you say. I won’t do anything to you that you have not consented to, that you haven’t chosen to do. You have my promise on that, so there’s no need for you to curl up into a little ball in case I suddenly pounce. Relax, Eva. Sit up straight and look at me. You’re perfectly safe.”
I hadn’t realised how tiny, how defensive I’d become. With a conscious effort I unwind my arms from around my knees, sit back, look up and meet his eyes.
He smiles, his eyes twinkling wickedly, as his gaze rakes down my body and back to my face again as I sit there like a rabbit caught in headlamps. “And since we agree about choices being important—and as you might choose to submit, you say—what’s your position on nipple clamps? Butt plugs? Well, there’s really only one position for butt plugs, in my experience, but, of course, you might know better. And will you let me tie you up? Suspend you from my ceiling while I spank you? Whip you? Cane you?”
I feel the blood drain from my face as I stare at him. I am shocked, horrified even. Did I hear him right? My response is a while coming as I struggle to regain some sort of equilibrium. I am scared, so very scared now.
“You want to do all that, to me? You want to hurt me? But, why…?” With a sinking feeling, something awful occurs to me and I know I have to ask. “Is this still about your car? You’re bringing me out here to beat me up because I damaged your car?” I am whispering, I can hear my voice shaking.
At my bewildered, shocked expression, his harsh f
eatures soften. His head tilted to one side, he smiles slightly, reaching out to gently stroke my cheek.
“No, nothing like that. Fuck the car.”
Ah, right. Thank God it’s not that.
“And I won’t hurt you. Well, not really, not too much. This is not about beating you up, sweetheart. No punching, no kicking, no nasty bruises or broken bones. God forbid! I will excite you, though. And I will push you to your limits, stretch you so tight that when I release the tension, or when you snap, the pleasure will blow your mind. Pain will be a part of it. And so will intense pleasure, so intense you’ll beg me to stop. It will never be so much you can’t bear it, though, and I’ll always take care of you. I’ll make sure you’re okay.”
Close to tears now, I blurt out the questions swirling around my head. “How? How will you know what I can bear? What if I’m gagged? Blindfolded? Tied up? Do you do those things too?” He nods slowly. “How, then? If I can’t speak, can’t tell you? And what if I ask you to stop and you don’t? And how will I enjoy it if you’re hurting me so much?” I begin to shake. “I’m not sure I can do this…”
Taking hold of my hand, he raises it to his lips and kisses my palm gently, tenderly. “You’re scared, definitely, and shocked too, I think, sweetheart.” His voice is soft, low, seductive. “But trust me. Believe me when I say nothing is going to happen unless you agree. I won’t force you to do anything. You can keep yourself safe by using a safe word, if you ever need to. It can be any word you choose it but it has to be something you would never normally say. And if you’ve reached your limit and you need me to stop, you say the safe word and it’s over. Straight away. No questions, no excuses. A red light, if you like. And you can have an amber word too. To use when you’re struggling, getting near the limit of what you can take and maybe need me to stop for a while, or slow down, ease off…”
It’s working. His gentle, soothing words and reassuring touch on my hand are actually working. That peculiar clenching in my groin starts to reassert itself, a feeling that has started to become familiar since I met this strange, arrogant, delicious, exciting, scary man. Despite my fears—and I am dead scared at this moment—I’m already becoming aroused just talking about this stuff. My briefs are starting to feel damp and my ever-present tell-tale nipples are doing their thing. God, what will I be like when we actually start?
