Dark Melodies (The Black Combe Doms Book 1)

by Ashe Barker

  I explain all this to James, who is regarding me with the sort of reverence I suspect he would normally reserve for an appearance of the Archangel Gabriel. Quickly, I explain the problem.

  “What would you like me to tell him? James? Do you need him to call back when your normal interpreter—Ayshe?—is here and Nathan has had a chance to decide what to do?”

  James just stares, his attention on a point somewhere over my left shoulder. No help there, then.

  “No. We can deal with it here and now, Miss Byrne.” Nathan’s voice behind me takes me by surprise. I spin around, barely keeping my balance on the red heels. He takes my elbow, steadies me as he glances downwards and nods appreciatively. “Excellent choice of footwear, Miss Byrne. And I like the outfit.” His eyes rake my figure, which is vaguely impressive in a good light, now that I am aided by an uplift bra to combat the laws of nature.

  “And I love your hair.” He takes a moment to tunnel his fingers through my beautiful soft coppery waves and leans in to briefly kiss my lips. Is that a thud I hear? James’ jaw hitting his desk behind us?

  Returning to the urgent matter at hand, Nathan is suddenly all business again.

  “Miss Byrne, would you please ask Ahmet to get the haulier back and have the whole shoddy lot shipped back to the supplier? He’s right—we’re not using subspec materials. Tell him I’ll explain to the client. And ask him to phone the supplier every ten minutes until the right RSJs arrive. And to let me know when they do so that I can sack them. Oh, and please thank Ahmet for his diligence—it would have been easier for him to just shrug and get on with it and nine out of ten Turkish site managers in his shoes would have done just that.”

  “Right.” I quickly relay the message to a clearly relieved Mr. Arzan, and say my goodbyes. I graciously receive his heartfelt good wishes for me and everyone who is, has ever been and ever will be connected to me, then hand the phone back to the bemused James. Gathering his wits, he tries to slip back into receptionist-greeting mode.

  “Er, Miss, er—Byrne, was it?” He looks questioningly at his employer. “Who did you…?”

  Nathan steps in. “That’s okay, Jamie, I’m expecting Miss Byrne. And you can get off now, if you like. After you bring us in some coffee, obviously…” And, taking my elbow again, he steers me back across the carpet toward a set of double doors, and into his office.

  The nerve realise of Darke Associates is a huge, airy, minimalist space. The entire outside wall is glass, with views across the Leeds skyline in one direction and the waterfront of Clarence Dock in the other. It’s not unlike his office at Black Combe, but with a different view. I am drawn to stand in front of the huge window, gazing out. I definitely prefer the moors, but this view isn’t bad. His desk is large, black, the surface polished to a high shine. And clear except for a laptop and desk lamp.

  Nathan gestures me over to a conference table at right angles to one wall, with eight matching chairs. James follows us in, carrying a tray of coffee, cups, cream in a small jug and a bowl of sugar lumps. He sets the lot down on the table. “Will you need anything else, Mr. Darke?” he asks.

  “No, we’re fine. See you in the morning,” replies Nathan. James nods politely, to Nathan then to me, and leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Nathan smiles at me as he takes off his jacket to hang it over the back of one of the chairs, followed by his blue striped tie, which he shoves into his pocket. Undoing his top shirt button, he sits down and picks up the coffee pot.

  “Once more you amaze me, Miss Byrne. A virtuoso violinist and now multilingual, as well. Cream?”

  “What? Oh, cream? Yes, thanks.” I sit opposite him, waiting for more questions, not sure what else to say, afraid I may have revealed more than I intended to by leaping in back there. But with my newfound enthusiasm for involving myself in other people’s affairs, I tell myself I couldn’t in good conscience have done nothing to help.

  “Get everything you need?” At my look of confusion, he kindly helps me out. “Your shopping? Did you get everything?”

  “Yes—oh yes, and the rest. I really do want to pay you back, though, for the extra stuff that was just for me, nothing to do with tonight.” Babbling again, Eva.

  With a shrug, he gets up and strolls across the spacious office to his desk, then opens the top drawer and withdraws a sheet of paper in a clear plastic wallet, and his iPad.

  Returning to the table to sit alongside me, he glances sharply at me, cool, efficient. “So, down to business. I want your consent, Miss Byrne. But it has to be informed consent. I always like to make our sort of arrangement really clear,” he states matter-of-factly, “just to avoid misunderstandings later.”

  Arrangement?

  “But first, health and safety.” What?

  “We need to sort out contraception, and disease control.” At my amazed expression, he goes on to explain, “I trust you do practice safe sex, Miss Byrne?”

  Me? I don’t practice any sort of sex. And I need some practice. That’s the point of all this, why I’m even considering this bizarre ‘arrangement’. I just want to get laid. Nicely, of course. Skillfully even, if possible. But laid all the same. And I already know he has the skills I want. So if these are his terms…

  “I’m on the pill,” I blurt out, realizing too late what impression that will create. In fact, I was prescribed the mini pill about three years ago to deal with horrendous heavy periods rather than to prevent unwanted pregnancies. You’d need a sex life for that to be a problem.

  “Ah.” He looks a little surprised, but quickly rallies. “Well, that simplifies some aspects, I guess. So, just disease control then. I’ll use a condom. Is that okay with you?”

  “Er, yes, yes, of course. But—I don’t have any…”

  Idiot. You should have told him you were a virgin. Too late now…and anyway, you don’t want to put him off.

  Grinning, he leans in and quickly kisses my mouth. “My department, sweetheart, leave the supplies to me.” Now, leaning back in his chair again and back to Mr. Cool and Efficient, he slides the plastic wallet toward me. “Read this, please.”

  I take my time retrieving my glasses from my funky little satchel, perching them on my nose before glancing down at the sheet in front of me, at the words printed there. Then I blink, take my glasses off and clean them slowly with the little bit of soft cloth in my glasses case, buying time. He’s patient, unhurried, waiting while I collect myself before eventually looking again at the printed sheet, reading carefully to make sure it does indeed say what I think it does.

  Words like ‘fuck’, ‘anus’, ‘feces’, ‘fellatio’, ‘dildo’, ‘vibrator’, ‘nipple clamps’, ‘strangulation’ and many, many more leap about in front of my eyes. Snapping my head up, I look back at him in stunned horror.

  “What… What is this?” I ask weakly, my self-confident bubble in danger of bursting with a nasty pop.

  “Don’t look so worried. It’s just a way to make sure we both know where we stand,” he replies calmly, obviously anticipating my reaction. Reaching out, he takes my hand and turns it palm up, then strokes gently, reassuring me. “Although, in fairness, standing’s not generally my favorite position for what I have in mind for you.”

  His wry humor is strangely calming, and I look back at the sheet full of obscenities, taking a deep breath. If he wants to talk about this…stuff, I can handle it. I hope. I am fully aware we didn’t come to Leeds for a picnic by the river, but still…

  “We need to agree on the parameters, know what’s allowed and what isn’t. Do you know what all these words mean?” he asks, still stroking my hand.

  “Yes, of course,” I reply defensively. Then think better of it. This is no time for false bravado. “Well, I know what these things are. But what do they have to do with me? Or you?” The more frightening ones keep leaping out at me—strangulation, blood, naked flames… “I didn’t realise… I mean, I didn’t expect… I can’t just… This is really dangerous.”

  “Well, that stu
ff on that side certainly is. That’s why it’s on the ‘don’ts’ list.”

  “Don’ts?” Relief washes over me. Maybe he’s not a psychopath, after all. Not totally.

  His voice hardens suddenly. “Pay attention, Miss Byrne, read it carefully. You have three lists in front of you. The first list”—he taps the sheet with his index finger—“here, this explains how our arrangement will work. This is a list of some of the things I want, intend”—he looks up sharply, catches my eye to make sure I get it and know he means business—“to do to you. What your role will be, and mine. It’s not an exhaustive list, but it’s enough to give you a pretty good idea what’s going to happen. Read that list, Miss Byrne. Read it out loud, please.”

  I look down, peering at the words through my glasses, my eyes skimming the list… I start to read out loud.

  The arrangement between Nathan Darke and Eva Byrne shall be:

  Nathan Darke—Dominant, Top (Control)

  Eva Byrne—Submissive, Bottom (Obedience)

  General relational context:

  Eva Byrne will be naked during the course of any sexual activity, unless otherwise instructed by Nathan Darke.

  I look up from the page. “Won’t you be naked too, when we make love?” I ask.

  “Finish reading, Eva. Ask questions when you’ve got to the bottom of the first list,” comes the curt response. I carry on down the list.

  The submissive will obey any instruction and comply immediately with any request by Nathan Darke, without question, argument or comment.

  Nathan Darke will take all necessary steps to ensure the safety and well-being of his submissive, including immediate cessation of any and all activity upon hearing an agreed safe word.

  ‘His submissive’? Not even ‘Eva Byrne’ anymore…?

  The practices to be applied by Nathan Darke to his submissive include but are not restricted to:

  Sensory deprivation/control (e.g. use of gagging, blindfold, earplugs)

  Intense sensory stimulation

  Physical restraint, specifically of hands, wrists, legs, ankles, knees or other parts as required, to include (but not restricted to) binding with rope, straps, handcuffs

  Suspension from ceiling or other suitable structure

  Punishment and other forms of physical discipline, to include spanking, whipping, caning, biting, punishment fucking

  Intercourse on demand, anal and/or pussy, in any position as required by the Dominant

  Penetration—anal and/or pussy

  Use of sex toys and other equipment (examples listed opposite)

  Oral sexual stimulation, cunnilingus and fellatio—the submissive to swallow the Dominant’s semen as necessary.

  I reach the end of the list and realise I am shaking. This seems so cold, so stark, set out in words and print. I continue to stare at the list, unable to raise my eyes. Nathan reaches across the table to cup my chin in his palm, lifting my face to force eye contact. I am frowning, I realise. His hard gaze is steely, determined, unrelenting.

  “You asked about me being naked. Any other questions, Miss Byrne?”

  “I… Yes. Definitely. It says here you want to suspend me from the ceiling. Like a side of beef? Why?”

  “Because then you will be powerless, unable to move. I can touch you, punish you, just as I want, anywhere I want. You just hang there and take it.”

  “Oh.” No answer to that, really.

  “The ‘you being naked and me dressed’ issue is just one of power, dominance, control. I like it that way. I’ll probably be undressed when I fuck you, or mostly undressed. You’ll get used to it. Your modesty, such as it is, won’t last long, I do promise you that.” Such as it is? How rude!

  “And by the time we get to me fucking you, you’ll be so desperate for it you’ll be well past caring what I’m wearing.” Well, there’s a comfort.

  “You said about punishing me. Just now. And it’s here on the list—‘punishment and physical discipline’.” I point to the sheet, at some of the words that scare me the most. “What sorts of things will you punish me for? And how? Will you beat me up if I say something out of line? How much punishment?”

  “Things like disobedience, insolence, disrespect. And definitely frowning, Miss Byrne.” His fingers are again on my face, smoothing out the furrows between my eyebrows. “This constant frowning of yours is definitely going to have consequences, and now you know what the deal is I am going to start making my point more forcefully. Every frown from now on earns you five strokes, the implement to be of my choosing, Miss Byrne. Does that sound fair?” I gaze at him numbly and, amazingly, I nod my agreement.

  Uh-oh.

  “What’s punishment fucking?”

  “That’s where I fuck you but don’t let you come. You will be intensely aroused, but no orgasm.”

  “That doesn’t sound very nice. Not very gentlemanly. Can you do that? I mean, how will you stop me…?”

  “It’s not meant to be nice. And when we start our little games, Miss Byrne, you’ll soon be quite sure I’m no gentleman. And be under no illusions, Miss Byrne, I will stop you from coming if I decide to. That’s what being in control means. And I am very good at this stuff.”

  I believe him. Actually, I’m pleased that he is good at this. One of us needs to be. I don’t imagine for a moment that his confidence is misplaced.

  I look back at the list, less shocked upon the second and third readings. I think that I could convince myself to be relatively at ease with the activities on the list. Well, perhaps not the discipline and punishment aspects, not entirely, but I know pain is part of the deal. I think I can handle that, although I definitely don’t fancy punishment fucking. There is one really big problem I can see, though. I need to convince him not to gag me.

  “Is any of this negotiable? I mean, can I just take anything I don’t like off this list?”

  He leans back, regards me seriously. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I’m asthmatic.”

  “Right…?” He waits, clearly expecting further explanation.

  “So I’ll struggle with a gag. I won’t be able to do it. When I get an asthma attack, I cough and I can’t breathe. I tense up, I need to breathe deeply, evenly, control it. A gag would choke me. That’s too much to ask. I can’t do it. I know I’ll panic and start having an attack.”

  He watches me, considering. “Right, okay. And, gags aside, do these attacks happen without warning? Are there any signs beforehand? Do you feel ill? Can you tell when your asthma is going to kick in?”

  “Well, yes. Usually, up to a point… Not always. Cigarette smoke often starts it off. Or if I’m ill, with a cold or something.”

  “No danger of cigarette smoke here. And I’ll make sure you get plenty of orange juice, vitamin C. What about medication? Do you have some sort of inhaler you use to control it?”

  “Of course. Ventolin.”

  “Do you have it with you?”

  “Of course. Always.” His hand is out, waiting. I rummage through my satchel for the little blue inhaler at the bottom and place it in his palm.

  “Do you have another? Is this a spare one? Could I keep it?” He turns it over in his hand, his eyebrow raised as he waits for my answer.

  “I… I suppose so. I have another in my bag. My overnight bag…” After my Ventolin famine back in Oxford, I replenished my supplies while I was staying at my mother’s flat—she’s always very insistent on that sort of thing—but I last saw that bag in the boot of Nathan’s car as we were leaving Black Combe. I have to hope he has it safe somewhere now.

  “How do you use it? And what’s the dosage?” He is looking at me seriously, clearly paying attention. This seems important to him and I find that somewhat reassuring. I take the inhaler back and press the top sharply to expel a puff of the vapor inside.

  “I need to put it in my mouth, this way up, and press the top as I breathe in. Then I hold my breath, if I can. If I’m coughing I may not manage to. It doesn’t matter, I just have
another puff.”

  “How many puffs do you need? To control the attack?”

  “It’s one a minute until my breathing settles down again. It usually takes three or four minutes.”

  “Right. A wonder drug, then.”

  “More a rescue mission, really. And, if possible, sips of water are really helpful. Will I be able to have a drink?”

  He looks at me again, reaching for the inhaler. “There’ll be water on hand the whole time in any case, Eva. I’ll be offering it to you regularly.” He smiles at me wryly as he pockets the inhaler. “Subs do tend to become rather dry-mouthed, I’ve noticed, especially at the beginning. If you need more at any time, just ask me.”

  “And the gag?”

  “There’ll be no gag.”

  I breathe out, the relief overwhelming. Then, “But why do you want my inhaler? What will you do with it?”

  “If you have an asthma attack while we’re…busy, you may not be in a position to help yourself. In that case I’ll feel happier having this to hand. Like I said, your health and safety are my responsibility. I’ll remember what you’ve told me, and I’ll take it into account. You’ve told me what an asthma attack looks like. And now I know about the problem, I’ll be able to deal with it.”

  I gaze at him, wide-eyed. Begin to realise just how serious this could be. For me. He sees, takes my hand, turns it palm up in his.

  “I know you’re scared, Eva. You’re meant to be. That’s what gives this stuff its edginess—it’s where the thrill comes from, for you and for me. But you’ll learn to trust me to look after you. Tell me what you need, I’ll do it. It’s there, right at the top of the list.” He points to the bit about taking necessary steps to look after my health and well-being. “And we won’t be doing this stuff if you’re ill in any case, with asthma or anything else. It’s demanding enough when you’re fit and well, especially for the sub.” His voice gentles, reassuring. “Don’t worry, Eva, you’ll be fine. I will look after you. Now, any other questions before we go on to look at the list of don’ts?”