by Ashe Barker
“Subspace. In the zone. You looked to be enjoying yourself, so I let it drag on for a while. Extended to thirty strokes, although not so heavy toward the end.”
I’d thought so. I hadn’t been dreaming then. He did slow down, turned the dial back a bit. But the memory is distinctly hazy. He passes me my T-shirt and I tug it over my head.
“What do you mean, ‘in the zone’? What’s that?”
“Also known as subspace. You can Google it later.”
Too right I will!
“It’s a sort of trance triggered by a rush of pheromones. It happens to some submissives when they really manage to connect with whatever’s happening to them. I’m told it’s very nice. Was it?”
I try to recall, but the memory keeps dancing away. “I—yes, I think so. I can’t really remember. It was a bit like being drunk.”
“But cheaper. And no hangover afterwards. Probably kinder to your liver too, though your bum might not agree.”
I pat at my bottom, surprised at how comfortable it actually feels. “I’m hardly sore at all. Did you say thirty strokes?”
“Yes. I know we agreed twenty, but I took an executive decision because you were having a good time. Is that okay? In future, if you don’t want me to extend a scene, I won’t. When you’re in subspace you’re in no position to argue or make decisions, so it’s good if I know beforehand what you want me to do.”
I have no hesitation in my answer. “Do what you think best. I trust you. Absolutely.”
He smiles and winks at me, and in that moment, I know I’ve got it. Not just the trust thing, though that’s a monumental breakthrough for me, but also this sense of comfort, of being fine with myself. For perhaps the first time ever I’m actually comfortable inside my own skin. I feel beautiful, I feel cared for, valued. Respected.
I suppose he’s only telling me what my mother has for years, and what my father did when I was little. But parents are biased, and it’s in their job description to say nice things. Now I find myself thinking that my parents may well have been biased, but that doesn’t make them wrong. I am okay.
My self-esteem soaring, I’m happy to take Nathan’s hand as we stroll back across the cobbles toward the farmhouse, ignoring the frantic, furious cackling of the geese, livid at our reappearance.
“Where’s Barney?” I ask, noticing that our huge furry chaperone has deserted us.
“Probably inside, with Tom.” Nathan is shrugging back into his jacket, retrieved from the door handle as we came out into the bright sunlight.
“Oh God, he’ll know we’re here then. But, why didn’t he come looking for us? He might have just walked into the barn. Shit!” I don’t suppose he’d have been mentally scarred for life, but still, I would have been mortified if he’d seen what we were up to among his hay bales.
“He knew where we were. And what we were doing. He’ll have spotted my jacket on the door handle, so he stayed out of the way—tact is Tom’s middle name. And he wouldn’t like it much if I disturbed him in the middle of a scene. We have an understanding, you might say.” Nathan’s casual confidence in the face of my near panic at the prospect of discovery is suspicious—he knows something I don’t. And I recall the comment earlier, about Tom’s whips.
“Does he really have whips? Tom, I mean.”
“Oh, yes. A fine collection. You’ve seen them, at my apartment. I’m not sure if he has any here—maybe a riding crop or two…”
I’m astonished. “Your apartment! Why would Tom’s stuff be there?”
“He uses it sometimes. A lot of the equipment is his.” He smiles at my incredulous expression.
“But… Tom seems so nice.”
“Ah, sweetheart, don’t we all? Don’t we all?”
My head is still reeling as we walk into the house—Nathan doesn’t even bother to knock—to be greeted by Barney and two bouncing border collies, and one very nice Mr. Tom Shore, who’s already poured us both a coffee.
* * * *
It’s now Sunday evening, four whole days—and nights—later and there have been no further opportunities to be alone with Nathan. Consequently, I am very, very desperate, and to make matters worse Nathan has an eight o’clock meeting in the morning in Leeds so he’s leaving at six. He won’t be back all week, not until Friday evening. I’ve no idea how I’m going to last. So here I am, lying on my own bed, staring at the darkness and seriously considering a DIY job. Nathan showed me how in one of our more memorable erotic encounters, encouraging me to touch myself while he watched. A useful skill and one I’m going to have to put to use.
The click of the door stills my hand before I’ve done much more than shove my pajama shorts off and run my fingers across my still perfectly smooth and hairless body, reaching for the sweet little button nestling in there. I glance across to see a narrow slit of light, widening as I watch. Nathan slips through the door, closing it softly behind him.
“If I fuck you very, very gently will you promise me you won’t scream?”
“I’ll promise you anything at all. Just do it, please.”
“I like a woman who plays hard to get.” And in another moment, he’s demonstrating just how hard he can get as well. I manage not to scream, but it’s touch and go as he takes off his jeans and slips into bed beside me, taking only moments to check my readiness before he slides into my very wet, very hot and very willing body. His mouth on mine swallows my whimpers and moans of pure joy as the pleasure builds, mounts and quickly spirals away leaving me helpless to do anything other than go with it. My first orgasm is there in a matter of seconds, then he slows, delicately withdrawing and thrusting as I gasp under him, boneless, welcoming, and very, very grateful.
He is unhurried and I manage two more climaxes before he finally shudders, swears violently, and I feel the hot wash of his semen filling me. God, I love that sensation. He rolls onto his back, holding me tight and carrying me with him so I find myself on top. I frame his beautiful face in my hands and kiss him.
“How long can you stay?”
“I’m getting up at around half five, but until then I’m all yours. What plans do you have for me?”
“I plan to spend all night making love with you.” One raised eyebrow indicates he has noted my choice of word, but he doesn’t take issue. Progress. “But what about Rosie?”
“Rosie’s fast asleep. And even if I have to break our agreement and gag you to keep you quiet, I needed you. I couldn’t go another day without this, without you. I don’t appreciate sneaking around in my own home, but… I was a desperate man.”
“Tell me about it. Later.” Pushing myself up to straddle him I deliberately squeeze my inner muscles to get his full attention centred where I want it. He groans and I am rewarded with the sensation of something solid, hardening, filling me. In moments his cock is rigid again and settled deep within me, as I sink down onto him, taking all of him. I gyrate my hips slowly, experimenting with the sensation of fullness, of being stretched tight around him as his size swells. I have a moment of panic as he seems so much bigger this time, but his hands on my hips hold me in place as I adjust.
“Take it slow, sweetheart. A little at a time. You set the rhythm.” He’s never been wrong yet so I gather my confidence, in him and in me, and I relax around him. He steadies me as I start to move, using my knees and upper thighs to push my body upwards and let his cock slide out of me, almost the whole way, then back down to take him fully inside again. It feels wonderful, the friction hot and moist as our bodies glide against each other, every nerve ending on red alert. My clitoris is so swollen it is rubbing against Nathan with every stroke, but it’s not enough so I start to stroke myself there. Nathan realises what I am up to, what I need, and obligingly spreads his palms wide, opening his hands to place both thumbs over my swollen, throbbing clit so I can rub myself hard against them with each stroke. Fabulous. Absolutely bloody fantastic.
Aroused almost beyond bearing I squeeze tighter, just because I can and for the joy of seeing Nathan�
�s beautiful features scrunch in ecstasy and know it’s me doing it, me in control. I realise this is the first time I’ve been on top, the dominant partner. Nathan seems perfectly happy with our role reversal if his groans of pure lust are any indication, his fingers now digging into my bottom to encourage me to pick up the pace.
I do, pumping hard to wring every last sliver of pleasure for myself out of his cock, and his perfectly positioned thumbs. I work myself on him, grinding my hips against him greedily. Nathan lets me, making no attempt to take over or increase the pace. This is my show. My own climax is almost here, hovering just a fraction away and I thrust, rub and squeeze him hard, grabbing at orgasm, until I tumble over the edge. Only then, as my body goes slack above him does Nathan take the reins. He thrusts sharply upwards, now rolling his thumbs over my swollen clit to make sure my own orgasm is drawn out for as long as possible, before with a few more sharp thrusts he comes himself. I fall forward, collapsing across his chest and he holds me, stroking my back, my hair, my bottom as our heartbeats return to normal.
I have never been more content in my life. I fall asleep, still on top of him.
Chapter Eighteen
“I’m going, babe. Kiss me.”
The soft voice wakes me, and I open my eyes dreamily to find myself looking into Nathan’s deep brown gaze. He is crouching beside me, his face close to mine. His lips curl softly, and I return the smile as he strokes my hair. He must have been up a while as he’s showered and fully dressed, his usual smart and businesslike persona in dark gray trousers, neatly pressed, a crisp white shirt and pink and gray striped tie. His expensive black leather shoes are gleaming as usual. His long hair is slicked back into his customary business ponytail. Just fucked he does not look. And I know I do.
I push myself up on one elbow, realizing as his eyes drop to caress my breasts that I am still naked. Well, why not, after all? I make no attempt to cover up as, obedient, I reach for him. I kiss him, as instructed and using all my new-found skills I inject as much passion and longing as I can. Which is not insubstantial these days. I slip my tongue between his lips, tasting, testing, exploring, combing my fingers through his hair and deliberately messing up his neat and still slightly damp ponytail. He doesn’t seem to object and returns my kiss with a little tongue-tangling of his own. His hands are on my breasts and I find myself on my back, the duvet pushed to my waist as he breaks the kiss to take my nipple and most of my breast in his mouth. I lie back, delighted, and gasp as he grazes his teeth across the sensitive peak.
Reluctantly, and to my intense disappointment, he lifts his head. “Shit, I wish I could stay. You are the most gorgeous thing to wake up to.”
“Right back at you,” I respond. “Can’t you be late? Just a bit late? This wouldn’t take long…”
“It would, to do it properly. And no, I can’t be late, you insatiable little hussy. I have a roomful of developers and their lawyers due in my office at eight. I have to be there. But I would definitely prefer to be here fucking you as you so richly deserve and obviously want.”
Giving in to the inevitable, I smile and sit up to see him off properly. Kneeling on the edge of the bed I put my arms around his neck and hug him tight. “Hurry back. I’ll miss you.” The words are whispered in his ear as he tightens his arms around my naked back. “I love the way you wake me, and I wish you could do that every day. “
“Now there’s a thought to work with. And I’ll miss you too, Angel. Kiss Rosie for me, too.”
“I will, but I’m not sure where kissing my pupils is to be found in the violin tutor’s handbook.”
“I doubt if fucking their daddies is in there either, but your unorthodox approach is one I find most refreshing, Miss Byrne. Now, I’m going. I’ll see you tomorrow evening. Keep everything warm for me.” With one last quick kiss and a soft pat on my bum he is standing, walking away. He winks at me as he gently closes the door behind him.
Unable to resist I leap out of bed and stand by the window as he leaves the house. I see his car, the sleek, purring Audi, glide away across the gravel of the driveway. I wait by the window watching the small portion of the lane I can see from my room, and after a couple of minutes I see the car sweep past and I know he’s gone.
I’ve been alone, isolated, all my life but I’m feeling consciously lonely for the first time ever. The house feels empty without him in it and I rapidly calculate how many minutes it will be before I see him again. Two thousand two hundred and twenty, at least. If he’s not held up. Pathetic.
I know I won’t be able to settle back to sleep, so I head for the shower. Alone.
* * * *
Despite missing Nathan like crazy I’ve had an absolutely brilliant time with Rosie for the last couple of days, just the two of us much of the time as Mrs. Richardson has been busy on a mass baking project for the Oakworth village fair. Apparently, she has ambitions regarding the best fruitcake contest, and this is serious stuff indeed. Rosie and I have been left to our own devices, only called upon to test and evaluate the various approaches to the art of cakery. We are stern critics, and between us we do appear to know a thing or two about what makes a decent cake. Our input seems to be appreciated and after much trial and error, tasting and finger-licking, Mrs. Richardson’s strategy is in place, the recipe refined, the ingredients lined up ready for the big day.
Apart from our usual morning efforts with the violin—I do intend to at least attempt to deliver what I’m paid for—we’ve walked miles and miles over the moors, Barney bounding alongside us with his tongue lolling out. He seems able to spot a rabbit at two hundred meters and is forever taking off after them. He’s just too big and daft and noisy to ever manage to catch anything, but he loves the chase. Rosie took me to Top Withens, the now ruined farmhouse that is supposed to have been the inspiration for Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. Standing there on the windswept hillside I could well believe it. I half expected Heathcliff to pop out from behind a dry-stone wall at any moment. And my imaginary Heathcliff bears an uncanny resemblance to Nathan Darke, though I’m not telling Rosie that.
We went bowling yesterday evening, then sloped off to McDonalds for a quick gut-rotting quarter-pounder. No doubt Nathan will have something to say, but we both needed the comfort food. Today it’s raining again so we’re tucked up indoors with our violins and a chess set, alternating between the two. For a little girl, Rosie is very good company for a geeky oddball like me. And Nathan is due back in three and a bit hours—only a hundred and eighty-nine minutes to go.
I hear my phone trilling away under a cushion on Nathan’s big squashy sofa in the lounge, which we have commandeered as our practice studio. After some digging around, I manage to extricate it and press the reply button, expecting to hear my mother’s voice. She’s become most insistent of late that I explain properly and fully just what I’m doing here in Yorkshire, exactly where and exactly with whom. I’m taking her calls, but no way am I telling her about Nathan.
But it’s not her. It’s Nathan. And the news is bad, bad, bad.
“Sweetheart, I’ve got to go to Ankara. Tonight. I’m on a flight from Manchester at eight forty this evening and I’m on my way to the airport now.”
“What? Why?”
“Remember your dear friend Ahmet?”
I have to think for a moment. “Ahmet, right…”
“He fell from some scaffolding. About four stories, apparently. He’s in a bad way and the authorities there suspect it wasn’t an accident. Apparently, he made himself very unpopular insisting on high spec materials and such like—remember the row you got involved in that day you came into my office? Anyway, the word is one of the disgruntled suppliers arranged for him to take a little fall.”
“Bloody hell. Poor Ahmet. Will he be okay?”
“Not sure. But the least I can do is get out there and visit him, and his family. And take charge at the site until we can get another foreman who’s not corrupt or incompetent. I’m hoping to be back by the middle of next week. Will
you be okay?”
“Me? Yes, of course I will. I’ll miss you and so will Rosie. But we’re okay. Just you take care of yourself, though. What if they have a go at you?”
“I don’t scramble up scaffolding as a rule, love. But I know what you mean, and I’ll be on the lookout. I’ll phone you when I get there. Let you know how Ahmet is.”
“Tell him I’m rooting for him. He sounded so nice.”
“I’ll tell him. Will you explain to Rosie and Grace?”
“Yes. Nathan…”
“What is it?”
“I… I’ll miss you. Please hurry back.”
“I’ll miss you too, Eva.”
There are a few moments of awkward silence as we both seem to be fumbling around for the words we need. Eventually Nathan breaks the deadlock.
“Bye, love. See you soon.” And with a click he is gone.
* * * *
It’s been five days and Nathan is still stuck in downtown Ankara. He’s been on the phone every evening and it seems Ahmet is likely to be okay, eventually, sort of. He has a broken collarbone, several broken ribs and a smashed wrist. It’ll be a while before he’s fit for a building site again, if ever, and Nathan thinks he might not be able to work in construction anymore. I gather it’s not all bad, though—apparently Ahmet’s brother-in-law grows tomatoes in a poly-tunnel somewhere down on the Mediterranean coast and he’s been nagging Ahmet to consider a career change. Strange how life turns out sometimes.
Nathan is supervising the construction for the time being and has ordered a full inspection of all work completed to date to make sure it complies with his specifications. It’s a slow job it seems and there is no immediate prospect of him being able to get home.
Rosie and me both miss him, but we’re having a decent time together. We went along to the Oakworth Fair to cheer Mrs. Richardson on in the Great Cake Challenge. She came second, an improvement of seven places from her position last year. She seemed delighted.
