Red Skye at Night

by Ashe Barker

  “Good. So we need to agree some ground rules. You, Hope, need a safe word.”

  I’ve heard of this, and belatedly it occurs to me that perhaps I needed a safe word last night. “Isn’t it a bit late for all that?”

  “No. Last night was a one-off, and I stopped as soon as you asked me to. As I said I would. From now on, though, you need a safe word if we’re to play these games. I need to know you’re okay, and you need to know you can stop whatever’s happening at any time.”

  “Well, I’ll just tell you then. When I’ve had enough.”

  “No. It needs to be more. It needs to be unambiguous. A lot of people say no when it all gets a bit intense, when in fact they mean yes. When they want more. You could say stop and mean just the opposite. I need to be sure. If I push you past your level of endurance, that’s not fun, it’s not consensual. It would just be abuse. I’m tough, and as a Dom I can be harsh. I will hurt you. But I’m not abusive and I’m not cruel. I love to whip women, I want to hear you scream as well as purr, but only as long as you’re a willing participant. So, a safe word, Hope. What’s it to be?”

  Talk about being put on the spot. I must have a vocabulary of God knows how many hundreds of thousands of words, and I can’t call even one to mind right now.

  “What’s your favorite television show? The last thing you watched?”

  I consider that. I don’t watch much television. Then I recall the evening after I first met Harry, the evening I spent at home even though I’d intended to work all night. “Midsomer Murders,” I announce.

  “Right. How about Midsomer then?”

  “Okay.” I snuggle in closer, considering the conversation now to be at an end as we’ve settled that important question. “Is it time for breakfast yet?”

  “Soon, my hungry little slut. Before we go down to the dining room, though, I want to know if there’s anything you really don’t want me to do to you. If there is, tell me now and we’ll discuss it. Otherwise I’m just going to push and push until you tell me no. Until you safe word.”

  Again, my brain empties. My mind is a total blank, though the possibilities seem endless. “I— No, I can’t think of anything.”

  “Whips, canes, being bound, blindfolded, gagged? Will you let me fuck you, how and when I like?” I daresay Harry’s trying to be helpful.

  “Well, we’ve already done a lot of that.”

  “Some. Not a lot, not yet. I have plenty more tricks up my sleeve.”

  I bet he has, come to think of it.

  “So you up for all of that?”

  I nuzzle his chest, marveling at my ability to take part in this bizarre yet intoxicating conversation. This is really happening. I only have to say the word and I’m in. Or, perhaps more specifically, not say it.

  “I suppose so. If I want to stop, ever, anything, I just say Midsomer. Is that right?”

  “Exactly. Your safe word stops it dead, every time. Don’t use it unless you have to, but be sure it will always work. That’s your safety net.”

  “I see.”

  “So, are you happy with everything? So far?”

  “Yes, Sir. Very happy.” And I do mean it. My stomach is less sanguine, however, choosing that exact moment to issue a deafening rumble. Harry quirks his eyebrow, amused.

  “Good. Let’s get you fed then. You get dressed while I have a shower. Then, after we’ve stuffed you with eggs and bacon and porridge or whatever else they serve up here, we’re going shopping.”

  “Shopping?” I know he said he only needed an ordinary grocery shop but I daresay he needs to acquire at least some equipment. We’ve already established that possibilities are limited here in the Scottish Highlands. The fetish community must go elsewhere for its supplies. Or there’s always the Internet.

  “Yes, shopping. I promised you a posh frock.”

  Oh, that. “You don’t have to. I mean, I’m not really the posh frock type.”

  “Who told you that? You look stunning whatever you wear, but if you’re going to refuse to eat in hotel restaurants with me because you don’t think you have suitable clothes, well, we need to put that right. So we go shopping. It’s on expenses.”

  I gape at him, overwhelmed by his generosity, and not for the first time. “Oh no, I can pay. I can’t let you buy my clothes on top of everything else. The hotels and the, the, well—everything.”

  “You can and you will. That was our deal. Please don’t argue with me, Hope. You really won’t enjoy the consequences. Breakfast, then we hit the shops in— Where are we?”

  I search my recent memory of yesterday evening’s journey. “Perth, I think.”

  “Right, Perth. Something in silk, I think. Blue perhaps…

  * * * *

  Perth High Street is actually rather nice. It lacks the frenzied glamour of Leeds—no Harvey Nicks here—but it’s busy and bustling, packed with interesting little shops. I have no idea what delights downtown Winnipeg might have to offer, but Harry seems suitably impressed—and purposeful.

  I don’t do much clothes shopping, and when I do it’s very much a functional affair. I dive in and out of Primark or Topshop, buy a few items all at once, and all pretty similar—denim jeans, dark-colored tops. Hoodies, naturally. And always I err on the side of caution as far as size is concerned. I can get into a twelve with some to spare, but I tend to think a fourteen is safer. It doesn’t matter if things are a little on the loose side. Except Harry thinks it does, so for this trip at least I daresay I’ll be squeezing into a ten.

  Sure enough, he steers us toward a chic-looking boutique with a French name. It looks classy and, more to the point, expensive. I generally give such establishments a wide berth. Harry tugs me inside and perches me on one of the velvet upholstered chairs beside the fitting rooms while he heads off to peruse the various racks of clothes. I spend several minutes in self-conscious misery, wishing I could disappear, before I spot a beautifully made-up and elaborately coiffed shop assistant scurrying toward me. I expect to be ejected from the premises.

  But it’s not to be. Harry is hard on her heels, accompanied by another assistant laden with several garments of various shades and textures. She smiles brightly as she marches past me to deposit the lot on a long rail on wheels. She propels that toward one of the empty fitting rooms. “Come with me, dear. We’ll soon have something nice picked out for you.”

  I remain on my chair, bemused, wondering what the hell is going on. Shop assistants with immaculate hair-dos don’t usually fuss over me. There doesn’t appear to be another customer within earshot, though. I’m the only candidate for fussery. Harry smiles at me, and I find that reassuring. He does seem to have a clue, despite the seemingly alien environment of ladies’ fashion.

  “You go with Morag, sweetheart. Try a few dresses on and I’ll wait out here. Unless you want me to come in with you…?”

  Morag? He was only on the loose for five minutes and he’s on first name terms with the staff. I gather my wits sufficiently to scramble after the superbly efficient Morag, assuring Harry that I can manage and wondering how the hell I’m going to explain the red weals on my bum. His fault, he started this.

  Ten minutes later we, or rather he settles on a knee-length royal blue number in a swirling, soft fabric. The neck drapes prettily, the sleeves reach to my elbows. It’s elegant, and it fits perfectly. Size ten.

  “I love it. It suits you.” Harry cocks his head in careful appraisal. The two shop assistants are in complete agreement.

  I have to admit they’re right, though the two hundred and fifty pound price tag leaves me feeling slightly faint despite the hearty breakfast served in the hotel dining room.

  “It’s lovely. But it’s too much.”

  “It’s perfect. We’ll take that please. Unless you prefer the other one, Hope?”

  Actually, I do prefer the other one, a delightful close-fitted creation in light cream. A strappy affair with a dark brown, wide belt, ending at mid-thigh. Gorgeous, but not designed for a woman whose legs sp
ort surgical scars. I shake my head quickly. “No, this one is beautiful. Thank you.”

  Harry nods. “The blue then. You go and change while I settle up.”

  A few minutes later, safely attired in my usual jeans and vest top, I rejoin Harry who is lounging at the counter. He has several classy-looking bags arranged around his feet and the shop staff are still fawning over him. His smile for me as I approach is dazzling as usual.

  “Ready, sweetheart?”

  “Yes. Do you want to be heading off now?” I’m conscious we have several hundred miles to cover today, all being well.

  “Soon. I still have a few items I’d like to pick up.” He turns to Morag. “Is there a DIY store nearby?”

  * * * *

  “Right, so you’re not actually intending to tile a bathroom, I suppose? Not considering building a rockery? A spot of decorating, perhaps?” I level my observations at Harry as we march along the main shopping street, having deposited our recent purchases in the boot of my car.

  “Attitude, Hope. I believe I’ve mentioned this already.” He tightens his grip on my hand when I might have pulled away. “But no, you’re right. My requirements are more…personal.”

  Personal? Butterflies take flight in my stomach. Does he mean…? He must mean…

  “What requirements? What do you need to buy?”

  “You’ll see.” He turns suddenly, tugging me behind him through the doors of a DIY chain store. He grins, his wink deliciously wicked as he snags a small trolley from a row by the door. I spend the next quarter of an hour trailing him around the store, watching as he drops duct tape, cable ties, two meters of telephone extension cable, crocodile clips, assorted paintbrushes, a length of brightly colored rope and a silicon grouting spatula into the basket. My stomach churns, even as my pussy moistens. I know without a doubt the general intent behind these purchases, though for the most part the specifics have yet to be revealed. The crocodile clips are obvious enough, I suppose, as are the cable ties.

  “Why do we need paintbrushes?” I ask him the question as we make our way back to the car park.

  “Because you’re ticklish, sweetheart. I intend to take full advantage of that fact.” He spares me a brief glance as we stop to wait for the green man to appear before crossing the main street.

  “I hate being tickled.”

  “I know.” His grin is positively demonic now. “You’ll have to try not to piss me off then. Come on.” The signal changes and we’re hurrying forward again. “We need a pharmacy. Could you look out for one please?”

  I know better than to ask why. Instead, I point out the Perth branch of Boots. “Will that do?”

  “Oh yes.” Harry heads through the automatic doors and I trail in his wake.

  I’m not surprised to see him head straight for the family planning shelves and select two large packs of condoms. Forty-eight fucks’ worth. Wow!

  “I’m on the pill, you don’t need those. I mean, not if you don’t want to…”

  “Yeah? It’s not all about avoiding babies, though, is it?”

  “Of course not, I know that. But I don’t, I mean, I never have… It would only be you. There’s no chance you might, that I would…” I’m stammering like a ridiculous little virgin—incredible really, given the nature of our relationship.

  “Clean bill of health, is that what you’re making such heavy work of trying to say?” As ever, Harry gets right to the heart of the matter without unnecessary fuss. He seems not to share my embarrassment.

  I nod, my blush reaching the roots of my hair—the perils of fair skin.

  “Just one pack then.” He leans in to whisper into my ear, “You’ll thank me for my consideration when I fuck your ass.”

  I’m still flushed as I shadow him around the shop, watching as he drops baby lotion, anti-inflammatory cream and two large tubes of lubricant into a basket. He makes his way to the hair styling section and selects a paddle-style hairbrush and a pack of hairgrips. We both have short hair—I doubt we’ll be needing any of these for their traditional purpose. I say nothing, just follow him to the checkout.

  Back at my car, we stow his purchases in the boot with our luggage and the bags from the posh dress shop. Harry holds out his hand.

  “Keys, please.”

  “I’m okay. I don’t mind driving.”

  “Hope, the keys.”

  “But…”

  “You can have another day off. Sit back, enjoy the scenery. Sleep if you like. You’ll be glad of it later. Now, don’t make me ask you again.”

  I shrug and dig my car keys from my pocket. I hand them over. Harry smiles pleasantly as he opens the passenger door for me. “Relax, Hope. Let yourself have a good time and trust me to look after you.”

  I scramble into the car and sit awkwardly, the passenger seat unfamiliar territory to me. Harry gets in the other side and winks at me as he starts the engine. He’s chuckling to himself as he pulls out into the mid-morning Perth traffic and turns the car toward the A9, heading north.

  Chapter Eight

  An hour or so later, we pass through the bustling touristy town of Pitlochry. Each shop window is adorned in tartan—everywhere, signs offering Highland shortbread for sale, or Scotch whisky for the hardier souls. As we slow to pass through the busy town center, I see tourist tat shops full of local souvenirs—little dolls dressed as pipers, Westie dogs in tartan jackets, models of the Loch Ness monster. All seem to be doing a roaring trade.

  As Pitlochry recedes in our rear-view mirror, the scenery explodes around us—the dramatic, glorious Grampian Mountains soaring away to our right as we follow the road heading north. We’re skirting the mountain range, heading toward Aviemore. The road is good still, and the weather is beautiful—soft sunlight causing the landscape to take on a pale, smudgy glow. Still, conditions can change in minutes up here so we can’t be complacent. The two hours Harry said would constitute the first leg of today’s trek flash past and I find I do actually enjoy being driven. I can watch and wonder at the grandeur of our environment, the majestic Highland scenery stretching upwards and outward in all directions. The rugged moors are populated by the occasional settlement, but primarily these hills are the terrain of hardy sheep who roam the upper levels, while the lower meadows are populated mostly by the characteristic black Aberdeen Angus cattle.

  Harry pulls into a lay-by, and we choose a selection of sandwiches from a roadside vending trailer. They do hot food too, and the local square sausage that they slice from a large block is tempting. We debate the issue at the counter, but decide to stock up on cold stuff—cheese and pickle, chicken and ham, with hot coffee in polystyrene cups. We dump the food on the back seat and set off again in search of a more secluded spot for our picnic. We find what we’re looking for a few miles farther on, a heather-shrouded gentle slope at the foot of a steep, rocky incline. Harry pulls up, easing the car onto a flat stretch of grass beside the road. We get out, and for a few seconds I just stand, my chin tilted upwards to smell the tangy wildness of this place. The heathers, the bracken, the crisp breeze all combine in a magical aroma that is pure Scotland.

  The sound of Harry opening the back door to retrieve our food disturbs my reverie.

  “Lunch is served.” I turn to see Harry grinning at me, amused.

  “Sorry. It’s just… This place is beautiful, truly beautiful.”

  “It is.” He pauses for a moment to survey the scenery, then, “I’m pleased you’re here to enjoy it with me.”

  Me too. We stroll a couple of hundred yards from the road, then make ourselves comfortable on the springy purple carpet. I always carry a car blanket in the boot, so we use that to spread our goodies on and settle in to enjoy the feast. The day has become warmer as the morning has worn on, and I’m loving the soft caress of the sun across my shoulders. It’s a perfect day for a picnic, especially as we seem to have a whole Scottish mountain to ourselves. I settle back on my elbows, surveying the awesome vista below me. Apart from the sheep and Harry, there isn’t
another living thing to be seen for hundreds of miles. I sigh, and reflect on the general beauty of life. And mine in particular, right now.

  I should be nervous. Harry has duct tape and a paddle hairbrush, for fuck’s sake, and I have no doubt I’ll be feeling the effects of those within the next few hours. I’m not nervous, though. I’m excited. And I’m becoming increasingly aroused as I imagine the creative uses he may have in mind for his purchases.

  “What are you thinking, Hope?” Harry is lounging alongside me, making short work of a cheese and pickle sandwich.

  I turn to him, and not for the first time I wonder what a fabulously good-looking guy like this would see in me. I quash that thought—he’s here, he wanted me to be here too. He just said as much—again. So we are here, together, and it’s enough.

  “I’m thinking that I’m glad you persuaded me to make this trip.”

  “You drove a hard bargain.”

  “I’m driving nothing now. You really should ask for a refund.”

  “No refund required. What will you spend your exorbitant fee on?”

  That’s easy. “I’ll pay off my car loan, or most of it. Someday I want to own a fleet of cars, run my own firm. Limousines, perhaps. I could do weddings, proms, that sort of thing.” I shove the last of my chicken sandwich into my mouth and look to him for his reaction to my entrepreneurial aspirations. It must sound like small beer to him, I suppose.

  “Sounds like a plan. I can see you as a transport mogul. I’d hire you.”

  “I’d overcharge you.”

  “I know, but I’d pay anyway. Have I told you that you’re very beautiful, Hope?”

  “I, no. Yes. I’m not beautiful. I’m just…okay.”

  He shakes his head. “Not ‘just okay’. You take my breath away. Especially in that moment just before you come, when you stop breathing for a few seconds then let out that lovely, sexy moan you do.”