Red Skye at Night

by Ashe Barker

  We leave early, checking out of the hotel before seven thirty. I’m sorry to leave our secluded mill—it is a truly beautiful place, full of wonderful memories. Maybe I could manage to come back sometime, though I dismiss that notion as soon as it occurs to me. It would be painful, quite desolate without Harry.

  There’s little conversation between us as Harry takes the first turn at the wheel, heading toward Inverness. I stare out of the window, watching the purples and golds rush past me, the glowing colors of the heather that blankets the moorland in the extreme north of Scotland. There are greens too, many shades of green. And browns, greys, the smoky skyline, the lush hedgerows. And always the dark gray of the tarmac snaking ahead of us, heading south.

  A couple of hours into the journey, Harry pulls into a lay-by where a mobile kiosk offers coffee or tea to wash down the ubiquitous bacon or sausage sandwich, that mainstay of the Highland traveler. I’m still contemplating haggis, but perhaps not today. We choose bacon sandwiches, and Harry sweet-talks the woman behind the counter into throwing in a couple of rashers for Daisy. We avail ourselves of her Portaloo, and soon we’re on the move again, this time with me driving.

  We stop for a pub lunch in Golspie, a tiny coastal town looking out over the Dornoch Firth. The roads are still reasonably fast and we’ve made good time. We sit at a table outside, Daisy curled around Harry’s shoes as we chew on Highland beef hotpot and thick-cut chips. Harry finishes first, then leans back to peruse me as I push my food around my plate. I shift in my seat, nervous. I know something is coming. He has That Look.

  “So, you love me then. Or was that the orgasm talking?”

  I squirm. The Big O certainly featured somewhere in my ill-judged outburst but I don’t think it can be held solely responsible. “You were about to come too. You said it as well.”

  “Ah, but I’m a man. We think with our dicks. It’s a well-known fact.”

  “You don’t.” I can’t keep the scorn from my voice. Harry is about the least testosterone-fueled individual I’ve ever met. His control is superb, his will iron. He’s relentless, never less than totally focused however lust-filled the moment.

  “So, you believe me then? You believe me when I say I love you?”

  I shrug, but he does have a point. “I suppose. Yes, yes I believe you. Sir.”

  “And you? Did you mean what you said or was it an in-the-moment thing?” His tone has lowered. He leans in across the table to take my hand. Only then do I realize it was shaking.

  “I meant it, Sir. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. Not sorry that you love me, or that I fell in love with you. I’m not even sorry that I told you. I might not have, or maybe not so soon, but you sort of started the ball rolling and here we are.”

  Yes. Exactly. Here we are.

  “But it’s no use, is it? I mean, you’ll be going home. Flying out in a few days. I’ll probably never see you again.”

  “I could stay longer.”

  “What would be the point? You’d leave eventually. You’d have to. Your work. Your family.”

  “True, I do need to go back sometime. My life is in Canada. So tell me, Hope, what is it that holds you here, in Britain? Family? It can’t be work—people need taxis the world over. You could be a driver anywhere. You’d have to learn to drive on the right, of course…”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t just up and go to, to…”

  “To Canada? Winnipeg? Why not? Do you have family ties here? Obligations? Tell me. Oh, and before you go on I should mention that you’ve already earned yourself a painful session over my knee for calling your Dom ridiculous, so do have a care.”

  His expression is serious—he means it about the spanking. I sigh—this Dom/sub discipline thing is difficult, I make so many mistakes.

  Harry squeezes my hand, still resting in his. “You are getting there, honey. You’re learning, and each time you accept a punishment you learn more. You’re a superb submissive. It’s one of the things I love about you.” His Dom telepathy must be on overdrive, he always knows what I’m thinking, especially when I’m doubting myself.

  “Just one of the things?”

  “Yes. You’re also sweet, gorgeous to look at, resilient, determined, a decent driver…” He pauses to grin as I bristle, then goes on, “Courageous, sexy as hell, kind to animals, independent. Need I go on? What’s not to love?” He waits for my smile then squeezes my hand again. “Enough fishing for compliments, Miss Shepherd. Tell me about your family.”

  “I don’t have one—at least, not like yours. It’s just me and my dad. And a half-brother.”

  “Does your dad live in Leeds? I thought you said you lived alone.”

  “I do. My dad moved to Devon. He was a police sergeant, retired three years ago after getting in his twenty-five years. He had a good pension and decided to invest his lump sum in a pub. It’s in a little village on the edge of Dartmoor. They do all right, food, bar meals, that sort of thing.”

  “They?”

  “Him and my step-mum. He married Linda when he left the job. She already had two children of her own—teenage boys. And now they have a baby. Aaron. He’s two. My half-brother.”

  “You didn’t want to go to Devon?”

  “Not really. Me and Linda, well, she’s okay, but we’d get on each other’s nerves if we lived together. She talks a lot. She’s a brilliant cook, though. Aaron’s sweet. I go down there a couple of times a year, to visit. Stay a week or so, stuff myself with Linda’s meat and potato pie and her apple crumble, but I’ve soon had enough and I’m glad to head back.”

  “What about your mum?”

  I shake my head. “She died when I was seven. Hit and run. My dad brought me up. Like I say, it was just the two of us, till Linda.”

  “That must have been hard. Sharing, I mean, after you’d had him to yourself.”

  I shrug. Sometimes I think so, but mostly I accept that time has moved on. “Me and my dad, we were close. Not so much now. He stuck by me when I needed him. Now it’s his turn to live his life. If I’d asked him to stay in Leeds I think he would have, but it didn’t seem fair. He wanted to go to Devon, he wanted the pub, and he wanted Linda. I could manage on my own. And I do. I do fine.”

  Harry shakes his head, his expression incredulous. “You talk as though he did you a favor, bringing you up. What else would he do? He’s your father, for Christ’s sake. That’s what fathers do. They take responsibility.”

  “Like Doms.”

  He grins. “Yeah, I suppose. A bit like that, though my attitude toward you is not what I’d describe as paternal. And I’m not thinking of fucking off to Devon.”

  “Canada’s even farther.”

  “I haven’t gone yet. You know I don’t want to leave you.”

  “You’ll have to. You can’t stay, and I can’t come with you. I’d be lost in Winnipeg, a fish out of water. I’d know no one.”

  “Except me. At first.”

  I shake my head, groping in my pocket for my car keys. “It’s no good. A pipe dream. I belong here.” I get to my feet. “We need to be going.”

  Harry remains seated, watching me, his gaze level, considering. At last he nods, and stands up. He takes my chin in his hand, cupping it, lifting my face to his.

  “This conversation is not over, Hope. And I’m driving.”

  * * * *

  We reach the Cromarty Firth, drive along the coast for a few miles then pick up the road heading west, across the Highlands toward the Western Isles. Civilization, such as it has been for the last few days, is behind us, the landscape empty, barren, and quite utterly stunning. The road is narrow—twisting, turning, always rising. It’s like driving toward heaven. I’m just glad we’re doing this trip in the summer—I doubt this road would be passable in winter.

  There’s little traffic out here, which is just as well as the road is single track for long lengths of it, with passing places hacked out of the hedgerows, just a slight widening, enough to keep things moving. The scene
ry is, of course, dramatic—the majestic mountains of the Highlands rising around us. It’s easy to visualize the contours of this place carved by ancient glaciers shifting and sliding through previous ice ages, leaving their indelible mark. It’s timeless, changeless, yet ever-shifting. The light transforms the colors all the time, one moment brilliant greens, the next muted grays. It’s a rugged place, intimidating, but haunting. The stuff of legends, of folklore, magical beasties and enigmatic heroes. I glance at Harry, imagining how he’d look in a kilt, his face painted in blue dye. Not bad, I suspect.

  “What’s going on in your head, girl?” He shoots me a sideways glance, his voice that low growl that always sets my pussy to throbbing and hardens my nipples in a moment.

  “I was just thinking you’d look nice in a kilt.”

  “I do. My granddad has several. We all wore them when my eldest uncle got married.”

  “What did you keep in your sporran?”

  “Girl, a man’s sporran is his own affair. And you know full well what I’d have under my kilt.”

  “Can we stop?”

  “What, you need the bathroom?” We’d made use of discreetly located stone walls or waist-high heather before now.

  “No, I need a fuck. Please.”

  Harry doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s getting late. Could get a bit chilly, fucking al fresco.”

  “I don’t care. I want you. I want you to fuck me, hard and fast.”

  “Sort of therapeutic fucking?”

  “Yes, exactly. Now.”

  “First place I see that I can stop without blocking the road, and I’m all yours. Be gentle, though.”

  “Yeah, like you are.”

  “Honey, I do try.” Without warning, Harry signals left and pulls onto the springy grass beside the road.

  A small wooden arrow indicates a public footpath a few yards ahead, so we get out of the car, Daisy too, and set off on foot. My plan is to get out of sight of the road, just in case one of the three or four cars a day that pass this way happens along at the wrong moment. Then I’ll jump Harry. He seems to be up for that. Five minutes later, that’s pretty much what I do.

  “Here.”

  “Looks good.” Harry shrugs off his jacket and throws it onto the heather by our feet. “Do you want me naked for this?”

  “No. Not yet anyway.” I drop to my knees on his jacket, positioned right in front of him, and reach for the fastener on his jeans.

  Daisy seems to be occupied sniffing at rabbit trails. We can probably leave her to her own devices for a few minutes at least.

  “Ah, nice.” Harry’s appreciative murmur is soft, his fingers gentle in my hair as I free his cock from his jeans and boxer shorts. It’s huge, always impressive, the shaft thick, so wide I can barely reach my fingers all the way around it. Still, that’s probably why I have two hands. The head is round, a darker pink than the rest, the top smooth and already coated with pre-cum seeping from the slit at the end. I slide the pad of my thumb across it, tilting my head back to look up at Harry.

  I smile at him before announcing my intentions. “This first, then I fuck you till you forget your name. Deal?”

  “Perhaps I should have written it down. Forgetting already.”

  “Idiot.”

  “That’s more spanking you’re owed. I’ll deal with your misdemeanors before we go back to the car. Then I’ll make you drive.”

  “Mean bastard.”

  “Even more spanking. You’re gonna be sore, honey. Now stop digging yourself in deeper and get my cock in your mouth.”

  * * * *

  He’s right, I am sore. Harry opted to use his belt in the more traditional manner this time and my bum has six painful welts across it. I feel wonderful.

  I screamed as he prepared to thrash me. Harry had to hold me still to administer the six strokes, his hand on my back, his legs trapping both of mine as I flailed and struggled and fought. I was genuinely scared, but would have bitten off my tongue before I’d have used my safe word. I might have been panicking, but I deserved my punishment. I wanted it. I trust Harry to know that, which is why he forced the issue.

  I went quite still as soon as the first stripe landed, my head and body sinking straight into subspace. Afterwards he held me until I stopped sobbing, then rolled me onto my back and licked my clit until I came. When I was calm again, he helped me to pull my jeans back up and we started to make our way back to the road.

  “What happened to your limp?”

  “My… Excuse me?”

  “Your limp. It’s gone. Which is particularly surprising, given what just happened back there.”

  “It can’t be. I always hobble along.”

  “Not right now you don’t. In fact, not for a while.”

  “Don’t be…” I stop myself—the blistering treatment my bum has recently been subjected to is having the desired effect on my manners. “I mean, that’s impossible.”

  Harry’s smile is wry as he pats my smarting bottom. “Is it? Clearly not. I recall noticing the limp in Leeds, it was especially pronounced as you walked along your street with your bag, just as we were setting off. I thought you’d injured yourself.”

  “Yes, I remember. I was so embarrassed.”

  “I knew that. You were always trying to hide it. I’d catch you walking slowly, or dropping behind me. You did that a lot in the first day or so.”

  Did I? I suppose I must have. Not now, though. It doesn’t even occur to me anymore that there could be an issue. I try to pay attention to the way I’m walking, not easy for an action usually done on autopilot. My limbs feel easy, comfortable. There’s no stiffness, no discomfort apart from the aftermath of my little session over Harry’s knee. I look up at him, frowning.

  “I’ve had a limp for years, ever since my accident. It’s settled down a lot, but was always there.”

  “Was, honey. Not now. Did anyone ask you about it on Orkney?”

  “Well no, but they wouldn’t, would they? It would have been rude, too personal.”

  “Perhaps not, although Janet never struck me as having an issue with personal questions. But someone would have mentioned it to me if it was as noticeable as you think. Even if it was just to ask if you’d hurt yourself. No one did. Not a word.”

  I stop, turn to face him. “How?” The one word encapsulates it all, my bafflement, my disbelief.

  “Not sure, but it’s happened. And it shows that you don’t have to limp. Maybe it’s because you’re on holiday, feeling more relaxed. Perhaps it’s since we started sharing the driving and you don’t spend all day in the same position. You’re getting more exercise, maybe working different muscles. Or perhaps you’re more rested.”

  What Harry says does make sense. Certainly something has changed—I do feel very different from the way I did even a week ago. I feel free. I feel happy. I’m enjoying myself. Still, I can’t help making a sardonic response. “I wouldn’t call this trek across the Highlands resting exactly.”

  Harry’s lip quirks, his expression pure predator. “And it won’t be getting any easier any time soon. But you are relaxed, Hope. You’re a lot less tense than when we met. Being spanked regularly has done wonders for your mental well-being.”

  I can’t help but smile at the irony of that. “It seems like it. I wonder if spanking therapy should be available on the NHS.”

  “Perhaps. You can recommend it next time you see your physio.”

  “I don’t have a physio. I haven’t for years.”

  “Well, I suggest we make you an appointment with one, get this sudden improvement checked out. If we can work out how it happened, we can probably make sure the improvement lasts. No backsliding.”

  I start to protest. I tend to avoid medical check-ups as much as possible—I reckon I’ve had my share of those over the years. Harry grips my chin between his thumb and forefinger.

  “No arguing, sub. First chance we get, you’re seeing a physiotherapist. Unless you think more spanking therapy might be required?”
/>   I glare at him and consider a mutiny, but think better of it. I shake my head. “No, Sir, I’m sure I’ve had enough therapy for the time being.”

  “Right then. Your turn to drive.” He drops a kiss on the top of my head, then turns to call for Daisy.

  She isn’t there. Harry’s little brown and white shadow, the dog who follows him everywhere, and sleeps at his feet when she can, is not there. Nowhere in sight.

  “Daisy. Daisy!” Harry calls for her, his voice carrying across the empty moorland. Nothing. He whistles, the sound piercing. Still no answering yelp. No rustle of heather. Just silence, stillness. No Daisy.

  “Where the fuck is she?” Harry scans the area around us. The mountains in the distance surround us with their majestic presence, but the landscape closer to us is relatively flat. No woodland, no buildings, nowhere to hide. Nowhere to get lost.

  “Could she have wandered off?” Even as I say the words I know how unlikely that is. Daisy usually needs to be forcibly removed from Harry’s side—no way has she gone off adventuring on her own.

  Harry is already starting back the way we came, calling for the little dog. I trot along after him, beginning to be really worried. She’s only been with us a few days, but we’re both incredibly attached to our little Daisy. We can’t have lost her. We just can’t.

  “We should have looked after her better. We weren’t even keeping an eye on her.” I’m racked with guilt. I’d been so wrapped up in my own pleasure, then in my punishment, I never gave the dog a thought. “I can’t even remember when I last saw her. She could be miles away.”

  “No, she won’t be.” Harry’s tone is one of certainty, of confidence. “She was there when you were sucking my cock, and again when I took my belt to you. I had to tell her to leave us alone. I think she thought I was hurting you.”

  “You were hurting me.”