by Ashe Barker
“Well, I can’t speak for everyone. But I can tell you why I do it, what I get out of it.”
Well, can’t say fairer than that. I nod gratefully, and she continues.
“I like the release and the total freedom of not being in control. I like not having to make any decisions for myself, at least for a while. I like relying on someone else, totally. And I like never being let down. A good Dom is about as reliable as you can get.”
I gape at her, I know I’m staring. It’s rude, but still…I blurt out my first objection. “But it hurts. Doesn’t it?”
“Yes. It hurts beautifully. Exquisitely. But even that’s under control. I know just what, just how much. I set the limits, I set my boundaries. And then I push my boundaries, find new limits for myself. New challenges. My Dom just plays it out for me.”
“You make it sound as though he’s doing you a favor, offering a service.” I’m puzzled. Genuinely bewildered. ‘Reliable’, ‘doing a favor’, ‘a service’. Not phrases I’d expect to associate with a man holding a whip. Even so, something in what Abbie’s saying makes sense to me. It’s elusive, fleeting, but there all the same. I grapple with the tangle of mixed messages careering around my brain, try to sift and sort it, work out what it is I recognize in Abbie that I can feel in me, too.
Ignoring, or oblivious to the turmoil just across the table from her, Abbie continues in her matter-of-fact tone. “Well, he is, I suppose. Or she is. I’ve bottomed for Mistresses as well as Masters. Took me a while to work out which I liked best.”
Crikey. “So, you’re bisexual?”
“No. I definitely only want to fuck men. Not women. But I haven’t always wanted to fuck every Dom I played with either, male or female. I think of it as being a bit like having a massage or getting a good haircut. Either a man or a woman could do it, as long as they had the skills. If the hairdresser was a gorgeous male I might consider fucking him as well, if he offered, but if I don’t fancy him I’ll still let him do my hair. Nowadays I only have one top, my Mike. I love fucking him. He’s the father of this little one in here.” She strokes her tummy protectively.
“Top? Is that the same as Dom? Dominant?” I seem to remember Nathan using a phrase something like that.
“Yup. Top. Dom. Master or Mistress. All different names for the same thing, pretty much. They’re the ones who set up the scene, dish out the pain. They usually choose the sub they want to play with. Submissive. Bottom. Slave. But the sub doesn’t have to agree to play if they don’t want to or don’t like the look of that particular Dom. And even then you still get to say what your limits are, safe words and so on. But there’s a sort of etiquette too. Once you’ve agreed, set out the terms, then you’re in. Committed, at least to try and play it out. But we all make mistakes, and that’s okay. If you agree to something and then find it’s more than you bargained for and change your mind, you can stop it. Safe words, remember. Crucial. You can use your safe word to stop the action if you need to, if you’ve really had enough and can’t go on.”
“Have you ever had to stop it? Stop a scene, I mean. Use your safe word?”
“Yes, quite a few times, early on. While I was working out what my limits were. Experimenting you could say. Not for a few years now, though. Only once with Nathan. Never with Mike.”
“And Tom?”
“No. As far as I can recall Tom was fine. Sensitive. Tuned in.”
That strikes a chord, I remember what he said the other night, in bed, about being able to hear my heartbeat. Here’s independent testimony, corroborating evidence. My confidence is growing. This could be okay, could even be good.
Why? Good, how? What’s the appeal? To me?
“He didn’t hurt you, then?” Hope flares in my gut. Maybe I’ve been obsessing about nothing.
“Christ, yes. He’s a hard Dom, your Tom. Tough, demanding, very firm. But nice, respectful. And always very courteous. He certainly knew how to dish it out, though, and I slept on my stomach for two nights afterwards. He was into restraint in a big way and he was very much a whip man. And very, very good at it. If that’s still his style your back’s gonna take the brunt of it and you’ll be tied up a lot. I’m more of a cane girl myself, and I’ve got a nice fleshy bum. Absorbs the shock better. Nathan’s into caning, that’s why we always got on so well.”
Canes. Whips. Tied up a lot. Jesus Christ, what have I got into?
My eyes must be out on stalks, but Abbie just shakes her head, smiling at me around a mouthful of her spicy chicken and ham pizza.
“Come on, Ashley. You must have tried some of this already, got some idea what he likes.”
I think for a moment then nod. “He likes whips. I’ve seen them. And straps. And handcuffs. And, he tied me up, and blindfolded me. And, and…” I can hardly get the words out, never intended telling anyone about this. But with Abbie it seems sort of natural. And relevant. “He put an ice lolly inside me and then licked it out.” My voice has dropped, and Abbie has to lean across the table to hear me.
“Wow! And was it good?” Her question is soft, gently spoken.
“Yes. Yes, it was good. It was wonderful.” I’m whispering now.
“But?” Abbie’s prompt is equally quiet. But firm. She knows there’s more.
“But he scared me. I wasn’t expecting it, hadn’t agreed to it. He held me down until I stopped struggling.”
“Then what? What did he do when you stopped struggling?”
“He asked me if I wanted to stop. If I wanted to say my safe word.”
“Did you?”
“No. No, I didn’t. And it was fabulous after that.”
“Well then? It sounds as though he was right to push you. Wasn’t he? If you’d known what he planned to do you’d have probably said ‘no’ out of fear and missed out on a fabulous experience. Ashley, ice lollies don’t do any damage. A shock is not the same as being hurt. Injured I mean. ‘Hurt’ comes as part of the deal. It is the deal.”
I’m staring at her, wide-eyed, still grappling with all of this. “But he held me down. He forced me…”
“I thought you said he asked you about your safe word. Offered to stop?”
“He did. Eventually. But at first, it was… I was…”
“Force, pushing boundaries, the limits are—fuzzy. And Tom’s a hard Dom, he will come on strong. You need to be ready for that, be able to accept that about him.”
I sit for a few moments, thinking over her words. Tom did say more or less the same thing, and I’ve seen his Dom persona a couple of times now. I know he scares me to death—and that he also excites the hell out of me. Maybe he’s worth it. I glance back at Abbie, ready with my next question.
“Have you ever been hurt? I mean really hurt. Injured by a Dom?”
“Hurt, yes, every time. That’s what I’m there for. That’s what I want, what I’m looking for. I want to feel the burn, so to speak. But injured? No. I play with Doms I know, or know of, through a club or other network. If anyone did anything stupid, or outside the rules, it’d soon get round and no other sub would go near them. Doms have a lot to lose, their reputation is everything to them. Subs talk to each other, compare notes. And the Doms know we do. Hard, tough, stern, intimidating. That’s all good. Those are the things we submissives look for in a good Dom. Brutal even, is okay at a pinch. But cruelty? No. Dangerous? No.”
I just look at her, considering. ‘Feel the burn’. It makes some sort of sense, I guess. I’m silent, thinking, remembering… Remembering what? Then something clicks into place in my head, my light bulb moment.
I remember my early teens. I was a swimmer. A good swimmer. Fiercely competitive, I used to get up early and go to the pool before school. I trained hard, practiced, pushed myself, set myself targets and met them. Beat them, and set more, harder, more challenging. I was obsessed with getting better, faster, fitter. The swimming coach was impressed. Delighted even. I was going to win competitions for my otherwise fairly unremarkable comprehensive. I daresay she could already se
e the fake silverware stacking up in the cabinet in the hall. But I turned out to be a huge disappointment to her. I wasn’t interested. Nothing she could say could get me to co-operate. She begged, cajoled, threatened, even phoned my mother to enlist her support, but I refused point blank to have anything to do with organized, competitive swimming. I wouldn’t train with the rest of the team, had no interest at all in competitions or winning races. I just turned up at six-thirty every morning and swam as if my life depended on it.
I competed with myself. No one else. My goal was to better my own records, not out-swim anyone else. I wasn’t a team player, I didn’t care about the glory of my school. I was only in it for me. Selfish? Possibly. But that’s quite simply how it was. And suddenly—I remember the day it happened—I lost interest in swimming. I’d done it, got as good as I thought I genuinely could and it just wasn’t a challenge that interested and excited me anymore. So I simply stopped. No regrets, no big decision to quit, no angst. I just stopped and moved on to my next challenge. Which was art.
Never a natural academic, I nevertheless enjoyed art and it was the only GCSE I managed to get a decent result in. I threw myself into it totally. I went to art club and after school workshops, started prowling the galleries and museums around Gloucester, spent hours gazing at old masters and modern classics. I was enthralled by Hockney, captivated by Salvador Dali. I loved the earthy realism of Lowrie and later tried to replicate it with my first attempts at photography, those gritty urban photographic images. I experimented with sculpture, mainly clay. I tried out different artistic styles and my art teacher, like the swimming coach before her, reveled in it. I was good, a joy to teach, I suppose, looking back. I just absorbed all she had to offer, was hungry for more. Maybe that’s where the seeds of my current obsession with photography were sown. I’m back to being an artist, but now I paint digital portraits.
The core truth, though, at the heart of all this for me, is that I thrive on challenge. I need to have a goal, need to be striving to achieve something. And like Abbie, I need to ‘feel the burn’, to know I’m pushing myself, achieving more, better, bigger, faster, harder. And that’s what submission with Tom, for Tom, would be about for me. What it would offer me. It would be another set of goals to achieve, limits to exceed, targets to beat. Throw in the best sex I can ever imagine, and a lot that’s well beyond anything I could dream of—yet—and the heady cocktail is irresistible. And all this with a man I already know I love. Hell, bring it on. My lower abdomen clenches in anticipation. Christ!
In my flash of lucid honesty and self-awareness I can recognize that up to a point my relationship with Kenny was something to do with this character flaw in me. If indeed it is a flaw—I’m really not certain. It could be my finest quality if things turn out well with Tom…
Kenny was a bully and a thug. There was never a time, looking back, that he treated me well. He was always violent, selfish, mean, greedy. And I gave him what he wanted, accepted what he dished out. I left my safe, secure home and followed him to Bristol. I was unhappy, but I went back for more every time. The violence escalated, his meanness, his callous treatment of me built and grew, took root. Most of the time it was all our relationship consisted of. And I accepted it, invited it even. Until that last time, when he killed David. When I—God forgive me—let him kill David. That brought me to my senses, and I dropped Kenny and that crazy, self-destructive lifestyle as abruptly and as totally as I had earlier turned my back on swimming.
And now, for some reason, I’m about to re-enter that world of pain, with Tom. This time, though, it’s different. I’ve heard what Abbie told me about control, I’ve taken it on board. I know now much more about the power of the submissive to manage events, negotiate, to set the parameters. And I’ve come to know Tom. He’s safe. He’ll hurt my body—I’ll definitely feel the burn, but he’ll care for me. With Tom I’ll also know the tenderness, the sincerity. There’s a connection between us, he understands me. And I’m starting to understand him, his world. I want to join him in it. I do want to, I want it for me. I know I can get beyond my pain threshold, I’ve done that before.
But there’s still something not right here, something holding me back…
Abbie takes another bite of pizza, chews thoughtfully. “What else have you and Tom done so far?”
“Not much, not really. There were nipple clamps one time, a vibrator. That was nice. And we played strip chess.” I smile at her sheepishly. Her tales seem so much more exciting than mine. So far.
She cocks her head, smiles. “Strip chess—sounds like fun. What else?”
“Nothing. That’s it, really.”
“Ashley, what else? I know there’s more, something you’re worried about. Something else happened, didn’t it?”
She must know about the spanking. A thought strikes me. “Did Nathan tell you?”
“Nathan? No. Why? What’s he got to do with it?”
“Did he tell you about what Tom did? The first time? I know he didn’t approve. And I know you talked to him about me.”
“We didn’t talk. I texted Nathan to ask for a description so I could recognize you at the station. He texted back that you were a stunner, long black hair, slim. Something along those lines. Here, let me just…” She digs in her jacket pocket and pulls out her iPhone, taps the keys. “Here. This is what he said.” She pushes the phone at me.
Hi N, had a call frm ur frnd, Ashley. Mtng in York tomoz. What she look like. Or do I nd 2 wear a red carnation?
Hi Abs, thnx 4 this. Carnation not needed. Small, slim, very long blck hair. A stunner!
Wow, An improvement on ‘sex on a stick’ and ‘an arse to die for’ I suppose. Who’d have thought it?
“So, what is it that Nathan didn’t tell me? What didn’t he approve of?”
I wait, wondering. Can I? Should I? Especially with what she just said about a Dom needing to protect his reputation. Shit, I don’t want to get Tom into trouble. On the other hand, this is what’s at the root of my confusion. Tom scared me to death that day. And the day after.
My stomach drops, I shudder just remembering how helpless I felt that awful day, my humiliation, my vulnerability. If Tom and I are to get anywhere together I need to get past this, I need to understand what happened that time, and find a way to trust him. My head tells me I’m safe with Tom, but my heart keeps remembering the sheer terror of being made to lie across his knees while he spanked me. He hurt me, he really hurt me, and I’m stuck in that place. I need to talk to someone, get that whole thing into perspective if I can. Maybe talking to Abbie will be helpful. Therapeutic even. She may understand, might be able to help me see a way forward. It’s worth a shot.
“He spanked me.”
“Right…” Obviously not a big deal on Planet Abigail.
I take a deep breath, and blurt it out. “I didn’t agree to it. Well, I did, but not willingly. Not really…” I stop, and try to recall the tangle of fears, feelings, the confusion I still struggle with as I try to make sense of what really happened that day.
“He made me strip, and he put me over his knee. And he spanked me. A part of me enjoyed it, I think. And that’s what’s so weird, because I was scared, really scared, I had no idea what might happen next. He was so angry…” I glance up at her, wonder how she’s taking this. Maybe on Planet Abigail this is normal behavior too.
Then I can see at once that it’s not. Her face is incredulous, shocked, stunned. For a few moments she just stares at me, disbelief etched all over her features. She frowns, grappling with what I’ve shared, trying to understand. Rather like me, really.
Then, “Tom? Tom did that? He spanked you in anger?”
I nod and realize I’m twisting my fingers together on the table. Consciously I separate my hands, lay my palms calmly on the table top and fix my gaze steadily on hers.
“Yes. Tom did that.” My voice is firm now, and I’m finding her shocked reaction oddly comforting. At least now I know it’s not just me over-reacting. What happe
ned between Tom and me that first time we met—well, second time if I’m being totally accurate—was odd, off, not appropriate. Not even in Dom/sub-land.
“Why? Have you any idea why he would have done something so…outrageous? You said he was angry. Why was he so angry?”
I start to bristle and she’s on it straight away. She reaches for my hand, still lying on the table top, squeezes it gently. “Not that being angry is any excuse. He shouldn’t have laid a hand on you without your consent. No way. But, I’m just trying to understand the circumstances, how it happened.”
I can see that, and she’s right. The circumstances were pretty unusual. Tom did have every right to be angry, although perhaps not to express it in the way he did. I reflect back to that afternoon, and recall that spanking me was not his first choice, in fact. His original intention was to turn me in to the police and I begged him not to do that. I even hinted that I’d be prepared to have sex with him if he didn’t report me. He understood what I was offering but did not take me up on it. But he still relented—fell back on a more direct method of retribution instead.
Abbie is still watching me, curious, waiting for more explanation, anything to make sense of this bizarre tale. I have no real choice but to spill the beans. Anything less would be grossly unfair to Tom. And wouldn’t help me to settle my present dilemma.
So I tell her. I tell her what happened on that riverside footpath in Bristol, and my part in it. I explain that I met Tom again by chance, had no idea who my landlord was when I leased Smithy’s Forge, but he recognized me and he was furious, at first believing I’d somehow tracked him down and deliberately followed him to Yorkshire. I told her something of why I was so keen not to be brought to the attention of the police, but not about my suspended sentence. That hadn’t been relevant in Tom’s actions. Neither had baby David or my mother’s death so I skipped those parts too. What I did make clear was my reformed character status, that I was desperately sorry about what I’d done, and that I’d now moved on. Sort of. Was trying to.
