by Ashe Barker
“Yes,” I whisper my response, make no attempt to play hard to get. There’s absolutely no fight, no resistance in me. Maybe this is total submission, who knows?
“Put your hands above your head.” The Dom tone is clear, unmistakable. Demanding obedience.
I’m finding there’s a refreshingly simple quality to just handing control over to someone else. I do as I’m told, and he reaches for that evil strap again. I flinch, but this time he uses it to fasten my hands together before threading it around the bars of the headboard, securing me in place once more. He drops a brief kiss onto my lips then starts making his way down my body. Slowly. He nuzzles my breasts, opening his mouth wide around the plump fullness before nibbling my sensitive, hard nipples. I gasp, arching upwards into his mouth. He lightly bites first one engorged tip then the other, increasing the pressure until I squeal with pain. Or pleasure.
“Perfect for nipple clamps, maybe next time…” he murmurs before moving farther south.
He stops briefly at my belly button to tease it with the tip of his tongue then firmly spreads my thighs with his hands. He stops for a moment to gaze at me, at my most intimate places laid wide open for his inspection. Then his mouth is on me. All over me. He circles the entrance to my pussy with his tongue as a prelude to spearing it inside. I scream my pleasure as he tongue-fucks me swiftly, my body thrashing under his hands as he holds me firmly in place. He withdraws his tongue to replace it with one finger.
He slides that in and out, fast and deep, then he looks up and meets my eyes. “More?”
“Yes, yes please.”
“Then ask me for more, Ashley.”
Beyond anything even vaguely resembling dignity now I’m ready to plead. The slut in me completely unleashed, I beg, “Please, Tom. I need more. Please, more…”
“How much more, Ashley? One more finger? Two more?”
“Two!” I scream at him, twisting desperately, my inner muscles clenching as I try to force the pace. I have no chance, there’s no way he’s letting me influence events now.
But suddenly I have no need to. He slides two more fingers obligingly inside me and starts to thrust, angling them to increase the delicious pressure inside me. And as he does that he dips his head again, this time to take my clitoris between his lips. He flicks it with his tongue, once, twice, then closes his lips around it and sucks.
I come. It’s powerful and it’s swift, my consciousness shattering as the orgasm grips me, tosses me around and drops me back to earth again. Whilst I’m still reeling, before the ripples have even started to fade, he’s pulled his fingers from my pussy only to insert one, then two into my anus. Stretched, forced almost, I gasp with shock then calmly accept. I didn’t expect this, not so soon, but Christ, this does feel so good. I lie still, my legs spread wide as he gently works his fingers inside me, making sure of my full submission to this latest indignity before he uses his other hand to slowly insert two fingers back inside my pussy.
Near to exhaustion but helplessly content, I lie still, conscious now only of the tender, delicate caresses in my most private places. He angles his hand so his thumb is on my clit again, rubbing firmly, demanding one more orgasm. I have no option, the now familiar churning and clenching starting up again. This time, though, the peak seems to last longer, endlessly circling around me as I climax again and again. It seems as though any will, any resistance at all has now gone and I am his, to play with and control. And that’s absolutely fine by me.
I’m not sure, but I think I may have started to drift in and out of consciousness by the time he eventually slides his gentle, probing fingers from my body. But still he’s not done. Kneeling over me he unzips his jeans, and his huge erection is there for me to see, to touch if only my hands were free. With a wry smile he sees me straining against the heavy black leather around my wrists but he doesn’t release me. Instead he leans across me to grab a condom from the bedside table. He swiftly, expertly, rips the packet and unrolls the latex over his hard, thick cock then positions himself at my entrance, ready to fill me.
“Now you get fucked, baby. Very thoroughly. I’ve been waiting for this, it’ll be hard, and fast, and deep. Scream if you want to. Faint if you must.”
With no further ado he thrusts, and I jerk as my completely ready and extensively prepared body accepts him. He buries himself to the hilt, his balls swinging against my bottom as the head of his penis surges against my cervix. And I do scream, but not in pain. I scream because the sensation, the fullness is so intense, so all-consuming. As far as I can tell I don’t faint. I bring my knees up to open my legs wider, then hook my ankles together behind his back as he thrusts into me, relentless, hard, fast. I realize that this is for him now, for his pleasure rather than for mine but I don’t mind. I have a desperate, almost pathetic need to give him something, and he can take all of me.
Despite having already come more times than I’ve been able to count, I can hear my frantic sobs as I strain once more, unbelievably, toward orgasm, reaching for that peak just as his shout of pleasure drowns out my voice. I tumble over the cliff moments after he does, and we plummet back to the ground together.
Chapter Eight
“What are your plans for today?”
“Not sure. I suppose I should really go home, make sure everything’s okay at my cottage and get on with some work. And it’s about time I introduced Fred and Wilma to their new home…”
“Fred and Wilma?”
“The kittens.”
“Ah, right.”
We’re seated once more at Tom’s huge oak table in the farm kitchen. He’s been up since dawn, or even earlier for all I know, whilst I only dragged myself out of bed half an hour ago. I took a shower, still aching in newly discovered places after yesterday’s incredible experience in Tom’s bedroom, before ambling downstairs in search of coffee. No doubt attracted by the aroma, Tom strolled through the door just as I was pouring my first cup. I poured him one too, and we sat down companionably together.
Despite the intensity of our relationship, everything around Tom is easy, relaxed. Well, almost everything. The Dom stuff is anything but. Then he’s stern, intimidating. Downright scary. I find myself wondering which Tom is the real one.
“What are you thinking, Ashley?”
“What? What do you mean? Nothing.”
“What’s the puzzled look for? You were lost in thought just then, and not altogether happy thoughts, I’m guessing.”
God, how does he always know? “It was just, well, I was wondering…” I’m not sure how to explain or what it is I want to ask.
“You were wondering… What?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Really.”
“We’ll come back to it then. Now, how are your bruises from yesterday? Do you need me to rub in any more cream?”
He has a distinctly lascivious emerald glint in his eye and I can’t help giggling. Except, I never giggle. Or I never used to.
“No, I’m fine. No bruises.” And there aren’t.
I twisted and turned in front of the mirror in Tom’s bathroom this morning as I was drying off after my shower and couldn’t see so much as a red mark on my bum, though it’s still a little tender when I sit down. Nothing to bother me, though. Again, I’m baffled by how he’s able to do that, ramp up the pain to such an extreme then turn it off almost as quickly with no lasting effects. It shouldn’t be possible but clearly it is. I guess it just comes with practice. I have mixed feelings, if I’m honest, about all the subs who Tom has had before me, although neither one of us has a past to be entirely proud of. Not that Tom seems to harbor any misgivings about his previous relationships—if that’s the right term for whipping someone then fucking them senseless—and he’s managed to consign my sorry past to history where it belongs. So maybe we are starting with a sort of clean sheet.
Looking him in the eye, I firmly resolve that that’s how it’s going to be from here on in.
He regards me seriously as he asks his next question.
“So, would you do it again? Or something similar?” This is the killer question, I suppose, for the morning after the night before
I don’t hesitate. “Yes. Definitely.”
“Last night I cut the scene a little bit short. I won’t always do that. Sometimes I’ll push you, push you really hard. I can be—demanding, relentless.”
Tell me about it! I look at him, my gaze steady, serious. “I trust you. I really do. And I can always use my safe word. And last night you did slow down when I got a bit, well… You did the ‘amber’ thing.”
“I did indeed. And there’s always that. It’s my job, to get between you and disaster. And while we’re dealing in feedback, is there anything I did, or said to you, that you would never want me to do or say again? It’s always hard for a sub to make that sort of thing known during a scene, but you can tell me afterwards. I’m learning your limits too and I’ll try to respect them.”
I hadn’t expected this, although I suppose I should have. Tom’s hard, challenging, a stern Master, but he’s also a nice man. And there’s my puzzling dilemma again, I need to ask, articulate it somehow. I take a breath and this time I do better. “Which is the real you?” Well, marginally better.
Tom looks bewildered. “Excuse me?”
“Which is the real Tom Shore?”
He continues to regard me as though I’ve sprouted an extra head in the last couple of minutes or so.
I need to explain so I attempt to. “The one who beats me with a studded leather strap and refuses to make love to me until I plead, and intimidates me until I hardly dare look him in the eye? Or is this the real Tom, the man who asks if I’m okay, who gives me kittens and finds my father for me, who rescues me and takes care of me and…?” I pick up my cup, take a sip of the hot coffee and meet his gaze. Waiting.
Tom is leaning forward, his elbow on the table, his face propped on his hand, watching me, thinking. Then he smiles, leans back. “Let me ask you a question. A few questions, actually. Which is the real Ashley McAllister? Is she the timid, lonely woman who arrived here a few weeks ago, scared of her own shadow? Or is she the sassy, confident business woman, building her business up single handed, using her skill and intelligence to produce beautiful prints and sell them to make a living? Or is she the courageous, generous woman who risked her life to save a child? Or is she the sexy submissive who lay down across my bench while I thrashed her with a strap, then begged me to fuck her before she fell asleep in my arms? Which Ashley McAllister is sitting at my breakfast table now?”
I stare at him before the penny drops. “All of them. They’re all here. And I suppose all the Tom Shore’s are here too.”
“We’re all complicated people, love, in our own peculiar ways. Best not to over analyze, I think. Go with the flow, enjoy what’s on offer. So, last night, was there anything you really didn’t like? Apart from the obvious.”
His wry smile is teasing, and I find myself sharing it. Amazing.
“No, nothing. It was fine. We’re fine.”
He nods, briefly, and we finish our coffee in comfortable silence.
* * * *
“Will you be back tonight? To stay I mean, not just grab these two terrors?”
I glance up at Tom, lounging against his doorjamb as I pull my crash helmet over my head, intending to ride the quad back to Smithy’s Forge. I couldn’t work out a way of carrying the kittens safely on the bike so I’m going to come back in my car to collect them. I could have taken them home straight away, but because I knew I was intending to go to York, then coming back here probably, last night, I’ve yet to take them to Smithy’s Forge. So they’ve spent the last couple of days scurrying around Tom’s kitchen, driving his dogs crazy. The two collies seem quite horrified at the invasion but they are stoic creatures and they know better than to throw their weight around in Tom’s house. They apparently have no problem at all with the concept of “Master,” and I’m beginning to appreciate that I don’t either. Who knew?
I glance back at him, smiling. I intended to come back later anyway, but I’m pleased that he’s asking me. Not taking it for granted I’ll be there. “Do you want me to? I mean, I know you’re used to having the place to yourself…”
“Well, I can stand it if you can.” Then, “We both live alone, I guess you like your own company too.”
“Well, yes…” Liar! I hate my own company these days. I live alone through necessity. I should have been living with my mother. And David. But I don’t say any of that, I don’t want to crowd him, outstay my welcome. And I definitely don’t want to look desperate.
He continues, strolling out to help me onto the bike. “I prefer your company to my own, Ashley. I’d like you to come back later, bring your laptop and whatever else you need. You can work here, there’s plenty of space.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll be back on Friday anyway. To clean…”
His quick interruption takes me by surprise. “No, no you won’t. That’s finished. You’re not my cleaner, not anymore.”
I gape at him. My Fridays mean everything to me, my regular visits up here, a chance to chat to the Appleyards if they’re around, look out for visitors and tourists, have breakfast with Tom. Even making small talk with his daft dogs is better than talking to myself. I’m, horrified at the prospect I may not be able to do that anymore. “What do you mean? Am I fired? On what grounds?”
He smiles at me, shoving my clumsy fingers aside to adjust my helmet strap. “Not fired. Promoted.”
“Promoted? What’s my new job title then?”
“Lover. Sub with benefits. Whatever. You choose. But you’re not a servant here. Definitely not.”
Logically I know it’s probably okay, I’m going to be here even more than in the past, as long as my relationship with Tom continues. And that’s just it, I suppose, I do like the sex, and all the rest of what’s apparently on offer in Tom’s bedroom, as well as his pleasant, easy company. But what if we were to fall out? Or—more likely—what if he was to wise up to what a useless sub I am and decide to replace me? Then I’d be out and alone again. I need my job, it’s that simple. So I gear up to fight for it.
“You can’t do that. I love that job, I like cleaning this place. It gives me time to think, to plan my projects. It’s—therapeutic.” I’m stretching the point somewhat but needs must.
“It might be therapeutic but it’s not healthy.”
As I bristle, obviously intending to take serious issue with him, Tom the Dom raises one stern finger and I’m silenced instantly.
“If it means that much to you, there’s only one way I’m going to allow you to continue cleaning Greystones.”
“Yes, what’s that then?” My tone was mutinous, but he’s not backing down.
“You can continue, on condition you live here too.”
“What?” I’m absolutely incredulous. He’s only known me a matter of weeks, and most of that time he hasn’t even liked me. Well, I thought he didn’t. He’s only really known me for a few days. And, if I’ve understood him right, he’s asking me to move in. Not possible, I must have misunderstood. I stare at him, my jaw working like a goldfish. He just laughs.
“You heard. Even under that bloody crash helmet. I want you to move in here. With me.”
I wrestle the helmet off my head again and in typical Ashley style blurt out the first thing that comes into my head. “What, so you can batter me every night?”
He takes my face between his palms to hold me still, his green gaze fastened on my bemused one. He smiles sardonically. “Every night. And twice on Sundays, yes. And I prefer to call it topping.”
“But you, but I can’t… What about my cottage? I leased it for a year.”
“Yes you can. Keep the cottage on if you want. Sub-let it. Or I’ll give you a refund.” He moves in close, tips my face up and kisses me lightly. “And no, it’s not just so you can sub for me the whole time, even if you are consumed with enthusiasm for your new talents. Christ, you’d be dead in a week if I left it up
to you. It’s because I like you, I like having you around. I want you here, Ashley. Please.”
He likes me. It’s a start, I can work with that. It’s a lot more than I ever got out of Kenny. So, when he puts it like that…
I smile, kiss him back and throw caution to the winds. I’ve learnt by now to grab an opportunity when it presents itself, and in any case I have a very, very good feeling about Tom Shore.
“You can hang on to my kittens. I’ll go and get my things.”
* * * *
I offered to cook dinner on our first night officially ‘together’. Tom likes to eat well so wisely declined. Instead we enjoyed a very acceptable meal of grilled lamb steaks, chips and salad, prepared by Tom whilst I busied myself finding space in his wardrobe for my clothes and shoehorned my bits and pieces alongside his in the bathroom and on the dressing table. My tampons next to his shaving gear, my deodorant next to his shampoo. This is a level of domestic bliss I’ve never before experienced or achieved. My mother’s house doesn’t count, I just took that for granted like all children do. And I never had a home with Kenny, just a place to crash.
After our meal we chilled on the huge sofa in Tom’s—our—lounge. Deep, seductive kisses, Tom’s hands inside my clothes, fondling, exploring, possessive. And my hands all over his cock, his balls, his tight athletic arse, his jeans unzipped and shoved aside to let me at him. Despite all this, neither one of us was in any hurry to take the foreplay to the next level. Yet.
Tom even got up and turned on the television. We watched the ten o’clock news between kisses and gropes, both of us very, very aroused but not yet ready for orgasm. Eventually, both naked, both tingling with anticipation and undisguised lust, Tom stood, reached down and picked me up, threw me over his shoulder unceremoniously and started for the door. I wriggled. He slapped my bare bottom, hard. I stopped wriggling.
Now, in the bedroom, Tom drops me onto the bed before strolling over to pull forward a chair from below the window. He sits, gloriously naked, splendidly erect, watching me. “Time for your practical examination, Ashley. To see if you were paying proper attention to my careful demonstration yesterday. Go and get the vibrator. You’ll find it in the bathroom.”
