by Ashe Barker
“Where? Why do I…?” I wearily force my eyes open, peer up at him from my warm cocoon.
Tom smiles back at me, drops a quick kiss on my lips. “Good morning, lovely Ashley. Did you sleep well?”
“I’m still sleeping well, if you’d just bugger off and leave me alone,” I mutter my grumpy greeting. Not a morning person, me.
He chuckles, moments before he snatches the cozy duvet away from me. I screech, grab for it, and suddenly we’re wrestling on the bed, me naked, him fully dressed. It’s a one-sided struggle and in no time I’m on my back, my wrists secured over my head and his lips around my left nipple. I lie still, not sure if I like this or not, then bow to the inevitable. He releases my wrists as I stop struggling. Then he turns his attention briefly to my other nipple. Just as it begins to get really good he stops, lifts his head, and carefully pulls my duvet over me again.
I try to sit up, to push the duvet away, but he’s having none of it.
“Be patient, Ashley. It’s bad enough if students are late for lectures, but unforgivable for the tutor to roll up at all hours. I’ll make it up to you later.”
“You shouldn’t start what you can’t finish.” My tone is mutinous now.
“Ah, but we both know I can finish it. And I will. Later. I wanted your attention and I’ve found sucking your gorgeous little nipples always works. So, now I have your attention, here’s the plan. I’ll be back around five, and I’d like you to be here, naked, your hair up, ready to play. We’ll be using the cross again, as I promised you yesterday. Okay?”
I nod, fully awake now. Again? Yes!
“You’ll find a selection of whips in the chest at the bottom of the bed. I want you to choose one, any one, it’s up to you. Afterwards, if you like, we can go out. Maybe take in a club if you’re still interested. Or not. You might prefer to just crawl back into bed. I do intend to stretch your limits of endurance a little today, love. I’ll understand if you’re exhausted by the time we’ve finished. In fact I guarantee you will be. I’m just not sure yet what your powers of recovery are.”
I stare at him then shrug. Powers of recovery indeed! If it bloody kills me I’m going out clubbing tonight. “Fine, I’ll be ready. Don’t be late!” Then, “Which way into town?”
“There’s a doorman by the front entrance, he’ll point you in the right direction. I’ll leave the key card on the table by the door, you’ll need to use it, and the key code, to get back in. That’s on a Post-it note with the card. Don’t lose it. Any problems, Nathan’s office is downstairs. He’ll be there all day as far as I know, or one of his staff will help you out.”
“Nathan’s here?” I start to leap out of bed, not wanting to be caught without my clothes on. Well, not by anyone but Tom.
He grabs me around the waist. “Relax, he’s at work. His company offices are on the eighth floor. He knows we’re here and he won’t disturb us. I’m just letting you know he’s nearby if you need anything. Or you can text me.”
“Won’t he need his apartment? I mean, I know he stays here mid-week sometimes…”
Tom grins. “This is Nathan’s fuck pad, not his home. It’s convenient sometimes for him to stay over but he’ll manage without it for a day or two.” He kisses me briefly, stands up. “Right, I’m off. Have a nice day, and I’ll see you later.”
I lounge around in bed until about eleven, drinking coffee and eating toast—the extent, pretty much, of my culinary capability. And Nathan Darke’s toaster is perfectly well-behaved. No lumps of charcoal in his pristine kitchen, they wouldn’t dare.
Eventually I get up, shower then get dressed. By twelve I’m in the lobby getting directions from a very polite elderly gentleman in smart gray livery. He offers to call me a taxi but I’d prefer to walk. He points out the footbridge across the river Aire, and the waterside path leading right into the city center, and I set off in the brisk chill of an early spring day.
Marks and Spencer is indeed only a ten minute walk, Harvey Nichols another five or so on top. I’m not particularly a shopaholic—I do need to be in the mood. But today I am. I buy a pair of shoes from Schuh, lovely white and cream strappy sandals with a four-inch spike for a heel, and a really nice dress from Planet. Silk, knee length, a low back and prim neckline, sex kitten from the back, Sunday school from the front, in a gorgeous chocolate brown color. Not clubbing gear, but who knows, we may find ourselves at a nice restaurant and I want to look the part.
Not clubbing gear! Christ, what is? What on earth do people wear to places like that? Black leather? A corset? Nothing at all? I grab my phone from my pocket and text Tom in a blind panic.
Where can I buy kinky club gear?
His reply comes back almost immediately.
No need. Sorted already. Check top drawer.
I should have known.
I arrive back at the apartment by four o’clock, dump my carrier bags and dive straight in the shower. I want to pamper myself before my next encounter with Tom’s whip hand. I’m looking forward to it, I think. Yes, yes I am. But still, a bit of TLC is called for, my body’s taken a battering and there’s more to come.
Eleven strokes yesterday—if I counted right. In Nathan Darke’s luxurious bathroom I wriggle around in front of the floor-length mirror trying to see how badly marked my back and shoulders are. I needn’t have bothered, the whole room is lined subtly with tinted mirrors, carefully positioned to reflect me from every direction and angle. And there’s not a mark on me as far as I can see. Possibly a slight reddening across my shoulders, no more than that. Abbie said Tom was a whip man, he’s certainly perfected his art.
I nip in the shower first to wash my hair. It’s so long it always takes ages to rinse and a bath is no good at all for that. I shampoo and condition it quickly then wrap it in a fluffy white towel. I clean my teeth whilst the bath is running, and cheekily help myself to a generous dollop of bath oil I find in the cabinet. It’s a truly magnificent bath, made of polished teak and occupying pride of place right in the middle of the huge bathroom. It’s at least four feet high on the outside, maybe three feet deep inside and has three steps leading up to it. Even then I suspect it’ll be a stretch to climb in. I’m determined to make it, though.
I watch the bubbles build as the hot water foams up, the aromatic scent of vanilla and oranges wafting around the bathroom, and eventually I decide it’s time to go for it. I consider grappling hooks but manage to climb up the short flight of steps without mishap. There’s a long, solid chrome bar on the inside to help bathers keep their balance, and I’m glad of it as I maneuver myself down into the warm bubbles. I’ve seen stuff like this in interior design magazines but never in the flesh. It’s absolutely wonderful, especially when I discover the switch under the rim that activates the Jacuzzi. I sigh, lying back to float in the foaming water, absorbing the pungent, fruity aroma of the bath oil I liberated.
The tension floats from my body. I imagine my cares and fears fizzling away in the bubbling, frothy water. I’m light, weightless, drowsy, drifting…
* * * *
“Would you like me to wash your back?”
“Mmmm…?” I’m moving—strong hands lifting me—then sinking as I settle back into place in the now cooling water. Tom’s in the bath too, behind me, my back resting against his chest.
“Ashley, you’re getting all wrinkled…”
“What…? Oh, my God!” I wake up fully, splashing and spluttering, in a blind panic. I’m late, he’ll kill me…
“Whoa, love, you’ll drown us both.” Tom’s hands are on me, holding me steady as I thrash about trying to leap out of the bath.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I wail. “I just fell asleep.”
“Yes, I saw.”
“You told me to be ready for you. I’m sorry, I will be, I’ll just…”
“Ashley, I call this ready. Or near enough. Relax, you’re splashing water over the side.”
I’ll never understand Doms. Never. One minute he can be totally uncompromising, str
ict, downright scary in fact, taking issue with even the smallest thing, spanking me so hard that time in the barn that I couldn’t sit down for hours, just for being slightly cheeky. And another time so cool and tolerant when I screw up royally. Still, it’s the here and now that matters, and here and now I have my Dom in a playful mood. This is the Master I like best. I allow myself to relax back against his chest as he slips his hands around me to cup my breasts. He must have arrived back and let himself in, come looking for me, found me fast asleep in this swimming pool of a bath, and decided to join me. He’s undressed and slipped in behind me and seems to be in fine spirits. Very domestic, I try for some small talk.
“How did your lecture go?”
“Fine.” He massages my breasts and I groan contentedly. “And your shopping?”
“Great. I got some killer shoes. And a posh dress.”
“Yes, I saw the bags as I came in. Are you planning to go somewhere that you’ll need a posh dress for?”
“Well, yes, I thought, maybe we could, I don’t know, go out for a meal sometime. Or to a show. Or, well somewhere…”
“Sounds good. I like the theater. What about you?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never been to a theater…”
“Well, we’ll have to put that right.”
I blurt out my next stupid question without thinking, “Do you usually take subs to the theater?”
He stiffens behind me, then, “Nope, that would be a first for me. I’ve never drowned one in a bath either, but I could be tempted.”
“I’m sorry, I just…”
I know he’s had more subs than I can count, and I know there’s only me now. But I can’t help my insecurities, they surface every so often ready to sabotage my best intentions. Suddenly miserable, I try to turn to him, to apologize properly. His hands close firmly around me, holding me still. He slides his hand up from my breast to cup my chin, tilting my head to the side to expose my neck. He nibbles it, playful again. He blows a raspberry of all things!
“Where’s all this coming from, babe? You know you’re not just a sub to me. You live with me, Ashley, you share everything. You’re not just a casual partner, a sub who I tie up and fuck occasionally. We’re twenty-four-seven. This is—different, between you and me. You must realize that.”
“I do, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s nothing to do with me what you’ve done before…”
“Ashley, we’ve both screwed other people, me more than you, I grant you that, but still…”
“Did you always make love to your subs? In the past I mean. It’s just that Abbie said…” It really is none of my business. But somehow, I just can’t help asking, piling on the misery.
He sighs, exasperated, but answers anyway, “Make love? Interesting choice of word. But the answer’s yes, pretty much, as far as I can remember. Dom/sub relationships are usually about sex—well, they always are for me. I want sexual submission, but you must have noticed things are much more equal otherwise, in every other way. I’m not looking for a slave, I find all that a bit—uncomfortable. But I always want my sub to be naked when I top her, so that pretty much guarantees she’ll get fucked. That goes for you too. And remember, baby, it’s not who we fucked before that matters, is it, Ashley? It’s who we’re fucking now that counts. And who we fuck last. And speaking of which…”
He shifts, his large erection pressing against my bottom. It occurs to me that it might be nice to…
Ah, yes. He lifts me effortlessly in the water, positions his cock at my entrance, and places me down again firmly. He slides inside, I sigh. This is so good, so bloody good. He lies still, using his hands to ease me up and down on his huge shaft. The angle seems strange at first, not quite what I want, but I shift slightly to get it right, to make sure he hits that spot each time. I’d like him to stroke my clit too, but realize he doesn’t have a hand free. But I do. I wonder if I could, if he’d mind if I…
Only one way to find out. I lower my hand, slide it between my legs and carefully take my clit between my thumb and finger. Nervously I look back over my shoulder to see if he’s noticed. Idiot girl, nothing goes on that Tom doesn’t know about.
He winks at me and mouths one word. “Enjoy.”
I do enjoy, several times. It’s a good half an hour later that I finally clamber from the bath, leaving Tom soaking in the last of the bubbles whilst I go and do what I should have done earlier. Prepare myself to be whipped.
When Tom emerges fifteen minutes later I’m dried, my hair still slightly damp but fastened securely on top of my head. I’m naked, standing obediently beside the St Andrew’s cross, waiting to be strapped to it. I’ve chosen a whip from the chest and placed it on the bed, neatly coiled. This one’s black, made of leather, with six strands. Each one has a small metal bead on the end. It looks—cruel, but I’m confident Tom will manage it expertly, keep it under control.
Tom strolls across the room, a towel tied around his hips. He glances at the whip coiled on the bed then looks wryly at me. His doubtful expression suggests I may have made a poor choice but what do I know? Still without a word to me he drops the towel and picks up his jeans. He pulls them on, no underwear, and zips them up. He leaves the button open, picks up a bottle of water from the bedside table—he must have dumped it there when he first came in—and I recall his insistence that I sip water frequently during our scenes together. He offers the bottle to me but I shake my head swiftly. He shrugs and walks slowly to me.
He stands close to me, towering over me, and I’m intimidated by his nearness, his height. I often forget the difference in our sizes but I’m left in no doubt at this moment. Intentional? Yes, certainly. I resist the urge to step back as I suspect that would earn me some retribution. Despite his words on the subject, though, when he’s in Dom mode, in practice Tom doesn’t seem especially big on punishment and obedience. Not always anyway, but I’m not risking it today.
“Looking good, my beautiful Ashley,” he murmurs and smiles swiftly at me.
I’m intensely relieved. I want him in a good mood when he’s whipping me. I wait for him to make it clear what I’m to do next. I expect him to position me on the cross, secure my wrists and ankles, but instead he takes my hand, draws me across to the bed. He sits on the edge and tugs me onto his lap. His hands are in my hair, and I have visions of having to fasten it up all over again before long. He’s in charge, though, so I turn in to him, nuzzle my lips against his chest, enjoying this rare opportunity in one of our scenes to actually touch him.
“I made a mistake. I told you to choose a whip. I shouldn’t have.” His words, which are gently murmured into my ear, come as a surprise.
“What do you mean? I did choose. I did as you asked.” My heart rate is increasing. Just the suggestion I may not have pleased him is enough to distress me, not through fear, but because I so desperately want his approval. I don’t want to disappoint him.
His hands are soothing, caressing my back. I start to relax—if he was displeased with me he’d say so. Tom doesn’t play mind games. So now I’m puzzled, confused.
“I shouldn’t have left the choice to you, because you don’t have the experience, the knowledge, to be able to anticipate what each whip can do. What it’s like, what it’s meant for. The one you’ve chosen, sweetheart, would crush you.”
“Would it? I mean…”
He places a finger over my lips to silence me, gentle but firm. He’s not about to accept any argument, I am under no illusions that this will not be up for debate. He does, however, seem inclined to offer more explanation.
“That whip is heavy, six strands which means six times as painful. Every stroke would land on you in six different places. And those beads would leave bruises. A lot of bruises. That’s a punishment whip, and even then it’s intended to discipline a much more experienced sub, one who’s earned a seriously harsh punishment. Or a male submissive possibly. It’s not what I want for you, Ashley, not today. Probably not ever.”
“I co
uld safe word…”
“Baby, you’d have to. But not before you were really hurting, really beaten. If I did that to you and tried to call it fun, you’d hate me. You’d never be able to trust me again. And you’d be right. So I’m going to choose for you, something with a sting, but sweet too. Something you’ll like. Okay?”
I gulp, only now starting to realize how dependent I am on my Dom to keep our play safe and sane. Christ, I’m not fit to be let out. I nod gratefully, my face still pressed against his hard chest. In no hurry to proceed yet, he just tightens his arms around me, holding me as I regain my equilibrium. Eventually he tips my chin up with his fingers, and I see real tenderness in his eyes as he holds my gaze.
“I know you want to push your limits, Ashley, set big goals and meet them. You will, I promise you. I’ll push you to more amber from now on, force the pace more than I have. You will be using that safe word. It’s what I want too. You know how much I love to hear you scream…” His smile is mischievous but not entirely so.
I know he’s upping the ante, but he’ll do it safely. It will be informed, consensual. And it’ll bloody well hurt, a lot, from here on in. I see that promise too, in his eyes, just before he kisses me.
Chapter Fourteen
I wait, cradled in Tom’s lap, for further instructions. My patience is soon rewarded as he stands, places me back on my feet and gestures for me to turn to face the cross. He wastes no time in fastening the straps around my wrists and ankles, my arms and legs spread wide as they were yesterday. He steps back, regards me coldly. Then he moves away. I expect him to select a whip, his choice this time, and return to take up his position behind me, but instead he stretches out on the bed. He makes himself comfortable, propping pillows behind him to lean casually against the headboard. I twist my neck to watch him over my left shoulder, puzzled and unnerved by this shift in procedure. I thought I knew what to expect from this. It seems I don’t.
