by Ashe Barker
“Yes. Yes, please…”
“Please what? And you need to be polite. Respectful.”
“Please, Sir, I want you to touch me.” The second word is ground out as I writhe in frustration, but it seems I’ve done enough to be rewarded.
He leans over me to snag the clit clip from alongside me on the duvet where it’s fallen during our exertions so far. He reaches behind him to snag a tube of lubricant from the bottom of the bed and proceeds to smear a liberal coating over the clit clip. Satisfied, he glances back at me.
“You look nervous, Ashley. You’re chewing your lip.”
I make a conscious effort not to, but soon abandon it as his eyes drop again to the super sensitive little bud, quivering optimistically between my widely spread legs, shamelessly swollen, unsuspecting. Despite my nervousness my arousal is almost at fever pitch, and very obviously so. Moisture is pooling beneath me on the pillows.
Tom glances back at me, one eyebrow raised. “Your eyes tell me you’re scared, but I’m guessing you’re happy enough so far.”
He draws his finger slowly across the very tip of my clit, so lightly I can barely feel it but enough to bring me to quivering attention. I moan, stretch against his hand, trying to ramp up the friction, desperate for my release which will be instantaneous the moment he touches me again. Really touches me.
And the bastard knows it. He smiles at me, the clip in his hand. He holds it up for me to look at, slippery with the lube. “Would you like to see this hugging your pretty little clit? Let me help you.” He picks up a mirror, the magnifying type you might have in the bathroom, for shaving or makeup. He places it on the pillow just below my bum, angles it, his questioning gaze checking mine until I signal he’s found the perfect position.
And I have a perfect, unrestricted view of my vagina, my clitoris, the glistening lips and sensitive, rosy flesh almost glowing. I study myself in fascination, mesmerized by my naked beauty.
“Wow, I look so, so…” My voice is just a whisper, wondrous.
“So beautiful. Beautiful, sexy, sensual. And very, very ready.” Tom’s tone is low, soft, seductive like deep velvet. He drops his head to kiss my clit, then the lips of my vagina, the gesture reverent rather than arousing, before turning back to me. “You are such a pretty sight, my love. So beautiful…”
He gently cradles my clit between the fingers of his left hand, ready to slide the clip into position. He opens the arms slightly by nudging his right forefinger between them.
“This is meant to enhance, not hurt. If it feels tight, that’s good, but if it’s painful you tell me. Okay?”
I nod, poised, watching in the mirror as he gently, carefully, eases the clip into place and releases the arms to close around me. I gasp, not sure what I was expecting. Pain probably, but not this firm, tight pressure. Tom takes his hands off me, sits back, admires me. I do too, the small beads dangling alongside my pussy as if in welcome. Apparently of the same mind Tom slides first one, then two fingers inside me, careful not to brush against my clit as he twists his fingers and angles them, stretching my inner walls. I watch, admiring the way my lips part to accept him, and conscious that every movement he makes causes the clip to move, to tug and squeeze my clit. The pressure is restricting the blood flow and causing the exposed tip to swell even more. I know, just know, that if Tom touches me there I’ll detonate. Completely unable to help myself I groan Tom hears, knows, and at last takes pity. He leans in and flicks my clit with his tongue.
My world explodes. Literally, shatters. I scream, my ecstasy completely beyond any control or boundaries. Immobile, I can only lie there while wave after wave of intense, scorching pleasure twists and surges through me, my every sense centered on my clitoris as Tom continues to gently massage the exposed bud with his tongue. Always sensitive, already aroused, it now feels to be alight, tingling, electrified, every sensation heightened beyond imagining. I’m convulsing franticly, my pussy clenching hard and sharp around his fingers, three plunged deep as my orgasm goes on, and on, and on.
At last, my world slows, my consciousness returns. I’m aware, once more, of where I am. And Tom’s still touching me, still slowly sliding his fingers in and out of my pussy He glances at me, catches my unfocused gaze, smiles, before returning to his task. He withdraws his fingers only to slide them down to my anus, slowly slipping first one, then two inside there. I gasp, overwhelmed by pleasure and I’m completely beyond any resistance now. I’m his to use as he wishes, and I know he’s about to fuck me there. I can see that the clip is too close to my pussy, and we both need the penetration, the connection.
He comes to kneel between my legs, works more lube into me before placing the head of his cock against my loosening sphincter. He takes no further time to prepare me, just pushes hard and enters me. He plunges deep, embedding himself fully, thrusts once, twice, before trailing his thumb over my clit once more.
And my world simply shatters again. I cry out, clenching madly while he continues to stroke my clit and fuck me, and my body spasms around him. I’m dimly aware of why he so totally immobilized me. The intensity is close to unbearable and if I could move my every instinct would be screaming for escape. But I can’t move, so if I want him to stop, then only my safe word will do it. And that requires a conscious decision, not an instinctive reaction.
So, I remain perfectly still, open, exposed, and fucking loving it.
Chapter Seventeen
“Who’s Louisa Davenport?”
“Excuse me?”
“Louisa Davenport. It’s her Bible in the drawer.”
We’re curled up together on the bed, exhausted, the clit clip now innocuously lying on the bedside table, its work done. Tom pulls me in closer, my bottom snuggled against his now softened penis. As usual he’s cupping my breast with his hand. He kisses my shoulder, nuzzling my loosened hair. I can’t see him but I know he’s smiling. And his mind is most definitely not on Louisa Davenport.
I nudge him gently with my elbow, curious. “Louisa, who is she?”
He groans, but answers me, “Rosie’s mother, I think. Does it matter?”
“Ah.” I have lots more questions but it seems rude to quiz Tom.
He takes pity on my rampant curiosity though and offers a little more. “She died. About five years ago. I guess the Bible’s hers and Nathan kept it. Probably for Rosie when she’s older.”
“She was his wife? Yes?”
“Briefly. It was before I knew him. All I know is she died and he adopted Rosie.”
“Adopted? She’s not his daughter then?”
“Not biologically. But in every way that matters now.”
“I see.” And another thought occurs to me, something that’s been at the fringes of my mind for weeks, ever since I eavesdropped on their conversation in the kitchen at Greystones when they discussed me, and Tom warned Nathan off. “So, who’s Eva then?”
Tom sighs, obviously not keen to dish the dirt on his friend. Can’t say I blame him, but still, who else can I ask? At first I think he’s not going to indulge me, but eventually he relents.
“Eva lived at Black Combe for a few weeks, last summer. Nathan fell for her big style, absolutely adored her from what I could see. And it seemed to be mutual, but suddenly she upped and disappeared. Just left. I’ve no idea why. Nathan might know, but if he does he hasn’t told me. He was devastated, Rosie too. It’s been a few months now and I honestly don’t think she’ll be back, and I’m not sure Nathan’s ever going to get over it. I’m pretty sure he’s not touched another sub since.”
“Oh, she was his… Like me and you?”
“Well, he’s a Dom same as me, so yeah, I’d say so. They spent a lot of time here, so…”
Nathan’s little BDSM hideaway in Leeds—seems pretty conclusive then. And despite our differences in the past I know what it’s like to lose someone you love, suddenly, with no warning, with no chance to say goodbye. Nathan Darke suddenly seems much more human now.
My own Dom, however, is b
eginning to sound a little tetchy. “Is that the end of the inquisition? Can I get some sleep now? You’re the most demanding submissive I’ve ever come across. Sorry, in. And I’ve got to face Les Mis tomorrow.”
I giggle, turn in his arms, snuggle up to him, my breasts squashed against his hard chest. And we sleep.
* * * *
The last few weeks have been some of the best I can ever remember. The second quarterly payment from my investment in Gloucester arrived in April, and sales of my work in Haworth are building up nicely. The initial trickle of interest and occasional sale have developed into a pretty brisk trade, particularly as the tourists have started to flock back by the coachload after the winter. Dozens of my prints are even now gracing living room walls in such far flung places as Tokyo and New York as the Brontës attract their regular flow of international pilgrims ready to buy up local souvenirs. So, I’m well and truly solvent and look like staying that way.
I can’t even find much to spend my newfound wealth on as Tom is incredibly reluctant to let me pay my way at Greystones. I can’t even sneak in occasional bags of shopping as Tom gets Mr Tesco to deliver heavy or not very interesting stuff such as dishwater tablets and toilet rolls about once a fortnight, and the rest of what we need comes from Grace Richardson’s well-stocked larder at Black Combe. Apparently they have some strange arrangement where she buys enough to feed an army, and when he runs short of stuff Tom goes over there, helps himself and leaves a hundred quid on the table. It works, and I know better than to interfere.
My portfolio of West Yorkshire moorland panoramas is pretty much stuffed to overflowing so I’ve started to expand my horizons somewhat. I spent a few days in the Peak District around Easter time, just me touring around a few B&B’s, taking pictures and checking out the tourist hubs for suitable outlets. I’ve now got a few prints in a gallery in Tideswell, and I’m talking to an antiques and fine art dealer in Bakewell. Not sold anything yet, but it’s early days. It looks hopeful, so my business seems to be expanding. A bit more time needed to really establish myself in the Peak, then on to the Yorkshire Dales I think, or maybe the Lakes.
And Tom is wonderful. I am so totally in love it’s soppy. He’s kind to me, generous, gentle, he’s fun, he makes me laugh and he makes me scream. There’s a lot of screaming in truth, and my bum is pleasantly sore much of the time. I can have more orgasms in one good evening with Tom than I did in all the years I spent with Kenny. The sex is inventive, exciting, and off-the-scale kinky. I’ve even built up an impressive collection of my own clit clips, which Tom’s particularly pleased about as it means he gets to fuck my arse. I’d be happy enough to let him clit clips or not, but still…
And now, it’s May. I’ve been living with Tom for about five months, and it’s just getting better and better. My business is going well, my love life even peachier. I’m actually humming to myself as I tinker with some soft focus atmospheric shots of the Derbyshire Dales, looking forward to Tom coming home. He and Nathan had to go to Preston today to meet with their legal team to deal with some final details for the contracts relating to the music festival planned for September. It wasn’t his usual early start so we had an extra couple of hours in bed this morning which we put to good use, although the stripes have faded to almost nothing now. I still can’t work out how he does that, how he can wield a leather strap to extract every last sting and burn of pain, bring me almost to the point of safe wording, then a few hours later my skin is virtually unmarked. I’m just turning this conundrum over in my head when my phone rings. I glance at the tiny screen. It’s Tom.
“Hi.” I’m beaming, just anticipating the sound of his voice is enough to have me grinning like an idiot.
“Hi, yourself. Listen, Ashley—are you busy?” His tone sounds serious.
I relax my grip on the computer mouse, he has my full attention.
“Just doing some final edits. Nothing that can’t wait.”
“Oh, good, you’re at home then.”
“Mmm, why?”
“I need a favour. Well, Nathan does really. Could you nip down to Oakworth and pick Rosie up from school at quarter past three?”
I glance at the clock. It’s just turned quarter to. If I’m going to be in time I’ll need to leave now. “Yeah, sure. No problem. Why? Are you delayed in Preston? What about Grace?”
There’s an uncomfortable silence and I can tell he’s wondering how much he can say, what to tell me. “Er, no. We’re here, at Black Combe. All of us. It’s a bit, well, awkward. Something’s happened. Something really weird.”
“Tom, you’re scaring me.”
“Sorry, love, it’s nothing like, well, nothing to do with us. Except it is. Oh, God, I’m just making this sound worse.” He hesitates, then, “Eva’s back.”
Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:
The Dark Side: Darkening
Ashe Barker
Excerpt
Chapter One
Don’t you just love Beethoven?
Well, I do. I always have, since I was tiny. I’m just drifting along nicely to his Symphony Number 3 in E-flat major and contemplating the heroic doings of Napoleon Bonaparte—apparently Beethoven’s inspiration for this particular symphony—as my mobile starts trilling. Definitely need to choose a new ringtone sometime soon—this din could be mistaken for a budgie caught in a car door. What could I have been thinking, choosing that? Napoleon never had ringtones to contend with. Neither did Ludwig van. And I don’t appreciate the interruption.
It’s not even seven o’clock in the evening yet, and I am curled up in bed. I am surrounded by archaeology textbooks although I’m not in the mood for serious reading, and I do have Ludwig for company. But still—in bed by seven and trying to teach myself about the mysteries of ancient Egypt out of sheer boredom is just pathetic. I so need to get a life.
The phone has somehow disappeared under the duvet. I know it’s there somewhere because the budgie’s still screaming its silly head off. It gets louder after a few rings. God, what overpaid nerdy whiz-kid thought that little gimmick up? A pushy phone—that’s all I need. I get enough nagging from my mother. ‘I just want what’s best for you, dear…’
“Sod ringtones.” Now I know I’m losing it, because I’m actually talking to myself. I suppose the real danger sign is if I start answering. An uncomfortable thought. I shudder as I shove it brutally aside. I’m fine, absolutely fine. Now.
On that thought, I finally get my hands on the screeching HTC spawn of Lucifer and drag it out to face the light, punch the passcode into the keypad and answer.
“Hello, Eva Byrne…?” Always that expectant little pause, my name turned into a question as though I might not after all be me. Wishful thinking.
“Eva…? Evangelica, is it…? Ange, is that you? It’s Natasha…” A little pause, no doubt to give me time to remember who Natasha might be. It doesn’t work—my mind’s a complete blank. And no one I know calls me Ange. Or Evangelica—unless it’s my mother in a very bad mood.
“…from the agency.”
Right, that Natasha. The snooty bitch with fuck-me heels and killer red talons glued onto her fingernails who looked at me like I was a lesser life form when I called in at the Little Maestros musical tuition agency a couple of weeks ago. I was looking for some alternative way of making a living, and if I could find something I actually liked doing, so much the better. I love music, and I quite like teaching, so I dropped off my CV and qualifications with a few agencies, just in case they might have some temp work going somewhere. Natasha looked a fraction more respectful when she spotted my first class honours degree in music from King’s College, London, but rather spoilt the effect by asking me for proof of identity. Obviously she thought I’d stolen the degree certificate.
On reflection, I think her suspicions were aroused by my skinny black jeans, No Fear grey hoodie and psychedelic Converse trainers, topped off by a mop of wavy—or should that just be plain frizzy—red hair falling to the middle of my back. I’
m not your archetypal music teacher.
My unruly hair is a constant nuisance, the bane of my life. It bounces, frizzes and waves everywhere, and short of shaving it off I have never found a way of controlling it. When I was a child my mother tried everything to get it into some semblance of order, and brushing it every morning became a war of attrition. The hair was winning, hands down, until eventually my mother had one of her Hiroshima moments where she takes decisive, drastic and usually disproportionate action. She marched me along to The Cutting Shop down on Stamford Hill High Street and had the lot chopped off. It curled more than ever in defiance after the vicious assault, but at least it would fit under a hat.
At five-four in heels and looking about sixteen—I am twenty-two, but like to tell myself I have worn well—I guess I didn’t fit the image of a serious violin teacher as I perched in a trendy little black leather bucket chair in front of Natasha’s pristine white desk, while she sneered down her aristocratic nose at me and suggested I was an impostor.
I wasn’t especially desperate to impress Natasha the super-bitch—other agencies are available—so she was treated to my scruffy, sullen teenager look. Maybe my unpromising first impression was why it took her so long to get back to me. Oh, well—I need the work so I’d better make an effort now. If humble and well-mannered is called for, that’s what I’ll do.
“Ah—hello, Natasha, how are you?” Always polite, that’s me, whatever the provocation. It’s my mother’s influence.
“There’s a job come up you might be interested in.” She pauses to let this sink in, make sure I’m listening. “Music tutor to an eight-year-old girl. She’s learning the violin.”
I am listening, and suddenly I’m very interested. I need to get a life, we’ve already established that, and here’s one that might just do. I really want a job as a musician if possible, at least for now. I’m not bothered about earning much, and I know that private tuition is hardly going to keep me in shampoo and tampons, especially with the agency creaming off most of the fee. But with my somewhat unique talents I can earn enough in a single evening to cover pretty much anything I might need. This job sounds just right, just what I’m looking for. I can play a mean violin—shouldn’t be too difficult to teach a little girl the basics. I put Ludwig on pause for a few minutes and resolve to be very polite indeed to Natasha.
