by Ashe Barker
“No, Summer. You look just fine as you are.” He leans past me to pick up my clothes then starts for the exit.
“Come with me, please.” Dan Riche is nothing if not unfailingly polite—and compelling.
I find myself walking obediently beside him as we leave the dungeon.
I glance back in Freya’s direction just before the door swings shut. Nicholas Hardisty is caressing her breasts and looks to be talking to her again. He’s leaning in close, his lips beside her ear. Freya’s head is back, her chin tipped up. She looks considerably more relaxed than I’m feeling right at this moment—and a lot less confused. Again, as if to jumble my thoughts still further, comes that rush of empathetic tightening in my pussy. My underwear moistens as I anticipate the possibility that Dan Riche might be able to make me throw my head back like that too. Soon.
An unbidden image fills my head, the memory of that last man in Barrow, who I had sex with for money. The one who slapped me for disrespecting him. Isn’t that, in essence, what Dan Riche intends to do? So why does this seem a world apart from that experience?
“Summer, keep up, please.”
Dan’s a couple of paces ahead of me. I haven’t been deliberately dawdling but lost in thought, I’ve managed somehow to drop behind and he’s not having it. I quicken my pace to come alongside him again.
“If you don’t want to come upstairs with me, you don’t have to. No one here will force you to do anything you don’t feel happy with. Least of all me.” His tone is level, but with a definite hint of impatience.
I sense that he will not make strenuous efforts to persuade me if I want to drop out, though not because he doesn’t want me. With Dan Riche, choice is everything.
I should drop out. I should just tell him it’s been interesting, thank him for the tour, and for reassuring me about Freya. I really, really should. He won’t pressure me. I’ll have my guest pass and be left in peace. He’ll see to it. So why not do just that? Everything about this place, this situation, makes me tense—unbearably uneasy. Dan Riche makes me uncomfortable. It’s something to do with the effortless shift from polite charm to steely determination—some undefinable quality which compels me to obey him, whatever he asks me to do. And that’s the issue for me. I don’t like the unknown, I don’t enjoy anticipation. I certainly don’t enjoy being hurt or intimidated. Who does?
Well, Freya for one. Though what I saw back there in the dungeon did not look even remotely like intimidation. It looked more like—comfort. And protection. It looked like trust. And that baffles me even more. Christ!
I like things to be tidy. I think we’ve established that. All things. No exceptions. I like my home, my surroundings, and my possessions to be all lined up in the correct places. The places I put them, under my control. Nothing out of place, nothing where it shouldn’t be—no disorder, no random, careless scattering, nothing left lying about to be sorted out later. Everything needs to be right, and consistent, predictable. Here and now. And I’m fast realizing this is just as true for my inner environment too, for my own behavior, my own thoughts. I need certainty, order, control, sameness. I don’t take risks. I definitely don’t take leaps of blind faith with terrifying Doms I hardly know.
I need my comfort zone, and I need it now.
So what the fuck am I doing here? With Dan Riche? Here I’m entirely out of place. Here, I’m being totally random, totally untidy and quite unpredictable. So far he’s only persuaded me to strip down to my underwear and heaven only knows what he’ll instruct me to do next. Whatever it is though, I’ll obey. I know I will, and that upsets me. That really scares me. I don’t like it; I can’t like it. But I don’t seem able to stop myself either. One look from those cool, dark eyes, one tilt of that commanding chin, and I submit.
Dan Riche says nothing, offers no words of encouragement or reassurance. He just turns and continues pacing down the corridor. I can go with him or not. My choice.
No choice at all. I fall into step beside him and allow him to lead me into yet more tangled confusion without a backward glance.
Dan opens the door of room fifteen on the second floor and stands back to gesture me inside. This is it. Last chance. I can say no.
I step through the entrance. The door clicks shut behind me. My eye is drawn immediately to the padded bench at one end of the room. I quake at the sight. I have hardly a moment to glimpse around, to further take in my surroundings, before Dan is striding across the room.
“Get naked and kneel on the floor.” He barks out his instructions.
I snap my head around to look at him. Surely he can’t mean me to…?
“What part of naked and kneel don’t you understand?”
He does mean me to. He has deposited my clothes on a low couch at one end of the room, below a window. I note the glass is frosted. Probably very wise. He is standing now, facing me, his arms folded, his feet planted slightly apart. He looks much more purposeful than he did either in the bar or the dungeon. Much more intent. And determined. I have his undivided attention, and it’s clear from his irritated scowl that he does not appreciate my slowness to respond.
“Do as I say—do it now or leave.”
“But I…”
He steps forward, and instinctively I move backwards. He doesn’t take kindly to that.
“Stand still. Never back away from me. You’ll never need to. Not now, not ever. I won’t lay a hand on you without your permission.” His tone has hardened.
Despite the comfort in his words, I shiver. He sees and comments on it, “Do I need to adjust the heating, Summer?”
I shake my head, unaccountably miserable. I want to please him, though I haven’t the first idea why. And I seem to be failing royally. I should just do as he says, remove my underwear and kneel at his feet. It would be so easy—wouldn’t it? Instead I lift my hand to brush away a tear as it starts to trickle down my cheek.
“Tears so soon, Summer? Why is that?”
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I just… This is so…” I can’t form a coherent explanation, and I fully expect to be on the receiving end of more scathing, uncompromising demands. Now I’m shivering in earnest. I drop my gaze to stare at his feet as he approaches, as he comes to stand right in front of me. I do manage not to step back, so I suppose that must be progress.
“Overwhelming?” Maybe he thinks so too as his tone has softened now, and he uses the pad of his thumb to wipe away another couple of stray tears. His palms are cradling my face as he tips it up, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“I don’t mind when submissives cry, though I confess it usually takes me longer than a few seconds to reduce them to tears. But I always like to know why. Can you tell me, please?”
His eyes are warmer, more inviting and more seductive now than compelling. And suddenly I want to talk to him. I want to tell him how I feel. “Because you don’t like me. I don’t like me right now. I’m confused. I hate what’s happening, what I’m doing. I don’t know why I’m here.” I blurt out the thoughts foremost in my head at this moment and wait to be ordered out of the door.
“I do like you. You’re beautiful and sexy. I saw that when I first met you, at the wildlife park. You were stunning then, and you’re even more lovely now. And more than a bit quirky, which adds to your appeal. You’re loyal and you care about people. You care about your friend for certain. Why would I not like you? Why would you not like yourself?”
Why indeed? This was not the answer I was expecting from him, especially the bit about what he thought of me when we first met. I had no idea. It throws me. Again, he gets the benefit of an honest response.
“Because I’m a mess.”
“A mess?” His voice is quiet, his head cocked quizzically to one side as he waits for me to elaborate.
“Yes. I get…I get stressed out. Easily. I need things to be nice and neat and tidy. This isn’t tidy. I don’t do this sort of thing. Never.”
“By ‘this’, am I to understand you mean coming to a BDSM
club and agreeing to let a Dom spank you?”
“Exactly. Yes.” I nod, feeling stronger already for having given voice to at least some of my confusion.
He takes a moment, looks to be considering my babblings. At least he hasn’t thrown me out into the corridor, my clothes behind me. “And tell me, Summer, is curiosity tidy?” He asks the question seriously, his expression cool, assessing.
“What? What do you mean?” I’m frowning in confusion, groping to find meaning in this.
“I mean, you’re here because you were curious. We already established that. Downstairs.” Dan seems to have decided to help me out. He continues, “If you leave now, which you are completely free to do, by the way, you’ll still be curious. Whereas if you decide to stay and try this out, you will at least know what submission feels like. You’ll know what it feels like to be spanked. You’ll know if you liked it or hated it. You might even know if you want to do it again. Your curiosity will have been satisfied, at least a little bit. You’ll be able to file the experience away, nice and tidy, in a drawer marked ‘things I know about’. How would that be?”
I stare at him, wonderstruck. That would be amazing. Truly fucking amazing. How did he do that? How the hell did he do that? In just a few moments he broke right through my defenses and anxieties and went to the heart of my internal dilemma. He got it. He got me. And he gave me a reason, a reason on my terms, a reason to stay.
I smile, a thin and watery attempt, but I suspect recognizable even so. “That would be very nice. Very tidy. Thank you.”
Now it’s his turn to grin. “You’re most welcome, Summer. So, I assume we are continuing?”
I nod, more certain now. My reward is a subtle but sure hardening of his gaze, a glint in the dark, brandy-colored irises. A signal that this brief but intimate interlude is passed.
“So, Summer, will you do as I asked you, please? Naked. Kneel. Now.”
I give a brief nod then step away from him, reaching behind me to unclasp my bra. I draw in a deep breath as I lean forward a little to tip the cups into my hands, baring my breasts. I drop the bra into his outstretched hand, steadfastly resisting the impulse to fold my arms across my chest. Instead I stand still, concentrate on holding my shoulders back, and I meet his eyes. I’m looking for some sign of approval, some signal of male appreciation. If he does entertain any such reaction, he is not sharing it with me. His expression is inscrutable as he waits for me to complete my task.
I hook my thumbs in the elastic of my pants and slip them down my legs before I have a chance to think better of it. I step out and pick my knickers up, handing them to him. He offers me a slight nod in acknowledgment and strides past me to place my underwear on the couch behind me with the rest of my clothing. I stand still, feeling distinctly tall, gangly, and more than a little lanky. Nervous, I wait for his reaction when he catches sight of my naked bottom. I don’t need to wait long.
“Well now, Miss Jones. Aren’t you full of surprises? Now that…that is truly lovely.”
“Thank you.” I force myself to remain still, conscious of his warm breath on my shoulder as he studies my bum—or more accurately I should imagine, the artwork decorating my bum.
“Swallows, Summer? Is there some significance to that?”
I can answer this. I did my research before allowing the body artist anywhere near me with ink and a needle “Yes, sort of. Sailors in the old days used to have swallow tattoos if they sailed long distances, and it’s also a traditional symbol of love and loyalty. You already said I’m loyal. And I love my friends. Mostly though, my tattoos are to do with the saying, ‘One swallow doesn’t make a summer’. Some people say two swallows. I’m not sure which is right. In any case, I decided to have three to see if that did the trick.”
“So, three swallows make a summer then? Is that right?” His tone is low and sexy as he murmurs the words at the back of my ear, his breath now tickling my lobe.
“I…yes…maybe.”
“Definitely. Your bum says so.”
I start slightly as he traces his fingertips around the swallow highest on my right buttock, but I remain in place, allow him to explore.
“The artwork is beautiful, the colors so intricate. How long did it take to do this?”
“Each one took about two hours to etch in, then a couple of weeks to heal up. It’s a painful process.”
“I can imagine. A good hard spanking will be a doddle in comparison, I daresay. And it only takes a fraction of the time. Maybe I’ll need to think about something a little more intense for you? Something with more staying power?”
“No! I mean, no, thank you,” I blurt out my refusal more sharply than I intended.
He chuckles, and my attention shifts from the swallows on my bottom to the butterflies in my stomach. Curiosity notwithstanding, I’m still terrified. There’s no denying that. But neither can I deny my growing arousal at Dan’s touch against my skin, sensuous but featherlight, almost not there are all. I’m beginning to wish he’d touch me perhaps with more obvious intent. For the first time in my life, it feels good to have a man’s hands on me. I’m scared, astonished at myself, and almost breathless with anxiety.
Without doubt, this unfamiliar fluttering in my lower abdomen is sexual arousal, something I never even imagined, let alone expected to experience after my sordid introduction to sexuality. But it’s there and growing more intense every minute.
“Kneel down.”
Ah, not quite ready to touch me yet then. I glance around, wondering where to position myself.
“Usually I like to make a new submissive kneel on the hard floor. It’s good training. But you can use a mat. Over there.” He points to a small stack of brightly colored foam mats in a corner. “Go fetch one of those, place it in the middle of the floor, and kneel on it, facing me.”
Feeling incredibly self-conscious, I do as he’s instructed me. I drop the mat on the floor and sink to my knees on it.
“Back straight, but keep your eyes on the floor in front of you. Lay your hands on your thighs, palms up. Knees slightly apart. I’ll need you to spread them wider in a little while because I’ll want to see your clit. For now though, I’ll train you in the ‘at rest’ position.”
I shuffle and shift to adopt the position he’s described, inwardly shivering some more—and not particularly in a good way—at the prospect of having my clit inspected. Jesus!
“Okay, that’s good. Nice posture, Miss Jones. Very sexy, very submissive.”
I follow him out of the corner of my eye as he strolls over to the couch, shoves my clothes to one side, and sits down. He settles back as he watches me carefully.
“Are you comfortable, Miss Jones?”
Not in the slightest. “Yes, perfectly. Thank you.”
“Excellent. There are some things I need to explain to you. I want you to listen carefully. I need to make sure you understand fully what’s happening and what’s going to happen to you. You may find it easier if you look at me while I’m talking to you.”
I lift my gaze to meet his. He’s leaning back on the couch, watching me quite dispassionately. So much for the prospect of unbridled lust, unleashed and running rampant at the sight of my naked body. He gives the impression of a man wondering idly if there might be some grass to watch growing somewhere nearby. I drag in a breath, resigned to at least allow him to satisfy my curiosity since he seems so inclined, and I’ll chalk this up to experience.
“You seem…disappointed, Miss Jones. Am I failing to meet your expectations in some way?”
How does he know? How the bloody hell can he get inside my head like that and know what I’m thinking? I glance sharply at him, catch the now signature sardonic curl of his lip as he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees.
“Well, Miss Jones? Is this going as you thought it would?”
“I don’t know what to expect. You were about to explain.” I wonder whether that came out more sharply than I’d intended. I drop my eyes to the look at the floor
again, just in case.
“I was. Let’s begin then.” He pauses, then, “Miss Jones, I told you to look at me. Please do as I say.”
I meet his gaze again. And I wait.
“Soon, when we get into this properly, you’ll only speak when you need to, to answer a direct question from me. Otherwise, unless you ask—and receive—permission, you’ll be silent. Not yet, though. Until I tell you differently, you are free to speak and to ask questions. This is important, because what’s to follow requires that you fully understand the rules of our…relationship. Am I making myself clear so far?” He pauses again, clearly waiting for a reply.
I’m not immediately forthcoming, feeling more than a little stunned at the ‘don’t speak without permission’ rule. What sort of relationship is this?
“Obviously, I have no way of knowing at this stage whether you and I will ever scene together again after tonight or if you’ll go on to scene with other Doms. In fairness to you, I’m going to assume that you will, so I’m going to teach you some of the basics about how to behave as a submissive. It’ll save you having to go through this again on another occasion.”
I just continue to stare at him, wordless. A submissive? Me? No, not really. That can’t be right.
He ignores my lack of reinforcement and continues with his explanation, “There are three main aspects that you have to accept. Fully accept. No exceptions, no excuses. The first is attitude. A submissive must be respectful to all Doms but particularly to her own—whoever she’s scening with at that moment—and to other submissives, especially the more highly trained and experienced ones. You’ve seen some of those already this evening. That means making requests respectfully, saying please and thank you. Basic good manners, but you need to be unfailingly polite in any circumstances. Will that present any problems, do you think?”
“I…no, why would it? I always say please and thank you.”
“Excellent. And will you thank me for helping you to learn when I spank your bottom or clamp your nipples? Or for increasing your pleasure when I make you wait for my permission to orgasm?” He leans back, watching me as I take that latest salvo on board.
