by Ashe Barker
And Callum had been learning about other choices too. Always a randy teenager, he’d realized early on that his interesting appendage wasn’t just for pissing out of. He’d lost his virginity in an attic bedroom in East End Park, a singularly deprived area of east Leeds. His partner had been the eighteen-year-old sister of one of his car-stealing friends, and their encounter remained one of his fondest memories. She was magnificent, truly beautiful, although he couldn’t quite recall her name. Maybe he never knew it—it hadn’t been significant at the time. What had been significant was her emphatic demand that he spank her before she let him plant his dick where it needed to be. Callum had seen no real problem with that—takes all sorts after all, and had proceeded to do as she’d asked.
And he’d liked it. No, better than that, he’d fucking loved it. The sight of his handprints on her fleshy arse, the sound of her squeals as he’d landed the blows. He’d almost come in his pants. He had been reticent at first, not wanting to hurt her, but she was having none of that and soon he’d been laying into her good and proper. At last, she’d asked him to stop, so he had. She’d rolled over on the bed, spread her legs wide, and told him he’d earned a prize. He could fuck her for as long as he liked.
Always a sensible lad as far as safe sex was concerned, Callum had blessed the presence of mind that he always kept a condom in his jeans pocket—more for show than anything else initially—but it had come in handy then. In fact, it had probably been the shortest fuck on record, but it had whetted Callum’s appetite for more. Especially more of the kinky stuff. He’d spent the next couple of years experimenting when he’d been able to persuade any of the local girls to co-operate, which had been surprisingly frequent. And as soon as he turned eighteen he joined a club in Leeds where they specialized in his particular preferences, and he’d started to seriously hone his talents.
At The Bear Pit they specialized in the fine and noble art of kink. And Callum was an artist. Here he found experienced, enthusiastic submissives to practice on, and seasoned Doms to emulate.
Yes, life had been good. For a while. Then he’d gotten caught again, this time in possession of a high end BMW, a Mercedes and a Volvo XC90 all safely tucked away in his lock-up in Cross Green. Or so he’d thought. Apparently the police had been onto him and had been for a while—just waiting until he made it worth their while lifting him. And this time, the judge had taken a dim view—reckoned he needed to be taught a lesson. As a result of His Honor’s determination to make an impression Callum had spent the next year or so in Armley to emerge a reformed character.
His transformation hadn’t all been down to the merits of the custodial system though. Molly had wept as he’d been bundled downstairs at the end of his trial and Callum knew he never wanted to see that look again. He’d let her down, it was that simple. He wouldn’t do it again.
Miraculously, Molly had met Will while Callum had been in prison, and by the time he hit the streets again they were living together in Huddersfield. His mother, and his half-sister and half-brother, all tucked up nicely in a small terraced house, a proper family. Will had a decent job, and there was no denying he adored Molly, as well as the other two. He pretended not to loathe Callum, for their sake.
Callum convinced himself to let it go at that, also for their sake. Will represented stability and the chance of a decent life for them all. It was more than Callum could offer, at least at that stage, so who was he to interfere? So he’d politely declined his mother’s tearful pleading that he come and live with them on his release, preferring to take his chances in his old haunts in Cross Green until he could come up with something better. So far, that was still a work in progress. But he was headed in the right direction. He hoped.
He turned, went into the small house, not bothering to knock. His mum looked up from bottle feeding a pink fluffy bundle, which Callum assumed to be his latest little sister, though this was the first time he’d actually met her. His mum’s face split in a beaming smile, her delight at his unexpected appearance undisguised.
“Hey, gorgeous boy. Come here and give me a kiss. Have you had your breakfast? Are you staying? This is Ava.”
The stream of welcoming words warmed him, it always did. He truly adored his mum and the rest of her chaotic brood—his half-brother and sisters. They just did his head in after a while. He went over, wrapped an arm around her, and kissed her cheek. Smiling broadly he answered her flurry of questions in order. “No—have you any bacon? A while—I need to borrow your shower and your washing machine.” Callum needed to get nice and scrubbed up. Rachel deserved no less. And he knew his mother could help him out with that little problem.
Finally he smiled down at the baby again. “She’s pretty.”
Picking up on the bacon issue, Molly Winters, O’Neill as was, got to her feet. She handed Callum the pink bundle and the bottle, then scuttled off to dig in the fridge. Callum plonked himself down in the chair she’d just vacated, shoving the bottle back in the little pink mouth just in time to forestall the first wail. He divided his attention between the baby and his mother as she bustled around the tiny kitchen, pleased to see her lay three rashers of bacon on the grill, and nodding when she waggled an egg box at him. Somehow, in an among looking after him, and overseeing the baby’s feeding, she was managing to roust his fifteen-year-old sister from her bed, persuade her to get her school tie on straight and hitch her skirt down a couple of inches, as well as cajoling an uncooperative small boy into finishing his yoghurt and cleaning his teeth.
The bottle emptied so Callum took over the management of teeth and yoghurt as well as changing a nappy on the kitchen worktop. Things seemed smoother from then on. Marginally. He and his mum had always been a good team.
Jasmine squealed with delight when she saw Callum at the breakfast table—they had always been close, and he basked in her hero-worship. He sipped his second cup of coffee and listened patiently to her moans about not having enough money to buy a leather jacket she’d seen in Dorothy Perkins. Molly listened, shrugging apologetically.
“Babies don’t come cheap, love. Maybe for your birthday…”
“But it’s only sixty quid…”
The plaintive, self-centered wail of adolescent longing made Callum cringe. He remembered that feeling, and where it had led him to. No choice, all things considered.
“I’ll give you the sixty quid, Jazz. Or rather, I’ll pay you it. You can help me out with some laboring. A couple of Saturdays should do it. Deal?” He wasn’t really in a position to be hiring staff, but this was different.
He wasn’t sure which pleased him most, Molly’s grateful smile as she took the baby from him, or Jasmine’s expression of horror at the prospect of actually doing some hard work.
Not that she was lazy—she was more the academic type and doing well at school, especially now that Will was giving her extra tuition. She’d managed to pass her maths GCSE a year early, with a grade A*, and was now starting her maths A level work. There was even talk of university, without doubt the result of Will’s influence. One more reason not to rock their nice little boat. But physical labor, well that was different. Not Jazz’s scene at all. He’d have to find her something light, something suited to her.
“What would I have to do? I’m not doing anything that involves worms.”
Callum grinned, reminded of his first encounter with Rachel. “Mowing grass, sweeping up, that sort of thing. You’ll be fine. Do you have any wellies?”
Her muttered “Do I fuck” earned her a sharp word from her mother, and Jasmine mumbled an apology.
Molly O’Neill ruled her brood, they knew the rules. Her rules. Callum might have wandered off the straight and narrow but he was back on it now and no one else was stepping out of line if she could help it.
“Trainers then.” Callum’s tone was firm, and the deal was struck. “Start next Saturday?”
“She’s got exams…” Molly looked anxious. “It’s her GCSE’s coming up. She needs to study.”
�
�Okay, four weeks on Saturday then. Will the exams be finished by then?”
“Yes. That’ll be fine. Won’t it, Jasmine, love?”
Jasmine managed to maintain her pained, mutinous look for a few moments before flinging her arms around her older brother’s neck. “No worms, I’m not doing worms.”
“No worms.” He hugged her back. “And I suppose you’ll be needing the money up front?”
The remainder of their breakfast was concluded in peace, and in as much harmony as is possible in a household of energetic, noisy youngsters. Callum helped with shoes, lunchboxes, hair brushing, and the Winters/O’Neill family were once again ready to face the world.
The morning chaos now abating, the house started to empty. Jasmine went off to school happy—the promise of a return visit by her favorite big brother to drop off her sixty pounds the icing on her personal cake. Mollie buckled the baby and little James into the back of her rather dilapidated Peugeot 205 ready to drop them off at her child minders on her way to work.
Soon, Callum found himself alone in their house, with instructions to use whatever he liked, stay as long as he wanted. And to come back soon, even if he didn’t have the sixty quid.
He would have it—wouldn’t have promised otherwise. Meanwhile he drank in the silence, and reaffirmed his view that he’d been right not to accept his mother’s invitation to come and live with them after he’d gotten out of prison. It would have put a strain on her relationship with Will, although he always knew, deep down, that she’d put her son first if push came to shove. So it was up to him to make sure that was never tested, that she never had to choose.
One floor was much the same as another, after all. And his mate Kev might be a thug, and drunk a lot of the time, but he was at least quiet.
His thoughts turned to Rachel as he bundled his clothes into his mother’s automatic washing machine. His year of enforced abstinence at Her Majesty’s Pleasure had done nothing to dim his appetite for all things non-vanilla—quite the reverse. The Bear Pit had been his second stop on his release, after his mother’s new home in Huddersfield. And his visit there had been fulfilling enough, without doubt.
But Rachel? Now she represented another type of opportunity entirely. His mouth watered at the prospect as he piled the breakfast dishes up next to the sink and turned on the hot tap. The least he could do in return for the welcome he always found here was leave his mother’s kitchen tidy for when she got home.
It had turned ten by the time Callum emerged and tossed a bin liner full of clean, dry laundry into the back of his van. He was freshly showered, and ready. He knew full well that the show with Rachel was his to manage, to control. She would obey him, accept whatever he wanted to do to her—that was fundamental. But she deserved respect, and she’d have it from him. That meant clean clothes, and personal hygiene. It meant a whole lot more as well, but he’d start with soap.
Chapter Five
Rachel also awoke early, and her first task was to root her dildo out of the bottom drawer of her bedside table. The vibrating eggs were in the bathroom cabinet. Soon, both were occupying pride of place on her bedside table. She got Jacob up, washed and dressed him, gave him wholemeal toast fingers dipped in egg, then eventually strapped him in the back of her car. She had some apologizing and explaining to do at the child minder’s over yesterday’s no-show, but agreed to pay for the day in full which quietened matters down.
Then she hit the shops. Nine o’clock saw her scanning the lingerie rails in Marks & Spencer, looking for something suitable, something appropriate. Something sexy enough to interest a man young enough to be her son. In theory.
She found nothing in M&S that seemed to fit the bill, so she doubled her budget and headed for La Senza. There she struck gold, in the form of a seductive pink camisole and matching thong, trimmed with black lace and a satin ribbon. She also invested in a lemon colored bra and briefs set, made of sheer—barely there—lace. Who knew—there might be a second opportunity to show him her wares. If further shopping expeditions were called for, well, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. Maybe take out a second mortgage…
She got home soon after ten and was disappointed—not to mention more than a little dismayed—to find no battered black van cluttering up her driveway. This she had not considered. He always arrived before nine o’clock. Surely today, of all days…
Perhaps he’d changed his mind. Not that she had much idea in fairness regarding the goings on between the ears of gorgeous, sexy young men, young men with sizzling blue eyes and biceps you could crush rocks with. Young men who could have any woman they wanted.
Maybe he’d been having a laugh at her expense. Well, ha bloody ha! Maybe she was a gullible fool to believe him. To ever think the likes of Callum O’Neill would have even the remotest interest in her. At her kitchen table she bitterly surveyed her La Senza bags as they sat there, taking the piss. She sighed, wiped away an angry tear. No maybe about it. She was a fool. He’d stood her up, and not even finished her rockery.
* * * *
“You look busy. I do like an industrious woman. Problem is, you’re supposed to be busy downstairs, getting ready for our little scene, not hidden away up here beating that keyboard to death.”
Rachel swiveled in her chair, unable to suppress the shriek of alarm. Christ, where did he spring from? Over three hours late by her reckoning, and now just leaning in her office doorway, dangling her La Senza trophies from his fingertips, as though nothing was wrong.
“Christ, you scared me half to death! Where the hell have you been till now? I thought you…” Anger, shock, relief, amazement that he was actually here, all converged to make her tone distinctly sharper than she’d intended. Verging on shrewish. It was not lost on him.
“Ah. You thought I wasn’t coming. Didn’t you?”
“No, I just…”
“Didn’t you, Rachel?”
“Yes.” She deliberately softened her tone, an air of nonchalance would do no harm, certainly. Unfortunately he saw through that façade too.
“You’ve been crying.”
“I have not!” She tried for indignant, failed again as tears threatened once more.
Stepping to her he used his thumb to wipe away the stray tears from her cheeks, his smile wry. “You have. I hurt you. I’m sorry if you expected me earlier. But I did say I’d be here, so here I am. You need to trust me, Rachel.”
She gulped, drew in a shaky, steadying breath. “Trust you? I hardly know you.” Then, “Where were you? Earlier?”
“I had something I needed to do first. I should have let you know. I will next time, if it matters to you. And you soon will know me…very well.” He turned, obviously looking around the tiny space for somewhere to sit. No joy—piles of papers and files covered every surface in her compact home office. The room was equipped for her to work, not entertain clients. Or boyfriends.
Was he a boyfriend? Lover? Toy boy? Rachel was far from certain. Whatever, he wouldn’t be finding anywhere to sit down in here.
Rachel had allowed herself twenty minutes to wallow in self-pity at the kitchen table. Then she’d told herself to just chalk the whole sorry episode up to experience, and she’d come up here to her office to get some work done. She was behind after her unscheduled day off yesterday so she welcomed the chance to get her head down. Didn’t she?
She’d been so immersed in double entry book-keeping that she hadn’t heard the van. No doubt the strains of Il Divo wafting from her DVD drive had had a lot to do with the fact that he’d come up on her unawares. She liked to play music while she worked. It helped her to concentrate. So she hadn’t heard him prowling around downstairs looking for her. Hadn’t heard him make his way upstairs, having discovered her bits of frothy lace still in their carrier bag on the table, deciding to bring them with him and peer into every room off the landing until he found her. Here, in her office. Working.
Seemingly giving up on the notion of finding a spare seat Callum returned his attention to
her new lingerie. He swung the strips of lace in front of Rachel. “Came across these. Downstairs. Yours?”
“Of course mine. Who else?”
He glanced up sharply at her slightly waspish tone, and for reasons she did not entirely understand Rachel shifted uneasily in her seat. She was tempted to apologize. Callum gave her ample time, then tilted his head briefly. She’d had her chance.
“Indeed. They’re lovely. I think the pink today, don’t you?” His tone was distinctly firmer now.
As she continued to stare at him, he handed her the lingerie in question. “I’ll be in your bedroom in ten minutes. I expect to find you there, wearing these. And nothing else. Except maybe a smile. Any questions so far?”
“But—I’m busy…” She gestured around her, at the piles of unfinished accounts and tax returns yet to be filed.
His eyes never wavered from hers. “You will be. Ten minutes, Rachel—don’t waste it.” And with a flick of his chin toward the door he indicated she should go, now, and do as he’d told her.
Amazed at herself, she did.
Chapter Six
Ten minutes later, to the millisecond, the door to Rachel’s bedroom clicked open and Callum slipped in. He closed the door quietly behind him and leaned back on it. He smiled.
Rachel was perched on the edge of her bed, wearing the pink camisole and briefs. A squirt of Thierry Mugler’s Alien on her pulse points completed the ensemble. And she’d never felt more self-conscious in her life. What the hell was she doing? What on earth possessed her to think this was even remotely a good idea. He was going to laugh out loud at her—a woman her age messing about with a lad like him.
