by Ashe Barker
He glances briefly at yesterday’s rendition of the Angel of the North then turns over more pages. He pauses over one particular drawing, and I lean around to see what it is. It’s him, a sketch I made the day I first met him, after he dropped me off at the art gallery. I forgot I’d done it. His face is clearly recognizable, though I’d certainly draw him differently now. In this picture his face is sharp, forbidding, uncompromising. He looks dangerous, angry, quite dark and brooding. If I drew him today he’d be laughing, definitely. Sexy, probably. Much more gentle, approachable. Likeable. Lovable.
He raises his eyes from the page to look at me. “Is this how you see me?”
There’s warmth in his gaze, his expression one of concern.
I shake my head. “At first, maybe. Not now. I drew that just after I met you. You—intimidated me back then. I think you did it on purpose.”
He glances at me sharply. “Yes, maybe I did. And now?”
“Not now. Especially not now. Not after…”
“Not after last night?” He smiles at my slight nod. “That’s a relief. A little healthy trepidation works fine, adds some spice to a spanking, but for what I have in mind for you, it really wouldn’t do if you were seriously afraid of me.”
My chin lifts. “I see. And what do you have in mind?”
“Later, Miss Fischer. Now, I’m still looking at your etchings. These really are good, you know. You’ve a serious talent here.”
“Thanks. I like drawing, painting. I wish…” I drop my gaze, wondering how much of my secret ambitions I can share. I can hardly tell him that my first thought, on learning I’d come into possession of over half his business, was that I might sell it to raise money I could use to set myself up as an independent artist and illustrator.
“What is it you wish, Abbie?” He reaches for me, cups my chin and tilts my face up to look at him. He holds my gaze, and waits.
Eventually, I give in. Partly.
“I’d like to be a professional artist. Maybe illustrate children’s books.” Especially very young children’s books as I can just about read those.
“So, why the job as a cleaner? Why aren’t you working as an artist then? Or going to college at least?”
Why indeed? I shrug. “It’s just a dream, that’s all. I like cleaning too.”
I hold out my hand for my sketchpad, and he gives it to me. His expression suggests though that this conversation may not be over. As far as I’m concerned it is, so I shove my pad quickly into my rucksack and sling it over my shoulder.
“What about that walk?” I open the van door and scramble down to the ground. I start to walk away in the direction of some rough steps leading down to the beach, and he quickly falls in alongside me. I’m reminded sharply of our first meeting. He pursued me then, and I suspect he’ll continue to do so, until he pries all my secrets from me. Or until the determined Mr Stephenson finally hits on an exit route for us all. I’m not sure which I’d prefer. Meanwhile though, I make no comment as he reaches for my hand and we make our way slowly along the sharp, damp sand, parallel with the lapping waves of the North Sea, our fingers loosely entwined.
* * * *
We’re both stuffed from the massive lunch. Even our exertions plodding along miles of rough beach have done little to re-kindle our appetites. We arrive back at Cain’s house late in the afternoon, and apart from our habitual coffee, we’re not in the mood for much else. Well, not food, certainly.
“I have some emails to catch up with, and a tender to make a start on. Will you be all right for an hour or two? Unless you feel like helping me, that is?”
I feel guilty as I shake my head. I’ve nothing better to do, that’s for sure. He’ll think I’m just refusing to pull my weight, and I know his opinion on that already. He made it plain enough when he was insisting I come to Berwick and work for Parrish Construction. I think fast to come up with something resembling a good reason for ducking out of the paperwork.
“I have a bit of a headache. Maybe I’ll just go and lie down for a while…”
At once he’s all concern. “Of course. I thought you were rather quiet this afternoon. Can I get you anything? I must have some Anadin around here somewhere.”
“No. No, thank you. Just a lie down will be fine. I’ll use my room.”
“No, use mine. Ours. If you don’t mind, that is…?”
Now I do feel guilty. Not only am I lying to him, but I’m taking advantage of his kindness and concern. I slope off upstairs before he offers me anything else, any other evidence of his decency and compassion that I’ll find myself obliged to ungraciously refuse.
Once in Cain’s room, the curtains closed to lend an aura of authenticity, just in case he comes up to check how I am, I have plenty of time to think about my predicament. Later this evening I have no doubt he’ll be amenable to another torrid session of spanking, fucking and all points in-between. That’s rather my hope as well, but I’ll have to fake a miraculous recovery first.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow my promising career as a fraud really goes up a gear or two as I’ll have to try to convince not only Cain but also his efficient and loyal office manager, that I’m not entirely incompetent. I’ve yet to meet Phyllis Benson, but I’ve no reason to suspect she’s anything less than sharp. As is Cain. My deception won’t last long. Then what?
I’d be of limited use, even as some sort of laborer or apprentice. But in any case, Cain’s made it clear he has no need of that. No. I’m to learn the ropes as Mrs Benson’s assistant with a view to taking over her duties when she retires. I mull over the sorts of tasks that are likely to come my way, but I’ve only the vaguest idea what they might be. Filing? Possibly opening the mail? Cain mentioned finance, invoices, accounts. Apart from in the broadest terms, I’ve pretty much no notion what any of those things are, and certainly no idea what I’d need to do to make myself useful around the office. I could perhaps staple bits of paper together, or work a shredder, but that about sums it up.
Or I could come clean. I could explain why I’m so not cut out for this. Cain seemed fierce at first, not a man I’d choose to confide in, certainly not about something so personal. But now? Could I? I know him better now. I’ve discovered that he’s kind, gentle, fun, a tender lover and a pleasant companion. And I’ve also found out how absolutely serious he is about Parrish Construction, how completely driven he is as far as his business is concerned. If he knew I couldn’t read and write even as well as the average eight–year-old, he’d certainly not want me around his paperwork, messing with his admin, his financial records. The question is—would he want me anywhere at all?
He wouldn’t insist on me working for him, I’m pretty sure of that. In fact, he probably wouldn’t be able to get me out of there fast enough. He’d have no use for me. He’d be incredulous, stunned, as everyone is. Because everyone can read and write. Well, everyone I know, except me. There’s no excuse for illiteracy, no earthly reason for someone to get to my advanced age of twenty-two, unable to string more than a few letters together. It’s not as though I don’t have a decent vocabulary, I just can’t recognize the words when they’re written down. I like to think I’m not stupid. I can get by, pretty well, relying on my excellent memory and using other clues to fill in gaps. I recognize company logos, memorize them religiously, my mental arithmetic is really very good indeed. I’ve had to compensate, and although lots of things are hard for me, or just plain impossible, I do get by. Always have, and I always will.
Maybe, one day, if I get time, and if I manage to convince myself that I could stand the mortification of having to go to ‘special’ tuition classes, I might do something about it. I could read, probably, if I bothered. I could learn. I just—haven’t. And now, tomorrow, my chickens will be home to roost.
Chapter Eight
“How’s the head?” Cain’s voice is low, soft, as he crouches beside me in the semi-darkness. I must have fallen asleep, I never heard him come in. I struggle to sit up, and he reaches to help me, arranging
a pillow behind my shoulders.
“Feeling better?” he asks me again, sounding concerned.
I nod, smiling at him apologetically and feeling like a total fraud. “I’m fine. Much better. Did you finish your work?”
“Enough for now. I was wondering how you were, and if you might be hungry yet?”
“A little. Not much. What about you? Maybe I could fix us a snack. We did agree I’d cook today…”
“No need. I’ve sent out for pizza. Are you coming down, or are we having a picnic in bed?”
A bed picnic? My mother used to let me do that when I was little and ill. Really ill, obviously, not pretending like I am now. Back then, before the transplant, I was often too weak to come down for my meals. I imagine Cain’s version could be very different.
Not on this occasion, however. My just deserts for claiming to be ill are that he flatly refuses to contemplate even the mildest spanking on the grounds that there’s no such thing. He’ll do it right or not at all, and in his view, my currently delicate frame is not up to such exertions. And his view is the one that counts in this matter. Instead, he convinces me to get undressed—nightie optional—and to stay in bed while he sorts out food. Earlier I simply lay down fully dressed on the top of his duvet, not intending to stay here for very long. But now I do as he’s suggested, choosing to slip a loose T-shirt over my otherwise naked body and snuggle under the quilt to wait for my meal. Cain brings the pizza up on a tray, with a complementary two liter bottle of cola, a couple of tubs of coleslaw and some potato wedges. The whole thing is delicious. I’d have preferred the spanking, but this is a close second.
Also, it’s quite nice to feel cared about. Cain pampers and fusses over me almost as much as my mother used to, urging me to eat more, pouring my drinks for me, plumping up my pillows. He’s a regular Florence Nightingale, and I feel absolutely wretched that I’m lying to him. I’m taking advantage of his kindness and consideration. And this won’t be the last time. I’m going to be heaping lie upon lie in the days and weeks to come in order to conceal my shameful secret.
* * * *
Later, as I lie in bed waiting for sleep which is showing no signs of coming, I turn that prospect over in my head. I loathe the thought of the deception to come. It can only get worse. I’m basically an honest person—this doesn’t sit well with me.
After we finished eating Cain went back downstairs to clear up, insisting that I should stay where I was and rest. He was soon back, offering me more painkillers, and expressing the view that we could both do with an early night. It was only ten o’clock, and I was not in the least sleepy after my power nap earlier, but I couldn’t find a way to persuade him otherwise. I offered to take myself off to my room, the spare room, but he was having none of that. He supervised my medication then undressed quickly, clearly intending to slide in beside me. I tried not to stare too openly, but he really is extremely good to look at. His body is firm, hard, toned by work and exercise, the muscles flex sensuously as he moves. He seems totally comfortable with nudity, and I had ample chance to admire his rather fine bum as he strolled around the room putting his clothes into the washing basket, plugging his phone into its charger, setting the alarm, turning off lamps and generally sorting things out. He’s tidy, efficient in a way I can’t come close to, though he doesn’t seem inclined to insist I keep to his house rules. I’m not so sure the same tolerance will apply at work.
Now, it’s after one in the morning, and I’m wide awake. I’m listening to Cain’s gentle, even breathing alongside me and know he’s been asleep for hours. His leg is heavy, flung casually across mine, but I don’t want to disturb him by moving. And in any case, I rather like it there. His cock is nestling against my bum, bared now as the T-shirt has ridden up. He’s not erect, but still an imposing presence and I’m optimistic that the morning will at least bring some interesting developments in that department. As long as he doesn’t think I’m still unwell.
Now, that’s an idea. I could pretend to be not well, claim some lingering effects of my headache, and surely he’d insist I take the day off. I consider that plan for a few moments but dismiss it quickly. It would only be delaying the inevitable. No, I need to convince him that I can contribute, I need to satisfy his insistence that I shoulder my share of the workload, but just not in the office. The problem is, I’ve absolutely no idea what to suggest I do instead, Maybe I am just plain useless.
My thoughts continue in that vein for the next three hours or so, until I eventually slip into a light doze.
* * * *
I’m awakened, what feels like just moments later by the insistent trilling of Cain’s phone. It’s the alarm, set for six-fifteen. I’m used to being an early riser—school cleaners don’t get to lie in as a rule—but after no more than a couple of hours sleep, I’m wrecked. I groan and try to shove my head under the pillow as Cain rolls over and reaches for the offending article. He silences the din, then turns to me.
“No use hiding under there. I know you’re awake. You have been all night.”
So much for him being asleep.
I drag my face out into the light. He’s switched on the bedside lamp, and there are faint slivers of daylight filtering through the curtains. He’s leaning up on one elbow, looking down at me. He really is absolutely beautiful. How can anyone look so—delicious—at quarter past six on a Monday morning? It’s all I can do not to lick my lips.
“Do you feel well enough to come to work today?”
I knew it. Now’s my chance. “Yes. I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep that well. I’ll be sound after a few slugs of coffee.”
His smile is lazy and sexy and quite irresistible. “Is that a hint you want to kick me out of bed?” He shifts slightly, and his erection presses firmly against my thigh. I doubt even a nun would have kicked him out of bed at that moment.
“No. I mean, do we have time…?”
“Oh yes, we do indeed have time.” He lowers his body over mine and kisses me. I did at least manage a quick trip to the bathroom before I scrambled into bed last night so my teeth are clean. Well, cleanish. I consciously put any thoughts of morning breath aside as he deepens the kiss. He has no qualms, why should I? I run my fingers through his tousled bedroom hair, loving the rough silkiness against my skin. I’m soon exploring lower, trailing my palms along his shoulders and down his back to grasp his tight, slim waist. He’s not entirely idle himself, and my T-shirt is quickly pulled up to expose my breasts. Not satisfied with that, Cain breaks the kiss to remove my T-shirt altogether. He rolls it into a ball and chucks it across the room. Not always Mr Tidy, after all.
He fastens his mouth on my nipple, and I arch under him. He continues to suck, tugging my nipple and as much of my breast as he can take into his mouth. He increases the pressure, and I cry out. My hands are back in his hair as I clutch at him, holding him close. Closer. He continues to tease me with his mouth as he uses his hand to caress my other breast. He takes the nipple between his finger and thumb, pinches it firmly. I squeal, and he slants a questioning glance at me.
“Too hard?”
I shake my head. “No. Do it again. Please…”
He chuckles. “Okay. And please try not to interrupt, Miss Fischer.”
I take the hint and remain still and reasonably quiet, as he treats my breasts to a fine selection from his extensive repertoire—he sucks, flicks, nips, squeezes, scrapes his teeth across my nipples, biting gently. He firms and shapes my not especially ample curves as I fight not to wriggle. My breath is catching in little staccato bursts by the time he eventually transfers his attention to my belly button. I get the impression he doesn’t intend to dawdle there for long.
“Open your legs, please.”
I’m happy to oblige, bending my knees before allowing them to fall open, exposing me to his gaze. He shifts lower, props himself up on his elbow to get a good look.
“You’re looking very shiny and pink, Miss Fischer. Glistening, in fact. Are you wet for me already?”
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to answer, and in any case my arousal is quite, quite plain to see. I just wish he’d stop discussing it and fuck me.
“Miss Fischer?” His tone is hardening slightly, and I sense a warning shudder. I’m not ill anymore, he knows I’m not, and Cain is turning out to be something of a dominant presence in the bedroom. In any room, actually.
But here, now, naked and with my legs spread wide, I want him to devote his attention to pleasuring me rather than enforcing his will.
“Yes. I am. I think.” I answer quickly, hoping that perhaps he’ll drop this line of questioning and get down to what’s important.
“You think? Aren’t you sure, Miss Fischer?”
Uh-oh…
“I, yes, I’m sure I am.”
“Then why didn’t you say so? Are you being coy with me, Miss Fischer?”
“I didn’t mean to be. I just wasn’t sure… I mean…”
“Either you’re sure, or you’re not. Which is it?” His tone is stern now, low and insistent. Worse though, he’s making no move at all to touch me as I lie still, my thighs opened wide for his inspection.
I’m starting to feel extremely vulnerable, and somehow as though I’m at fault, though, I’ve no idea how that came about. If I knew what he wanted from me, I’d do it like a shot. I’d say whatever he wants me to say, as long as he puts his hands, his mouth on me soon. Or better still his cock deep inside me.
My pussy clenches at that delightful prospect, and my wetness increases. He must be able to see it dripping from between my folds. I lift my hips in silent invitation.
He smiles at me, his eyes glinting wickedly. He might be giving me a hard time just now, but his eyes promise much, much better to come.
“You know, Miss Fischer, yours is quite the most gorgeous cunt I’ve ever seen…” His conversational tone is sharply at odds with the intimacy of the moment and his words. And such words! This is praise indeed. I start to relax. Slightly.
