by Ashe Barker
Cain ignores my shocked hiss as I wriggle, trying to shift my vulnerable and previously untroubled anus from his attention. If anything, his efforts there are intensified.
“Please, I don’t think…” I’m not sure what it is I want to say, but some form of protest seems to be called for.
He glances up at me, his fingertip now firmly inserted into my arse. “Safe word, Abbie. Or you keep still and let me do this.” His gaze holds mine, but his fingers remain still as he lets me process what’s happening to me.
I turn it all over in my head. I’m acutely aware of the intrusion, his finger is in my arse, for God’s sake. But, I don’t use my safe word. I don’t even use my amber light. Instead, I deliberately close my eyes, and force my body to relax, to go limp. I give myself over to him.
“Good girl.” His words are softly murmured, then he returns to his task.
Once I’ve accepted the indignity, I have to confess that it feels rather nice as he eases his finger deeper into my bum. He’s not rough, not forcing me at all, just slowly gaining entry, my muscles relaxing and opening to allow it. As his second knuckle disappears inside me, I can’t contain another small gasp. He isn’t hurting me, but it does feel strange. And slightly scary. And more than slightly wicked. Cain quickly settles that little interruption though by scraping his thumb lightly over my clit. My hips lift, my whole body arches—his to do with as he likes. The final inch of his finger sinks into me, and I lie still, utterly relaxed, utterly trusting as he continues to stroke my clit.
My orgasm a few seconds later is beautiful, an intense sensual experience. It’s almost spiritual, my connection to Cain so absolute in these ecstatic moments. I shiver, my body shuddering and convulsing in its release. I’m quite helpless to do anything but accept what he’s doing to me. For me. It’s as though all my nerve endings are directly connected to my clit, and everything he does to me is intensified by the intimacy of his final penetration. I thrash my head from side to side, the only part of me that can move, as wave after wave of pleasure washes across me, through me. All I know is, he’s touching me, I’m allowing him to do whatever he chooses to me, and it’s wonderful beyond compare.
Cain slides his finger from my arse, but makes no move to untie me. Instead, he lowers his face to my pussy and starts to lick. Slowly, delicately, as though he’s savoring every sweet mouthful he laps at every inch of my exposed cunt. He draws the tip of his tongue along my slit to tease out the jam coating my entrance, and I make a little throaty sound in appreciation. It feels so good, so decadent, so sweetly kinky. He takes his time, careful not to leave any part of me untasted. I’m flexing my fingers, twisting my hands in my restraints, tugging at the ropes binding me. Cain sees, knows, but still doesn’t release me. I could ask him to, but this is his show, and I’m content to play it his way.
The now familiar churn of orgasm is welling again, my pussy clenching and squeezing. The need to be filled is almost overwhelming. I want him inside me, now.
“Fuck me. Please, fuck me…” I’m moaning now, the plea desperate as my body starts to spasm again.
“Soon, baby. One more orgasm first. Come for me now.” His tone is low, but insistent. He slides two fingers deep into my cunt, twisting and separating them inside to scrape against the walls of my channel.
He finds and strokes my G-spot, rubbing harder as I stretch and strain against the ropes.
“I need…” My voice trails away—I don’t know how to articulate what I need.
Cain seems to sense it anyway. “I know, sweetheart. You’ll have what you need. First, I want you to come. Now. Come for me, hard, fast.”
His fingers are urging me on, and his words only serve to intensify the sensations. In moments I’m imploding again, my senses scattering as my release rips through me. This time my climax is powerful, intense, almost brutal in its severity. The tidal wave of pleasure sweeps any rational thought aside as I’m carried along, spinning helplessly—weightless in the grip of this intensity of feeling. At last it passes, and I drift slowly back to reality. I may have forgotten to breathe, I’m gasping now, the air shuddering into my lungs as I drag oxygen in. Cain withdraws his fingers again and rolls off the bed. He quickly unties my ankles, but leaves my wrists bound. The sharp snap of the condom foil precedes his entry by mere seconds. He plunges his cock fully inside me, thrusting hard as he quickly sets up a rhythm.
“Oh, God. Cain. I—that’s…” I can’t find anything sensible to say, so I give up the effort. I open my eyes to find Cain’s gray gaze fixed on me.
“You are so beautiful, babe. So bloody gorgeous…” His voice is ragged, lowered now to little more than a growl.
Still supporting his weight on his arms, he leans down to place his lips over my mouth. His breath mingles with mine and I can taste the sweet, sensuous mix of strawberries and my own musk on his lips. I open my mouth and suck his tongue in, loving the double penetration. He lowers himself down onto his elbows, cradling my face in his hands as he continues to fuck me hard. His kiss deepens, and I lift my legs to anchor them around his waist. The angle increases his penetration, and the slight shift in direction pushes his cock hard against my G-spot with every stroke. In moments I’m coming again, my pussy tightening around him, milking every last tingle of pleasure from his cock.
“Christ, baby, yes. Squeeze me. God, you’re so fucking tight. So hot…”
His cock is like a piston, pounding into me, bumping hard against my cervix with every stroke. He rocks his hips sharply under my heels as I cling around him. I shake and shudder, and give myself over to yet another powerful orgasm. This time though, I’m not alone. Cain stiffens, his cock jerking hard inside me as he rams it home in one final thrust, then holds still as the semen pours from his body.
At last we’re both sated, lying still and spent. Cain withdraws, disposing of the condom quickly before he reaches up to free my wrists. I roll onto my side and snuggle up to him. He loops his arm around me, pulling me in close as he drops a light kiss on the top of my head.
“Well, that should keep us going for an hour or so. Just about enough time to grab a bite to eat.”
I rub my cheek against his chest. “Mmm, and I need another shower. I’m all sticky.” I snuggle in closer though, in no hurry to go anywhere for a while. Cain seems inclined to agree, tightening his arm around me. And in moments, we’re both asleep.
Chapter Eleven
“Tell me about this thing you’re doing in Rothbury.”
“Sorry…?” Cain glances up from his position crouching in front of the dishwasher. I pass him another two plates to stack in there.
“This building site you went to today. In Rothbury? What are you building?” I may not have much interest in the paperwork side, but I am genuinely intrigued by the construction process itself. I know that much of the work is physical and hard, but it also has a delicate technicality about it, requires careful planning, meticulous organization to make sure everything goes together just as it should. Or so I imagine.
Cain stands up, dries his hands then passes me the tea towel.
“It’s what we’re building, actually. Parrish Construction is you and me, plus about a dozen or so other employees and sub-contractors. But the development in Rothbury isn’t just us. It’s a refurb of an old woolen mill, going to be luxury apartments overlooking the river. Nice spot. The principal contractor, A.R.T., is a multi-national, but we—Parrish Construction—specialize in period stuff. They’ve brought us in to do the internal dressed stone work and lay some new Yorkshire stone flooring. We’ll be on site for another three or four weeks.”
It sounds fascinating, and I’m full of questions. “How did we get in on a massive job like that then? Do we advertise?” I’m thinking of the flyers I stuffed into envelopes today.
“Yes, sometimes. And we have a reputation in the trade for this sort of work. We’ve done a lot for A.R.T. in the last couple of years and they usually call us in on jobs like this one.”
“Do we
do anything else? Other sorts of building?”
“Sweetheart, times are hard. We do anything that comes our way. We’re doing okay, but I never turn down work. This specialist stuff pays well though.”
“So, what other things have you—sorry, we—built?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.” He holds out his hand.
I take it and follow him from the kitchen. He leads the way to the small home office at the back of the house, the room where I first found him as I explored the house the afternoon I arrived here and was intimidated by Oscar. Speaking of whom, the silent gray shadow has trotted down the hallway after us and is now slinking across the office to take up residence in his usual chair. Cain ignores him as he pulls open the top drawer of a filing cabinet.
“Here, that’s our brochure. It’s on our website too. It has details of some of our previous projects.” He hands me a glossy booklet. “Have a look through that if you like.”
I take it cautiously and open it at random. Then I heave a sigh of relief as I realize it’s mostly pictures. Glossy images of building projects in various states of completion. I smile my thanks, and drop into the only chair in the room to thumb through it more slowly. There are words on the pages too, but in his marketing, Cain Parrish clearly relies more on showing rather than telling. I’m glad of that, and I find the brochure quite fascinating. I’m suddenly full of questions.
“Where is that? What was this project? How long ago? Which bit did we do? Why do you…? What’s this for?”
Cain leans against the door frame, answering me patiently, explaining in more detail as I quiz him. One picture particularly intrigues me. It’s a converted church, a huge building which has been cleverly sliced into beautiful apartments, whilst somehow managing to maintain the full height of the massive space in the middle. The entrance is photographed and spread across the center pages of the brochure. There’s a huge restored stained glass window with light streaming through, washing the whole building in a multi-colored glow. It’s clever, artistic and I have a powerful urge to paint it.
“Where is this place?” I point to the stained glass window.
“Leeds. Rather off our usual patch, but it was a special job. Couldn’t resist it. That was a derelict church, a listed building. It’d been empty for over twenty years—unless you count the pigeons, that is. Christ, what a mess that was when we started.”
“It’s lovely now. Which part of it did we do?”
“That part mostly. The entrance foyer. The exposed stonework needed to be cleaned and dressed, and a lot of it was chipped and damaged. We restored the ecclesiastical features, the stone carvings and so on. It was difficult to do because of the height. We had to use a cherry picker and internal scaffolding to reach the ceiling. We brought in a specialist glass artisan for the window, obviously. That was a one-off.”
“Is it open to the public? I’d like to see it. Paint it possibly…?”
He gazes at me, considering. “That’s the entrance, so yes, you could probably get in to see that much. In fact, the Civic Trust down in Leeds probably do tours there. They were never away from the place while the work was going on, constantly checking we weren’t about to rip out some irreplaceable bit of Pugin architecture. You’d need permission from one of the current residents to go into any of the apartments though.”
“It’s this bit I’d like to see, with the stained glass window. Could we go there sometime?”
“I don’t see why not, if you like. And, Abbie, if you want to paint it, we could probably use your picture in some of our future publicity. We’ve tended to rely on photography up until now, but other forms of art would be interesting as well.”
I gaze at him, an idea forming of how I might be able to add some value here after all, how I can make my contribution. My literacy and numeracy skills haven’t equipped me for a role managing the office, and I’d hate that in any case. But the prospect of visiting these various refurbished buildings, painting them, drawing out their historical essence skillfully restored and reinvented for a twenty-first century lifestyle. Now that—that is me. I’m at home suddenly, sure of myself, a fish that had been floundering on the river bank, unexpectedly toppling back into the cool, fresh water. I’ve found my niche.
Cain sees it too. He’s smiling at me, and on impulse I throw my arms around him. He returns my hug, and lifts me off my feet to swing me in a circle. The tiny office was never designed for such nonsense and we manage to send a stack of trade magazines flying. Neither of us minds much though, and even Oscar seems unmoved by the commotion.
“Sounds like a plan, sweetheart. I’ll check with the Civic Voice when we could get in there. First chance we get, right?”
I kiss him, liking very much indeed.
* * * *
“Where are you going today?”
We’re eating a rushed breakfast again, having invested the half hour or so we might have used making bacon sandwiches in a frantic fuck-fest. Neither of us is complaining, but I’m starting to contemplate my coming day with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. I’ve noticed that whilst yesterday Cain dressed in old work clothes, today he’s a lot smarter. He’s wearing gray Chinos, a black T-shirt and a dark gray leather jacket. His battered work boots have been abandoned in favor of shiny black leather shoes, and he’s been in the office stuffing papers into a document carrier. I somehow don’t think he’s looking forward to another day crawling around in muddy holes with the clerk of works.
“Rothbury, same as yesterday.” He slugs down the dregs of his coffee and picks up the keys to the van. “Are you ready?”
I nod and pick up my jacket. “How come you’re not wearing building site clothes then?”
“Ah, right. Today I’m in the site office all day. We have some meetings with the architects, and we’re interviewing for an electrical contractor. I agreed to sit in on the panel.”
“Could I come? With you I mean? I wouldn’t get in the way.” Anything to avoid another day staring at that computer screen and trying to pretend to Phyllis that any of it makes sense. And actually, the prospect of sitting in on discussions with an architect is quite interesting. I don’t suppose I’d be much help choosing an electrician, but I could perhaps look around the site.
Cain pauses on his way to the door, glancing back at me over his shoulder. At first I think he’s going to tell me he’s too busy, that I would be in the way.
“Okay, I don’t see why not. We’ll need to make a detour though, call in at the yard first.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll need to tell Phyllis where I am.”
“That, yes, but we’ll also need to pick up some gear for you. Building sites are dangerous places. You’ll need a hard hat, a high-vis jacket and some steel toe caps.”
I stare at him in astonishment. It had never occurred to me I’d need all that. He catches my amazed expression
“No safety gear, no entry to the site. Health and safety rules. The site foreman will check. I know, I appointed him. Do you have any jeans you could wear?”
I glance down at my knee length floral skirt. Very decent, but probably not suitable for a construction site.
“Give me a minute.” I shoot past him and bolt back up the stairs. Five minutes later I’m hopping into the passenger seat, appropriately dressed in my blue denims and trainers.
Our stop off at the yard is brief. Just enough time to explain our plans to Phyllis, who is otherwise pre-occupied in any case as the computer on my desk seems to be playing up this morning. I shuffle past guiltily as I remember my hasty exit yesterday and my doomed search for the start button. The sooner I can get myself established as the resident artist and not the admin assistant, the sooner I’ll stop being such a liability.
Cain retrieves his hard hat and high-vis jacket from where he left them yesterday on top of Phyllis’ filing cabinet. He opens the bottom drawer and rummages around in there, before pulling out another similar jacket and a hat.
“Just try that. It might need adjusting, but it�
��s the smallest I can find.” He perches the hat on my head, and adjusts the plastic strap at the back to fit me. He taps the top of the hat lightly with his knuckles. “So far so good. Now we just need some steel toe caps for you. We’ll have to buy those though as we don’t keep a stock. Come on.”
He hurries me out of the office again and bundles me back in the van, complete with my hard hat and jacket. Our next stop is a specialist trade footwear shop on the edge of the town center. He shepherds me inside, and I’m stunned at the range of styles and colors I can choose from. I’d expected to have to wear something ugly and bulky, and very masculine. Not so at all. The ladies shelves have a wide selection, and I end up with a pair of light gray and purple work boots that look not unlike my own trainers. And they’re just about as comfortable too. Cain insists on paying, and pockets the receipt to pass on to Phyllis later.
“Let the tax man pay for your shoes, love,” he explains as he gestures for me to head back to the van. “I always do.”
The site in Rothbury is about an hour drive, and by the time we’ve finished getting me kitted out we manage to hit the rush hour traffic. I use the time spent crawling along the dual carriageway to quiz Cain about the project we’ll be on today.
“It’s an old textile warehouse, three stories, on the banks of the river. We’re adding verandahs, designed for fishing. And moorings for boats. There’ll be a communal rooftop garden too. It’ll appeal to the angling fraternity, retired mostly I’d imagine. The planners have insisted on traditional materials and design throughout, original where possible, which is why we’re there. There’ll be twelve apartments on each floor, so it’s not a massive development. Some complicated fireproofing needed though. These old warehouses tend to be steeped in the oils from the wool that was stored there, and that’s highly flammable. You’ll have seen on the news how these places can go up like a torch if they ever catch fire. Well, that’s no use if people are going to be living there, so we need to treat the stone and the timbers to make them safe.”
