The Three Rs

by Ashe Barker

  As my climax recedes, I go limp underneath him. Cain clearly notices and slows his rhythm.

  “Am I hurting you, love?”

  “No. It feels wonderful. It’s just so, so…”

  “Intense?”

  “Yes. And overwhelming. It feels so tight…”

  “Christ, yes. So fucking tight I think my balls might explode.”

  “That would be a pity.”

  His low chuckle rumbles in my ear. I can hardly believe he’s just spanked me to the very limits of what I can endure, he’s now fucking me so deep and hard I think I might just faint, and I can still manage to poke fun at him. And he’ll actually let me.

  “Less sass, more paying attention to what my cock’s doing to your tight little pussy. Squeeze me, Abbie, let me feel how tight you are…”

  I do, my reward a low groan as he resumes his rhythm, each stroke deep and long. As ever, he finds the perfect angle to create the friction I need right on my G-spot, and my second orgasm is soon bubbling to the surface.

  “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me know how much you want this.”

  My scream of ecstasy is muffled against his shoulder as I arch up into his body, and he rakes his fingers through my hair to tilt my head back. My face positioned for his kiss, he lays his mouth over mine and plunges his tongue deep, mimicking the action of his cock. I open, welcoming him, loving him.

  Even as my climax recedes, he’s sliding his hand between our bodies to find my clit, and this time when he squeezes it, my response is welcomed, encouraged with low murmurs. It wouldn’t make any difference any way, I’m past any attempt at control. My body is his to use, responding mindlessly to his touch. I come a third time, my pussy spasming around his cock as he too rushes toward his release. He stiffens, then surges forward, his cock filling me entirely before he holds still, buried deep within me. He twitches, jerks hard as he starts to climax. There’s a rush of familiar warmth as his semen fills the condom. I squeeze again, more in accepting affection than involuntary response, a way of silently communicating how much I treasure this connection between us.

  His kiss dropped softly on my ear is his reply. His murmured, “I missed you. Let’s go home” completes the story.

  * * * *

  “Would you mind if I went away next week? On a sort of holiday?”

  Cain rolls from his position behind me, my bum tucked up tight against his stomach, his softening cock nestled between my legs. It’s a position I like, seems such a shame to move. But still, I have to ask.

  It’s now been two days since Cain came to my flat, spanked me and reclaimed me, brought me back to this house which has rapidly come to feel like ours rather than his. Two days in which we’ve spent a glorious weekend together. There’s been sex. A lot of sex. Glorious, mind-blowing fucking, but countless tender moments too. Moments when Cain massaged my feet, or helped me to wash and comb my hair, even though I insisted I’d been doing it for myself since I was seven. Moments when we lay, naked and exhausted on the rug in the living room, watched by Oscar who, if he finds the antics of his new owners less than decorous has not protested unduly.

  Moments when Cain lay still while I straddled him, only lowering myself slowly onto his throbbing erection when he threatened me with a spanking to top the one he provided on Friday evening. There have been many such intimate moments, and easily as many moments when we fucked frantically and mindlessly, unable to get enough of each other. Moments when we’ve vented our emotions and our delight. I can’t get enough of him and it does seem as though the feeling is mutual. And deeply satisfying.

  On Sunday afternoon we even took time out to go exploring the rocky Northumberland shoreline again, this time driving a few miles south to the village of Beal, and from there walking across the causeway at low tide to reach the island of Lindisfarne. Cain sat on a low section of tumble-down wall, watching as I sketched the beautiful ruins of the priory. One of the things I most love about drawing is the artistic license I can claim, to embellish as I see fit. So inspired by the evocative narrative of the local guide whose job it is to greet visitors and deliver a potted version of the history of the island, I add my own touches. I sketch in a few haunting images of peaceful monks from days gone by, fleeing from marauding Vikings, with horned helmets and snarling, bearded faces, all adding to the rich historic tapestry I’m creating. Well that’s my story. Or maybe I just didn’t want to pass up an excuse to draw Vikings.

  I glanced across at Cain, observing that he’d have passed well enough for a Viking in an earlier age. His arrival at my flat on Friday, his implacable insistence on totally dominating me, all add to that image. And totally make my toes curl and my pussy twist into a tight little knot of desire. I grew wet just remembering how he’d completely overwhelmed me and, after my initial nervousness, I’d been delighted to let him. In true Viking tradition, I do feel distinctly pillaged. Maybe he’s right, maybe I am a natural submissive. It certainly seems like it.

  We drove back to Berwick, neither of us saying much. For me, my head was full of what the coming week might bring. Will Phyllis respect my privacy, keep my secret? I know she feels compromised at being less than honest with Cain, she believes I should tell him the whole truth. Maybe one day. Soon. When it’s fixed. It’ll be easier in retrospect, I’ll feel less exposed.

  I have no idea what Cain’s thoughts were on that journey, though his insistence on spending most of the evening in our customary naked state, eating our supper in bed, is a clue regarding his state of mind. Our love-making—or fucking as Cain usually terms it—has been sweetly vanilla since then, at least by our standards. By unspoken agreement, my body is too sore for anything kinkier. I’m pleasantly tender, harboring absolutely no regrets or misgivings about what happened. The redness has now faded from my bottom, though it glowed prettily for at least thirty-six hours, so maybe soon… We’re huddled together in a contented after-glow. Shame I need to wreck it. But I have to say something.

  If Cain insists I should stay here, I’m not entirely sure what I’ll do. Maybe then I’ll come clean. For sure, I can’t be derailed now. For the first time ever, as far as I can recall, I have both motivation and opportunity, in the same place at the same time. That’s enough, that’s all I need. The rest is just a matter of getting on and doing it. So he has to agree, he has to let me go. It’s that simple.

  He props himself up on one elbow, and I can feel his eyes on me though I resist the urge to turn to him.

  “A holiday? Where are we going then? Somewhere warm?”

  We! That does get my attention. I roll onto my back, looking up at his curious expression. He doesn’t seem unduly ruffled by the prospect of this sudden change in plans. He may soon.

  “I was thinking I’d go on my own.” Ah, right, not so relaxed now.

  “Is something wrong, Abbie?”

  I shake my head emphatically “No, absolutely not. It’s perfect. We’re perfect. I-I’ve never been more happy than I am at this moment.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Okay. That’s good. So…?”

  “I need to visit my friend. Sally? I think I mentioned her. We used to work together, at that school in Bradford. It, it’s just something we arranged a while ago. It’s half term next week you see. We like to spend time a bit of together, hit the shops, that sort of thing. I won’t arrange any other trips if you don’t want me to…” Please, God, it’s a white lie, don’t let him find out.

  Miraculously, he smiles. “Abbie, if you want to nip off and visit a friend for a few days, that’s fine. You don’t need my permission. Arrange as many trips as you like. I’ll come on them sometimes, although at least one of us could do with being here. I have work stacked up as it is so couldn’t easily manage time off at short notice, but I don’t mind at all if this is what you want to do. And the joy of being the boss, one of the few perks in my view, is you can take time off work when it suits you. More or less. So, where are you and Sally going then?”

  “Oh, nowhere really. We just want
to spend some girlie time together, maybe some shopping, a few art galleries…”

  “Sounds like more your sort of thing than mine. Enjoy. When are you planning to go?”

  He’s agreed! He’s actually bloody agreed. No arguing, no pleading. Shit!

  “Friday, if that’s all right. I can catch the train sometime in the afternoon. Go via Leeds.”

  “If you wait until the evening I don’t mind driving you.”

  “No!” My response comes out more sharply than I intended, but I need to get him off that notion fast. No way can I let him get wind of the real purpose of this visit. I don’t want him meeting Sally, and if he drives me all the way back to Bradford on Friday evening there’ll be no good reason for not asking him to stay over at least for the night, maybe the whole weekend. And every day counts. Every hour almost. I need all the time I can get for this project.

  “No? Are you sure?” If he’s noticed my vehemence—and I have to suspect he has, he’s not calling me on it. Not yet anyway.

  “I’m sure. There’s a train every hour, it’s only a couple of hours to York, then another hour across the Bradford. It’s quicker than driving…”

  He rolls onto his back, seemingly ready to accept that I’ve made independent plans. “I’ll miss you. When will you be back?”

  “On the Sunday? The second Sunday. I’ll be gone nine nights. Is that okay?” If he insists, I might have to think about returning earlier than I intended, which would sort of undermine the whole purpose of the trip.

  “I see. I’ll really miss you then. I suppose I’ll just have to find something else to keep me busy. And get back into the habit of feeding old Oscar.”

  Amazingly, he hasn’t objected. His response is admirably philosophical, really. And not at all what I was anticipating, given his apparent possessiveness a couple of days ago. I draw a deep sigh of relief. He’s accepted it, no questions asked really. I roll over, now propping myself on my elbows on his chest, gazing down into his amused gray eyes. Impulsively I lean in to drop a kiss on his mouth.

  “Thank you.”

  “You can do better than that. Thank me properly.” His lips quirk in mock challenge.

  I manage to wipe the smile off his face with my follow up kiss, full and deep and open-mouthed, exploring his mouth, using my tongue to find and tangle with his as we roll across the bed. Moments later he’s reaching for another condom, snapping the foil and unrolling it over his re-kindled erection. He breaks the kiss, maneuvering me underneath as he pins me to the bed.

  “If it makes you this enthusiastic, maybe I should pay for your train ticket as well. Would that get me a chance to fuck your arse too?”

  I wriggle under him, arching suggestively. “Help yourself. I’m all yours.”

  “So you are, my sweet and sexy little sub. So you are.”

  I moan my appreciation as he sinks his cock into my welcoming, slick channel, at the same time hooking his arms under my knees to lift and open me for his deeper penetration. It’s fast, it’s hard and it’s probably not especially pretty. But it is truly wonderful and I cling on as he fucks me expertly, screaming my orgasm moments later. He’s not the only one who will be counting down those nine nights.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning, Monday, Cain drops me off at the yard but doesn’t come in. He has meetings in Newcastle. He’s seeing his accountant and he wants to track down Fiona Henderson if he can. He did invite me along, and I was tempted. But I’m keen to see Phyllis and reassure her that Cain and I are fine again. And that my plans for addressing my little problem are well in place, so she won’t be in this awkward position for much longer.

  Phyllis is already at her desk, embroiled in what I gather is the usual Monday morning backlog of emails, requests for quotes, messages from clients with leaky roofs or patios that won’t stay flat. I make myself useful in the kitchen. Ten minutes later, plied with a fortifying mug of genuine builders’ tea, she turns to regard me solemnly.

  “So, how was it?”

  “It?” Surely she can’t know how we solved our little dilemma…?

  “It. You and Cain. Are you back at the house then? I suppose you must be—you came in the front door and not down those stairs.” She nods in the direction of the staircase up to the flat.

  I take a sip of my sweet coffee, not quite able to meet her eyes. I have no regrets, no doubts at all about how things are between myself and Cain Parrish—the spankings, the hot and more than slightly kinky sex—but I can’t see me discussing any of that with Phyllis. I settle for a bit of code. “Yes. He can be very persuasive.”

  “Mmm, I expect he can. Let’s hope the Parrish charm works on Mrs Henderson too.”

  In a manner of speaking. I settle for a non-committal sort of grunt, and take refuge behind my coffee cup again.

  “Is everything all right about next week then? Are you still going to study with your friend?” Phyllis is clearly keen to pursue our discussion of Friday.

  Study? I never thought of myself as a student, but I suppose I am, now. And it feels quite nice. Wholesome. Sort of productive. I nod, feeling rather proud of myself as I look up at Phyllis.

  “I mentioned it to Cain, about me being away all week. He was fine about it. I had to convince him not to drive me down there though.”

  “He still doesn’t know what you’re going for then?”

  “No. Not yet. I thought I might tell him. After.”

  “I see. I still think it’d all be a lot easier if he knew the score. He’d be able to help you.”

  I don’t doubt he would. And by now I know him well enough to believe he’s not the sort who’d say anything unkind or derisive, at least not deliberately. But I’ve no way of knowing what his private thoughts might be, apart from astonishment. That’s a given. Would he think less of me? Surely he would. Anyone would.

  It’ll be difficult enough telling him afterwards that I’ve somehow managed to get to the advanced age of twenty-two and can’t read as well as the average seven-year-old. But once it’s fixed I can start to move on from this, and distance will make the self-loathing easier to face. This is what I used to be, how it was. It’s not the ‘me’ I am now. This ‘me’ is clever, determined, successful. Moving forward. This ‘me’ is someone I’m proud of. Or I will be. Roll on Friday.

  “Abbie? Are you okay?” Phyllis is looking at me, concerned.

  I glance at her, shaking my head to clear it. “Sorry, I was miles away. I’m fine. Just a bit tired. It was a heavy weekend. Nice, but busy.” Encouraged by her answering smile, I go on to tell her about our excursion to Lindisfarne, pulling out my sketchpad to show her the pictures I drew.

  She particularly likes my Vikings, and comments on the more than passing similarity between my pillager-in-chief and a certain Cain Parrish. I have to accept she has a point.

  I spend the rest of that morning bent over my sketchbook putting the finishing touches to a number of drawings I’ve started since leaving my old home. The Angel of the North, the building site, Lindisfarne. I’m going to add water colors, but that doesn’t seem quite the right activity for a day in the office. Phyllis doesn’t agree.

  “To be fair, love, you’re not going to be much use doing invoices or checking the trade press for jobs we could tender for. Why not get on with what you’re good at? There’ll be plenty for you to do later.”

  “I’d have to go home for my paints.”

  “Well go then. The walk’ll do you good.”

  I don’t need asking twice. I’m headed for the door, my jacket over my arm before she can change her mind and find some envelopes for me to stuff. I pause in the doorway, remembering my last attempt at mastering invoices.

  “By the way, I did have a go at finding the unpaid invoices last week. Like you asked. I’m not sure I did it right though. I left the ones I thought needed chasing in a separate pile.” I point to the papers on my desk. “I was wondering if maybe you could check them…?”

  She glances up at me wryly as
she continues her rapid fire typing. “Probably best, love. I’ll have a look tomorrow.”

  * * * *

  She doesn’t do it tomorrow though. The next morning Cain and I arrive at the office together, to find the door still locked and no Phyllis. Once inside, there’s a message on the telephone answering machine telling us that her Stan is under the weather and she needs to stay with him today, that she’ll make up the hours later.

  “Does she have to do that? Make up the time, I mean?” It seems to me that Phyllis already does more than her share.

  Cain seems to think so too. “Well, I’m not counting. She’ll probably have some work she can do at home anyway, knowing her. Could you phone her back and tell her it’s okay and not to worry? We’ll manage.” He glances up at me from the pile of envelopes he’s busily splitting open in Phyllis’ absence. “Well, you will. Do you mind staying here on your own, love? We could do with having someone to deal with phone calls if nothing else. And this lot.” He tosses the rest of the unopened mail onto Phyllis’ desk. “I need to get off to Morpeth, sweet talk Mrs H and her bloody architect. She seems ready to be reasonable, but that little shit’s kicking up a fuss. You’d think the massive cost saving that dropped in her lap was his doing, the way he’s carrying on…”

  I cringe. No matter how kind, how generous both Cain and Phyllis are, whichever way you slice it, it was my doing. I hope Cain does manage to salvage something, and the least I can do is agree to hold the fort. I’m not relishing the prospect of spending the day here on my own though. Still, I have my paints now. And needs must.

  “I’ll be fine. You get off. Drive safe.” I smile brightly, and Cain drops a quick kiss on my mouth as he heads for the great outdoors. “Put anything important or interesting on Phyllis’ desk, and shred the junk.” He gestures at the rest of today’s post, just before the door swings shut behind him.

  Ten minutes later, my customary first coffee of the day steaming merrily on my desk, I haul the post toward me. Might as well make a start. I’ve no intention of shredding anything, too much potential there for absolute disaster. I may be thick, but I’m not totally stupid.