Surefire

by Ashe Barker

  The squealing is now reaching fever pitch and I know I have to do something. But what? Despite my determination to be some sort of foster mum, I really haven’t the first idea of how to care for a fox cub. I sink into my fireside chair, with no idea at all what the hell to do next.

  My phone tinkles, a text has arrived. I tap the screen to open the message. Naturally, it’s from Tom.

  Phoned RSPCA in Bradford. They’ll take the cub. Will that do?

  I hit reply, and type in my response.

  Thank you. I should have thought of that. I’ll take the cub there. Whereabouts in Bradford?

  His reply is quick in coming and curt.

  I’ll send you a link to their website. It has directions and a map. Then I want you to come straight back here to the farm. Is that clear?

  He seems very, very angry still. Angry Doms are difficult to be around I’ve found. I don’t expect my homecoming to be a joyful affair. But first, the cub…

  * * * *

  An hour and a half later, I’m turning into the Greystones driveway, my little squeaking charge safely deposited with the kind people down at the RSPCA. They promised me they’d take care of it, rear it until it’s big enough to fend for itself, then they’ll set it free somewhere. I just hope it’s somewhere a long way from Greystones.

  I pull up next to the vending machine then get out of the car to close the gate behind me. Some aspects of farming life have become ingrained it seems, and I strongly suspect I’m about to learn a few more hard lessons in the very near future. My bottom clenches, and I’m surprised to note this is not in an entirely bad way, as I consider what is without doubt in store for me at the farmhouse.

  I pull up around the back next to the Land Rover and climb out. I lock my car before making my way to the kitchen door. I’m almost as nervous as I was that first morning when I came here to clean, to start my atonement for the attack on Tom two years previously. The door is unlocked as usual, and I slip inside. The kitchen is empty apart from my young cats who are snoozing in their box beside the Aga. They ignore me as I wander from room to room looking for Tom. I’m dreading finding him, but at the same time it feels so lonely here without him. The farm is empty, quiet and cool, not at all to my liking. I know the temperature is no different from usual probably, but it still feels chilly to me.

  My phone tinkles again, and I drag it from my pocket. The text gives me my instructions.

  Go to bedroom and choose a belt from my wardrobe. Then come to barn. DON’T keep me waiting.

  Well, now I know. Less than two minutes later I’m hurrying across the yard toward the barn, a stout belt from Tom’s extensive collection looped around my arm. The door is standing open so I go straight inside.

  I have to wait a few moments to let my eyes adjust to the dim light but soon pick out Tom down at the far end of the huge space. He’s leaning against a stack of hay bales, facing me. His arms are folded across his chest, his ankles crossed. He looks terrifying, stern, angry and about to deliver retribution. All this for a tiny little defenseless fox cub.

  I make my way toward him, wondering if perhaps even now I can talk my way out of this. After all, just disagreeing with Tom, even about something to do with his farm, is hardly a capital offense. I soon dismiss that notion. I might as well have tried to remove my own appendix with a knife and fork. It’s a total non-starter. He doesn’t even let me get a word in.

  “Hand me the belt. Drop your jeans and your underwear, and bend over this bale.”

  I hesitate, really scared suddenly. He’s only once before laid a hand on me in genuine retribution and that was only his hand. Not a thick, heavy belt. This is going to hurt. A lot.

  “Please, Tom, I’m sorry…”

  “Do as I say. Now. When you’re bending over the bale, your bottom bare and ready for me, then you can start telling me what you’re sorry for.” His Dom voice cuts off my attempt to apologize, echoing around the barn. He doesn’t shout at me, he never does, but that icy tone grabs me every time.

  I start to unfasten my jeans, my hands shaking.

  “The boots too. I want you naked from the waist down.”

  “What if someone comes in? Seth or maybe one of his sons?”

  He smiles, but there’s no warmth there. “You’ll just have to hope they don’t. You could always try not to make too much noise—the sound of you screaming might attract more attention than you really want. I don’t mind an audience for this, but you may feel differently.”

  I certainly do. I kick off my boots then finish removing my jeans and underwear before moving to stand in front of the bale he’s decided to use. I notice that he’s spread a blanket over it, which I suppose is fairly considerate in the circumstances.

  “Is the cub sorted out now then?”

  I nod, and thank him again for suggesting the RSPCA.

  He flexes the belt in his hands, now eying my bare bottom with interest. I clench my buttocks, at the same time curling my toes in the dry straw beneath my feet. Punishment or not, he’s certainly managing to release my inner submissive this time.

  “I could see how strongly you felt about the cub. I may be hard-headed about some aspects of farming, but I was always going to find a compromise. For you. You should have trusted me.”

  His reply surprises me, but he’s right. I should have. I should have stayed, talked to him. He’d never have shot the cub without my agreement. Apart from anything else, he’d have had to move me out of the way. Tom may be handy with a whip or a strap, but he’s never rough, never manhandles me. He wouldn’t have moved me by force. Suddenly contrite, I apologize again and this time I do really mean it—“You’re right, and I’m sorry. And I can see you’re right about foxes too. I should have listened to you.”

  He nods briefly. “Yes, Ashley. You should. You don’t have to agree, but you should at least listen. I did listen to you and found another way to deal with the problem. But you’re new to farm life, and you’ve a lot to learn. It’ll come. That’s not why we’re here though.”

  Isn’t it? I look up at him, surprised.

  “We’re here because you walked out on me.” He pauses, lets that sink in before he elaborates further. “We argued, disagreed about something, and you pissed off. Went back to ‘your home’ as you called it. This is your home, Ashley, and I don’t want you to forget that again. And that’s why I’m teaching you this lesson. Commitment means you don’t just bail out of our relationship at the first sign of trouble. You stay, we work on it. We talk. I wouldn’t have walked out on you, I won’t, whatever happens. I expect the same commitment from you. Do I have it?”

  I stare at him, horrified. And deeply ashamed. It’s true. I did do exactly that. I wanted my own way, so I just stopped listening to Tom, ignored his point of view. Instead I leaped onto my quad and left him there on the moor. I deserve the beating he’s about to administer. If I could, I’d do it myself.

  I step forward and lean across the hay bale, settling my upper body on the blanket.

  “I’m ready.”

  “Yes, you are. Or very nearly. One last thing though, Ashley.” He leans on the bale alongside me, his hip propped against the hay.

  I turn, peer at him over my shoulder. Maybe he intends to tie me up first.

  Apparently not. It seems he has more to say. “This is the second time I’ve punished you when you’ve done something that pissed me off. The first time, that first day when I came to your cottage, you hated it. Hated me probably.”

  I shake my head, start to deny it.

  He silences me with one raised finger. “Quiet please, and listen. Okay, so you may not have hated me, but you hated being spanked, even if I did give you an orgasm afterwards. And you were certainly terrified then, and in the days after. You’re behaving very differently now. Why is that?”

  I gaze up at him, and I find I’m wondering the same thing. Why is this different? Before I can scrape together any sort of response, he reaches out and lightly caresses my bottom. The bottom he
’s soon intending to thrash with his belt. I remain still, my toes curling and my pussy moistening as he continues to massage my buttocks, increasing the pressure until I’m squirming with arousal.

  “I know Kenny used to hit you, when he was angry. Maybe even when he wasn’t. Did you lie still and allow him to stroke your bum first like this, or maybe finger fuck you, like this?” His voice is soft, a sexy, sensual murmur as he leans over me, his wonderful, talented fingers working smoothly to bring me to a glittering orgasm.

  I gasp, and my head falls forward to rest on the blanket as he slides his fingers between my legs and sinks three of them deep into my pussy. I spread my thighs without him needing to ask, and he moves now to stand immediately behind me. He’s laid the belt on top of the bale, and is using his free hand to reach between my legs to rub my clit.

  It doesn’t take long. It never does when Tom decides I’m to come, and come fast. He thrusts his fingers deep, angling to hit my sensitive G-spot, and lightly squeezes my clit. He grips the throbbing nub between his index and middle finger and flicks the tip with the pad of his thumb. It’s too much, and in moments I’m moaning as my climax builds and erupts, all my nerve endings seemingly connected to that little button under his thumb. I grasp the blanket, curling my fingers in it as I rotate my hips, silently begging him to fuck me. He doesn’t do that though, not yet. Instead he continues to slide his fingers in and out of my pussy as I clench and spasm around him, squeezing hard to generate more friction, more sensation.

  “Greedy little slut. That’s enough for now I think. More later. When you’ve learnt your lesson and I’m sure it’s sunk in.” He withdraws his fingers, and I lie there, gasping. His tone has hardened, and I know this interlude is over. On to the main event, the main reason we’re here and I’m draped half naked across a bale of hay.

  He leans over me, his hands on either side of my shoulders, his face close to my ear. “Is this different from Kenny?”

  Christ, yes!

  “How, Ashley? How is it different?”

  I didn’t realize I spoke out loud, but I suppose I must have. And now he’s insisting on an answer.

  “How, Ashley? Think, and tell me.”

  “Because it’s you. You won’t hurt me.”

  “I think you know I will.”

  “No, not really. And you’ll stop if I ask you to. If I say my safe word.”

  “So, you know it’s going to hurt. But you’ll still allow me to punish you. Is this abuse then, Ashley, or something else?”

  I’m trying hard to concentrate, but in my post-orgasmic haze, it’s difficult to think straight. One thing I am sure of though, there’s nothing in the least bit abusive about Tom Shore. He loves me, I love him and this is how we resolve our differences. No sulking, no harsh words or cruelty. We have rules, and he enforces those rules. Then it’s over, and we’re even more closely connected than we were before.

  “Ashley? Do you feel I’m abusing you? Bullying you? I want you to say so if you do.”

  I shake my head vehemently, partly in denial and partly to clear my thinking. My voice is a whisper, but that has nothing to do with fear now. This is a deeply emotional moment, a pivotal point in our relationship. I know better than to move before he tells me I can, but I’m yearning just to turn to face him and sink my fingers into his hair as he sinks his cock into me. Nothing less will do now, but first we have unfinished business.

  “No, I don’t feel that. I love you, and I know you love me. I deserve to be punished. Please do it.”

  He straightens. “Happy to oblige, my sweet. I think twenty strokes would be about right. Would you agree?”

  I nod contentedly and flex my fingers in the blanket. “Yes, twenty sounds perfect.”

  He reaches across me to pick up the belt then takes his position behind me, slightly to my left.

  “This is going to be just a little bit too hard for you to really enjoy it. It is a punishment after all. But do your best. I’d like you to count the strokes please. Are you ready?”

  I nod, and a moment later the first stroke lands, sharp and searing across my right buttock. I yelp in pain, but manage not to move. And I even remember to count.

  “One. Thank you. More please.”

  The next stroke lands on my left buttock. I whimper again, but my voice is firm as I count. “Two. Thank you. The next one, please”

  By the time we reach ten my bottom feels to be on fire, a familiar sensation these days and one I know I can usually cope with. Enjoy even. Tom wasn’t bluffing though when he promised to make this beating a hard one, and I’m conscious of only being at the half way mark. The next ten will be a struggle.

  “Are you okay to continue?” Tom has laid the belt down on the straw and is leaning over me again. “Open your eyes, Ashley. Let me know you’re all right.”

  It’s an effort, but I manage to prize my eyelids open. I even manage a small but probably far from convincing smile for him. It’s enough though.

  “Ten more, then we’re done. I want you to continue counting and I’ll wait for you to say the number before each stroke. Ready to carry on?”

  My slight nod is enough and the eleventh stroke lands on the back of my right thigh. That’s a sensitive spot for me, so this really hurts, and I know I won’t be sitting comfortably for at least two days. Maybe more.

  “Eleven. Christ, Tom…”

  “Just count, or you can thank me if you want to. Nothing else.”

  The next strike lands on my left thigh, and I gasp the number. “Twelve.” I can’t bring myself to ask for more, or to thank him for his efforts.

  He chuckles, well aware that I’m struggling now, his punishment is having the desired effect. I know he’s watching me carefully though, and whether I safe word or not, he’ll stop if he has to. I absolutely trust him to do that, so I relax into the blanket, my eyes closed and my teeth gritted, and I ready myself for the next blow. And the next, and the next.

  We’ve reached fifteen, and I’m regretting not asking him to tie me to the bale. It’s a real struggle to remain on my feet. Tom peels back the edge of the blanket to reveal the hay beneath and helps me to curl my fingers around the rope stretched tightly around the whole thing, holding it all together.

  “Hang on to that. And don’t stop counting.”

  A few seconds go by then number sixteen lands across my upper left thigh, right at the crease where it joins the lower curve of my bottom. I know my buttocks and the backs of my legs must be covered in deep red stripes, and without doubt this lesson is one I will never forget. I manage to whisper the number, and tighten my vice-like grip on the rope to stop myself from sliding off the bale. Just four more. That’s not much, surely I can manage that.

  I might think so, but Tom has other ideas.

  “Enough. We’re done here.” He drops the belt onto the floor and reaches for me. He turns me carefully, wrapping the blanket around me before he lifts me in his arms and strides out of the barn. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. I really thought I could complete the twenty, but I hurt like crazy now, everywhere, and I’m glad Tom called a halt.

  He carries me inside and straight upstairs, placing me face down on our bed.

  “You need a long soak. Then a slow and very thorough fucking. Sound good to you?”

  I sigh. “Yes, that sounds wonderful.” Every muscle is aching, my body feels to be on fire, I hurt in places I never even knew I had, but I feel utterly contented. Cared for. Loved.

  And there’s no doubt at all in my mind regarding where my home is.

  Chapter Three

  I opt to stay at home for the next few days, my body still stiff from my encounter in the barn. Eva wonders why I’m not collecting Barney and uses that as an excuse to take a walk over the moors to Greystones to find out what has happened to me. She only has to look at me and she knows the score.

  “Show me.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Skirt up, knickers down.”

  “Chri
st, you sound like Tom. And I’m not wearing any knickers.”

  “Ah. I see. Bad as that? Well show me then. Now.”

  I sigh, knowing she won’t let up any time soon. I turn around, raising my skirt to let her see the damage. She’s not especially impressed by my battle scars.

  “Mmm, hardly a mark on you. You should see my arse sometimes. I reckon Tom’s just a big softie. So, how long are you going to lounge around here for? We want you two to come over to dinner sometime soon. What about next week? That’ll give me time to come up with something I can actually manage to cook.”

  A truly immovable force, Eva Byrne. Again I surrender to the inevitable. “All right. I’ll check with Tom and let you know. As far as I can remember though we’ve not got any pressing engagements coming up.”

  * * * *

  Eva’s not long left and I’m trying to concentrate on the noble art of digital painting. I start with a basic image, in this case a winter landscape, then overlay that with other images to build a new and uniquely intriguing picture. My tastes tend toward the fantastic these days, so I’m creating a lunar landscape. I’ve dropped a couple of extinct volcanoes in, and I’m just contemplating how best to create a meteor storm when my phone rings.

  Tom probably. He should have been back about half an hour ago but must have gotten held up somewhere. I reach for my phone, ever-present alongside my laptop and tap the green icon to take the call.

  It’s not Tom. It’s Seth Appleyard.

  “Ashley? Miss McAllister?” Always polite, almost to a fault, is our Mr Appleyard.

  “Seth, hello. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Miss, thanks for asking. But it’s Tom. Mr Shore. He’s had an accident.”

  My heart plummets and I almost drop my phone, my fingers suddenly nerveless. Tom? An accident? Oh, Christ! Oh no. My head is instantly filled with gory images, blood, guts and severed limbs. I know how dangerous farming can be even in a well-run place like Greystones.