by Ashe Barker
“Oh, shut up.” He frowns, so on impulse I grab his wrist and squeeze it. “I’m sorry, I just…”
“I know. Don’t worry. I won’t spank you for telling me to shut up.”
I gaze at him, my bottom clenching. I wish he would. I so wish he would. I really ought to leave before I blurt out something very unwise.
“So, what would it take then? To get you to spank me?”
Too late.
Chapter Four
She’s every bit as beguiling as I remember, but more vulnerable somehow, without the prison officer’s uniform to serve as her armour. She holds onto my wrist, her grip tightening as though she expects me to pull away and abandon her. It’s fair enough, I suppose. I did it before.
I should never have started that scene at Armley jail. It was wrong on so many levels, not least the fact that I was in no position to offer Molly the aftercare she needed. I knew it, I knew back then how our encounter was likely to end even without factoring a fucking prison riot into the equation, but I didn’t let that stop me. I was horny, I needed an outlet, and she was there.
I did her a huge disservice, and it’s not a mistake I’m about to repeat. I like to think I’m more in control now and less led by my dick. My dom instincts are if anything more powerful now than they were then, but so are my ethics, so woefully lacking in the past.
I shake my head. “I’d love to oblige you, Molly, but now’s neither the time, nor the place. We’ve both moved on since that day—”
She blushes crimson, and drops her hold on my wrist. “Of course. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I actually said that. I’ve embarrassed you, and myself. Look, I’ll just go.”
“No, Molly, I didn’t mean—”
“Just forget it. Please.” She reaches for her small bag again, and this time she manages to grab it and get to her feet. I stand too.
“Molly, don’t rush off. I’d like to continue this…”
“No, no, we’ve said all we need to say. Too much, probably. Now if you’ll excuse me I need to collect my luggage from reception and ask them to call me a taxi to the station, so …”
“I’ll drive you.” It seems to be the only way I’m going to be able to remain in her company for a little longer, hopefully enough time to drag my foot out of my mouth and explain what I really meant.
“That’s okay, really. I can get a cab.” She’s already heading for the double doors that lead into the hotel reception area. I catch up with her and manage to steer her past the desk and out through the main doors without manhandling her too much—certainly not enough to attract the attention of the concierge. I nod to him as we pass. “Mrs. Whitkirk has to be off. I wonder, would you be so kind as to bring her luggage, please? It’s with the receptionist.”
“Of course, sir.” The liveried attendant bustles off to do as I ask, leaving me to convince Molly of my good—well, not entirely bad—intentions.
“My car’s over here. I’ll drive you to the station.”
She’s still insisting she can make her own way even as I’m shepherding her across the acres of car parking in the direction of my dark grey Audi. The automatic locks open as we approach so I only have to open the passenger door and usher her inside. The matter is settled when the doorman arrives with her small suitcase and pops that in the boot. I slip him a crisp five-pound note and he leaves happy. I slide into the driver’s side and start the engine.
“Jared, I’m not sure… Please, let me out.”
She sounds scared. I curse inwardly and turn to face her. “The doors aren’t locked. I swear to you, I’m not about to abduct you or do you any harm. My days as an armed robber are behind me.”
Her eyebrows shoot up under her wavy fringe and she shakes her head. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean that. It’s just—I’m embarrassed, that’s all. I made a fool of myself, coming on to you like that and you were right to slap me down.”
I manage a wry chuckle at her choice of words. “Sweetheart, you of all people should know that if I decide to start slapping it won’t be in the public setting of hotel lounge. Like I said, there’s a time and a place. If you want to make time, I can provide the place.”
Her mouth makes a delightful little ‘o’ and she is speechless. I decide to treat her stunned silence as a point to me, and put the car in gear. There is no further protest from Molly as we exit the car park and join the Friday morning traffic.
The journey to the station is short, and neither of us speaks. I pull up in the short stay parking area and kill the engine. Molly makes no move to get out.
“What time’s your train?”
She fishes in her bag for her purse, and extracts a ticket. “Five past twelve. It gets into Kings Cross at three-fifteen this afternoon.”
“Do you have work later? Things to do… in London?”
She shakes her head. “Not really. Well, I do have work, when I get back, but I’m self-employed these days so I set my own hours. I make jewellery, and sell it on eBay.”
“Ah, a fellow artist then?”
“Hardly.” She lets out a derisive snort. “My stuff’s not in your league. I’m lucky to get ten quid for one of my pieces.”
“Do you make enough to live on?”
“On a good month. The rest of the time I turn down the heating and manage to get by.”
“If you live off what you earn that makes you a fellow artist. Wait here.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“Wait.” I offer no more explanation, and get out of the car. At the station entrance I glance back. She is still seated exactly where I left her, her obedience gratifying and more than a little encouraging. A plan is starting to form in my mind, and I need her compliance if it’s to work.
Five minutes later I emerge from the station to find her still in the passenger seat, though looking somewhat anxious. I slide back into the car beside her.
“Give me your ticket, please.”
It’s still in her hand. She passes it to me. I tear it in half, then in half again. I drop the pieces in the tray in front of my gear lever.
“Why did you do that?” She looks from the pile of torn card to me and back again. “That cost me forty pounds.”
“Here, have this one.” I reach into my jacket pocket for the first-class open ticket I just purchased and hand it to her. “It’s valid for three months. Now, you have plenty of time.”
“What? I can’t. I mean—”
“You had a train to catch, now you don’t. You can go back to London whenever you like, but there’s no immediate hurry. We need time, to talk. Now we have it.”
“But, my hotel—”
“You can stay with Rachel. She owns a pub and has rooms to let.”
“Oh.” Her expression suggests surprise, and just possibly disappointment. I decide to try my luck.
“Or, you could stay at my place. It’s a bit further away—that’s why I was staying over with Rachel last night—but there’s plenty of room and I think you’d like it there.”
“But you don’t know me. And you could hardly say we’re friends.”
“I know you well enough. The question is, do you trust me? Ex-con and all that?”
She holds my gaze for several seconds. I hold my breath.
“I do. Trust you. I always did.”
“My place then?”
She inclines her head. “Thank you. It’s just for a night or two, while we talk, and…” She doesn’t elaborate, and neither do I.
“Right.” I start the engine and offer her a smile, hoping I manage to inject sufficient warmth to provide the reassurance she needs. I’ve picked up enough in the way of signals from her to be reasonably certain that my chequered past is not so much the issue, but hers—riddled with guilt, doubt, and self-recrimination—most certainly is.
* * *
I’m fond of my place, though I don’t entertain there very often. Privacy means a lot to me, which is why I decided to buy and conv
ert Cote House Barn about a mile from Summerbridge in Nidderdale, North Yorkshire. When I acquired the property a year ago, it was a semi-derelict pile of rubble set in the middle of a field occupied by a bunch of not especially curious sheep. The Yorkshire stone walls and roof were intact though, more or less, and the structure basically sound. It took six months to renovate and convert the wreck of a building into the isolated country house I now like to call home. The sheep still amble around outside and we manage to ignore each other pretty much as I rattle around among my four bedrooms, dining room, lounge, kitchen, and study. The views are stunning, inspirational as far as I’m concerned, but the main reason I adore this place is the studio I installed in the roof space. Natural light pours through the skylights and the huge room serves as both workspace and viewing gallery.
Molly says very little during the drive out here, just gazing out of the window at the scenery of the Dales National Park. As we reach Nidderdale and the road starts to climb, leaving behind the last shreds of what might pass for civilisation around here, she peers from side to side, her expression intent. I have the uneasy sense she might bolt at the first provocation. I need to tread carefully, since I have every intention of disturbing her equilibrium—eventually.
I smile to myself as I turn into the long, cobbled driveway leading to the forecourt in front of my house as I wonder what Molly will make of the exhibits in my personal gallery.
I park the car and get out, then walk around to open Molly’s door. “We’re here. Come on, I’ll give you the guided tour.” I retrieve her case from the boot of the car and lead the way up the two steps to my front door. Molly stands beside the car, rooted to the spot.
“Are you okay?” I call.
She turns at the sound of my voice. “Oh, yes. It’s just—wow! Look at this.” She turns three hundred and sixty degrees and gestures to the world at large, swinging her arm around in a wide arc. “It’s so … huge. And empty. There’s nothing for miles around.”
I grin. Factually, that’s not correct. I’m surrounded by moorland, huge rock formations that attract tourists and geology students in about equal measure, and there’s even a Ministry of Defence communications station a couple of miles to the south. The massive ‘golf ball’ installations can be seen for miles. But I know what she means, and vast emptiness is why I’m here.
“Yes, it seems so. I enjoy the solitude, the peace and quiet, the space. I don’t much appreciate being closed in—I’m sure you’ll understand why.”
“Don’t you get lonely, up here all on your own?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I’ve lived in overcrowded conditions, and believe me, this is better. In any case, most of the time I’m working, or out on location somewhere. It’s rare that I get to spend more than few days at a time here. I wish I did.”
“I’m sorry.” She stands at the foot of the steps looking up at me, her face betraying her discomfort.
I deposit the case on the top step and go back down. She drops her gaze immediately. I cup her chin in my palm, realising this is only the second time I’ve really touched her since we slipped out of my cell at Armley. I tilt her face back up so she has to meet my eyes.
“Why are you sorry, Molly?”
“I locked you up.”
“It was your job.”
“I know, but—”
“You did what you were paid to do. If I was minded to blame anyone else, it might be the judge who sentenced me, or the dickheads I used to hang around with who couldn’t organise a piss up in a brewery let alone a half decent post office robbery. But I don’t. I take responsibility for what I did and for what happened to me back then, just as I do now.”
“What do you mean, now? Are you still—?”
I shake my head. “No, definitely no. I’m a reformed character.” Well, that’s true, more or less.
“But, how did you manage it? I mean, this is some transformation… all of this.”
I lower my head to kiss her forehead. Her eyelids droop in silent acceptance. My cock springs to attention. Time to move this on.
“Come inside. I’ll give you the tour, then explain my meteoric rise to fame and fortune.” I step away and hold out my hand. She laces her fingers through mine and follows me up the steps.
The tour of the downstairs rooms doesn’t take long. I fling open the dining room door for Molly to peer through, then the lounge. I’ve not lived here long enough to accumulate much so I’m still rather minimalist in my decor. It probably looks somewhat austere to Molly, though she’s too polite to say so. She seems impressed by my kitchen, which pleases me. Next to my studio this is probably the room I spend the most time in when I’m here. I enjoy cooking, it appeals to my creative urges. And I appreciate decent food—another legacy from my prison days, I suppose. I put on a pot of fresh coffee then lead Molly upstairs.
Two of my bedrooms are unfurnished. I’ll get round to sorting that at some stage, but the trip to Ikea can wait. I show her into the guest bedroom.
“You can use this one, while you’re here.”
She glances at me, surprised. “Oh… right. I assumed…” She blushes again, quite beautifully.
I enjoy a fleeting image of that same peachy redness splashed across her rather gorgeous buttocks and the blood drains straight to my cock. “Or not. We’ll see how it goes, shall we?”
I know exactly how the sleeping arrangements are going to pan out, but if those endless months and years spent cooling my heels in Armley taught me anything at all, it was patience. She’ll share my bed, but I’ll wait until she’s ready to ask me for that privilege. “Shall we move on?”
I lead the way along the upstairs hallway to my room, the biggest and by far the most comfortable. My emperor-size bed dominates the space, set in the centre of the room, facing floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto a stunning view of Brimham Rocks. I seldom watch television in here—the natural view is so much more entertaining—so the wall-mounted screen is modest in comparison to the fifty-odd inch monster in my lounge downstairs. I do appreciate atmosphere and mood though, so I have a state-of-the-art sound system. There are other subtle concessions to my personal preferences, but I see no point in drawing Molly’s attention to the slotted head and footboards, so convenient for tying a submissive to my bed, or to the various hooks in the beams above our heads. There’ll be time enough for all of that later, if she responds as I hope she will to the images in my personal photo gallery.
“I love this room,” breathes Molly, walking across to stand before the picture window and gaze at the vista beyond.
I move to stand close behind her. “Me too.” I lift her hair from her shoulders and kiss the nape of her neck. “Your hair used to be shorter.”
She angles her head to allow me better access. “I know. Andy didn’t like it so I let it grow.”
I comb my fingers through the wavy locks. “This is nice, but I liked the sassy cropped look too.”
“So did I, but…”
“How long has it been? Since you separated?”
“Just a couple of months.”
“Long enough not to be trying to please him anymore.”
She turns to smile at me, the first genuine smile I think I’ve seen since we met at the hotel. “You’re right. I’m making an appointment at a hairdresser first thing on Monday.”
I wink at her. “Go, girl. So, shall I show you the rest now?”
“There’s more?”
“Upstairs. My studio. This house is my workplace as well as my home.”
“It’s a fabulous place to work.”
“I think so, and the short commute is another advantage. Come on.” I step away and offer her my hand again. She takes it and I lead her from the room.
The flight of wooden stairs leading to my artistic domain is at the end of the hallway. Molly follows me up and we enter. I’m still holding her hand as I step back to allow her an uninterrupted view of the space. She gasps and her grip on my
fingers tightens as she takes in her new surroundings.
“Oh. Oh, my goodness. Are all these yours?”
“Yes,” I murmur. “I originally produced the collection as commission for a club in New York, but I liked them, so I had a set printed for here too.”
“I… see.” She lets go of my hand and steps forward to stand before the first of my black and white images, a picture of a beautiful blond submissive kneeling, bound and naked before a man in an Armani suit. His head is deliberately cropped off; the woman is the focus of the work. Her posture screams surrender, obedience, compliance. It’s powerful, seductive, elegant, and erotic, even if I do say so myself.
“Do you like it?” I ask, my tone deliberately low.
She nods, gnawing at her lower lip as she considers her response. “Yes. I do. It’s very—expressive. Who is she?”
“Her name’s Naomi. That’s her dom she’s kneeling in front of. What does the image express, would you say, Molly?”
She turns to look at me, ignoring my question. “They’re not just models, then?”
I shake my head slowly. “No, they’re friends of mine and their lifestyle is real enough. What does the image say to you, Molly?”
“She loves him. Does she? She looks as though she might.”
“I’m sure she does, and he adores her. Is that what you see? Love?”
“Yes, and trust. He could do anything to her, and she’s powerless. Vulnerable.”
“Okay. What about that one?” I direct her to the next image a few metres along the wall. In this scene Naomi is photographed in the centre of a large, empty room. She is naked, of course, suspended from the ceiling, her arms above her head and her toes just touching the floor. She is looking straight into the camera, her eyes brimming with fat, shiny tears.
Molly eyes the picture critically before announcing her judgement. “It’s a beautiful image. She’s very lovely.”
“She is. Do you like this picture, Molly?”
She hesitates, then, “No, not as much as the other one. She looks sad. Scared perhaps.”
