by Ashe Barker
“Look at me,” I command.
Her eyelids flutter and she raises them slowly. Her pupils are dilated, her eyes dark with arousal, with sated lust. She curls her mouth is a small, hesitant smile, which causes my softening cock to have a change of heart.
“Was that okay? Did I do all right?” she asks, then waits, trusting, for my affirmation. Or otherwise.
“Yes, love. You were perfect. Do you feel good?”
She nods, then collects herself. “Sorry, I mean… yes. I feel wonderful.”
“And being tied up? How was that?”
“A bit overwhelming at first, but in a good way. The blindfold too…”
“Would you do it again?”
“What? Now?”
“Are you sore?” Christ, I hope not. My dick’s already twitching to start over.
“No, sir. I don’t think so.”
“Right then. Just give me a moment to grab a fresh condom, then I’ll see what I can do about that. By the time you leave this room you’ll struggle to remember your own name, but you’ll be able to feel me in every nerve ending you possess.”
She lifts her hand to caress my cheek. “Is that a promise, sir?”
It was, and I hope I made good on it. By the time I’ve fucked Molly twice more, once from behind and then again with her bouncing on top of me, her gorgeous tits jiggling in front of my nose, I’m not sure either one of us can recall our names. We both collapse into an exhausted heap—a tangle of limbs, sticky, panting bodies, matted hair. Molly falls asleep almost immediately, and I doze for a few minutes. When I open my eyes she’s still spark out so I peel myself away from her and roll from the bed. I need caffeine, food perhaps, and a breath of fresh air without a doubt. I pull the duvet up around her and gather up my clothes from the floor, then pad barefoot from the room.
Molly follows me an hour later. She finds me outside, my third cup of coffee in my hand, leaning on the dry stone wall that marks the edge of my patio.
This is one of my favourite places, the view from here nothing short of breath-taking. Combined with the potential I saw in the loft space, this spectacular vista was one of the main reasons I had to have this place. The dramatic landscape of Brimham Rocks is spread out before me, the bizarre mushroom-shaped lumps of millstone grit reaching as high as thirty or forty feet, balancing precariously one on top of the other, their weird contours carved out by aeons of wind, glacial, and rain erosion. The surrounding moorland that wraps around my house in all directions is now a kaleidoscopic riot of autumnal colours, the heathers and gorse shining in purples, golds, vivid greens, and flashes of brown as the bracken darkens to its winter hue. This magical place is a geologist’s dream. Tourists flock here, as do climbers and all manner of outdoors enthusiasts, but for a jailbird turned honest photographer, it’s quite simply home.
I glance over my shoulder as Molly approaches. “Coffee?” I offer her my cup.
“Thank you.” She accepts and takes a sip, then wrinkles her nose. “No sugar or cream.”
I drape an arm across her shoulders. “There’s plenty inside. Come on.”
I settle her at the kitchen table, place a fresh cup of steaming coffee, complete with two sugars and some cream, in front of her. “Are you hungry?”
“A little, but I’m fine for now.” She looks up at me. “Can we talk?”
I take the seat opposite her. “You have questions.” She must; it’s inevitable.
“Yes. Lots.”
“About what happened upstairs?”
She shakes her head. “Not that, well, not only that. It was you I was wondering about actually.” She casts her gaze around the spacious kitchen. “This, all of this, it’s so different from anything I imagined.”
“Not what you expected from a convicted armed robber, is that it?”
She reddens, but nods. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. But—yes. This has been quite a transformation. How did you…?”
“I was lucky, to an extent. But I worked hard too, and took my opportunities when they presented themselves.”
“When did you decide to take up photography?”
“I always liked to take pictures, you must remember that. It almost got me in trouble.” I glance at her, one eyebrow raised as I recall those few minutes we spent together in the prison laundry. She flushes, then smiles at me as she nods. “Right. I enjoyed messing about with my camera, even as a child, but I sort of lost sight of it for a while. I got caught up in all that bollocks you know about. Crime was sort of the family business. My dad spent more time inside than out while I was a kid.”
I pause, wondering how much of my sordid past to share. She sits opposite me, still, silent, just watching me, and waiting. And she’s interested, genuinely wanting to know my story. I decide to press on.
“I grew up in East Leeds. Robbing things was just that thing we did and I never thought of being any different. I saw prison as an occupational hazard and I served my apprenticeship in youth detention centres since I was about twelve years old. The closest I got to a positive role model was the guy who coached down at the boxing club where I liked to hang out, but I lost touch with him after one of my spells away. From there I roamed around the streets with my mates, collected an ASBO or two, became good at stealing motors, and eventually gravitated toward driving getaway cars for anyone needing the service. It was lucrative work, and I enjoyed it.”
“But you got caught.”
“I did, and had my first taste of prison. It was so much tougher than the juvenile facilities I was used to and I hated it. The closed-in feeling made me physically sick. Can you even start to imagine how that felt, compared to this…?”
“Is that why you own a place like this? The wide openness?”
I shrug. “Maybe, I’m not sure. Probably. But even if I hadn’t been able to afford to move out here, I sure as hell wasn’t going back inside. Once was more than enough. I did my time and eventually managed to convince the parole board to let me out.”
“You said you got time added on, for the riot.”
“Yes. An extra year, but I was a model prisoner from then on and perhaps I caught the parole board on a good day. They let me off two thirds of my remaining sentence so I was out by the end of 2011. I went to Rachel’s to spend Christmas there, and just sort of stayed on.”
“Your sister.”
“Yeah. She’d just split from Brad, her husband, and she appreciated the extra help with the kids. She had two under five back then, and a stepdaughter who Brad seemed happy enough to leave with her. She was licensee of a dingy little pub in Morley. I moved in, did the heavy work in the cellar, and kept order in the bar. The arrangement suited us fine. Meanwhile, I was a hobby photographer again and I’d forgotten how much I missed it. I preferred landscapes and I had an eye for those, used to send my favourite pictures in to the television. You know, the ones they show on the weather bulletins—fog over Filey, the snow-capped hills of Skipton, that sort of thing?”
She is gazing at me, silent. But she nods slowly, seems to understand. So far so good.
“I entered an amateur photography competition. It was an impulse. I’d just pulled off a really dramatic shot of the Leeds skyline at dusk that I was particularly proud of, and I spotted an advert in the Yorkshire Evening Post inviting readers to send in their photos of the city. So I did. I won, and got a contract to provide more local pictures for the paper. They were picked up by a gallery, I got a corner in an exhibition, sold a couple of pictures, and I went from there. My big breakthrough came a year or so later when I came third in an international show and on the back of that I was offered an exhibition of my own in Brussels. From there on I was a photographer full time, the commissions rolled in, and I was earning good money.”
“So you left the pub and bought this place?”
“No, not for a few years, though by then I was travelling a lot and spent less and less time with Rachel. I helped her to buy The Eagle in Baildo
n—that’s the pub she owns now, a free house catering to real ale enthusiasts. I had a room there for when I was in the UK. I worked like a demon for the next couple of years, had a fair bit of my material published, built my reputation, and made sure I stayed well clear of my old haunts in East Leeds. When I had enough for the deposit I made an offer on this place. There was a lot of work to do though to make it habitable, so I only moved in a few months ago.”
“So, no more life of crime, then. None at all?”
I shake my head. “None. I’m rehabilitated, a success story for the judicial system.”
“I doubt the system could claim much of a hand in it.”
“Oh, but it could. Prison worked as a deterrent in my case, but like I said, there was an element of luck. Rachel, for example, giving me a place to stay, a job, of sorts. That competition coming up just when it did, the exhibition in Brussels. But I was determined too. I’d have stayed as Rachel’s cellar man if that was the best I could manage, but as it happened…”
“You’re very talented.”
“Thank you.”
“As a photographer, and…”
I wait. No prompting from me, not on this.
“…and as a dom.”
I doubt she’s really qualified to say, but I accept her comment at face value. “No regrets then, about what I did to you?”
She shakes her head, emphatic. “It was awesome, everything I ever imagined. More perhaps…”
That was what I hoped to hear. “Good. You’d do it again then?”
“With you?”
“Well, I’d like to hope so. Why, would you prefer to try another dom?”
More emphatic head shaking. “It was you I wanted. Ever since, well, ever since that other time. I’m glad I managed to find you again, and that you weren’t married or—” She stops, meets my gaze, her brow furrowing. “You’re not in a relationship, are you? I mean, Christ, I never even asked.”
I grin at her and reach for her hand. “No, no other relationship. I like to play, but there’s no regular little subbie waiting for me anywhere.”
“I was waiting. Somewhere.”
“Yes.”
“When you say you like to play…?”
“Clubs, fetish meet-ups. Casual stuff mainly.”
“Mainly?”
“I did have an exclusive relationship up until a few months ago but we agreed to go our separate ways. We wanted different things.”
“I… I have no idea what I want…”
She’s lying, or fooling herself. Molly knows full well what she came here in search of. I decide to name the beast.
“Apart from a chance to explore your submissive sexuality?”
She nods, relief flooding her features. I knew I was right. “Yes, exactly that.” She looks doubtful suddenly. “Is that all right? I mean, if you don’t want—”
“I do want. That suits me fine.” For now.
“How long can I stay here with you?”
“How long do you want to stay?”
“I should go back soon. I have work, things to do. Things to settle.” A solicitor to instruct, for one thing. “It’s time I got my divorce started.”
“Sounds like the start of a plan. I have a trip to Paris planned for later in the week, but I’ll only be away a few days. You’re welcome to come back here whenever you want, and you have my mobile number.”
“Is it okay to call you, then? If I need to talk, or… anything?”
“Of course. I’ll take your call any time. And you have to take mine. Agreed?”
She nods. “Of course. So, we’re agreed, it’s just sex then. You’ll show me things, help me to understand this weird stuff I feel inside, the things I want to do?”
“Ah, Molly, we’re going to have such a lot of fun together. But understand this, when you’re here with me it might be just sex but it’s sex on my terms. That means you do as you’re told. You have your safewords, but unless you want to use those I expect no arguments, no procrastinating. Obedience, Molly girl. Can you manage that, do you think?”
She inclines her head, though I have no real illusion that she has the first idea what she’s letting herself in for. She’ll start to learn soon enough.
I harden my tone deliberately. “You can start by losing the T shirt.”
“What? Here?”
I get to my feet to loom over her. A little intimidation can go a long way, especially at this stage in the proceedings, and discipline needs to be both swift and decisive to make the point. I harden my gaze; the time for exchanging confidences is past. “What did I just say about arguing and procrastinating? You’ve already earned your first spanking. Now, for the avoidance of doubt, after your spanking I’m going to feed you, and I prefer you to undress for dinner. Then I intend to fuck you right here on my kitchen table. Do you have any objections, Molly? Are you ready, now, to do as I say?”
She lowers her gaze and grasps the hem of the borrowed T shirt. “Yes, sir,” she murmurs as she pulls it over her head and drops it onto the chair next to her. Then she gets to her feet to stand before me. “Do you want me to bend over your knee again, sir?”
“Not this time. I want you to go back up to my bedroom and bring me a spanking paddle. You’ll find several in the chest at the foot of the bed but the one I want is made of pale coloured wood and has holes drilled in it. You’ll bring it back here to me, then you can lean over the table, rest your elbows on the top, and lift your arse up as high as you can.” I tip up her chin with the tips of my fingers. “You have a lesson to learn, so this is going to smart, little wannabe sub.”
Chapter Seven
My heart is pounding as I sprint up the stairs and back into Jared’s bedroom. He didn’t tell me to hurry, but I get the impression he expects me to look smart. I don’t want to attract further punishment, even though my pussy is creaming already at the prospect of what’s to come in the next few minutes.
I crouch before the blanket chest and throw open the lid, then manage not to gasp at the array of sexy paraphernalia inside. Although I didn’t actually see the toys he used on me earlier, I know there was a vibrator involved, and something that seemed a bit like a soft whip. He used it to wrap my body in a cloak of sensual tingling. It did hurt, though I would not exactly describe the experience that way. The entire adventure was exhilarating, a sharp burst of pain followed by a deep sensation of pleasure that seeped into my muscles and bones.
I don’t expect the paddle to evoke the same response.
The implement he described comes readily to hand and I set it to one side. I take a few moments to peruse some of the remaining items, and imagine him utilising each and every one of them on me over time. My pussy clenches, spasming wildly as I start to imagine at least some of the sensations. There are whips, more spanking crops than I can count without extracting each one and laying them out on the carpet, several leather cuffs in various sizes and colours, metal handcuffs, leather straps, a formidable collection of paddles and canes. I suspect meting out discipline won’t present a problem to Jared North.
I’m not entirely sure I can say the same for myself, but we shall see. Exciting times ahead. And challenging.
I close the lid, pick up the required paddle, and head back down to the kitchen.
Jared is leaning against the worktop, his arms folded across his chest. He narrows his eyes as I enter.
“Something held you up?” He tilts his head to one side as he regards me, his expression difficult to decipher.
“No, sir. I was just looking at the other things. In the blanket chest, I mean.”
“I see. Did anything take your fancy?”
“Yes… I mean, no, not especially. Everything…” I falter, uncertain what the correct response might be. Will he object to me poking around in his belongings? He did send me up there, after all.
“Everything? What a brave little sub! Or maybe a foolhardy one. Don’t worry, you’ll get to try everything,
if you want. And more besides. My collection’s pretty extensive but there are lots more toys out there, once we know what you enjoy.”
“What about things I don’t enjoy?”
He shrugs. “Some of those I’ll use for discipline, probably, such as now with that paddle you’re cradling there. It’s okay to say no though, if you really don’t fancy something.”
“Even if it’s punishment? Like now? Can I just refuse to let you spank me?”
He nods. “Of course you can. I’m not about to drag you across the room, screaming and fighting, then strap you down while I whip you. This is all about consent. By submitting to me you accept my right to punish you, and you will bend over and present your bottom to be spanked. Won’t you?”
He waits, unmoving except for one eyebrow, which he raises as he watches my response.
I shuffle before his calm, knowing scrutiny, the recollection of that day in his cell both powerful and very immediate. It’s as though I’m catapulted right back there, the doubt, the nervousness, the unexpected longing I experienced every bit as real to me now as they were then. He just waited for me that time, too, while I made up my mind.
I meet his quiet gaze. “Yes, sir. Now?”
“Please.” He nods in the direction of the table as he extends his hand to take the paddle from me. “Lean on your elbows, shoulders down, bum up, feet about shoulder width apart.”
I move into position, the warmth of the polished oak oddly comforting. Turning my head to face him, I lay my cheek on the smooth wood. He quirks the edge of his mouth in a slight smile, which both comforts and reassures me. He steps forward, the paddle dangling from his right hand as he pauses behind me.
“How do you feel right now, Molly?” He lays his palm over my left buttock and caresses the trembling flesh.
“Scared, sir.”
“Okay, I get that. We’ll be quick then. How many strokes do you think would be fair for questioning my very clear instructions?”
I have no frame of reference for this, and had not anticipated being consulted in any case. I take a stab in the dark. “Ten?”
