by Ashe Barker
I know this landscape, I probably would be able to reach home in those conditions, but not Molly. I change my shoes quickly in favour of a pair of sturdy hiking boots, grab an extra layer of fleece from my wardrobe, and pack a spare in a rucksack for Molly. A waterproof over the top completes my preparations and I’m out of there in less than two minutes.
I spot Molly a mile or so uphill as I stride out across the rough heather. She sees me, waves, and picks up her pace.
Shit, that’s a sure way to twist an ankle. I find an extra gear and plough on fast.
Mercifully she doesn’t meet with any disaster before I reach her, though through no fault of her own. The fog is swirling around the pair of us as I hug her and sweep the damp hair back from her face.
“Thank God you’re all right.”
Her usual smile is somewhat forced as she gazes up at me. “I thought I was going to get lost. Come on, we need to hurry, before—”
“What the fuck were you thinking, coming up here on your own?” Anxiety and relief probably make my tone more brusque than I intended. There again, perhaps not.
“It was such a lovely morning. I was awake early, and I didn’t want to disturb you…”
“Lone hiking’s one thing, but you should always tell someone where you’re going. Christ, if I hadn’t spotted you…”
“I know. And, thank you for coming to find me. Can we go home now?”
“Too fucking right we can. Here, put this on.” I hand her the warm fleece from my rucksack and wait until she tugs it on over her own flimsy jacket. While I’m at it I assess her totally unsuitable footwear too. Her lace-up canvas shoes are neither waterproof nor tough enough for this terrain.
Molly has a hard lesson coming her way about taking care of her personal safety, and I intend to make sure she learns it well.
I hold out my hand, and with the other I turn on my phone. Vodafone may be a non-starter out here, but the GPS signal is solid enough.
“Come on, let’s get you home. You need some breakfast and a hard, bare-bottom spanking—though not necessarily in that order.”
Molly is silent most of the way back. Wise girl. I use the relative peace and quiet to get my own anxiety under control. I would never lay a hand on a sub while I’m still upset myself so I need to calm down, and concentrate on what needs to be done to ensure she never pulls a stunt like this again.
We enter the house by the back door and troop into the kitchen. Molly removes the borrowed fleece and her jacket then reaches for my waterproof.
“I’ll put these away. Would you like for me to wait upstairs, sir?”
At least she’s under no illusions about what’s coming, and appears to accept the prospect of discipline. She’s made no attempt to talk her way out of it. I suspect I may shatter that mood. Up to now her ‘punishments’ have had an element of play about them. This one won’t.
“No. Strip, and bend over the table.”
“Here? Sir?”
I don’t dignify that with an answer, and Molly accepts my raised eyebrow as sufficient incentive not to question me further. To her credit, she undresses as quickly as I’ve ever seen her do it, folds her clothes neatly, and places them on a chair.
She adopts the position I instructed, stretching up onto her toes to lift her gorgeous bottom for me. Perhaps she thinks I’ll go easy on her if she impresses me with her perfect obedience. Not happening. She scared me half to death. This morning’s little escapade could have ended very differently.
Despite her compliance I can tell she’s nervous. Well, she might be. Her face is turned toward me and her lip is quivering. She’s on the verge of tears but putting a brave face on it. I school my features into a stern expression and begin to check my emails on my phone. In her current state of scared anticipation it’ll do her no harm to wait, and I intend to give her every opportunity to reflect on the foolishness of her actions.
A few minutes pass. I continue to tap away on the screen of my phone while Molly shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Her upturned bottom makes a beautiful sight, and will be lovelier still with a few stripes from my belt to decorate that pale, delicate-looking skin.
She’s apprehensive, and confused too at my delay. She clenches those pretty cheeks hard. I watch with what I hope passes for detached interest at the play of the muscles in her taut buttocks. Molly’s arse is firm and toned, but I know from experience that the flesh will flatten and then spring back perkily when I spank her. She was built for this.
“Sir, I… I’m ready.” From which I read, ‘please, can we get this over with?’
“Good.” I continue to scroll through Facebook posts in which I have not the slightest interest.
“Sir, how long before…?”
“Problem, Molly? You’re not cold, are you?”
“No, sir, but I was wondering if we could just… I mean…”
“You’ll wait until I’m ready. In silence.”
Her eyes widen, but she has the good sense to keep her mouth shut. I give it two more minutes before I push myself away from the counter I’ve been leaning on and walk up behind her. I swear, she almost goes into orbit when I lay my palm against her quivering backside.
“Settle down, Molly. I expect you to keep still when I touch you.” I punctuate my commands with heavy, massaging caresses to both her buttocks.
“Yes, sir,” she murmurs, widening her stance though I haven’t asked her to.
I part her butt cheeks and can see clearly the moisture that glistens on the lips of her pussy. One of life’s eternal mysteries, it never fails to fascinate me that a submissive can be scared to death of what’s happening to her, but still be hopelessly turned on by it.
I slide my palm across her damp slit, and she lets out a groan.
“You’re wet, Molly. I do hope you’re taking this seriously.”
“Yes, sir. I am, I swear.” The vehemence in her tone might be amusing in other circumstances, but Molly’s not the only one who needs to be aware of the gravity of this situation.
“Okay. So, tell me, why is this happening to you?”
“Because I went out alone this morning. I should have asked you first.”
“Close, but not quite.” I continue to stroke her wet pussy as I speak. “You don’t need my permission to leave the house, Molly.”
“No, sir. I meant, tell you. I should have told you I was going out.”
“Yes, exactly. Why is that, Molly?”
“Because it’s dangerous. It was foggy, and I would have gotten lost if you hadn’t come to find me. I’m sorry, sir. I know I put you to a lot of trouble.”
“No, you didn’t, Molly. I don’t consider you to be a nuisance and coming to help you was no trouble at all. I care about you and I’d do anything I needed to do to make sure you’re safe. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So?”
“So you’re going to spank me, sir. To make sure I don’t do that again.”
“Spot on, Molly. And because you’re being so forthcoming I’m going to give you a choice now. You can stay where you are, or if you prefer you can lie across my lap for your spanking. Which is it to be?”
“Your lap, sir. Please.”
Her reply doesn’t surprise me, and I confess I prefer the connectedness, the intimacy of laying a sub across my knee. I can get a better swing with her in the position she’s already adopted, bent over the table, but I doubt she realises that. Maybe she just wants me to hold her while she’s being spanked. I hope so.
I unbuckle my leather belt and slide it through the loops on my jeans, then I drop it onto the table next to her. I pull out a chair and sit down.
“Okay, assume the position. You know the drill.”
Molly wastes no time at all in getting up from the table only to drop face down over my lap. She grips my ankle tight, as though afraid she might slither to the floor. She won’t. I have no intention of letting her fal
l. I pull her in close with my left hand, hard up against my straining, erect cock. With my right hand I reach for the belt.
“You can count if you like, but there’s no fixed number. I’ll stop when I’m sure you’ve learned what you need to know, and that the lesson has sunk in.”
She mumbles something which I take to be a muffled attempt at ‘yes, sir.’
“Ready?”
There’s another indistinct sound from Molly. Her entire body stiffens as she braces for the first stroke.
I caress her bottom again and wait for her to soften. It takes the best part of a minute, but I’m patient. As soon as I achieve my goal, I lay the first strike across both buttocks.
Molly jerks hard, but makes no sound. I continue to stripe her arse, alternating the strokes, first one side, then the other. After the first half dozen or so she is whimpering, and becoming more vocal with every blow. She squeals, lets out several yelps as I pepper her now flame-red bottom with the leather, then she starts to scream with each new spank.
I shift my focus to the backs of her thighs, and in a particular that sweet sit spot just below the lower curve of her arse. Molly is crying out, sobbing noisily, wriggling, squirming against my lap, but she’s going nowhere. When she forgets herself and reaches back in a vain attempt to protect her sore bottom, I just fold her hands into the small of her back and I hold them there.
She stops struggling at last, and as the final vestiges of resistance are spanked out of her she allows her body to go limp, draping herself across my thighs and accepting whatever I choose to do to her.
That’s good enough for me, and it’s the reason I prefer not to set a limit for a punishment spanking. If I can bring my sub to this stage of acceptance before I meet the promised target, any remaining spanks are just unnecessary and cruel. Similarly, if I set the target too low, the punishment fails to have the desired effect. But this way requires honesty, and trust.
I stop and allow the belt to drop onto the floor. Molly is quite still, crying, but nothing to alarm me. She’s contrite, and very sore I daresay, but she’s okay. Or she will be.
I ease her up to stand on her own feet, holding her elbows to steady her as I stand up. I sweep her up into my arms and carry her from the kitchen and into my living room. Once there I arrange the pair of us on the sofa, me propped in the corner and Molly snuggled up against me, on her side to give her bottom the relief she needs. I grab a soft throw from the back of the sofa and wrap it around her, then I hold her, saying nothing, until her sobs subside and there is silence again.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is small, still breathy from her crying.
“I know. It’s done. Over.”
“Can I…? I mean, will you still want me to come back here again?”
“Of course. I’m counting on it.” I drop a kiss on the top of her head to emphasise my point.
“Are you still angry?” She peers up at me, her expression puzzled.
“I was never angry, just scared. For you. I don’t want to lose you, Molly, and I intend to keep you safe.”
“You kept me safe that other time too. At Armley.”
“Well, not entirely. It was my fault you got caught up in all that in the first place. I’m trying to do better now.”
“I always feel safe, when I’m with you.”
I heave a sigh of relief, and of thanks probably. It seems I’m getting some of this right.
* * *
Three hours later I stand on the platform at Leeds City Station and watch the red and grey livery of the Virgin East Coast inter-city express snake along the track, eventually curving away out of sight. Molly’s gone, at least for a little while. After two days spent for the most part tied to my bed, and following that interlude over my lap, she’s heading back to London. My new little subbie has things to do, matters to settle.
So do I, starting with the unwelcome text I received first thing this morning and have yet to deal with. I pull out my phone to reread it.
U have Brad’s address?
The message is from my old partner in crime, quite literally. Stevie Horrocks was the moron who brought down the ceiling of that post office when he emptied two barrels into it and got the whole lot of us locked up. He got ten years to my five, because he was the one who fired the shots, but I have to assume justice has been served. He’s out now it would seem, and keen to pick up where he left off. I couldn’t be less interested.
I consider just deleting the text. It’s not as though I’m in touch with Brad anyway, not since he and Rachel went their separate ways. Stevie’s a persistent sod though, I do remember that much about him. And he’s too stupid to come up with an alternative strategy now that he’s somehow managed to track down my number. He’ll only keep on texting me. I sigh and tap in my reply.
How would I know?
A couple of minutes later, as I approach my car in the short stay car park, my phone starts to ring. I check the screen, though I know exactly who this will be.
“Stevie.” My greeting is curt to say the least.
“J, how’s it going?”
I shudder at the old nickname. No one has used that in years. “Fine. Look, I’m busy so if you could—”
“I need Brad. Where’s he hanging out these days?”
“I told you, I’ve no idea.”
“Fuck that, you and him were always tight. I know he’s out again.”
Out? I didn’t even know he’d been back inside. “You know more than I do then. Look, I can’t help you.”
“No? Well I’ll just have to call round and see Rachel then. She’ll know where her old man is. I’ll give her your regards.”
Shit! That’s the last thing I want, Stevie Horrocks turning up at The Eagle to harass Rachel and the kids. I need to steer the bastard way from there.
“Okay, I’ll phone round and see if anyone knows where he is. Give me a day or two and I’ll get back to you.”
“You’ve until tomorrow, then I start making house calls. I always did have a soft spot for little Rachel, maybe I’ll just nip round there anyway.”
“Do that, and you’ll fucking regret it. You’ve no idea how unpleasant I can be if you piss me off. Got that?”
“Hey, no sweat, old buddy. Just get me Brad’s address, right.” He chuckles down the phone as though we really are old friends. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a spot of work? A good earner, this one.”
“Fuck off. Last time I worked with you it earned me a five stretch.”
“Shit happens, mate. This is a cert. Petrol station over the other side of Leeds. Your cut would be a grand, just for driving.”
“Not interested.” I end the call and throw the phone onto the passenger seat of my car. Christ, no wonder so many ex-cons end up back inside—it just never goes away.
* * *
It goes against the grain to help Stevie, but rather than allow Rachel to become embroiled in this I make a couple of calls and soon manage to locate my ex-brother-in-law. I may be out of the armed robbery business these days, but I still have my old contacts. Stevie’s information is good. Brad’s apparently just completed an eighteen-month stretch in Belmarsh prison for receiving stolen goods but he’s back in Yorkshire now, living in Bradford and doing casual work as a bouncer at one of the seedier nightclubs. I suppose it’s a living. I text the details of the club to Stevie and hope that’s the last I hear from him.
No such luck. By the time I arrive back at my converted barn Stevie has phoned me twice more. I’m driving so I don’t pick up, but the phone rings again the moment I get inside.
“I told you, I’m not interested.”
“And I told you we need a wheel man, fuck head.”
“Not me. I’m not in the trade these days.”
“No, you ponse about taking pretty pictures according to Brad. I don’t give a fuck what business you think you’re in. You’re on my fucking team so when I tell you I need a driver, you fucking do i
t.”
Is this moron for real? “Stevie, you’re starting to bore me. Is there some part of no that you don’t understand? You were never the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even you should grasp that.”
“Right, two grand then. Cash.”
“Fuck you.” I hang up, and turn off the phone.
I switch it back on again a few hours later. There have been seven missed calls, all from Stevie. He’s a persistent bastard, I’ll give him that, but he hasn’t phoned me now for almost two hours so perhaps he’s got the message.
There’s another text as well though, and this one is more welcome. Molly got back to London okay, and has already made an appointment with a solicitor. Her legal status makes no difference to me; it’s clear her marriage is dead in the water, but it seems to matter to her. It’s a loose end to be tied off, and I can relate to that. I hit Molly’s tiny picture in my speed dial.
“Hi there.” She sounds breathless, as though she’s been running.
“Hi yourself. Good journey?”
“Yes. I just got back from my mum’s.”
“Oh. Nice visit?”
“Not really. I told her I was divorcing Andy. She doesn’t think it’s a great idea.” Her voice sounds strained. I guess the discussion was a difficult one.
“Ah. The new driveway?”
“Among other things. My mum always thought Andy was a good catch. You know the sort of thing—nice, steady job, doesn’t smoke, and reasonably sober.”
“She should marry him herself then. Once the divorce is absolute, of course.”
Molly giggles. I’m pleased to be able to lift her mood a little. “I’ll suggest that to her.”
“When are you seeing the lawyer?”
“The day after tomorrow. The same day you fly to Paris.”
