by Ashe Barker
I twist and turn, eager to obey, wanting to please him. He continues to take picture after picture, occasionally returning to his bag to select a different piece of equipment. I know better than to relax or move out of position.
Gooseflesh has sprung up all over my body and my nipples press against the fabric of my bra as they swell in response to the distinct chill in the air. I turn to face the rock when Jared twirls his finger to indicate that I should.
“Bend over and place your hands on the stone, push your bottom out for me.” He’s crouching behind me, angling a shot from below. My thong barely covers my pussy, but it’s all I have right now. “Spread your legs. Wider. Wider still, girl.” I move my feet as far apart as I can, sinking into a familiar haze of obedient acceptance, the perfect submissive.
“That’s great.” More clicking. “Now pull your thong to the side. Show me your pussy. I want to see how wet you are.”
“I am wet, sir. And cold.” As if any of that would make a difference.
“Good. Show me.”
I lean on one hand as I use the other to draw the narrow strip of lace to the side, my pussy lips wet and swollen and now fully exposed for the camera.
“Ah, such a slut. Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Yes, sir. Always.”
“Soon.” I hear more clicking and I’m aware of Jared moving behind me. “You can stand up now and take everything off.”
“Yes, sir.” I straighten, relaxing my straining muscles for the few seconds it takes to unfasten my bra and slide my thong down my legs. I kick off my boots then step out.
“Pass your things to me.”
I hand over my clothes and Jared takes them over to the pile I folded up earlier. He regards me under his lowered brows as he attaches a camera to the tripod and adjusts the angle to his liking. Apparently satisfied, he returns to me.
“Back against the rock, please.”
I move into position and he takes each of my wrists in turn, then uses the cuffs he attached earlier to clip them to the rope he fastened around the standing stone. He stands back to peruse my nude form now lashed tight against the frigid surface of the rock.
“Fucking gorgeous. Are you still cold, Molly?” He idly trials the backs of his knuckles over one pebbled nipple.
“Yes, sir.”
“Thought so.” He rolls the turgid nub between his finger and thumb, then squeezes until I let out a gasp. My pussy is spasming wildly as my arousal starts to spike.
Jared smiles at me, though without warmth. He releases my nipple and strides back to the tripod to make further adjustments. Then he sets up another smaller stand about a metre in front of my left foot. The camera he secures onto that stand is pointing up, and I know exactly where he will focus it.
“Lift your leg up and out to the side if you can. I want to get a good, clear shot here.”
“You know what my pussy looks like. Why do you want a picture?”
“Maybe I’ll keep a photo in my wallet.”
“Yes, sir. If you want to.”
He straightens and comes to stand in front of me. “Ready?”
I nod.
He leans in to kiss me. “Let’s do this, then.” He turns on his heel and returns first to the camera on the upright tripod, then to the one angled at my pussy. He triggers the timers on each, then comes back to plant his hands on either side of my head. He kisses me again as the cameras whir merrily behind him.
He reaches for my left knee and lifts it, higher than I could on my own. He pushes my knee out to expose my pussy to the camera, then uses his other hand to drive two fingers deep inside me.
“Oh, God,” I moan, lifting my chin to expose my throat.
He nibbles and kisses his way down the length of my throat and down to my left breast, then takes that nipple between his lips. He sucks hard, all the while finger-fucking me as I squeeze around his hand.
I’m vaguely conscious of the rhythmic hum from the cameras as they take shot after shot, but far more focused on what he’s doing to me. He drives his digits in and out, hard and fast. I start to climax, but a growled ‘no’ puts a stop to that.
“Sir?” Pleading never works, but I usually try it anyway.
“Make as much noise as you like, Molly. There’s no one here but me. If you come without permission I’ll clamp your nipples for the rest of the day.”
The threat works. He knows I love spanking so he doesn’t use that for discipline as a rule, but I really dislike being clamped, especially if he makes me continue about my daily routine with my nipples pressed between the clovers he usually keeps for punishment.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“I know.” He drops to his knees in front of me and places my foot on his shoulder, angling his own body so as not to obstruct the camera’s line of sight. His fingers are still inside me. With his free hand he peels back the hood shrouding my clit and blows on the sensitive bud.
“I’m going to lick your clit, then suck it. You’ll remain calm and still for one minute, then you can come if you want to.”
If?
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
He uses the flat of his tongue to press against my clit, licking from base to tip. I shiver, though no longer with the cold. He repeats the teasing torture, then flicks the tip several times from each side.
I grind my teeth together as the waves of sensation build, becoming more intense as he circles my helpless clit with his tongue. He scissors his fingers inside me, then twists his hand to press on my most vulnerable spot. He starts to rub, just light at first then increasing the pressure.
He slides his hand behind me to push my hips forward, then closes his lips around my clit. As the suction starts my knees give way. If he hadn’t secured me to this rock I would crumple, boneless, to the ground among the ferns and heather.
I lose track of time. None of that matters anyway; he’ll tell me when I can come. I’ll wait, if I can. If he allows it. He has only to apply just a fraction more pressure, suck on my clit just that little bit harder, and I’ll be gone.
I groan, my body coiling up to betray me. I tip my head back and gaze up at the blue of the sky, my mouth open as I drag in precious oxygen. It’s all over. I’m past caring.
“Okay, Molly. Come when you like.”
“Sir?” I whisper. “Is it…?”
“Yes. Time’s up. You did well.”
He returns his attention to my quivering clit and scrapes it with his teeth before pressing his tongue against the tip. He licks, long and slow, and I scream as my orgasm rips through me.
Long moments pass. My world spins. I convulse, shudder, and clamp my inner muscles around his fingers as he drags out my release as long as possible. The waiting is awful, always, but the reward is truly exquisite.
At last it’s over. I’m trembling, dangling by my wrists from the rock, utterly sated. Jared kneels before me as I gaze at him through slitted eyes.
“Did I tell you how very photogenic you are, little slut?”
“No, sir. I don’t believe you did.”
“Remiss of me. Did I mention how fuckable you are? Surely I didn’t forget to say that.”
“I don’t recall it if you did, sir.”
He stands and takes my chin between his hands. “Liar.” He kisses me. “But actions speak louder than words.”
“True, sir. And you can’t take photographs of words.” The cameras are still whirring somewhere out of my sight.
“There is that.” He opens his jeans to let his cock spring free, then lifts both my legs to wrap them around his waist. “Grit your teeth, Molly. This is going to be hard and fast.”
He drives his cock into my wet pussy without further preamble, each stroke angling deep, each thrust plastering my body back against the rock face. His forearms are behind my neck, which prevents me from banging my head but other than that he gives no quarter as he pounds into me.
“Sir, I need to come.”
>
“Me too, sweetheart.”
“Sir, I love you.”
He slows, though only marginally, and covers my mouth with his. The kiss is rough, demanding. He winds strands of my hair around his fingers to angle my face as he deepens the connection between us. He plunges his tongue into my mouth. My breasts are pressed against the thick linen of his shirt. His cock is buried deep inside me. Every part of me is his and he knows it. I know it, and I would have it no other way.
He breaks the kiss to rest his forehead against mine.
“I love you too, Molly MacBride.”
“It’s not just about the sex, is it?” I’m whispering, hoping.
“It never was.”
My pussy clenches and he pulls back. He waits, his cock poised at my entrance.
I manage to lift my head and meet his intense grey gaze. “No, sir. It never was.”
“Good answer, Molly.” He sinks his cock deep into me again, and I convulse around him.
* * *
Jared helps me back into my clothes, then dismantles his equipment. As he unties the rope from around the Dancing Bear’s waist we hear voices. Two hikers crest the hill, their faces red from the exertion of the climb up here. Undaunted by their efforts they march past us, offering a polite nod and the observation that it’s a lovely day. That’s the usual greeting around here, and Jared returns it automatically.
“That was close,” I murmur, as they disappear from sight.
Jared shrugs. “It would have been worth it though. We got some great shots.”
“What will you do with the pictures?”
“Well, there’s always the National Trust shop…”
“Don’t you dare!”
He grins at me as he coils the rope and shoves that back in the bag. “For my eyes only, then, Molly mine.” He holds out his hand to me again. “Home?”
I nod and fall in beside him. “Yes, home.”
Epilogue
“Will the foreperson of the jury please stand.”
At the judge’s calm command, the middle-aged woman closest to the bench rises briskly to her feet. She tilts up her chin to meet the stern gaze of the bewigged individual peering down at her, looking almost as nervous as I feel. Oddly, Jared appears to be the most relaxed person present as he regards proceedings from his vantage point in the dock.
“Have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?”
“Yes.” The response is clear, definite. The jury have taken just two and a half hours to deliberate and reach their conclusion. I have no idea if this is a good sign or not, but the brief non-verbal exchange between Charles Manners and the barrister engaged to defend Jared suggests they are confident of the outcome.
“On the first count in the indictment, that of conspiracy to commit robbery, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty, my lord.”
I heave a sigh of relief. The conspiracy accusation was the most serious charge, the prosecution having tried to argue that Jared was aware of Stevie and Brad’s intention to rob the security van and participated in the planning of the offence as well as harbouring the gang afterwards. Our barrister shredded that claim, and I would have been astonished if the verdict had gone any other way. Still, until it’s over, it isn’t.
The judge offers a brief nod and makes a note on the sheet before him. He peers down at the forewoman again.
“On the second count in the indictment, that of being an accessory after the fact, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty, my lord.”
Stunned, dismayed, I stare across the court at Jared, who stands perfectly still in the dock. Flanked by two security guards, he grips the rail in front of him then raises his eyes to look straight at me. He meets my gaze and offers the hint of a smile. It’s an attempt to reassure me. It fails utterly.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury.”
The forewoman retakes her seat as the judge shuffles the pile of documents before him. Long moments pass before he fixes Jared with a dispassionate, assessing gaze.
“Jared David North, you have been found guilty of a serious charge. As a result of your failure to alert the proper authorities once you became aware that a serious crime had been committed, the perpetrators remained at large and a further serious offence took place. Lives were placed at risk. Indeed, there is every reason to suppose that had he been apprehended at an earlier stage Stephen George Horrocks might not have died. However, your legal representatives have made known the considerable efforts you made to alleviate the danger to others, and indeed your intervention probably saved the life of Miss MacBride.”
The judge pauses and consults his notes once more. “You have testified that you were unaware of the use of firearms in the earlier offence, and of the injuries caused to an employee at the filling stain. This is corroborated by the evidence given by both co-defendants, and goes some way toward mitigating the offence. Your actions in defence of Miss MacBride are also factors in your favour, as is the career you have built for yourself in the years since your release from prison. I am convinced that with the exception of the current charge, yours has been an exemplary example of reform and rehabilitation. I am minded to take these factors into account in sentencing you for the offence of which you have been found guilty, but I should caution you that a custodial sentence would be usual in such circumstances. I will retire to consider the sentence.”
The judge casts his stern gaze around the rest of the court. “We shall adjourn for two hours. Please reassemble here at…” he glances up at the clock on the back wall, “three-thirty this afternoon. I will pass sentence at that time.”
The guards escort Jared from the dock and down the stairs to wait out the two hours in the cells beneath the court. He raises his hand in a salute to me as he descends out of sight.
I make my way out into the crowded central lobby area, the space milling with people. The various courtrooms that make up the combined courts in the centre of Leeds seem to be all adjourning for lunch at the same time so the space is teeming with wigs, gowns, men and women in sober business attire. The rest of us, those not directly involved in the legal professions, pack the various seating areas. I can readily pick out the defendants, uncomfortable in their smartest clothes but doing what they must to gain favour with those who might determine their fate. There are witnesses too, waiting their turn to give evidence, and occupants of the public galleries who are here to observe proceedings. Justice being seen to be done.
Rachel is beside me, and together we edge our way into an alcove by a window.
“It’ll be all right,” asserts Rachel. “It has to be.”
I nod, silently praying that she’s right. “The judge said a custodial sentence though. That means Jared’s going to jail. It’s so unfair.”
“He’ll survive. He did before.” Despite her seemingly callous words, I catch the quiver of her lip. We both know that a return to prison is a fate Jared was determined to avoid, and he so nearly made it. But for that bastard Stevie…
My thoughts return to the man who, at least in my opinion, got exactly what he deserved out of all of this. Stevie Horrocks would have killed me in a heartbeat, and probably Jared too. Whatever the judge might think, I doubt the world is any worse off for no longer having that particular individual taking up oxygen.
Mikey too got his just deserts. He’s starting a life sentence for murder with a recommendation that he serve no less than twenty-two years. Brad was sentenced to fifteen years’ imprisonment for his part in the two robberies, though he was found not guilty of murder. Rachel and the children appear unmoved by the prospect of his prolonged absence; he hadn’t been a part of their lives for years in any case.
Rachel peers around the corner into the milling throng. “It’s rammed in here. Shall we go out and find a coffee shop, maybe grab a sandwich or something?”
“Might as well.” I’m not hun
gry, but some fresh air would be welcome.
We shoulder our way back through the crowd and out the main doors into the pedestrian area at the front. Rachel leads the way to a small bistro-style eatery around the corner where we order coffees and paninis and settle in for the wait.
At twenty past three we are back in the public gallery, seated in the front row. Charles and our barrister sit huddled together, conversing in low tones down in the main court. I wonder if they are already plotting the appeal but I say nothing, fearing I might jinx Jared’s chances. The prosecution team sip coffee from paper cups, looking smug. They have the verdict they wanted.
Just before half past there’s a clattering of feet and Jared appears back in the dock, his two guards bringing up the rear. At once he seeks out Rachel and me, and lifts his hand again in silent acknowledgement before taking his seat. The two legal teams take up their positions on the rows of tables and seating facing the raised-up bench, and we all await the reappearance of the Honourable Mister Justice Withers-Benson.
He is right on time, emerging through his private entrance at the front of the court. The court bailiff shouts “All rise,” and everyone stands. We remain on our feet as the judge takes his time getting settled and arranges his papers to his satisfaction, then at a nod from his honour we all sink back into our seats.
“The defendant will rise.” Again the court bailiff’s censorious tone rings out. Jared stands up to face the bench.
His honour places his rimless glasses on his nose and peers at Jared over the top of them. He consults his notes once more, then folds his hands in his lap. The court sits in silence as he delivers his final remarks.
The judge’s summing up amounts to a damning indictment of Jared’s nefarious past and the company he has elected to keep in the weeks leading up to the offences. His comments are fair enough, I suppose, but my heart sinks. This is not going well. It seems Jared is not to be allowed to move on, he will always be seen as the criminal he once was. And judged accordingly.
The Honourable Mister Justice Withers-Benson is not finished, however. He goes on to praise once more Jared’s efforts to forge a new and exemplary life for himself, and to reiterate his gallant actions in coming between me and almost certain death. In moments it seems Jared is transformed in the judge’s estimation from a menace to society to become an upright pillar of the community, and a hero to boot. Things are looking up.
