Unsure (Sure Mastery)

by Ashe Barker

  “Good. Now, take off the robe.”

  “Why? What are you going to do?” My voice is a cracked whisper. Somehow I don’t think this will involve fists now, or rape despite his insistence that I drop my robe, but I know it’s not going to be enjoyable.

  “I’m going to put you over my knee and deliver the spanking you deserve. And you will not be sitting down again for a while. And yes, before you ask, Miss McAllister, this is going to hurt. Not as much as a brick on the back of the head, but enough. What shall we say? Twenty strokes sound about right to you?”

  I wasn’t going to ask. And did he really say twenty? Christ, I’ll never survive that. Just two or three punches from Kenny would usually be enough to bring me to my knees. And Tom Shore is twice Kenny’s size. I shake my head, clutching the front of my robe, ready to protest in earnest. He sees, and, amazingly, he hesitates.

  “Not twenty then. Fifteen?” He watches me, his head cocked to one side. “Right. Ten. Agreed?” I find myself nodding, astonished that any of this seems to be negotiable. Still, every little helps. I can probably manage ten. I think. It’ll be over in a matter of seconds.

  He gives me a few moments to digest what’s just been settled, then, “Am I going to have to come over there and fetch you, Ashley?”

  Yes, probably.

  Assertive Ashley makes one last-ditch attempt. “If I agree to this, if I let you spank me, it’s absolutely the one and only time. You’ll never lay a hand on me again after this.”

  I stand my ground and he looks at me, his gaze assessing. And unexpectedly warm. His tone is soft when he speaks to me, almost caressing.

  “If you say so. Well then, let’s see if we can release your inner submissive, just this once.”

  I can’t contain my snort of disbelief. “I hardly think so. Inner doormat might be more like it. Inner punchbag maybe. But you’re wrong—I’m none of those things anymore.”

  He shakes his head, his eyes never leaving mine. Despite my fear, my outrage at this madness that he’s apparently convinced me could actually happen, that look still curls my toes in a way Kenny never managed. I wish desperately that I’d met Tom Shore in different circumstances. Who knows, I might even have… No, I wouldn’t. Surely I couldn’t. Could I?

  Not that he needs to know any of this. I hold his gaze, defiant, determined, my inner turmoil safely buried along with any treacherous inner submissive that might be lurking. His next words stun me.

  “No, I agree. I don’t know what it is you think you’re not anymore, but what I have in mind has nothing at all to do with being a doormat or a punchbag. ‘Shaz’ might have been that once. I saw that much on the riverside in Bristol. But I suspect Ashley McAllister is something entirely different.”

  What? What does he see in me that even I can’t recognise? How is this different? My puzzled frown just makes him chuckle softly, as though he knows something I don’t. Then, “Ashley, the robe?”

  “Why? Why do I have to undress? Can’t you just…?” Assertive Ashley gives up the battle and I’m whispering, and now starting to shake again.

  His tone hardens—there’s something more there now, an air of command, demanding obedience. “I want you naked. I want you scared, humiliated, hurting. Like I was. The robe, Ashley. Now.”

  Out of options and done with words, I stand. I’ve accepted his ‘terms’ and now I just want to get this over with, get through it as best I can. At least now I know what’s in store, and I know I can survive it.

  My hands shaking violently, I start to unfasten the belt holding my robe closed. I’m clumsy, fumbling, desperately embarrassed. Never an exhibitionist, never even remotely confident about my body, I don’t recall even Kenny seeing me completely naked. He was never that interested. My body’s no great shakes, five foot one and skinny as a rake. And I’m now finding my natural modesty is a powerful inhibitor. I can’t undress in front of this angry stranger any more than I can sprout wings and fly round the room. I stand there, clutching my robe closed. I can’t even look at him, though I can feel his eyes on me. I’m surprised to realize that stripping for him is more of a challenge than accepting the spanking was.

  “I can’t. Please don’t ask me to do this.” My voice is quiet, tiny, a scared, pathetic whisper as I stand there, trembling, dreading the next few moments. I’ve never fainted in my entire life, but I suspect I could easily manage it now. This is his cue, surely. His one opportunity to tell me it’ll be okay, to promise not to hurt me. To say something, anything, that my so-called inner submissive might recognize and respond to.

  Taking pity on my dilemma perhaps, he closes the distance between us, just a couple of paces in my tiny living room. I try to back away, but the chair is behind me, there’s nowhere for me to go. Surprisingly gentle, Tom Shore takes my hands, opening my fingers carefully to release my grip on the toweling. He takes the lapels, leaning in to murmur in my ear, “Don’t look so stricken, Ashley. This bit doesn’t hurt. And maybe, if you let yourself, you might find the rest of the experience less horrendous than you imagine.” I feel his breath on my neck as he pauses, then, “You might even enjoy it.”

  And that’s it. Might even enjoy it! Fat chance! There are no more words of comfort on offer. If this is the best he can do my inner submissive will be staying well buried it seems. Good riddance—she’d only get me into more trouble.

  Opening the robe, he slowly slides it off my shoulders to drop it on the floor behind me. I close my eyes tightly, some strange childish logic telling me that if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

  I can feel his eyes on me. On all of me. He even lifts my still-damp hair away, stroking it back over my shoulders so he can see my breasts more clearly. He’s right, it doesn’t hurt. It’s not easy, though.

  “Maybe I was a little hasty, deciding not to fuck you…”

  No more on that. I’m not having it. I raise my head, my watery gaze now holding his cool one, my voice still barely more than a whisper. But I manage to inject some quiet dignity into my words. “Stop threatening me. I’ve agreed to do what you want.”

  He smiles. “Indeed you have, Miss McAllister. So, shall we start?”

  He steps away, pulling a chair out from the table, turning it to face me. He sits down. “Come here, Ashley.”

  I hesitate a moment longer, trying to convince myself that the worst bit was taking off my robe. And failing miserably. The worst is still to come. Or is it?

  He’s calm now, his initial anger long evaporated. I suspect that if I put up a fight, a real fight, and mean it, he won’t force me. Probably. Maybe I could just grab my robe now and tell him to keep his hands to himself. I somehow doubt he’ll drag me screaming across his lap. There’s even a chance he might not report me to the police if I do the work he’s detailed for me.

  But I can’t risk it. There’s too much at stake—my home, my future, my freedom. This cold, stern man sitting calmly in my living room, intending to spank me, holds the key to it all. I have no real choice but to obey him. So I don’t grab my robe, I don’t tell him to get lost. Instead, I move forward slowly to stand in front of him. He places his hands on either side of my hips and gently moves me to stand beside him, on his right-hand side. He must be right-handed. The irrelevant thought flitters uselessly through my mind.

  “Lie across my legs. Make yourself comfortable and tell me when you’re ready.” The words are gently spoken, he sounds almost kind. I obediently lower myself across his knees. He adjusts my position slightly, raising his right knee a little to lift my bottom up. All the better, I suppose, for him to be able to hit his target.

  “Nice arse, Miss McAllister.” And he strokes my buttocks, to demonstrate his admiration no doubt. I squirm under his hand but it doesn’t stop him. “Once we start, you can scream all you like. There’s no one else for miles around. But don’t move until I tell you I’m finished. Is that clear?”

  I don’t answer.

  A not-too-light tap on my bottom now gets my attention. “Ashley, is th
at clear?”

  “Yes. Just do it. Just do what you have to do, and go.”

  “I take it by that you’re ready then?”

  “Yes. I’m ready.” And I brace myself.

  He continues to stroke my bum, gently working his strong fingers into the flesh, massaging my buttocks firmly. He even slides his fingertips down the crease between my buttocks, dipping between my legs. This is not what he said he was going to do. Maybe if he had…

  “Am I hurting you?” His voice is low, sexy, and his touch feels sort of pleasant. Astonishing, given the circumstances. And he’s being much gentler than I expected, certainly more gentle than Kenny ever was. I feel my pussy clench in anticipation as my body starts to respond.

  “Ashley? Do you want me to stop?”

  Is that my voice saying ‘No, don’t stop’? Can’t be. But someone said it, and incredibly, as he slips one gentle fingertip inside me, I feel a telltale wetness and a not especially familiar clenching between my legs. Even on a particularly good day Kenny never made me feel remotely like this. Gently, slowly, Tom Shore slides the full length of his finger inside me. It’s…not painful. It’s nice… He strokes me once, twice, then withdraws his finger. I’m lying perfectly still, stunned, when I hear his low murmur.

  “More later, perhaps…”

  More what?

  I’m still reeling from my unexpected arousal a few seconds later, as the first blow lands. I jerk violently, shock rather than pain surging through me even though I’d been bracing for it. Or so I thought. The brief finger-fuck distracted me, threw me off balance. No doubt that was the point. The next blow does hurt, though not as much as I expected probably, but enough. And the discomfort builds as his hand comes down on my bottom again, then again—first one side, then the other. He allows no time between blows for the sting to subside before the next spank lands.

  I’m counting the blows. Four, five, six. Despite my hope that I might weather this, endure whatever he has in store for me, I lose any semblance of dignity and control in the haze of humiliation. It’s starting to really hurt now, and despite my earlier bravado and the rubbish he spouted about my ‘inner submissive’ I’m finding I don’t like it one bit. I was determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s hurting me but I can’t bite back my yelps as the blows pile up. He holds me firmly in place as he continues to spank me. His rhythm is steady, inexorable. God, he knows what he’s about. This is surely not the first time he’s done this…

  My squeals have subsided. The pain is sharp but bearable, though I flinch with every slap he lands. I know he said only ten, and we’re nearly at that, but what if he decides to continue anyway? I feel totally helpless, realizing there’s nothing I can do, nothing I can say to make this stop.

  I tell myself to ride the pain, like I always managed to with Kenny, to breathe through my humiliation. Try to separate my body from what’s happening. Seven, eight.

  I’m reduced to whimpering, and my useless, futile struggles have died too as my energy to fight evaporates. Along with my will. I give in, as I always have when faced by someone bigger, stronger than me. Defeated, I lie there limp across his knees now as he does whatever he likes to me. I don’t care anymore.

  And in that moment, I’m not sure whom I loathe the most—Tom Shore for making me feel so small, myself for letting him, or Kenny for making a victim of me in the first place.

  Then, suddenly it’s not getting any worse. I can no longer hear the harsh crack as his huge, heavy hand lands, again and again, on my tender, abused bottom. Perhaps I’ve managed to block it out. Perhaps I can bear this after all. Or perhaps he’s finished.

  “Ten, we said. Now, open your legs.”

  I mumble something. It’s meant to be something eloquent and fitting along the lines of ‘Fuck off, you sadistic bully, and leave me alone’, but perhaps it’s just as well for me he didn’t catch what I said.

  He chuckles. Maybe his ears are sharper than I thought. “Ashley, I promised you more. And you do like this bit. Open your legs. Now.”

  Do I? What do I like? “Leave me alone. You said you wouldn’t… You said you’d go when, when…”

  I hate myself for being such a wimp. I never groveled to Kenny like this, just used to pick myself up and get on with things. This is different. I’m not physically injured, I know that, but no way am I picking myself up any time soon after that spanking. I just want to be left on my own to crawl into my bed, lick my wounds, recover as best I can.

  He’s not giving up, not letting me up yet.

  “Ashley, let me do this. I promise to make it good for you.” There’s nothing threatening in his tone now. His voice is soft, seductive, and I feel the tension in my clenched muscles relax as he gently palms my bottom, soothing the soreness there. I remember how good he made me feel, just for a few brief moments, before the spanking. I start to do as he asks, opening my legs a little. He doesn’t ask again, just parts my thighs with his hands, and I don’t resist. He slides the fingers of his right hand between my legs, stroking through my delicate folds before slipping first one finger, then two inside me. I flinch, expecting pain, expecting him to be harsh, cruel. That this is to be the final act of degradation for me.

  But he isn’t rough or uncaring. His hand moves slowly, his touch light, and I’m wet, slick—his fingers enter me easily. It feels good, as good as before. Better even. He strokes me delicately, taking care not to hurt me, somehow spreading and opening his fingers inside me to increase the pressure on my inner walls. I gasp. Nothing Kenny ever did, at his most attentive and passionate, ever came close to this. I moan, and without conscious thought I squeeze around him. He chuckles again, murmuring encouragement. “Enjoy, Ashley. Let yourself go. Come for me.”

  He slides his fingers out of me, only to reach farther down, to delicately circle my swollen clitoris. I gasp, now spreading my legs wider to allow him access. He takes advantage of my invitation, using the fingers of his left hand to gently spread the lips of my pussy before sliding two fingers deeply inside once more. His right hand is for my clitoris. He rolls the throbbing, sensitive little bud lightly between his finger and thumb. It’s all I need. My orgasm starts to pulse through me, powerful, unstoppable. I cry out. He knows, and increases the pressure slightly, sliding his fingers in and out of my pussy, circling the sensitive lips before plunging back in, deep. I arch, flexing against his hands to savor the incredible, unexpected sheer joy of his touch. In a few short moments it’s over. He’s drawn every quiver of erotic pleasure from my sore, abused body. I lie still again, shaking, breathing heavily. Wondering what the hell just happened.

  When he’s sure I’m done, the last ripple of orgasm spent, he stands. But instead of letting me tumble to the floor at his feet, his arms are around me. He lifts me up, standing with me in his arms, and heads for the narrow wooden stairs in the corner of the room. I’m past offering any protest as he carries me up into my bedroom. By now I know he’ll do whatever he wants to do to me, and afterwards, hopefully, I’ll pick myself up and move on.

  He places me, still naked, face down on my bed. Crouching beside me, he pushes the hair back off my face.

  “Do you have any painkillers handy?”

  My eyes closed tight, I shake my head.

  “Pity. You’ll have to do it the hard way then. You’ll be sore for a while, but okay—more or less—by tomorrow.”

  He stands up and turns to leave. Despite having just experienced probably my most powerful orgasm ever, my whole body hurts. I’d curl into my tiny ball again if I could move but I’m too stiff, too tense, every movement is agony and I just want to sleep if I can. To recover, I hope. To survive…again. I lie still, my face pressed into the pillow, relieved beyond measure that he’s going, that he’s leaving me alone at last. I don’t want to delay him, but there’s one final thing I have to ask.

  “Why did you do that? At the end…?”

  His answer is slow in coming. Then, “Force of habit. And I owed it to you. I believed you
might like it. And I think you probably did.”

  I think he’s probably right, though I have no idea at all how that happened. He moves to the bedroom door. He doesn’t turn his head as his final words are tossed casually back at me over his shoulder. “I’ll let you know when you’re to start work. Don’t bother getting up, I’ll let myself out.”

  Chapter Six

  I wake up feeling disorientated and scared. Something’s wrong. Horribly amiss.

  I’m cold, shivering, and I realize I’m lying naked on the top of my duvet. It’s pitch black. Silent. The middle of the night? And I need the loo.

  I shift, intending to reach for the lamp, and realize I’m stiff as well as cold. My bottom, mostly, feels to be on fire. But as I stretch experimentally I find that every limb aches. My head aches. My throat feels dry, raw.

  And I remember. Tom Shore was here. Tom Shore who recognized me. Who wants revenge for what happened last year, by the river, hundreds of miles away in Bristol. Tom Shore, who threw me around my own home like a rag doll, frightened me half to death with his threats, stripped me, then put me over his knee and spanked me. Then finger-fucked me, until I came. Gloriously. Like never, ever before. Oh God, my lower abdomen clenches again just at the memory.

  With a supreme effort I reach the lamp and flick it on. Three thirty-seven. I push myself up onto my knees, carefully, testing my weight and letting my head clear before I try anything more ambitious. Such as standing up. But eventually I’m staggering across my bedroom to the toilet-cum-shower room in the corner. I relieve myself, then rummage through the little cabinet over the sink. I find one solitary Anadin, left behind by some previous occupant. It’ll have to do. I swill it down with a mouthful of cold water, straight from the tap.

  I dimly remember him asking me about painkillers. After he carried me up here. Nice of him, I suppose. He could have just left me on the floor downstairs.

  Bastard!

  I climb back into bed, this time huddling under the quilt, wincing as it brushes over my sore bottom. I replay the whole episode in my head, and once again I recall lying helpless across Tom Shore’s lap, unsure whether I loathed him more than I loathed Kenny. Or whether I loathed myself most of all. And in one of my rare but powerful light bulb moments I get my perspective back. Tom Shore hurt my pride, and unless I can convince him to keep my secret he represents a monstrous threat to my future. And me, well, I just do what I must, to survive. But Kenny? Kenny killed my baby. So that places him way up there at the top of my loathing list.