Unsure (Sure Mastery)

by Ashe Barker

  “Did you and Abbie ever, well, was she your…?”

  “The answer’s yes, Ashley. Abbie and I did one scene together in a club in Leeds, about a couple of years ago now. It was fantastic as I recall, but she and Nathan were more—compatible. They were together a while. She has another Dom now, a guy she’s been with for a year or so. It’s an exclusive arrangement as far as I know.”

  “Exclusive? You mean, these relationships aren’t always? Do you swap partners around?”

  “Yeah, there’s a lot of that. Especially in the clubs.”

  “Clubs? What clubs?”

  My tone is guarded now, and he picks up on it immediately. He pulls himself up into a sit, hauling me up alongside him, holding me close but allowing me to hide my face in his hard chest.

  “Clubs where couples, and singles who want to enjoy a BDSM lifestyle without any unnecessary risks, can go to find partners, set up scenes and play them out. Meet partners with compatible preferences and interests, have some sane, grown-up fun. It’s safe, and it’s secure. Especially for beginners because there’s always someone there to teach you your craft whether you’re a top or a bottom. Clubs are places where people can learn, take part or just watch. Whatever you like, really. And don’t look so horrified, my sweet Ashley, submissives are safe in clubs. There are masters and mistresses on hand to make sure no one does anything stupid.”

  Masters and mistresses. Bloody hell, who’d have thought of that? Moderators for sadists.

  I’m gazing up at him and my astonished stare draws a low chuckle from him. He pulls me hard against his chest, drops a kiss onto the top of my head. My spinning, confused and absolutely bewildered head.

  “I thought, well, I hadn’t expected there’d be anyone else there if we…” My voice trails away. I’m embarrassed, I don’t even know the right words to use to describe what we might do together. For now he ignores my pathetic lack of vocabulary.

  “Ashley, I’ll take you clubbing if that’s what you want, but we don’t have to. If you like what Abbie has to say and you do decide to try this, then trust me, I can teach you what you need to know. And I’ll always take care of you.”

  “Even when you’re hurting me?” My voice is small, apprehensive now.

  “Especially when I’m hurting you, sweet little Ashley. You’ll have your safe word, remember. And I’ll be focused on you the whole time, I’ll know what’s happening for you. I’ll be so tuned in to you I’ll be able to hear your heart beating.”

  “Really? Can you really do that?”

  Of course he can. Didn’t I listen to his just a few minutes ago?

  He confirms this, his tone low, seductive. “Mmm, pretty much. Especially if I’m anywhere near a pulse point, which I will be, you can be sure of that.”

  And I believe he can.

  Then another horrible thought hits me. I have to ask, need to check. “If we went to a club, would I have to go with other men apart from you? Other Doms? I wouldn’t want to be with anyone else. Definitely not.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. No, love, you and me are exclusive too, as long as it lasts. I only fuck one woman at a time. And even though lots of BDSM partners don’t actually fuck each other, I do. We will. There will be a lot of fucking between you and me, Ashley. And we’ve already gone well beyond that point anyway. Vanilla style, more or less, with just a hint of kink. But bloody wonderful. So, no, I won’t fuck anyone else, and I don’t want you to either. Is that agreed?”

  “Yes, of course.” How could he think I’d even consider, for a moment…? But then, he hardly knows me really. Not the real me. But he will, I promise myself that.

  “I thought so, but it’s good to be clear. Will you need a lift home tomorrow?”

  I think for a moment, startled by the sudden shift in subject. “No, I’ll go back on the quad. Then I can use it to get up onto the moors later. Unless you need it, that is?”

  “No, it’s all yours. Now, have you any more questions for me just now? I need to be up early tomorrow.”

  “No, not just now.”

  “Tired?”

  “Yes.”

  I feel rather than see his gentle smile as he folds his arms around me. I sleep, draped across his chest.

  * * * *

  It was probably the smell of bacon. Or maybe the cheerful hum of breakfast radio that disturbed me. Whatever, I’m awake, alone, in Tom Shore’s huge oak bed. I feel wonderful. I’m aching, still a little sore in some very interesting places, but bloody wonderful. I slept well, better than I have in ages. Deep, dreamless, refreshing. And now I’m ravenous.

  My clothes are still neatly folded on the sofa downstairs, in among the scattered chess pieces and empty Bud bottles, so I’ll have to make do with what I can find up here. I slide happily from the bed and grab my—correction, Tom’s—discarded shirt from the floor. Maybe I should relax my ban on doing his washing and ironing if I’m to make a habit of dirtying his clothes…

  I detour into the bathroom for a quick comfort stop before making my way downstairs to the kitchen, where Tom is busy breaking eggs in a glass bowl. He looks to have been up for hours. He’s fully dressed, work boots on, dark blue denim work jeans and a heavy black cotton shirt hanging unbuttoned over a black crew-neck T-shirt. His waxed jacket is slung casually over a chair back, just where he dropped it when he came back in from—whatever farmers do in the wee small hours before dawn.

  He turns as I enter the room, his quick smile of welcome the only greeting he offers as he gestures with his head for me to sit. I do, and moments later he sets a mug of steaming coffee in front of me, milk already in, the way I like it. I pick up the cup, take a sip, and lean back, my eyes closed. God, wouldn’t it be wonderful if every morning could start like this?

  “Morning, beautiful. Did you sleep well? Omelets are on today’s menu. Do you want bacon in yours? Or cheese? Onion? Tomato?”

  The solid practicality of the question breaks into my fanciful musings and I look at him, positioned expectantly by the stove. Waiting to feed me. Again.

  Sure enough, “Ashley? What would you like to eat?”

  A thought pops into my head. A dirty, wicked, completely-inappropriate-at-this-time-in-the-morning thought. I decide I’d better get on with it before I lose my nerve.

  “Yes, thanks, I did sleep well. Very well. Have you seen to your animals?”

  “For now, yes.”

  “You’ve got a few minutes to spare then? Now?”

  He turns to me, his expression becoming more serious. “Yes, I have some time. You know I’ll make time for you. Is there a problem?”

  “Yes, there is. There’s something I need to—show you.” I stand, walk toward him.

  He is silent, watchful, as I approach. He says nothing, just waiting as I stand in front of him, my head tilted back to meet his eyes. I place two of my fingers against my lips, kiss them lightly before reaching up to place the kiss softly on his mouth. He seems reassured by the gesture, and his worried expression softens. He makes to take me in his arms but I duck suddenly, out of his reach as I drop to my knees at his feet. I take hold of the buckle on the leather belt looped through his jeans and unfasten it quickly.

  “Ashley, I…ah?” His question is quickly transformed into a moan as I unzip and open his jeans, reaching in to release his cock. It swells and stiffens rapidly in my hands, springing loose and proud from among the thatch of dark blond curls at its base. Despite yesterday’s intimacies this is the first time I’ve had an opportunity to really study Tom’s cock, to admire it properly. I swiftly peel his jeans right back, pushing them and his boxer shorts down his hips a little to make sure nothing hinders me.

  I glance up at him, his gaze darkening as he anticipates what I’m about to do. For him. I smile, run my tongue around my lips before gently cradling his cock in my hands. I hear him suck in his breath sharply as I smooth my fingers along the hard length, intrigued by the smooth, velvety texture and solid bulk as I squeeze slightly. I wrap both my hands around
the shaft, enjoying the satin softness of the skin and the solid steel beneath. I slide them slowly down to the base then back up to the tip. He groans, or perhaps it’s more of a growl as he leans back onto the worktop. I take that to mean nothing’s gone wrong so far and, encouraged, I repeat the motion. And I repeat it again. I see the drops of moisture dribbling from the tip and smooth my thumbs through the cool wetness, spreading the lubrication over the head of his cock. His breath hitches again. So far, definitely, so good.

  I lean in and lick the droplets away with the tip of my tongue. Tom gasps out loud so I swirl my tongue around the head of his cock fast and firm, lapping at the deep pink, throbbing flesh.

  “Christ, Ashley, that feels good.” His voice is low, the growl almost pained. I cup his balls in my left hand, squeezing gently, and use my right to grasp his thick shaft. I pump it, slow and steady at first, then more firmly as I set the rhythm which seems to work for him. His arousal is beyond any doubt as his cock twitches sharply in my hands, and his groans become more frantic, more ragged. I angle his cock forward a little, and take the head into my mouth.

  Tom’s response is instantaneous. “Oh God, holy fucking hell, Ashley!” His hands are in my hair, holding my head in place but not forcing himself farther into my mouth. He continues to let me set the pace, control the angle and depth of his penetration. My confidence grows as I settle to my task. I suck hard, and feel as well as hear his appreciation. His ragged moans of pleasure are almost as big a turn-on for me as his own clever fingers and tongue were yesterday as they explored my most sensitive places.

  I step up the pace, pulling him deeper into my mouth, sucking—gently at first, then with more force. I’m still cupping his sensitive balls, caressing them as I continue to stroke the shaft of his cock, firmly, insistently. Building his delight, pushing him toward release. The pressure of his fingers raking through my hair increases, every breath a rasping moan now, but still he makes no attempt to thrust or force the pace. That comes from me. It’s me who shifts to take even more of his cock into my mouth, now grazing the sensitive head of his dick with my teeth as I stretch my lips around it, the whole of the head and as much of the shaft as I can manage now deep in my mouth, nudging the back of my throat. I repress any urge to gip, and concentrate instead on drawing every last drop of response from this tender, sensitive, perfect man.

  “Ashley, I’m going to come.” He tries to ease my head back, but I shake it briefly, deepening my hold and lashing my tongue fast across the tip of his penis. The salty taste hits me, slight at first, then a warm rush as he ejaculates into my mouth. The hot, pulsing stream of semen fills my mouth and throat and I swallow frantically to clear it, to breathe again. The ripples continue to flow for a few more seconds and I swallow those too, continuing to lap and suck until he starts to relax. Until his rigid fingers locked in my hair flex gently, and he caresses my neck. Until his softly whispered “Thank you” drifts down to me.

  This time I let him ease out of my mouth. He straightens, rearranges his clothing, zips his jeans and buckles his belt while I continue to kneel at his feet. Now it’s done, I’m uncertain of whether I should have given in to the impulse to suck him off. Is it the sort of thing we should be doing before breakfast? He seemed to like it, but…

  Tom crouches in front of me, takes my face between his hands and before I can protest about morning breath or still having come in my mouth, he kisses me. I stiffen, try to pull away, to at least have a chance to rinse my mouth, but he’s having none of that. He continues to kiss me deeply, his tongue now exploring where his cock was so recently. I know when I’m beaten and give in, my arms around his neck as he stands, taking my weight as well as his own.

  After long, sensuous moments lost in each other he lifts his head, his beautiful green eyes soft with spent passion and kindling lust as he looks down at me—disheveled and looking, I’m sure, distinctly disreputable in his arms. “Good morning, Ashley,” he whispers. “It’s very, very nice to see you. Can I interest you in that omelet now?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Mmm, where did you learn to cook like this?” I wave a piece of juicy, crisp, perfectly cooked bacon at him from the end of my fork, at the same time chewing on a fluffy bite of cheese omelet. My mum was always on at me for speaking with my mouth full, but I never could keep quiet when the mood took me. And this morning I feel like chatting.

  “Good cooking calls for good ingredients. Don’t forget, I grow the pigs too. You’re eating Matilda.” He chuckles at my horrified look, shakes his head. Farmers are completely without sentiment it seems, even the humane ones. As if he’d have a pig called Matilda. Still grinning, he goes on, “I didn’t learn, not really. I mean, I’ve always been able to do basic stuff, look after myself.” He leans his elbows on the table—my mum would have had something to say about that, too—as he reaches for his refilled mug of black coffee. “And my brothers. I’m the eldest of four so I usually ended up helping keep them fed.”

  “What about your parents? Your mum?”

  “My mum and dad are both lawyers in Edinburgh. They were great, but always busy. Everyone had to pull their weight in our house.”

  “Lawyers, wow. You must have been rich!” I let the words slip out without thinking, and I clap my hand over my mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m being rude. And nosy. I shouldn’t have said that!”

  Tom just laughs, shakes his head. “We were okay, yes. But my mum and dad were out at work most of the time so I tended to fend for myself a lot. We had an au pair who helped with the younger ones. But by the time Kristina came on the scene I was sixteen so she just settled for relieving me of my virginity. It was a wonderful introduction to the fine art of fucking. She handled most of the practical side of my sex education, you could say. She was very hands-on, was Kristina.”

  I gape at him, wide-eyed. “Did your parents know? I mean, they couldn’t have…”

  “I think they had an inkling, but I was old enough and she was only twenty. Same age as you are now. You could hardly call it exploitation. I learned a lot from Kristina. Until she went back to Germany to become a primary school teacher.”

  Dumbstruck, I just stare at him. Bloody hell, to be taught the fine art of fucking by a sexy au pair called Kristina. While my initiation was down to the clumsy, drunken fumblings of one Kenny Potts, thief, dickhead and all-round loser. Still, every chance I might make up for some of that in the coming weeks. I might even get to reap the benefits of the lovely Kristina’s hands-on approach to educating Tom.

  “So, what about you? Tell me about your mum.” Tom’s question is gentle enough, but probing.

  I hesitate, not usually keen to talk much about myself. We’re sharing, though, so I decide to spill. A bit. “She was lovely. Really lovely. And for most of my life I never even realized, never really appreciated her.”

  “Oh? What happened?”

  “The usual. I took her for granted, was out all hours, mixed with bad company—Kenny being the prime example—got into bother at school, dropped out, failed all my exams except my English GCSE. I left home as soon as I turned eighteen to sod off to Bristol with Kenny. God knows what I was thinking, but I was young and stupid.”

  “You’re still young, Ashley.” The dry observation is made with a wry smile, and I can’t help smiling back.

  “Yes, but not quite so stupid these days, hopefully.”

  “Well, time’ll tell. You might decide to revise that opinion when you’ve let me whip you a couple of times. Assuming you do decide to let me, obviously.” His grin is mischievous, the words light despite the bite of his meaning.

  I glance up at him, my own grin equally playful. “Maybe. We’ll see.” Then, “How old are you, Tom?” I’m guessing about thirty, not that it seems to matter that much.

  “I’m thirty-two. So, what made you decide to appreciate your mum then, after your misspent years as a juvenile delinquent?”

  I shove the last few bits of Matilda around my plate, pondering whether to tel
l him or not. How much of my private, vulnerable self to share. Oh, what the hell…

  “It was when David died. My baby, you remember?”

  “Of course I remember.” He nods, his eyes serious now, all trace of mischief and playfulness gone.

  I put down my fork, stare at my empty plate as I whisper the next bit. It’s not easy, even after a year or more, to talk about this out loud. It might get easier, who knows? But not yet.

  “I was in hospital. David was dead. I was out of my mind with grief and shock, and all alone. They asked if there was anyone they could call to come and be with me, and I thought of my mum. She was the only one I wanted, but I hadn’t seen her for nearly two years and the last time we spoke we had a huge row. She loathed Kenny. I’d never even told her I was pregnant. Can you believe that? I never really expected her to come, but she did. Just dropped everything and drove down to Bristol, through the night. I was so pleased to see her, and she was so kind, knew just what to say, how to help me cope. She looked after me, took me home with her when I was able to leave the hospital. We buried David together.”

  Tom’s been silent, listening to me. He has to lean in to hear the last sentence, but he does. Doesn’t ask me to repeat it. I doubt I could anyway. My gaze is watery as I look back at him, waiting for some comment, some more probing questions. I don’t want to have to explain why I didn’t stay with my mum, why I went back to Bristol. If he presses me, though, I know I’ll tell him everything. Instead he reaches across the table and simply takes my hand, squeezes it. And asks me about something I wasn’t expecting.

  “What about your dad? Where was he?”

  “My dad? I don’t have a dad. Never did. My mum was never married.”

  “Everyone has a father. Basic biology. You don’t know anything about yours then?”

  I bristle at the insinuation. As if my mum would have had a baby and know nothing about the father! “Yes,” I return, defensively. “I do actually. Quite a bit. He was Turkish, worked in a hotel. Him and my mum had a passionate holiday romance in the summer of nineteen ninety, in Side. That’s a holiday resort in Turkey.”