by Ashe Barker
Three Oaks Guest House, Bainbridge, N. Yorkshire. Owner: I. Jakes
He lifted his gaze to her, one eyebrow raised questioningly.
“What does ‘I’ stand for?” His tone was polite, but firm. And sounded vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t say why. She certainly had never met him before. She would have remembered. Definitely.
What? What did he ask? Imogen tried to recall, conscious only that he must be able to see her beetroot face. She mumbled something inane, replying to his earlier question. “Yes. I’d been out. On my bike.” And she fell silent, flustered, but with no idea why. All she knew for sure was that this was one exceptionally disconcerting young man.
He looked puzzled, just for a moment, then smiled as he recalled his earlier comment. “Ah, yes, that’s why you weren’t here when I pulled up. So, the ‘I’?”
“What? What ‘I’?”
He tapped the card. “This one. What does ‘I’ stand for?”
“Oh. That ‘I’. Imogen.”
“Imogen Jakes. Classy. It suits you. And, is it Mrs Jakes, or Miss?”
Now Imogen did stare back. This could be just another polite enquiry, just small talk. Or was it more? She had a feeling it was more that he wanted to know. That he had a reason to be interested. And even more worryingly, she had no wish to tell him the truth. But she knew, down to the toes curling nervously in her pumps that she was going to. Whether she wanted to or not. There was something in his manner, something demanding and uncompromising, hidden there just below the outward veneer of friendly courtesy. A core of steel. Familiar yet foreign. Thrilling yet terrifying.
He was a Dom. She could see it, feel it, sense it. She could smell it in the air around him, fresh and spicy and vigorous. And he was alive. Tingling and edgy, and very, very alive. Not like Sean.
“Mrs Jakes,” Imogen whispered.
“I see. And Mr Jakes? Does he live here, too?”
Altogether too inquisitive, young man. Mind your own business.
Instead, despite her sense that he was digging too deep, digging in places he had no business going, Imogen answered, “No. I’m a widow.”
“Ah, I’m sorry.” Then, in a complete and unexpected switch of mood, “I like walking. Got my boots in the car. Maybe you could suggest a route. Pity to waste the opportunity, while I’m here…” Suddenly, because he chose to, he’d popped the bubble of tension, of recognition and awareness, and allowed her to scurry back behind her façade of normality. He let her escape from him, return to being the gracious and helpful hotelier. For now.
And against all her principles, because she couldn’t think of a single thing else to say, Imogen found herself smiling, nodding and agreeing to help him plan a day out on the moors for tomorrow. And thinking that maybe she should start charging extra for tour guides…
* * * *
“Lamb casserole for tonight’s evening meal, roast potatoes and mixed vegetables. Apple pie for pudding. With cream or custard. Any vegetables you don’t like?”
Imogen stood in the doorway of her best guest room, reluctant to enter despite the cheerful ‘come in’ she’d heard in answer to her knock. Her weekend visitor was stretched out on his bed. Her bed. The television was on, the volume turned down. He was leafing through a file, clearly taking advantage of the extra time to prepare for his interview on Monday. She wondered what the job was, but was determined not to ask. It didn’t do to get familiar. Especially with a Dom. She should know. She wasn’t about to strike up any sort of connection with someone who’d be gone for good in three days’ time.
“Sounds great. Not fond of cauliflower, to be honest.”
“No cauliflower then. It’ll be ready at seven-thirty. Just come down to the dining room. I’ll watch out for you.” She turned to go.
“Maybe I’ll come down now? I could help. Peel spuds or something.”
“Really, there’s no need…”
“I’d like to. Prefer to. Or maybe I should go out for a stroll, if you prefer me to stay out of your way?”
The last statement was posed as a question. Or maybe a challenge. Imogen couldn’t quite work out how, but he made her feel uncomfortable, vulnerable. And needy. Needy in a way she hadn’t felt for years. And she was oddly reluctant to let him wander off, away from her.
“It’s dark outside. And raining.” Excuses, she knew.
Sure enough, he was not to be put off by the elements. “I’m not scared of the dark. And I won’t melt.” He rolled off the bed, coming to his feet in one athletic motion.
Imogen stepped back, struck by the way he seemed to suddenly fill the room. Only one other man she knew had ever had such a presence, had ever grabbed and held her attention like this. She shook her head, stunned at the resemblance. Not physical. In appearance Sean and this Zack-short-for-Isaac Lassiter couldn’t have been less alike. Sean was blond, stocky, more muscular. And much more handsome. Surely. And Sean was at least three inches shorter in height, though incredibly she found herself wondering how they compared in other measurements.
Where was all this coming from? Not since Sean’s death had she entertained even the remotest sexual awareness of another man. It seemed disloyal. Unfaithful. Her Master would be disappointed in her, displeased. And even from the grave, across a distance of six years, the possibility of that displeasure still stung, still guided her actions, her choices. And she knew she needed to get away, put some distance between her and the source of this confusion, this unwelcome awareness.
“Very well, it’s up to you. Seven-thirty then.” And she was scurrying back down the stairs, back into her kitchen to deposit that huge cauliflower in the salad compartment of her fridge. Back into her safe refuge where she could close the door firmly on all that, that…remembering.
Ten minutes later, his footsteps clattered down the stairs. So, he did decide to go out for a walk then. She paused, her hands plunged into the sink as she washed potatoes ready to put in the oven, listening for the thud of the outside door. Long seconds passed, then she heard it. Not the sound she was expecting though. This was the soft click of her kitchen door, the entry to her safe sanctuary. She turned, and he was there, lounging against the frame. He’d changed his clothes. Gone now was the crisp white shirt and tie, and dark grey trousers. His interview outfit. Now he wore soft black denim jeans, and a plain black T-shirt, tucked in. His belt was also black, leather, the buckle glinting bronze in the bright glare of her utilitarian strip lighting. Classic Dom.
Imogen stared. Clenched. And became wet.
Because she knew. And he knew. It was just a matter of time.
“I decided to stay in.” He came into the room, approaching slowly, carefully, watching her response.
And Imogen continued to stare. Her head was issuing instructions frantically, demanding that she do something. Her house, her kitchen, her rules, her privacy. Tell him. Instead, “I see. If that’s what pleases you…”
Classic sub. She used to say that, or something very much like it, to Sean all the time. Every time he instructed or demanded or reprimanded. And now, on autopilot, she was dropping right back into that role. With Zack Lassiter. A man she hardly knew, and who was at least fifteen years younger than she was. For Christ’s sake, he’d have been still in short pants the last time she took twenty glorious strokes of a cane across her naked bottom. And here she was, imagining… Her butt clenched and quivered, delicious anticipation surging through her.
How? How in heaven’s name is this happening? She loved Sean. Always had, always would. She was not in the market for another relationship of any sort, and certainly not another Master. Well, that’s what her head thought, in any case. Unfortunately, her body, her emotions and her subconscious were clearly of another mind entirely.
And so was Zack Lassiter.
“You look flushed, Imogen. Again. Is it too warm in here?” He was strolling idly around her precious kitchen, exploring, touching, looking at her things. Looking at her. At last he stopped, chose a kitchen chair and pulled
it out from her table. He turned it around and straddled it, watching her closely as he made himself totally at home in her private place.
His deep-blue irises hardened as he watched. And waited. Eventually, “Answer me, please.” It was there. The Dom tone, that thread of steel permeating every syllable.
God, where do they learn that?
“What? Answer what? What are you doing here? I’ll call you when it’s ready.” Imogen knew she was babbling, but couldn’t help it. He had her on the back foot. Somehow, all he had to do was come into her room and sit down, fix her with that look, and she babbled. Like a bloody teenager.
“I said, are you hot? Over-dressed perhaps?” His voice was low, calm, unruffled. And he knew what he wanted.
So did she. Too experienced to misunderstand his meaning, even if she was out of practice, Imogen stiffened, straightened. Sought to steady herself. She was not doing this. Not here, not now, not ever. And not with anyone but Sean.
“He’s dead. You’re not.” Intuitively, he was right on it, knew exactly what she was thinking. Christ, he was even better at that telepathy thing than Sean, and he was a Master. Her Master.
“He’s still… I don’t want anyone else. Couldn’t. Not ever.”
“Not ever? That’s a long time to be alone. How long has it been, Imogen?”
“Six years.” Her voice was a whisper. Unconsciously she reached for the tea towel, wiped her hands. But she made no move towards him, or to sit down. And it no longer occurred to her to hesitate before answering his questions. He asked, she answered. Simple. That’s how it was, now.
“What happened?”
“Sailing accident. He…fell overboard in a freak storm off Lindisfarne. His body was never recovered, although the search and rescue teams were out for days. I kept waiting for him, expecting him to turn up. To just…come home. But he didn’t. He…won’t.” Tears were flowing, her cheeks wet. She made no move to stem them or wipe her face.
Neither did he. Relentless, ignoring her apparent distress, he continued, “That’s hard. But six years is a long time. What was his name?”
“Sean.” It was the first time in years that she’d said his name out loud. She glanced around herself, half expecting her Master to materialise, angry and vengeful, ready to discipline her for her disobedience and disloyalty. For allowing this arrogant young Dom to even imagine he might replace him.
“He’s not here, love. There’s just me. And you. And this.” Zack’s voice had softened now, and she heard compassion there. Tenderness perhaps. And wondered why. For her? Why would this young man, this stranger, care about her?
He dropped his hands to his belt buckle, started to draw the leather through the metal. Imogen watched, transfixed.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m about to remind you of all you’ve been missing.”
“No…”
“Yes, Imogen. It’s time. Long overdue, in fact. You’ve been out of the lifestyle too long.”
“I…”
“This discussion’s over. Now, you have two choices. One”—he tapped his left index finger with the fingers of his right hand—“you can follow me, now, into your rather classy dining room. Unless I’m mistaken that table in there is mahogany. Yes?”
Imogen nodded. “Yes,” she whispered.
“You’ll look beautiful draped over it. Naked. The stripes left by my belt will be stunning too, laid across your gorgeous bottom. And that’s just the start. We could have a lot of fun together, just you and I, Imogen. And no ghosts of dead sailors.”
Imogen shuddered, would have edged backwards, away from him, but for the sink behind her. As it was, she stood rooted to the spot, staring at him. Her thoughts could best be described as a confused tangle of astonishment, terror and longing. She chewed her lower lip, the vision he painted both mesmerising and utterly out of reach. Decadent. And so very, very seductive. She wanted it. Yearned for it.
“Or, two”—his middle finger joined the first one—“you can stay in here. Carry on making that delicious lamb casserole you promised me. We’ll eat it, enjoy it. I’ll be polite, you’ll be…loyal. To your dead sailor. And on Monday, I’ll be gone and you can go back to pretending everything’s fine in your world of one. But remember this, Imogen. A Dom/sub relationship takes two. This lifestyle of ours is not a solo enterprise. Whatever you decide to do now, your Sean’s gone.”
He stopped, watched her carefully, and she may have detected a hint of compassion in his expression, but couldn’t be sure. Slowly, he got to his feet. He carefully replaced the chair, tucking it neatly under the table.
“I’ll be in the dining room. You’ve got five minutes.”
Imogen turned away, back to her potatoes, her tears now blinding her. She heard the click as the door closed, and moments later she was crouching on the floor, sobbing.
Outside, in the hallway, Zack heard Imogen’s sobs. He stopped, closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, exhaled. He turned, knowing he really should go back. To comfort, to reassure. Shit, he’d been brutal. Too brutal? No, probably not. Hopefully not. He’d said what had needed to be said, and he thought he’d got through to her. In those final moments, as she’d stared at him, he’d watched every emotion from joy to despair flit across her expressive face. Still a relative newcomer to this lifestyle, Zack found submissive nonverbals easy to read. And he’d not so far come across a sub more in need of being told what to do than Imogen Jakes. So he’d obliged. Still, by the sound of it she’d need more than five minutes…
In fact, she needed seven.
Exactly seven minutes later, Imogen slipped into her cosy little guest dining room. Zack was still there, lounging in one of her carver chairs at the head of the polished mahogany table which dominated the space. His lip quirked in welcome as she closed the door behind her and leant back against it.
“It’s good to see you, Imogen. Are we done with tears now?”
“I don’t know. Really…”
He got to his feet, walked slowly to her and reached up to place his palms along her cheeks. He lifted her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. He gently wiped her tears with the pads of his thumbs. “Well, we’ll see. I don’t mind tears if you don’t…” He lowered his face, placed his lips, soft and gentle, against hers. Hardly a kiss, more a caress. He trailed his lips across her still-damp cheek to nibble the lobe of her left ear. His voice was soft now, a murmur, gentling, calming.
“Here? I promised you my belt. It’s yours if you want that. Or would you prefer somewhere else? Upstairs, perhaps?”
He waited, giving her plenty of time to think, to sift through the tangle of wants, needs and fears now ricocheting around her head, to back out even now if she wanted to. But he was silently praying that she wouldn’t. For her sake, and his. His cock was thick and hard and already threatening to find freedom by busting right out of his jeans.
“Here. Here’s fine. And your belt, please. I’d like that.” Her voice was thready, her breath catching in her throat. But her words were clear, distinct. And firm.
Zack dropped a soft kiss onto her neck and stepped back from her. “Excellent. But first, we talk. Sit down, please.” He gestured to the carver chair he’d just vacated, courteously held it out for Imogen to be seated. He then took the chair immediately to her right, noting her puzzled expression. It was clear to him that it had been some considerable time since she had last had this conversation with a Dom.
“So, first things first. What are your safe words?”
“I… I can’t remember.” She glanced up at him, startled. “I should know, shouldn’t I?”
“Not necessarily. I get the impression it’s been a while…”
She nodded, her eyes dropping to study her fingers, clenching and unclenching nervously in her lap. “Yes. A while…”
“So, a new safe word then?”
Again, she nodded before glancing up at him. “Can we just use traffic lights? That’s easy.”
He hoped his smile was reassur
ing. “Yes, fine with me. So, red for stop, amber for be careful, slow down, not happy?”
“Yes. Red and amber. And green means okay.”
“I’ll know if you’re okay, probably. But yes, if we need to check.”
Again, that puzzled look. “How will you know?”
He shrugged. “If you’re in distress, really struggling, I’ll see it. In your eyes, your body language. It’ll be in your voice. Safe words are a safety net, and your reassurance that you can get out of any situation. But I will know, believe me. And I’ll stop, check out what’s happening, maybe change things a little. You know the sort of thing, you’ve been topped before.”
Imogen shook her head, the gesture quick, nervous. “Sean never knew. Not unless I safe worded. It was ‘rainbow’ by the way, my safe word, back then. I remembered.”
“Rainbow? Well then, traffic lights is sort of appropriate for us now. And do you tend to safe word a lot, Imogen?”
“Yes. I’m not that good at this. I tend to get a bit panicky…”
He leaned in, reached for her hands. Unresisting, she let him lift both her hands from her lap and cradle them in his. “But even so, you’re not panicking now, are you? You do want this? Now?” He had to check. But shit…
Resolute, she nodded. “Yes. I do. I need to do this, to prove to myself I’m still, still…”
“Alive?” His voice was gentle, low. But his meaning firm and clear and affirming.
Imogen smiled, he thought perhaps for the first time since his arrival, and he knew this was going to go well. Dammit, it had to go well. He was competing with a ghost.
Zack let that lie, let her consider his comment and steady herself. Eventually she raised her chin, looked him in the eye. “Can we start, please? Would you like me to get undressed?”
“I would, yes. Looking forward to it. First though, we need to discuss fucking.”
Imogen flushed slightly. Zack noticed, thought it was interesting given the nature of their current discussion that some vestige of modesty might remain. Still, he’d soon put an end to that. Sure enough, her response was one that hedged, skirted around. He would require—demand—plain speaking and clarity as their time together progressed.
