by Ashe Barker
“When and how will they make that decision?” asked the woman who had spoken first.
“After the nationals in just under two weeks.”
“I’ve heard you’re not the only possible candidate, though,” said a red-haired lady sitting farther down from her. “It’s between you and Tanya Monroe, is that right?”
“Yes. Miss Monroe is an excellent fighter.”
“So why do you believe you’ll be selected over her?”
“Because I’m the better fighter. She has great technique, but I’m quicker and stronger than her.”
“That may be so,” said the redhead, crossing her arms. “But your performance of late hasn’t been quite as impressive. I believe you lost the regional competition in Hatfield.”
Jodie raised her chin and stared at the woman head-on. “That was a blip. I wasn’t well. You can rest assured that I will win the nationals the week after next. Your investment is quite safe.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” muttered the woman.
“Is that all?” asked Mr. Hartwell, standing up. He seemed very keen to end the meeting all of a sudden. “I think this is a good time to break for lunch. Miss Price, will you be joining us?”
“I’m afraid not. I have to watch what I eat before a big competition, but thank you anyway.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you for coming.” Mr. Hartwell extended his hand and Jodie shook it, making sure she avoided looking at his cold eyes. He held onto her hand for a fraction of a second longer than was necessary, almost as if he was trying to tell her something. She pulled hers away and turned her back on him without a word.
The moment Jodie stepped out of the boardroom she let out a sigh of relief. She said her goodbyes to Cathy and assured her she could find her own way to the lifts along the corridor. She couldn’t wait to get away. George Hartwell had acted as if nothing was wrong, keen to make his precious board members believe he had picked a champion. If only they knew. She bit down the temptation to march back in there and tell them exactly what a lowlife Hartwell was, but she might as well hold a gun to her own head if she did that. He knew that too.
She reached the lifts and prodded the call button. Then a voice made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
“Jodie, wait. I’d like a word.” It was Hartwell.
She jabbed the button several times again, desperate for the lift to hurry. Come on. She held her breath and pretended she hadn’t heard Mr. Hartwell’s call. She glanced up at the display and gritted her teeth. A lift was on its way, but it looked like it wouldn’t get there before he caught up with her.
“Jodie.”
Jodie cursed under her breath and smashed her fist against the lift buttons. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“Too bad, because I have something I need to say to you.” The friendly tone from the boardroom had been replaced by the twisted menace that was becoming familiar to her. “Make sure you keep an eye on your phone just before the competition,” he said as the lift finally arrived.
“Fuck you,” growled Jodie and stepped toward the opening doors. “I’m done with you.”
But before she could escape into the safety of the small metal box, Mr. Hartwell grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “No, you’re not. You will do as I say. I own you, Jodie Price, and don’t you forget it.”
Chapter Eight
How did it go?
Dylan thought she was probably finished at the bank and had decided that despite everything, Jodie deserved a treat. She’d made it pretty obvious that she really didn’t want to go to the board meeting, but she had done her duty and the least he could do was acknowledge her efforts. They had a session booked at the gym but he could meet her for a spot of light lunch first. His treat.
There was no answer to his text after several minutes though his phone assured him the message had been delivered. He checked his watch. Twelve-fifteen. Yes, she must be out by now.
Hey, you OK? How was it at the bank?
He waited another five minutes. Still no response. He brought up his speed dial and tapped Jodie’s name on the screen. Two rings later the call went to voicemail.
Shit! She rejected my call! She actually fucking rejected my call. What the holy fuck…?
Finding her took a while. He started by checking with the bank. Dylan phoned and spoke to a receptionist called Cathy who told him Jodie left forty-five minutes earlier. Frustrated, he tried phoning Jodie again, left a fairly curt voicemail of his own, then thought better of it and phoned back. This time his message was calmer, more conciliatory. He was starting to have a bad feeling about all of this.
It took him a good half hour to drive to Bishop’s Square, or as close as he could get before the traffic restrictions became a joke. He left the car on a meter that threatened to bankrupt him and set off on foot.
He found her twenty minutes later, seated on a bench in the ornamental garden at the end of Bishop’s Square. She sat hunched over, staring at her feet and didn’t seem to be aware of his approach until he sat down next to her.
“Jodie?” He tipped her chin up with his fingers. She had been crying. “What the hell happened? Why are you ignoring my calls? My texts?”
“I… I’m sorry, Master.”
He glanced around, taking in the surroundings. The garden was pleasant enough but not the sort of place Jodie would usually haunt. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to think…”
“And did you?”
“What?”
“Did you think?”
She shook her head. “Not really.”
“So you decided to cry instead?”
“I couldn’t help it. I just… I just…”
She was on the verge of breaking down again. For want of anything better Dylan wrapped his arms around her and held her until the latest bout of snuffles subsided. They drew some puzzled glances from the suited and booted city types passing by, but he ignored all of the curious stares. Eventually Jodie appeared a little calmer and he decided it was time to move.
“My car’s over there, just a few minutes’ walk. Shall we go?”
Jodie nodded and stood up. Still baffled but pleased to be able to at least get her away from here, Dylan got to his feet and took her hand.
Back in his car he leaned across to fasten her seatbelt. “Did you have lunch at the bank?”
“No!”
“Oh? Did they not offer? I thought—”
“I was in a hurry and I wanted to leave.”
In a hurry to do what? Go and cry in the park?
He let that thought ride. “Okay.” He started the engine. “Fancy a salad or something at that bistro near the gym?”
She shrugged.
“Luigi’s it is then.” He pulled out into the traffic.
* * *
He barely got more than two words out of her as they ate lunch. Rather he ate, and she pushed her lettuce and cherry tomatoes around the plate. Each time he asked her what had happened to cause this mood she told him it was nothing, she was fine. His patience was shredded by the time they left and made their way to the gym.
Jodie changed into shorts and a vest for their warmup and aerobic exercises and threw herself into the workout. At least she was showing some of her old fire, but Dylan wasn’t fooled. She was still depressed, withdrawn, snapping at him whenever he offered criticism or encouragement to spur her on to greater efforts.
They both put on their doboks and protective padding in order to move on to some actual sparring. Dylan pulled his black belt tight around his waist as he explained the training schedule he had in mind for the afternoon.
“We need to work on those head kicks and some more effective blocks. I want the movements to be fluid, instinctive. You have speed and agility. We need to channel those and finely hone your technique. I’ll take the offensive first and you block.”
Jodie bowed to him in the traditional manner, then adopted the defensive stance.
She was flawless. H
e barely got so much as a sneaky knee strike or axe kick past her, certainly no head contact. Her blocks were tight and impenetrable. If she’d been able to demonstrate even a fraction of this performance in the regionals Tanya would have stood no chance let alone come close to beating her. If Jodie could just maintain this level of form for a couple more weeks, just until the nationals were over, that place at Tokyo could still be hers.
Christ, she was so inconsistent these days. The selectors expected to see solid, reliable performances and nothing else would do. She had it in her, he knew that, saw it every day in the dojang but recently her skills just seemed to evaporate on the big day.
Maybe it was him. Perhaps he just wasn’t as good a coach as he’d thought, or not the right coach for Jodie. Maybe he was pressuring her too much, or not enough. Were they practising the right things? Should he take Martha’s advice and get her an appointment with a sports psychologist?
“Okay, great stuff. You’re on top of your game right now. Let’s work with that. You attack, and I’ll block.”
They switched roles and he took a battering. She was manic, brutal in her aggression, and clinical in the execution of her art. He was glad of the protective headgear as kick after kick connected with his head guard.
“Shit, girl, where was all this when we needed it last week?” He hadn’t intended to bring it all up again, but the contrast was so marked he couldn’t help but compare. “And more to the point, where will it be when we need it the week after next?”
“Why can’t you just fuck off and leave me alone.” Jodie ripped the head guard off and flung it on the floor. “Nothing I do is ever right. If I don’t perform well enough you have plenty to say, and when I pull out all the stops you’re still not happy. What do I have to do to please you?”
Dylan’s temper flared. “Just talking to me would be nice. Tell me what’s wrong. Why are you so hot and cold, so hit and miss?”
“Fuck you!” She punctuated her remark with a single finger salute. “I’m trying my best. Just get off my back, will you?” She turned and started for the changing rooms.
No. Fucking. Way.
“Jodie, get back here. Now.” He didn’t raise his voice, but his tone dripped with authority. No student of his and certainly no sub ever got to speak to him like that, then walk out on him when he had more to say.
She paused. He watched her shoulders move up and down as she fought to bring her own temper under control. She turned, slowly, to face him.
Dylan said nothing, just pointed at a spot on the floor two feet in front of him. Jodie returned and stood there, her head bowed now.
“Are you crying again?”
“No.”
“Liar. Look at me.”
She lifted her gaze and he saw her tear-filled eyes. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed.
“Jodie, we can’t go on like this. Sooner or later you’ll have to tell me what’s eating you. If it’s me, then we can—”
“No! Please, don’t say that. It isn’t you.”
“Well, it’s one of us at least, and if not me that only leaves you. Talk to me, Jodie. Did something happen at the bank this morning? You seemed fine before the board meeting.”
Was it his imagination or did she pale a little?
“No, nothing. It was okay.”
“So, what then?”
“I… I can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“There’s nothing to say. I just keep having off days. That’s all. I can’t help it, I don’t know why it happens but it’s not your fault.”
“I’m your coach, Jodie. Everything about your performance, good or bad, is on me.”
“Please, can we just finish for today. I’m tired and it’s been a hard day. I’m sorry I shouted at you and stormed off. I won’t do it again.”
He believed her. Taekwondo was as much about mental and emotional attitude as it was physical skill. A student respected her master and behaved accordingly, just as a sub respected her dom.
Is it that, he wondered? Is it that I’m her dom as well as her coach and taekwondo master? Unless Jodie could come up with another explanation, he was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore the obvious conclusion. Right at the outset he’d been clear, with her and himself. The sport came first, her ambitions. They had agreed on one goal—Olympic selection. That was her priority and as her coach he was committed to doing everything he could to help her achieve it. Anything else took second place, including their personal relationship. If they needed to cool things between them for a bit, well, that was the last thing he wanted, but he would have to live with it if that was what it would take to get Jodie to Tokyo.
“Okay, you go and shower while I clear up in here.”
“Shall I… shall I come to your flat after? I mean, I swore at you and…”
“You think you deserve a punishment?”
She nodded, her expression one of abject misery.
“What punishment do you deserve, do you think, Jodie?”
She shrugged. “Whatever you say, Sir.”
“I’m asking you, so answer me if you would.”
“The cane.” Her voice was a low whisper. She met his gaze. “I deserve to be caned, Sir. For swearing at you.”
But not for her refusal to confide in him, apparently. Dylan knew which of her crimes he took more seriously, and perhaps a caning would break the deadlock. It would be intense but maybe that was what they both needed right now.
His nod was curt. “Right then, a caning it is. Wait for me when you’ve had your shower and we’ll go to my place.”
She sat beside him in his car, silent, her hands trembling in her lap. He knew she hated the cane, feared it, certainly, but this tension was more than that. Surely, she realised he was not about to really hurt her. He never would, but especially with the nationals just over a week away. Talk about counterproductive…
“Three strokes. That’s all you’ll be getting.”
“Th-thank you, Sir.”
“You could still avoid all of this if you just talk to me.”
“I don’t have anything to tell you, Sir. Except, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard all of that already.” He stifled his irritation and pulled into his allocated parking spot in front of his building. “Right, let’s get this over with, then.”
As he led her up to his apartment Dylan mused over the intricacies of their situation and the conflicting roles it demanded of them. As her coach, his paramount concern was her health and her fitness for the coming competition. But as her dom he knew she expected to be punished for her disrespect and for that discipline to be meaningful it would have to hurt. A lot. He was a responsible dom so he would never injure his submissive. A hard punishment at the level she had earned and had a right to expect would affect her physically for a while at least so that was out of the question. The competition was still nearly two weeks away but he could not risk her carrying the aftereffects of a caning into the nationals. He would have to compromise.
He was stern, he was conscious of that, and he knew that Jodie appreciated that quality in him. It spoke to her innate submissive nature and she craved the authority and control he exerted. It made her happy. Or it used to. It would be difficult to describe her as even remotely happy these last few weeks. He was trying to be her dom and her coach, and he was starting to fear that he was failing at both.
“Go into the bedroom and undress. When you’re ready, kneel on the floor and wait for me.”
She gave him a quick nod and scurried past him. Dylan inhaled then closed his eyes and tried to unravel all of this, to make sense of what was happening. He was even starting to doubt his own responses, his instincts as a dom. Jodie expected to be punished and he would oblige, but he was by no means convinced he was justified in doing so.
What the fuck am I missing here?
He couldn’t put it off. Dylan went to the bathroom where he kept his selection of canes. He had four and liked to hang them up in the fairly
moist atmosphere to keep them supple and avoid damage to the tip. On another occasion he might have invited Jodie to select which one to use, but not today. He chose one of his favourites, a solid rattan type that could deliver a deep and thudding sensation or a much lighter sting depending on his wrist action. He could also manage a seriously intimidating whistling sound as he swung it, all of which would add to the effect without heavily compromising Jodie’s chances at the nationals.
Three strokes and he would keep them light. Not ideal, but it would have to do.
In his bedroom Jodie awaited him in silence. Naked, she knelt on the floor at the foot of his bed and turned to look up at him when he entered. He thought she might have been crying again. She swallowed hard at the sight of the cane. He needed to get this over with, and soon. Then he could feed her and make sure she had some sleep.
“Stand up and place two pillows on top of each other along the edge of the bed. Then lie across them, your stomach on the pillows and your feet on the floor.”
He watched her arrange the pillows then scramble into position. Her bottom was nicely raised in readiness for him. “That’s good. Now stretch your arms out in front of you and make yourself comfortable. Well, as much as you can…”
She shifted and wriggled a bit, then lay still.
“Ready?”
She managed a nod.
“Say it, Jodie.”
“I’m ready, Sir.”
Dylan took up his stance behind her and laid the tip of the cane on her bottom. Jodie flinched but didn’t move.
“Three strokes. You count.”
“Y-yes, Sir.”
He drew the cane back and forth across her buttock a few times as though to trace the line of his target, then he lifted his arm. He brought the cane down with a shrill whistle, pulling the stroke at the final moment so the impact on her skin was muted. Slightly.
Jodie let out a shriek and writhed from side to side. She gasped when he used his fingertip to trace the blooming crimson stripe across her buttock.
“That was number one. Tell me when you’re ready for the next one.”
