by Ashe Barker
We reach my building, and I lead the way inside, nodding to the concierge as we pass through the lobby and over to the lift. I live on the top floor, the fifth—no really high rise stuff here in the traditional heartland of the Lake District. Tourists don’t go for that sort of thing. But even given the planning constraints of the neighborhood—which I don’t think of as detracting at all from my environment—I simply love it here. I chose to come back here when I could have stayed in Australia, or gone anywhere in the world. This is home. A spacious, modern apartment with access to a communal swimming pool and spa, and a top class cleaning and maintenance service obviously adds to the attractions. But essentially it was location that drew me. And that’s what holds me here. I love to sit on my balcony just watching the world go by. In one direction I can watch the river tumbling and meandering away toward the sea, and if I turn my head I can look upstream to the bustling town center. And if I lift my gaze over the rooftops I can see the rolling hills of the south Lakes in every direction. Superb. Breathtaking in the spring and summer, but absolutely stunning in the autumn and the winter, this easy, undulating landscape, so rich in color and so gentle on the eye.
I’ve lived here for four years now, and I suppose I’ve become accustomed to it. I don’t see the luxury any more certainly, I just see my home. And as Summer is the only visitor I tend to have here, the reactions of others are something of a novelty. And that’s why Nick Hardisty’s long, low whistle as I unlock the door leading into my hallway comes as a surprise. He follows me inside, turning through three hundred and sixty degrees as he surveys my domain.
“You didn’t buy this place with Tesco Clubcard points… Your Lottery winnings again?”
I nod as he strolls across my hallway and into my open plan living area. I’m keenly aware of the untidy clutter around the room, but my biggest concern is how to field the questions he’s sure to ask me about my lottery win. People always do. They always want to know how much I won. What I bought. What I’m planning to buy next. For many, their curiosity satisfied, it ends there. But for some this is the point when they start to make their suggestions. This is when they sound me out for possible investments in their pet projects or donations to their charities. This is the begging letter stage, and it makes me cringe. Worse still, this is sometimes the point when the acquisitive and the manipulative and the just plain greedy start to cultivate my friendship. This is where they start fawning over me, pretending to like me when really it’s the prospect of exploiting my generosity that’s the real attraction.
I have no reason to assume that’s Nick Hardisty’s motivation for being here. He’s no mercenary. If he was, he’d already be twenty-five thousand pounds richer, and I’d be thinking I’d gotten myself a decent bargain. And more importantly, I’d know exactly where I stood with him. Our relationship would be clear. Now, I’m off balance, uncertain. And totally confused by his refusal to accept my money whilst still agreeing to provide me with the service I want. And it’s that confusion, that uncertainty, coupled with my innately private nature, that drives me to want to conceal the details of my financial affairs from him now. Keeping myself to myself is the habit of a lifetime, and I won’t be changing any time soon.
Not that he seems especially interested. He glances at me, a half smile on his gorgeous lips as he strolls to the window to check out my view. Turning back to me, his hip perched on the window ledge, he gestures to the jumbled luxury surrounding us. “So, you bought this place then? And a car? You have good taste, Freya, in cars and property. This place is lovely.” He pauses as something catches his eye, and leans sideways to extract a rather beautiful silk scarf from behind a radiator, holds it out to me.
“Yours, I assume?”
I nod and take the scarf, one of my favorites, I’d been wondering where it had gotten to.
“Take care of that—I think it may come in useful soon.”
I’m happily contemplating the implications of that prospect as he continues. “Do you have a job, Freya?”
I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me anything along those lines. I shake my head slowly, and he shrugs. “So what do you do for money then? Just live off the rest? You’re only young, what did you say when we were at the club? Twenty-three?”
I nod.
“Even a few hundred thousand in the bank won’t keep you in silk scarves forever, not living in a place like this and with your taste in cars. And clothes. What’ll you do when the money runs out?”
I can’t suppress a smile. He actually thinks I’m extravagant. Me? But now’s the time to set his assumptions straight if I’m going to. Now’s the time to agree that a few hundred thousand would indeed be easy to fritter away. But at my present rate of expenditure it would actually take me well over four hundred years to exhaust my funds, and that’s only if Max Furrowes’ grasp of prudent investment were to evaporate this very instant. As it is, my capital actually increases by around half a million a year, and all I have to do for that is sign whatever papers Max puts in front of me at our half yearly meetings. There’s no immediate danger of destitution. I won’t be forced to go job-hunting any time this century. Or the next.
But I don’t say any of that. Instead I let it be, leave his assumption unchallenged. And Nick Hardisty just shrugs, dismissing my apparently woeful lack of financial planning as none of his business no doubt, as he crouches to retrieve the collected works of William Wordsworth and an upturned mug from under my coffee table.
Not normally bothered by the clutter, I find myself viewing the chaos of my living room through his eyes. And I’m embarrassed by it. I just dropped everything and rushed out as soon as I got his text. It never occurred to me he’d come back here with me, and even if it had, I’m not the tidy sort. I rarely, if ever, bother to clear up so my quilting stuff is strewn everywhere, my sewing machine still perched on the dining table at one end of the room. Scraps of fabric and cardboard cut-out templates are scattered around all adjacent surfaces. My pretty glass-headed pins are piled up on the corner of my coffee table, and he stoops to pick one up as he passes, still strolling casually around my home.
“For self defense?” His head dipped, he looks at me under his raised eyebrows.
I shrug, nervous suddenly. And self-conscious. This might be my home turf, but his approval matters to me, a lot more than I ever imagined it might. I’m wealthy—clearly much, much wealthier than he imagines, but I did nothing of note to earn it. I just bought the winning ticket and managed not to lose the bloody thing before the draw. What if he doesn’t approve of gambling? What if he thinks I’m just some spoiled rich kid? Worse still, what if he decides after all that he fancies a share of my money and that’s the only reason he’s bothering with me?
“You’ll bring none of this with you. Leave your cashcards, your fancy apartment, leave the lot behind you. You won’t need any money.”
I’m already pretty sure his interest in me is not financial given his attitude toward my offer of payment, but this remark dispels it entirely. He continues, “You’ll need to come in your car I suppose, and bring a few clothes, but that’s it. Most of the time you won’t be wearing anything in any case. It’s to be just you and me. Understood?”
Once more I nod, grateful that the gesture meaning ‘yes’ is universally understood. I suspect I’ll be using it a whole lot more as my association with Nick Hardisty develops.
He wanders across the room to my dining table, the paraphernalia of quilting scattered across the surface, seemingly aimlessly, but I know better than to imagine that. He idly picks up a small square made up of fabrics carefully cut and pieced together to form a picture of a vixen and fox cub, part of a much larger quilt I’m making, my contribution to an exhibition next year to celebrate the ten year anniversary of the ban on fox hunting. He glances back at me.
“This is pretty. What’s it going to be?”
I step forward, reaching around him to pull out a quilt I completed a few weeks ago, this one a Roman-style mosaic. I show that to
him, and reach around him once more, this time to pick up the rolled up sheet of flipchart paper I used to sketch out and measure the design I made for the vixen piece. I show him the overall pattern, a collection of scenes depicting the fox in its natural habitat, and point to where the piece he has in his hands will fit eventually. Several other squares, already completed, are piled up on the table, and I lay those out in their final intended sequence to show how it will all work together.
To his credit, he does seem genuinely interested, and impressed with my work. As indeed he should be—I am extremely good at this. It’s a bit of a niche hobby, but highly skilled. A completed quilt can be extremely intricate, requiring hundreds, probably thousands of small pieces of fabric all carefully measured, cut to size, and sewn together perfectly. The execution is difficult enough, but I also design my own stuff, and some of my designs even sell.
“This looks like a very exact science, Miss Stone. Do you have to measure and cut each piece individually?” The bland question seems innocent enough.
I nod, indicating with my head the clear plastic grid square I use and the eighteen inch ruler with a metal edge for accurate scalpel and wheel cutting. He smiles softly as he picks up the ruler, tensing it in his hands as he watches me. And the blood drains from my face as, too late, I realize his intent.
“Ten minutes, wasn’t it, Miss Stone? I think that calls for ten strokes, and this will do very nicely. Are you wearing underwear?”
My mouth is dry as I nod.
“I thought so. Quite decent and proper. Remove it please. Then if you’d be so kind as to clear a space among your work, lift your skirt up above your waist, and bend over the table, that would be much appreciated.” His bombshell dropped, his instructions issued, he leans back, his hips casually hitched on the edge of my table as he waits for me to comply.
My hands are shaking as I hook my thumbs in the elastic at the front of my panties and draw them down. I step out of them then place the white lacy scrap in his outstretched palm. He dangles the delicate concoction from his forefinger, glancing at my pants, then at me. “Very pretty, Miss Stone. Very feminine. They suit you. Please make sure you bring plenty more like this when you come to stay. And I promise you’ll have some even prettier stripes across your bum in a few minutes. The table, please?”
He watches, unmoving, as I arrange my completed quilt squares back into a neat and tidy pile then place them carefully next to the sewing machine at one end of the table. I collect up my other bits and pieces—fabrics, cardboard shapes, pins, cotton reels, scissors, cutting wheel, and place them close to the sewing machine too, leaving half the table empty and clear. Ample space for me to stretch out across the table top and bare my bottom for his punishment.
He evidently thinks so too. He nods and stands, a sharp tilt of his head indicating that I should assume the position. The memory of the discipline he meted out to me at the club is still fresh in my mind, so I’m in no real hurry to do this. This was not what I expected when I rushed out of here less than an hour ago to run down to Costa to meet him, and I didn’t dawdle then. I got there as quickly as I could, half an hour just wasn’t enough time. This is really not fair…
With a growing sense of injustice I scowl briefly over my shoulder at Nick Hardisty as I start to gather my skirt, bunching it in my hands ready to raise it above my waist.
“You have something to say, Miss Stone?” His tone is formal and clipped, stern.
I drop the fabric, my long, loose skirt once more swishing safely around my calves as I glance back at him. He steps forward, the ruler still in his hand as he picks up a pencil from my little pile of stuff by my sewing machine and passes it to me. I glance around among the chaos for something to write on, spotting a few small pieces of paper that I’d been using as templates for shape cutting. I pull one toward me and start writing.
I got there as fast as I could. You didn’t give me enough time.
And, an afterthought—
I’m sorry I was late. Truly.
He reads my note, then locks his glacial gaze on me once more. “You should have said you needed longer. We could have arranged to meet later. Then you could have arrived on time.” He steps forward, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger, he holds my gaze truly captive. “If I instruct you to do something that you believe you can’t do, you must tell me, re-negotiate, explain. Otherwise you’ll fail to obey, and you’ll be punished. Like now. Do you understand what you need to do to avoid this situation arising again in the future, Miss Stone?”
I nod, blinking back my own tears of frustration that I let this happen. I was so eager to see him again, so pleased to hear from him, I just never considered, never thought…
“But still you feel I’m being unjust?”
I start to shake my head, but his fingers on my chin hold me still. “Don’t lie to me, Miss Stone. If you feel I’m being too hard on you, you can say so. We’ll talk about it. You won’t learn from a punishment you feel is unwarranted. And that’s what a punishment is for, to help you to learn the right things to do, the correct attitude, the acceptable way to behave. So, what do you think would be fair?”
Just fuck me, nicely, I’d settle for that.
Not happening, at least, not until he’s dealt with my disobedience. I reach for the pencil again, and write another note.
I’ll accept whatever you think is right. I’m sorry, I realize I should have said I needed more time.
I pass my note back, and wait.
His tone is still hard, stern, but his eyes less chilled now. He watches me for a few seconds, considering, then, “Good answer, Miss Stone. You’re learning. You’ve earned ten strokes, but I think five will get my message across. This time. Fair?”
I smile, nod. He steps back, gesturing with his free hand toward the table. “Right, let’s get this done then. Raise your skirt and bend over the table please.”
This time I do as I’m asked. Whilst not exactly enthusiastic, I manage to comply with considerably less reluctance than a few minutes ago. Five strokes, I can handle that. It’ll be over in no time. Won’t it? And then…
I bunch my skirt in my hands again and turn to face the table. I lean across it, instinctively stretching my arms out in front of me, gripping the opposite edge with my fingers. I hear his footsteps as he positions himself behind me.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine, only five strokes, Miss Stone. But just in case, if you need a safe signal, you do two sharp slaps on the table top, like this.” He leans over me, slaps his palm twice on the table to demonstrate. “That’ll stop me, if you need to. Do you understand?”
I nod, thankful and encouraged that, even now, even when it’s just five strokes and we both know I can cope with that, he still gives me safe signals to protect myself. I was right about Nick Hardisty, I will be well cared for, with him.
Five strokes, hard ones to be sure, but only five. The first has my breath hissing out sharply. Christ, that hurts. Even though I know what to expect now, the next is no better, and I gasp, my knuckles whitening as my death-grip on the edge of my table tightens. My eyes are watering on the third—the fourth and fifth draw my first sobs. Then it’s done, over almost before it’s begun.
Nick Hardisty places the ruler flat on the table beside my face. I start to rise, but his hand on the small of my back keeps me pinned there.
“Don’t move just yet. Stay there.”
He walks away, crosses my living area in the direction of what I suppose he must have worked out are the bedrooms and my bathroom. Sure enough, he’s back a few moments later with a damp flannel and a tub of Sudocrem. It’s usually sold for nappy rash, but I’ve found it really soothing when dealing with the aftermath of a decent spanking, though I usually have to apply it myself. Not this time though. Nick Hardisty smoothes the cream across my bottom, gently rubbing it in. I manage not to squirm too much, especially as discomfort changes quickly to arousal as he pays more attention than perhaps strictly necessary to the furrow between
my buttocks. I part my legs instinctively as his fingers slide lower. He’s exploring now, moving on to the next chapter, parting my labia to dip one fingertip into my moist and ready entrance.
“Where’s your bedroom, Miss Stone?”
His mouth is beside my ear, and I feel his breathe on the sensitive spot just behind it as he whispers the words. He withdraws his wonderful, skilled fingers from my body, and again, I start to push myself up. This time his hands are there to help me, and I find myself standing, then he turns me in his arms, kisses me briefly. “The bedroom? Or do I fuck you here on your table?”
I point in the general direction, and he takes my right hand in his left, using the other hand to gesture me to lead the way. I do, hoping I didn’t leave the place in too much of a tip this morning. Would he spank me for my slovenly domestic habits too, I wonder? Or worse?
Apparently not. Nick doesn’t seem to notice the tangled sheets and cluttered floor as he picks me up in the doorway of my bedroom and tumbles me onto the bed under the window. He follows me onto the bed, rolling me under him for a long, dragging kiss. He plunges his tongue deep, tangling with mine as he tastes and explores, his fingers deftly unfastening the buttons down the front of my blouse. I help by shrugging out of the blouse and tossing it onto the floor to join the rest of next week’s washing.
He makes short work of my bra, which soon adds to the pile beside the bed as he releases my mouth at last. But only to work his way down, nibbling his way over my jaw and neck, across my shoulder and down to my elbow, then up again to trace the underside of my breast before opening his lips around my erect nipple. He sucks on it, lightly at first, then more firmly. I remember the intensity of sensation when we scened in the dungeon, the agony and the exquisite ecstasy of the nipple clamps he used to arouse and entice me, and in my mind I’m there again. I tilt my head back as I arch up to offer more of myself, to beg him for more.
