by Ashe Barker
I nod. In fact I’m famished. Apart from a few cups of coffee, I’ve not eaten all day. I balance on one leg as I wriggle back into my jeans, and Nick Hardisty, ‘Sir’ to me now, it seems, strolls around to the back of the car to collect my bra and T-shirt from where I placed them earlier. Coming back, he hands those to me as well.
“There’s a nice pub at the far end of the lake. Have you been there?”
I have, many times, and I nod my approval of his choice. The Wasdale Head Inn is a wonderful moorland pub, a mecca for hikers and campers, and does a roaring trade in thick hot soup and chunky sandwiches. They know just the sort of fuel required to sustain the most intrepid fell walker across miles of the most brutal terrain in the country. I daresay they’ll be able to come up with something to see me through my own challenges.
By the time my T-shirt is back in place and I’m thoroughly decent once more, Nick—sorry, ‘Sir’—has the passenger door open and is waiting for me to slide back into the car. I do, belting myself in as my thoughts turn to chunky wholemeal bread and the rather acceptable bowl of carrot and parsnip broth I once guzzled on a previous visit.
‘Sir’ settles into the driver’s seat once more and hits the button for launch control. He slants a mischievous glance in my direction. “There’s nowhere else they could have been going, this road’s a dead end. And they haven’t come back this way yet. So, I wonder if your fan club in the red Citroen will recognize you with your clothes on…”
I gape at him, my eyes widening. I shake my head briefly, they couldn’t have, didn’t. Did they? He just laughs, reversing the Vantage smoothly back out onto the tarmac as two impassive sheep watch our progress from the brow of a nearby rise, clearly contemplating the vagaries of humans and perhaps relieved that we’re leaving them in peace once more.
Understanding my consternation perfectly, ‘Sir’ continues, “There was a little wobble as they went around the bend, maybe. Perhaps just a glimpse, not enough to be sure…”
Chapter Nine
My fan club is waiting for us at the Wasdale Head, a middle-aged couple with their elderly mother it looks like, comfortably ensconced in a corner of the bar tucking into slabs of home-made meat and potato pie. We recognized their car in the car park as Nick slid the Vanquish into the adjacent space, and they are the only other occupants of the public room. The evening trade won’t really build up for another hour or so, and the day trippers are all gone.
We nod politely to the red Citroen brigade as we pass their table and settle for a secluded booth by the window. Nick goes to the bar to order coffees and food. I select a tasty Beouf Bourgignon with rice, whilst he follows the example set by the occupants of the red Citroen and goes for a slab of meat and potato pie. By the time our meal arrives, all fragrant and steaming, I’m absolutely famished and dive into mine with a level of enthusiasm little short of gluttonous. Nick finds the whole thing hilarious, observing that it’s encouraging to see I have a good, healthy appetite, that he hasn’t managed to put me off my food. Yet.
Hardly likely.
The rest of the evening is spent chatting over nothing much at all. We have more coffee then I have a couple of glasses of dry white wine. Nick sticks to iced water, as he’s insisting on driving back. I just shrug, let him have his way. I suspect I always will.
I take advantage of the moment to ask him something that’s been puzzling me since our meeting in Costa.
Why did you agree to train me after all? What made you change your mind?
He regards me seriously for a few moments, and I get the impression he’s not altogether sure of the answer to that. Eventually though he does volunteer an explanation.
“I like you. And I saw potential in you that night at the club. Despite my initial impression, you are a natural submissive. With proper training you could be superb.”
I nod, thinking that’s all I’m going to get, but it seems he hasn’t entirely finished.
“I think you overstate your, what? Your vulnerability?” He glances at me quizzically.
I shrug. That’s a good enough way of describing my situation I suppose. He continues. “You do have difficulties, I accept that, and some things need to be done differently with you. For you. But not that much, not really. You just need time, and patience, and I know now how rewarding you can be. Your orgasms are so sweet, all that gasping and panting and clenching around my cock.”
He smiles at me, his eyes warm, sexy, and my toes curl. Still he hasn’t finished. “All Doms should be patient, and take particular care of an inexperienced sub, but unfortunately not all are. And you, you’re just an accident waiting to happen. I was worried about you, about what you might try next. And who with. But make no mistake, Freya, I wanted to train you. If I didn’t, I would never have agreed. I’m here because I want to be, just as you are.”
Wow. Nice answer. Mostly. And so not what I expected. I reach for my phone again.
Doesn’t it spoil it, for you? Me making no sounds? I thought Doms liked that sort of feedback. That they liked to hear a sub scream.
He smiles, shakes his head. “As I’ve said, it’s different with you. And more complex than that. Your responses are exquisite, Freya, it makes my mouth water just thinking about how delightful you are when you come. And you shouldn’t ever let anyone suggest otherwise. If you do ever hear a putdown like that from a Dom, you’re in the hands of an idiot, which is never good, and you need to be out of there. Yes?”
I gaze at him, and nod. He’s so good for my self-esteem.
By the time we’ve finished our drinks the bar is filling up nicely. For such a secluded spot, this pub seems to do a roaring trade. There’s no chance of seclusion now so I’m not surprised really when Nick asks me if I’m ready to leave. By mutual consent we prefer our privacy. We stroll back across the now busy car park hand in hand and I’m oddly pleased when Nick opens my car door for me and hands me in.
Old fashioned courtesy as well as spanking—what a delightful combination.
By nine o’clock we’re gliding to a halt, back in my personal parking bay once more. Nick walks with me as far as the lift then stops. Turning me to face him he drops another light kiss onto my lips. “I’ll leave you here, if that’s all right. I have things to do, things to be sorting out for my trip. I’ll be away for at least a month, but I will be in touch. Watch out for my texts and respond immediately. No excuses, okay? And I’ll set up your appointments for you.”
I’m disappointed, I had wondered if he might decide to come back in, maybe even stay over, but I always knew that was unlikely. So I nod, accepting, and as an afterthought sign, “Thank you, Sir.”
He inclines his head, one Dom-like eyebrow raised in approval. “Excellent manners, Miss Stone. You are an impressive student. I’m looking forward to when we next meet.”
And with that, he’s gone, strolling casually over to his huge motor bike, which I now spot tucked away in a visitor’s space at the other side of the parking area. I must ask him when he parked it there, though I assume it had to be before he met me at the Costa coffee shop. He must have been confident he’d end up here.
Doms are so cocky.
* * * *
I receive a brief text from Nick the following morning telling me to present myself at the Pretty Things salon for waxing at four o’clock this same afternoon, and that I have an appointment with the club medic the following morning. I text back immediately to thank him, remember to call him ‘Sir’ and confirm I’ll be there. Then I get on the Qantas website to book my flight to Australia for the day after that.
I research Brazilian waxing on the Internet before I go along to the salon, and even find a very explicit video so I know exactly what to expect. The video advises two max strength Anadin’s half an hour before, and a long soak in the bath. I prepare accordingly, but despite my precautions I’m still cringing as I present myself at the glass reception desk in the entrance to the salon. The receptionist is pleasant and welcoming, inviting me to take a seat for a mo
ment and assuring me I won’t have a long wait. She picks up the phone on the desk and speaks into it.
“Mike, your ten o’clock’s here.”
Mike! Surely not…
My desperate hope that Mike might actually turn out to be Michelle, or even Michaela are dashed when my attendant pops out of a room to my right. At just under six feet, sporting a neatly trimmed mustache, and biceps that bear witness to many hours spent in the gym, Mike is most definitely not short for Michaela.
“Miss Stone? This way please…” His tone is efficient and friendly.
But there’s no way I can see myself spreading my legs and letting him wax my pubic hair. Christ!
I just gape at him, wondering how to explain. How to request a female beautician. Seeing my flustered expression he stops, waiting at the door to his domain.
“Is there a problem, Miss Stone?” This from the friendly receptionist, still perched at her station and watching the proceedings.
I glance back at her, surely she’ll understand. Apparently not. “Mike’s one of our best beauticians. And Mr Hardisty did specify that your attendant should be a male…”
Ah. It all becomes clear. Well, clearer. This is another test of my submission, a demonstration of his authority. He knew I’d hate this. The procedure is bad enough as it is, painful enough, without the added humiliation of having to strip, open my legs and let a man touch me so intimately. And that’s exactly why he set it up this way. I close my eyes, draw a deep breath and follow Mike into his little cubicle.
“Mr Hardisty specified an all over wax so I’ll need you to strip completely please.”
Mike’s polite, efficient and completely professional. I can do no less than return the compliment. A few moments later I stand naked before his dispassionate gaze as he examines me for all and every wisp of unwanted body hair. My underarms, legs, all are to be carefully and completely smoothed, utterly hair-free. He snaps on his latex gloves and lays me on his treatment table. He turns me one way, then the other, applying his wax and fabric strips and ripping away the offending hairs mercilessly.
When it comes to my pubic hair he asks me to bend one knee, bringing my heel right up to my bum, then he gently presses my knee to the side, opening me for his work. He offers me one brief smile of reassurance before bending and concentrating on his task, deftly smoothing on the wax then sharply ripping it away to tear out the hairs.
He’s quick, I have to grant him that. And clearly his reputation as one of the salon’s best beauticians is well deserved. I lie there while he works, concentrating on breathing deeply, not wriggling, and offering no protest no matter how intimately he touches me. It’s particularly difficult when he politely asks me to crouch on all fours, my knees spread wide as he gently parts my buttocks to spread the wax around my anus. I’m not sure if the salon staff will be reporting back to Nick, but I wouldn’t be surprised and I’m determined not to disgrace myself. I comply with every request without fuss. If Nick Hardisty wants me to do this, to endure this humiliation, I will. For him.
At last my treatment is complete. Mike smoothes baby oil all over my smarting, tender skin and offers me a mirror to inspect my newly smooth nether regions. Past embarrassment now, I thank him and take a close look. He’s done a good job, I can see that. I have to admit I really do look rather nice down there—all pretty and pink and very obvious. My clit is now on proud display, and I can only shiver at the thought of how much more prominent it will become when I’m aroused. I’ve already noticed that several subs at the club remove their pubic hair and that Doms seem to like it—now I can see why.
* * * *
I drive to Lancaster to see the doctor at her private surgery. She’s already accessed my medical records so is familiar with my aphonia. I’m offered a signing interpreter when I present myself at the reception desk, but I decline. I’d really prefer not to have a third person present, and can generally manage by writing stuff down. I wonder whether Nick had mentioned the possible need for an interpreter, another example of his thinking ahead and anticipating what I might need, or maybe the doctor just worked it out from my medical history. I resolve to ask him.
The doctor is also aware of my diabetes, and agrees with me that it’s under control and not likely to cause me any problems in my coming encounter with Nick Hardisty. Picking up on my communication issues, it’s clear that she understands the precise nature of our planned activities and the potential risks. She stresses, as Nick had, the importance of body language and using other signals to let my Dom know how I’m feeling. But like him, she doesn’t seem unduly worried about that aspect of things.
She asks me questions about my menstrual cycle, does a pregnancy test just to make sure, takes a number of blood samples, weighs and measures me, then does an internal examination before pronouncing me fit for purpose. She promises to send the results to Nick, as agreed, and to forward to me the results of his blood tests in due course.
I come out of her surgery feeling great, oddly elated, and head home to finish my packing.
* * * *
All the way to Australia, as I count the minutes ticking by on the long, long flight to Singapore. All through the seemingly never-ending second leg of the journey into Kingsford Smith airport, my head is teeming with the details of my recent encounters with Nick Hardisty. And even more compelling, the encounters to come, after my return to the UK. I turn over in my mind how much of my kinky lifestyle I could possibly share with Margaret, and to what end? Sharing might be good, but I’m not in need of advice, my mind is made up. I’m committed, and not for a moment regretting the decision I’ve made. I’ve wanted this, so badly wanted this. And now, I’m to have my wish.
I’m not convinced Margaret would understand my unusual sexual preferences. Summer certainly doesn’t and I’ve had years to try to explain. Or maybe Margaret would—she seems to understand everything, and she always ‘got’ me, right from the beginning. But still…
Seeing my adored foster-mother again is wonderful, and as ever I’m delighted that she seems so happy. No one deserves happiness more than she does, and not for the first time I bless the day I won that money and found myself in a position to help her make the leap to grab this new life of hers. I ponder over whether to tell her what my plans are for when I return home, but eventually decide against it. She’s never likely to meet Nick, and I somehow don’t think she shares my fascination with kinky sexual adventures. So we settle for five weeks of good food, swimming, shopping, theater and the rest of what New South Wales has to offer.
Sydney is a beautiful city, one of the loveliest I have ever seen, although admittedly my travel experience is not yet especially wide. I’m getting there though, but I have yet to develop a real fondness for traveling alone. Apart from the world-famous harbor area dominated by the magnificent and iconic opera house, the city has wonderful beaches and watersports to rival anything in the world.
I’ll never tire of watching humpback whales and dolphins, and although I’m not a strong swimmer, I love this beach-based lifestyle. But the shops are my real passion, and Margaret and I spend countless hours that trip in the boutiques and arcades as I replenish my not inconsiderable wardrobe. I recall Nick’s suggestion that I make sure to pack plenty of seductive underwear for my stay at his home, and if Margaret wonders why the pile of skimpy lace and satin objects in my guest room at her house just keeps on growing, she’s too polite to comment. Or maybe she does have an inkling—I’m twenty-three years old after all, it’s about time I started putting it about a bit.
We book one of our regular trips to the Outback, a few days of intense heat, arid dust, rocks and an infinity of scorching emptiness at the Mungo National Park. This must be one of the most beautiful and the most cruelly demanding places on the planet, but I love it. I never tire of gazing across the desert landscape and recalling my earliest memories of the endless sands of Morecambe Bay. I now know the difference between that and a true desert, but the memories it evokes are powerful and we s
pend much of my trip reminiscing about the UK. Margaret loves her new partner and her new life, but never tires of talking about ‘home’.
The weeks slip by rapidly, a blur of sightseeing and retail therapy. Most powerful of all though is the sheer joy of being reunited with Margaret. We chat, we reminisce. She asks after Summer, enquires about what quilting projects I have on the go, shows me what she’s working on. I rummage through her box of UFOs—unfinished objects—and we spend the evenings companionably as I put the final touches to some of her projects. Despite my generally chaotic approach to housekeeping, I do have a thing about finishing what I start. It’s just like old times, but warmer. Not so wet.
Then it’s over. Before I know it, the five weeks have passed. Margaret and George are helping me to pile my luggage into the back of their car and driving me back to the airport. I cling to Margaret at the entrance to the departure lounge, the huge plate glass doors swishing backwards and forwards behind me as other passengers hurry through, rushing along at the start of their journeys. I know it won’t be that long before I see Margaret again, but even so this does feel like a pivotal moment. As though something fundamental is changing. Perhaps it is.
I tear myself away and sling my hand luggage over my shoulder. I walk through the doors, then turn to wave at the two women. George has draped an arm around Margaret’s shoulders and I can see that Margaret is crying. So am I. I wipe the tears from my own face and manage a tremulous smile before I start to make my way toward the banks of soft seating. I’m quickly swallowed by the crowds, and when I look back again the sea of people hides Margaret from view. I’m on my way home.
* * * *
And now, I am home. After a five week stay in New South Wales, and after being on the move for twenty-four hours, I’m at last stepping off the Qantas jet at Manchester. I breathe in the familiar chilly air and glance up at the gray skies before moving along into the airbridge. Spots of rain are pattering against the roof of the tunnel as I troop through with the other first class passengers, heading for the main terminal building. Passport control and baggage reclaim are necessary evils of international travel and I do what I need to do before finally emerging with my suitcase into the damp early evening an hour or so later. I wait my turn for a taxi, and eventually I’m settled in the back seat heading for home. And Nick Hardisty.
