by Ashe Barker
I didn’t hear from him at all for the first three weeks. Then I received a text reminding me of the date our month together is to start. I acknowledged it and confirmed I’d be there. A couple of days later I received another text, this time advising me of Nick’s address and providing directions to find his home. I was surprised to find that he lives near me, in Cartmel, only about ten miles from Kendal. I acknowledged that message too.
The next text informed me that my wax treatment from nearly six weeks ago would need to be repeated, and that he’d made arrangements with Mike to attend to me the day after my return to the UK. I confirmed my intention to keep the appointment, kicking myself for not appreciating that the effects would be relatively short-lived and would need to be replenished. I might as well not have bothered with the first ordeal. Of course, Nick knew full well that this would happen, hence the pre-booked appointment.
The next message asked me to arrive at Nick’s home at three o’clock in the afternoon on the appointed date, and to bring only a small bag with essential toiletries and any medical requirements. And he reminded me that my clothing requirements will be minimal.
A potential problem has arisen though, or more accurately the problem had only just occurred to me. I was somewhat nervous as I replied to that latest text.
My apologies, Sir. I’ve just realized I’ll be having my period when I arrive and it will continue for three days into my training. Would you prefer to delay?
His response is typically blunt.
No delay. This was likely to be an issue at some point. Will you be in any discomfort?
No, Sir, not usually.
Good. It makes no difference then. By the end of our time together this issue will probably arise again, and by that time I will require a more relaxed attitude from you.
Thank you for your understanding. I expect I’ll be perfectly well, Sir. And relaxed. I’m happy to proceed as planned.
His reply was typically succinct.
Excellent. Don’t be late.
And now, as I sit in the back of the taxi, purring up the M6 toward Cumbria once more, I know it’s only two more days and one excruciating wax treatment before I see him again.
And it all starts.
Chapter Ten
Two fifty-seven. I pull up outside Nick Parrish’s house about half a mile out of Cartmel and heave a sigh of relief. I’m on time. I took the precaution of checking out the address on Google maps and set off early, but still I’ve been dreading his reaction if I should be even a few seconds late. This is a big deal, much bigger than the coffee shop in Kendal. I get out of my car and gaze in some surprise at the property. It’s not what I expected.
To start with, the place is huge. It’s a long, sprawling, slate built bungalow surrounded by a five foot wall. Impressive wrought iron gates open onto a cobbled courtyard where my lovely Vanquish is now lording it in glorious isolation. I’d expected to see Nick’s motor cycle here, or maybe a car. I guess he must have a car. But there’s no other vehicle except mine. The place looks deserted. I double check my map and the address. I’m supposed to be at a place called Edge End Farm, and I glance back at the gate post to check. Yes, the name plate there confirms I seem to have arrived at the right place. So, where is he?
I walk up to the front door, a pretty shade of red, and knock. I wait. No answer. I knock again, louder. Still no response. I go back to my car and reach in to find my bag. I drag my phone out to double check the required date and time—you never know…
I see that there’s another message, just arrived. It’s from Nick.
I’m delayed. Key at Post office in village. Make yourself at home. Please stay there until I arrive.
To think I managed to get all the way back from Australia in time to keep our appointment, then busted a gut to make sure I was on time today. Seems like it’s another rule for Doms, as ever. Still, there’s no alternative. With a sigh I hop back in my car and head down into Cartmel. I find the post office easily enough and soon retrieve the key to Edge End Farm from the motherly type behind the counter. She eyes me curiously, especially when I hand her a note across the counter like some sort of clichéd bank robber, but obviously she concludes I look harmless enough, and I daresay she has her instructions to hand over the keys so she does just that. I pocket them, nod my thanks, smile my agreement to pass on her regards to Nick then make my way back to Nick’s house to let myself in.
At first sight Nick Parrish’s house really is as nice inside as it is on the outside. I haul my modest bag in from the boot of my car, mostly crammed with seductive underwear and toiletries, and drop it on the floor inside the front door before setting off on my solitary tour.
His text said to make myself at home, so the first thing I should do is to find my way around. The rooms seem to go off a central hallway, thickly carpeted, and I stroll down it, curious and opening doors. I’m delighted to find a large, very well equipped kitchen, and look forward to maybe getting to do some of the cooking in it. Apart from quilting, I have a passion for food and cooking, possibly the result of my diabetes. My dietary needs mean it’s easier to cook healthy food for myself from scratch rather than rely on processed food or eating out.
As soon as I was diagnosed, aged fifteen, Margaret made it her business to instil in me an appreciation for fresh fruit, vegetables and all things diabetic friendly. A brief glance in Nick Parrish’s fridge and cupboards is heartening, he’s stocked the place with suitable food, lots of things I can eat. I don’t know whether this is his normal preference or whether he’s taken the trouble to find out what my needs are and has bought these items especially for me. I find myself hoping it’s the latter.
I continue my exploration, finding a dining room, a comfortable lounge with a huge wall-mounted television, a utility room, three bedrooms, one with en suite facilities, and a house bathroom. There’s a large conservatory at the rear and a door leading to a large, new-looking extension. That door’s locked, but having exhausted all other possibilities, I’m reasonably certain that behind this door is Nick Parrish’s dungeon. He must have one—he wouldn’t have insisted we spend the month here otherwise.
I wander back along the corridor and find myself in the kitchen. I decide to help myself to a cup of tea, and start rummaging in cupboards to find the necessary bits and pieces. I dig out a mug to use and find some teabags in a cupboard. I press the switch on the electric kettle and wait, listening to the friendly hiss and fizzle as it heats. My phone pings again, another text.
Sorry. I’ll be a while yet. Please make yourself comfortable, help yourself to anything you want.
I press reply.
Should I come back a bit later? It’s all right. Really.
The response is immediate. Unambiguous.
No. Stay there.
I sip my tea as I wander back through the house, finally ending up in the lounge. I find the remote control and turn on the huge television, idly flicking through channels and finding nothing to interest me. How much longer? He’s given no indication of how long he expects to be delayed for. Should I be expecting him in the next hour or so? This evening? Tonight? Tomorrow? I pull out my phone to text him back.
Any idea when you’ll be here?
His response is curt.
No
Right. I make myself another cup of tea and try to interest myself in late afternoon quiz shows as I watch the clock hands creeping around. I kick off my shoes and tuck my feet under me as I snuggle up on the huge sofa in the lounge. I watch the news, the early evening soaps, and still he doesn’t come. I don’t dare text him again. Do I? But now he’s five hours late. Maybe something’s gone wrong. Is he okay?
At nine o’clock I text him again.
Is everything OK?
The response comes at ten past ten.
Yes. I’ll see you when I get there.
When do you think that might be? Should I come back tomorrow?
What part of Stay There is not clear to you?
Oddly hur
t, I reply.
Sorry. Of course. I’ll see you soon.
Nick did not specify which bedroom I should use, and I’m not sure what he’ll expect, except that he did mention we’d be sleeping together when he laid out the terms of our ‘deal’. It’s clear from the clutter of belongings on the dressing table and male toiletries in the en suite which of the three bedrooms is his, and eventually I decide to take a chance and use that one. I can’t imagine he’ll throw me out of his bed if he turns up during the night. At eleven thirty I slide, alone, between his sheets and try to sleep.
At three o’clock, still alone, I get up and head back to the kitchen to make myself yet another cup of tea. I fall asleep, at last, at the kitchen table, at five o’clock in the morning.
* * * *
It’s after nine when I wake up, stiff and cold, and still alone. I wander back to Nick’s room to shower in his en suite facilities and get dressed. No word from him overnight, and I’m really nervous about contacting him after his last curt message. I’m sure this is some sort of test, but what am I supposed to be doing? Or maybe he’s genuinely been held up on his business trip. Maybe things haven’t gone smoothly. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
By eleven I’m climbing the walls, there’s only so much you can do to pass the time alone in a strange house. Especially when you don’t care for television and didn’t even bring a book. I wish I’d brought my sewing machine. I did think of asking if I could, but thought probably not. We’d be too busy. I hoped. I never expected to spend nearly twenty-four hours alone.
By twelve I’m bored almost literally to tears, confused and lonely. I want my own home, my own stuff. And at last, in a pit of lonely, miserable boredom, I eventually decide to do it. To do what’s been hovering at the edge of my mind for hours now. I’m going to nip home to collect my sewing machine and latest quilting project. Then I can keep myself occupied until he comes. Kendal’s only a couple of miles away, well, ten. I can be back within the hour. I wish I’d thought of this last night.
Purposeful at last, I grab my car keys from the kitchen worktop and head outside. I lock Nick’s front door carefully behind me and get into my car. As I pull out of his gate I remember his clear instruction that I stay at his house and wait for him, but surely he didn’t mean me to sit tight for so long. He can’t have known he’d be delayed all night when he told me to stay put. Sooner or later I’d have to do something else. He must realize that. And twenty-four hours is a long time to wait for someone…
I’m back within the hour, my sewing machine and quilting paraphernalia safely stowed in the boot of my car. I’m relieved—and disappointed—to find there’s still no motor cycle or car in the cobbled courtyard as I pull up. I let myself back inside, not bothering even to unload my gear from the boot. With a sigh I flick the switch on the kettle once more and start to fix myself yet another cup of tea.
At three o’clock in the afternoon I still haven’t brought my sewing machine inside, and I’m not entirely sure why I thought I needed it. Seated once more at the kitchen table, I nibble my way through a chicken salad. I glance back at the clock on the cooker, for what must be about the thousandth time today, just as I hear a faint click in the hallway.
The door. He’s here. At last!
I rush out of the kitchen into the hallway, to see Nicholas Hardisty depositing his crash helmet on a side table. He glances at me, smiles briefly before shrugging out of his leather biker jacket and hanging that up on one of a row of hooks beside his door. His casual black T-shirt and faded blue Levi’s look incongruously ordinary and at the same time both sexy and menacing on him as he fixes his gray gaze on me. He waits a few moments before speaking, as though considering what, how much, to say to me.
“Sorry to be late. Something came up. Are you all right? Did you find everything you need?”
I nod. Then shake my head. I’m confused, and upset. Is this all he has to say? I shrug and frown, opening my hands in a gesture of query. Surely he owes me some sort of explanation.
Apparently he thinks not.
“Excuse me?” His imperious glance lets me know in no uncertain terms he has no intention of explaining himself to me.
Recklessly perhaps, in this moment I don’t think that’s anywhere near good enough. I head back into the kitchen for my phone. He may not want to talk to me, but I have plenty I want to say to him. He follows me in there as I’m fumbling with the phone, flicks the kettle on again and reaches for a mug.
“Tea?” He glances at me over his shoulder as he drops a teabag into his mug.
I ignore him, all tea’d out for now, and continue to tap my barrage of questions into the phone.
“If you want to talk to me, sign it.”
What?
I stop typing, look at him in confusion.
He turns to face me, his hands moving, the gestures familiar. “If you have something to say, use sign.” His hands are slow, unpracticed, but it’s BSL. My language.
He’s signing, he’s learned my language. I couldn’t be more astonished if he’d sprouted wings and started flapping around the room.
I gape at him as he repeats his statement, and at last I respond, my hands flying in easy, rapid-fire signing, “How? When did you learn that?”
He smiles. “You’re too fast for me, I’m a novice. Slow down.”
I do, repeating my questions slowly.
His response is stilted, slow, but clearly recognizable. “I’ve been busy too while you were in Australia. So, no excuses now. You can talk to me.”
I can. I really can. I step forward, my temper evaporating. Which is probably for the best, not sensible to start an argument with an already grumpy Dom. I’m unsure how to express what this gesture means to me. Not only has he bought me food I can eat, but he’s gone to all this trouble, just to help me, one of just a handful of people who have. On impulse I stand before him, lift my hand and stroke his cheek. I smile, and reach up to kiss him on the mouth. He dips his face toward mine, wraps one arm around my back, pulls me in close as he takes over, deepens the kiss.
I forget my annoyance at his cavalier treatment, his high-handedness regarding the waxing treatments, his insistence that I be punctual and available, only to show up himself whenever it suited him. All rational thought is driven from my mind as his tongue snakes into my mouth, probing and exploring and arousing. His palms are firm and hard, caressing my bottom, lifting me and bringing me closer for his exploration. In moments my skirt is raised, bunched around my waist as he firmly molds and shapes my responsive buttocks. He slides his fingers under my thong from behind, swiftly penetrating me as I loop my arms around his neck and hang on.
I’m slick and wet and clench around the two, possibly three fingers inside me as he curls them to find and hit my most sensitive spot. I’m shuddering, my arousal spiraling, rushing toward orgasm when he suddenly stops. He lifts his head, withdraws his teasing, tantalizing fingers from my greedy, disappointed body. He straightens, steps away to regard me sternly. Something’s wrong, something has changed, but I don’t know what, or how.
My expression no doubt eloquently communicating my confusion, and my frustration, I watch him warily. At last I can stand it no longer.
“What’s the matter?” I sign, remembering to make the gestures slowly, deliberately.
This time he answers verbally. “Who are you talking to?”
I look at him, confused for a moment, then I remember. I sign the word for ‘Sir’, then for ‘sorry’.
He nods briefly. “I don’t want to have to keep reminding you. If you need me to make the lesson more memorable though, I will. So, did you obey my instructions, girl?”
I nod, slowly, trying to remember. My frown indicates my uncertainty, my confusion.
“Are you sure? Think carefully, girl.” The Dom voice, sharp, hard, cold, his glacial eyes pinning me in place.
There’s something, he’s aware of something, some transgression or omission. My stomach clenches, but not with lust this time. Now it�
�s apprehension, bone-deep and paralyzing, my confidence shredding under his withering stare. Not for the first time, I wonder how it is that Doms manage to do that, instil terror with just a look, just a glance.
And it’s not so much that I’m afraid of his punishment if I have somehow managed to fall short of his requirements, not live up to his expectations. My despair stems from the awful, gnawing sense that I’ve somehow managed inadvertently to disappoint him. I so want to please him, to gain his approval. I’ve read about this. And now I’m experiencing it for real. I’ve read enough literature, fictional and otherwise, about this lifestyle I’m trying so hard to espouse and adopt, to know that a Dom/sub relationship is psychological as well as physical. Maybe more so. And whatever the agreement between us, whatever its purpose, its limits and its precise terms, emotionally I’m responding to him submissively, as my Dom. It’s really that simple.
Cowed, I wait. And wait. He’s giving nothing away, no clues or hints. Not yet. He simply regards me, patient, impassive. And relentless.
At last, “I asked you to stay here, to wait for me. Did you do as I asked?”
I drop my eyes, only to have him cup my chin in his palm and force my gaze back to his. “I told you, eye contact unless I say otherwise. Now, girl, did you do as I asked? Yes or no?”
I feel tears pricking behind my eyes. I see his gorgeous, stern, unforgiving face shimmer and blur as the tears distort my vision. It never once occurs to me to attempt to deceive him. He knows anyway, somehow he knows I went out. I was only gone for an hour or so, and there’s no clue left indoors to suggest I made a return trip to my home. My sewing machine and other quilting bits and pieces are safely secreted in the boot of my car, never having even been unloaded. But even so, he knows.
