by Ashe Barker
For the next half hour or so Nick allows the Bride of Dracula to paw and fawn over him, rubbing herself against him at every opportunity like a cat in heat. I may be ungenerous here, but after the first five minutes she just gets on my nerves. Nick seems quite unmoved, which simply serves to encourage her to redouble her efforts. Our hosts know about the change in management, and I suspect they were on standby for this visit. They’re both eager to impress, but go about it in different ways.
The man tells us his name is Mark Mathers and he’s head of finance and membership services. The Dark Lady introduces herself as Portia Sinclair, and it seems she’s Frank’s counterpart here and queens it over the dungeon. She’s keen to show us around her domain, so we spend a jolly twenty minutes or so assessing the range of implements and equipment. I’m willing to bet neither of these two understands BSL so I feel free to make my comments to Nick as they occur to me.
“Ask her how they find out a new sub’s safe words. Where’s the first-aid equipment and who’s the qualified first aider? What’s their maximum drinks limit? Are submissives offered full membership? How do they supervise the private rooms?”
My list goes on, and Nick obligingly passes on my queries as though they were his own. The responses are not too worrying, although the supervision of what might go on behind closed doors seems a bit patchy as there’s no CCTV. I expect there soon will be.
“Ask her how she ensures the safety and well-being of submissives in the dungeon.” This is the killer question as far as I’m concerned.
“We have strict rules here. Apart from myself there are always at least two other staff on duty, male and female, gay and straight. We interrupt a scene that looks as though it might be non-consensual or getting on that way, and speak to the submissive out of the Dom’s hearing. We’ll listen to whatever he or she has to say, but unless we’re totally satisfied we will stop the scene. It’s rare that we have to do that, but it does happen occasionally.”
This is a good answer as far as I’m concerned. To her credit, Portia has come up with the goods.
“Is she a Domme?”
Nick makes the enquiry politely, and Portia explains that she is, when she needs to be. She’s actually what’s called a switch, which means she’s happy with either the Dominant or submissive role, a handy skill in a dungeon master or mistress. The final say will rest with Frank, but I wouldn’t mind betting she’ll keep her job.
I’m not so sure about the finance manager, though. His books seem to be in order or Nick would never have bought the club, but what he knows about membership services wouldn’t fill the back of a stamp. He’s quite unable to explain any sort of selection criteria, admissions policy, security arrangements or privacy controls. I can see Nick’s mounting irritation, and I know the hapless Mark’s days here are numbered.
By the time we’ve finished quizzing the two key staff, the rest of the team have been filtering in in readiness for the club opening at nine in the evening. Like most such establishments it will remain open now until three or maybe four in the morning. Nick suggests we stay for an hour or so, since we’re here, and get more of a feel for the place. I chose a pillar box red cocktail dress for the outing today, but in comparison to the other females now on the premises I still feel more than a little overdressed, even in contrast to Portia’s near total cover-up.
We opt to make ourselves comfortable in the dungeon, which soon fills up. This is certainly a popular venue in the Manchester BDSM scene, and I daresay Nick will find the place to be a good commercial investment. And Portia the witch queen does seem to be very much in charge, every inch the stern Dominatrix as she peers down her aristocratic nose at the couples and occasional threesomes ranged around the space. I’m gratified to see her make a beeline for a young man on the St Andrews cross as his partner lays into him with a whip. Although there seems to be no safe word uttered as far as I can tell, there’s something not quite right in the sub’s expression. Portia spots it too, and speaks to him quietly for a couple of minutes, then to his Dom. Although the scene continues, the whip seems to be wielded with considerably less force from then on. I don’t expect to warm to Portia—she’s too fierce for my liking, and too obviously attracted to Nick. I can’t help but respect her instincts in this place, though. She’ll get on well with Frank, I daresay.
“Do you fancy trying out the private facilities before we leave?” Nick leans in to whisper in my ear.
I must confess I’m tempted. All that suggestive slinking by Portia has put some interesting ideas in my head, and quite probably Nick’s too. And my nipples are still tingling from the suggestion that I might find myself suspended by them in the not too distant future. So it might be quite nice to reap the fruits of Portia’s labours. But I’m also tired, and on balance I’d prefer to try out our own facilities back in the privacy of Cartmel. I sign that to Nick, and he smiles his agreement.
“Right then, home.”
Home. It has a nice ring to it.
It’s just going up to midnight as Nick pulls up in his forecourt back in Cartmel. He kills the engine, and turns to face me.
“Portia’s a prize bitch, but she’s a damn good dungeon mistress from what I could see. Do you agree?”
I nod. That was pretty much my impression too.
“Mark, though, not so straightforward. He’s good with the spreadsheets but he’s got no idea beyond that. If he stays, he’ll be demoted to just cover finance.”
I nod again. “He might even be happier with that role. Didn’t seem cut out for all the rest. We should have asked if he’s in the lifestyle—that might make a difference. Create empathy.”
Now it’s Nick’s turn to nod. “Good point. I think I’ll offer him a numbers only role. So, that leaves the membership stuff and general management to be covered by someone else. I’m going to ask Ange to take on the role of temporary manager. And I’d like you to be her deputy.”
I’m stunned. I never, ever expected him to offer me a job. Do I even want a job?
“I don’t know, I wasn’t…”
He takes hold of my hands, effectively cutting off my flow of excuses. “Don’t make up your mind straight away. Think it through. I know you don’t need the money, so if it makes you feel better I won’t pay you.” He grins at my startled expression. “Oh, not so keen on that prospect after all? Right. You can start on twenty-five thousand a year pro rata, increasing to thirty after six months. You’d need to be in Manchester one or two nights a week, but you could do a lot of it remotely. And you’d be good at it, Freya. You’d look out for the subs, and that’s what’s important. It sets the tone. Good, clean—well, clean-ish—consensual, safe fun. Oh, and you can think of a new name for the place. Something nice and edgy.”
Oddly enough, I’ve been mulling over just that subject all the way back, and I have an idea. “How about The Glory Hole? My gran had a glory hole—it was a dark cupboard under the stairs. I thought fairies lived in there.”
His smile is brilliant, his teeth white and gleaming in the darkness of the car. “The Glory Hole? Sounds wonderfully decadent. Suggestive. Yes, I think that might do. See? You’re a natural. So, will you at least think about my offer?”
I’m not sure. Dreaming up a name’s one thing—deputy manager’s quite another. I’ve no experience. I can just about run a bath, what’s he thinking of? He can’t really mean to let me loose with a club? And what about Ange? She might have other ideas about who she wants to work with. I sign all that to Nick, convincing myself that it’s a non-starter.
“I already ran it past Ange. She’d be delighted to work with you. Train you.” Nick is not to be put off, it seems.
“What about if this, us, if we split up again? Would I lose my job?”
“No you fucking wouldn’t. What sort of operation do you think I run here? Your job, if you accept it, and your relationship with me are two separate matters. I’m offering you this because I see potential in you, like Ange does. Potential to run a club, a business. Y
ou said you wanted to get into some sort of enterprise, well, here’s a chance to learn some of the skills. You might not see yourself doing this sort of work forever, but I reckon it could suit you very well for now. And I’d benefit from having you working for me. So, like I say, think about it. Please.”
I nod. Thinking’s good, thinking costs nothing. I can do thinking. Satisfied he’s got as far as he’s going to get for now, Nick gets out of the car then comes around to open my door. We stroll slowly towards the front of the house, in no particular hurry. It’s a warm evening, and although I know we’ll be scening once we get inside, for now we’re just nicely companionable. I almost stumble over the shape huddled on the doorstep.
“Watch out, you nearly stood on me!” The shape starts to unfold, lengthen, grow.
I’m shocked, utterly terrified. I recoil against Nick.
“What the fuck—?” Nick shoves me behind him and grabs the figure now standing in front of us, his fist pulled back ready to land the first punch.
The shape speaks again. “Hello, Dad.”
Chapter Six
“What the fuck makes you think I’m your father? I’m no one’s father, for Christ’s sake.”
Nick rakes his fingers through his hair, glaring at the scruffy youth now huddled at our kitchen table, his hands clutching a cup of hot chocolate. I look from one to the other, and I can see quite clearly that he’s wrong, that he definitely is someone’s father and that someone is sitting right here. The family resemblance is uncanny.
Nick took some convincing to even allow the young man through the door, but it’s dark outside, cold, and after midnight. After my initial shock, I could see our unexpected visitor looked to be just about dead on his feet so I persuaded Nick that we should all go inside to discuss—whatever.
“My mum. She says it was you. Why would she lie about that?”
“How the fuck would I know?”
I shoot him a reproachful look. He really shouldn’t swear at the lad. Nick has the grace to look chastened and mumbles an apology before taking once more to pacing the room. The lad continues to drink his cocoa, seemingly unimpressed by the formidable Nick Hardisty in a foul mood. He’ll learn.
Meanwhile, I rap on the table to attract Nick’s attention, then sign the questions uppermost in my mind, “We need to know his name. And his mother’s name.”
“Right.” He turns back to our surprise guest. “So, what is your name then? And who’s this mother of yours who’s so sure I…” He breaks off, which is probably wise. Some sentences are better not completed.
The lad eyes both of us curiously, clearly wondering what the signing’s all about.
“Callum. Callum Lee. My mother’s called Astrid. You knew her in…” Evidently he’s opted to confine himself to answering Nick’s questions for now.
“Liverpool. Yes, I remember Astrid. We weren’t together long. I wasn’t her type, particularly.”
Callum shakes his head. “No, I expect you weren’t. But it must have been fun while it lasted, and here I am.”
“I’ll be wanting a DNA test…”
I rap the table again. Nick turns to me, one eyebrow raised.
“You really don’t need that. Look at him. He’s exactly like you. DNA testing won’t tell you anything that’s not already perfectly obvious.”
Nick stares at me, and paces some more. Then, “You believe him?” Unusually for Nick, he signs the question rather than verbalising it. It strikes me that he wants this part of our conversation to be private.
I nod. “I do.”
“What’s with all this hand waving? She dumb or what?” Callum’s ill-mannered and very indelicately phrased question hangs in the air.
Nick turns to him slowly, and I have an awful suspicion that he might be about to deliver that punch after all. This has to stop. I stand, rapping the table hard and moving round to position myself in front of Callum.
“He’s young, he doesn’t know what’s going on. He didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Don’t do something in anger that you’ll surely regret later.”
Nick stares at me, visibly reining in his temper. At last, “Okay, you’re right.” He lifts his hand, places his palm against my cheek. “Thank you, Freya. Now, sit down, please.”
I stand my ground a few moments longer. “I will if you will. We need to talk, all of us. And probably this Astrid, too. Work out what’s going on here and why Callum’s turned up out of the blue like this.”
With a last glower in the direction of his new-found offspring Nick subsides into a chair. He’s not quite done, though. He places his elbows on the table and fixes Callum with a glare I recognise, one that says do not provoke me further.
“Freya can’t speak. She uses sign language to communicate, and I understand it.” This is Nick in his sternest, ‘for the avoidance of doubt’ Dom mode, and Callum is getting both barrels. Nick continues, “So here’s the thing—Freya’s my girlfriend. She lives here with me, and I love her. And while you’re here you need to treat her with absolute respect. Is that clear? Is that absolutely clear? Because this is not negotiable.”
Wow. I’m stunned. Did I hear that right? The L word from Nick? Where was that lurking? I don’t have time to ponder it, though. Callum turns to me, his expression one of admiration now, tinged with perhaps a dash of curiosity.
“Hey, cool. Can you teach me that sign language stuff? And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by what I said. I didn’t mean you were stupid or nothing.”
I smile and hold out my hand by way of accepting his apology. He takes it, and we’re friends.
* * * *
Later that night, after wolfing down a mountain of ham sandwiches and four chocolate muffins—the best we could dredge up at a moment’s notice—Callum is safely installed in the spare bedroom down the hall. It’s the same room I vacated a few nights ago, though now my gear has been hastily and not so neatly stuffed into two drawers in Nick’s room—the best I could manage at such short notice. It’s been a long night and Nick and I are, at last, undressing for bed.
“So, what do you think?” Nick is sitting on the edge of the bed, in just his boxer shorts, as I take my time over removing my eye makeup at his dressing table. Our eyes meet, reflected in the mirror, and I shrug. Until we hear more, especially from the mysterious Astrid, I really don’t know what to make of any of this. Nick’s in the same boat, but despite our near total ignorance of all relevant facts he seems inclined to discuss the matter further.
“What the fuck’s he doing here? And do you suppose he’ll want to stay?”
Ah, the killer questions. Again I shrug, but I have a feeling he probably will. For a while, at least. I turn to Nick and sign that much. My signing is nowhere near as fast or as accurate as usual because the plaster cast hampers my movements, but Nick seems to get my gist perfectly well.
In the hour or so we spent together in the kitchen, watching Callum eat, and before Nick decided we all needed to get some sleep, we managed to establish a few things. Callum’s seventeen. He’s been living in Leicester with his mum and her partner, Charlotte. Nick insisted on having Astrid’s phone number, and Callum provided it but with a marked lack of enthusiasm.
Callum spent most of the last two days hitching here. I guess not that many motorists would be minded to stop and pick up a scruffy teenager in a dirty hoodie, ripped jeans and carrying a seriously disreputable-looking rucksack. He got lucky with a couple of lorry drivers, and was dropped off at junction thirty-six on the M6 at around eight o’clock this evening. From there he covered the rest of the distance on foot, about ten miles I’d say. No wonder he’d worked up an appetite. And I guess that speaks of determination, at least, and fortitude. And a decent pair of trainers. He’s gone to a lot of trouble to find his father and I doubt he’ll be minded to turn round and stroll out of here any time soon.
“Do you want him to stay?” It’s another killer question. Fundamental really. I don’t seriously expect Nick to have an answer. Two hours a
go he didn’t even know the lad existed. I wait patiently while he considers the matter.
At last, “I really don’t know.”
Well, no surprise there. He hesitates. This really is completely uncharted territory he’s found himself in. He leans forward, his elbows braced on his knees as he rakes his fingers through his hair. He looks up, catches my gaze again in the mirror. “Just a matter of weeks ago I knew for sure I didn’t want anyone else to live here with me on a long-term basis, or I thought I did. I was wrong about that.” He smiles at me, his eyes warm, sexy.
My stomach flips over as his meaning is clear.
He continues, “I seem to have a family materialising in front of my eyes. First you, now—him. It’s a bit unnerving, to be honest. I can handle you, just about. Unruly subs are my speciality. But I’d be a crap father. What do I know about kids?”
He’s right about having the measure of me, and I’ll have to take Nick’s word for it about having no experience with kids, but the crap father bit I don’t accept. And I doubt that’s Callum’s view either—he’s gone to too much trouble to let Nick just reject him out of hand. But we still don’t know what our uninvited guest wants or what his plans are, so maybe Nick hasn’t all that much to worry about. I sign that, and he smiles.
