Hard Choices

by Ashe Barker

  “But—”

  “No, Freya. No arguing. That’s how it’s going to be. Now, do you have anything to pack? Anything you need to do here before we leave?”

  I shake my head. Even my holdall is still in the boot of my car. There’s only a bit of tidying up in the kitchen, then we can be off.

  Twenty minutes later I’m once again leaving the key card with Nathan’s receptionist, and through Nick thanking him for his kindness earlier. Then we’re in my Vanquish, Nick’s bike safely locked in the underground car park at Nathan’s apartment block. We’ll come back soon for it.

  Nick is at the wheel because he feels I’m still too delicate and upset to drive. He’s right, of course, because of Queenie mostly, then add to that apprehension at what tomorrow will bring, plus the fact that my wrist has only been out of plaster a few days. But I’m also buoyed up by determination, and delight that, after everything, the end is in sight and Nick still thinks I’m worth the trouble.

  Chapter Seventeen

  We arrive back at Nick’s house by late afternoon, and Nick carries my holdall inside. He takes it through to his bedroom, dumps it in the middle of the bed then leaves me to unpack and put my things away. I take this as a good sign—he clearly thinks I’m staying. And sharing his room.

  By the time I make my way into the kitchen looking for him he’s ordered in takeaway pizza and he’s dumping salad ingredients into a bowl. I offer to help, but he waves me away.

  “You’ve had a bad day, love. Take a night off. Relax if you can…”

  His kindness seems incongruous given his intention to really cause me some serious pain tomorrow, but is somehow typically Nick for all that. And my acceptance of our easy domesticity is typically me. So I sit, sip iced water, watch him chop salad onions, tomatoes, lettuce, cucumber, and when the pizza delivery lad rings the doorbell I remain seated as Nick goes to answer it. We guzzle our way through a diabetic-friendly vegetarian pizza, swilled down with sugar-free cola—the sort I know he dislikes but is putting up with for my sake—and I feel incredibly content. I’m happy to be home, and it never once occurs to me that in fact my home is in Kendal.

  The lump of misery I can’t quite shake is wholly owing to losing Queenie, and as my eyes tear up for the umpteenth time today Nick knows what’s at the root of it. He reaches across the table, and takes my hand, squeezes it. And I cry some more.

  Later that night, as we lie together, naked in Nick’s huge bed, he asks me if I might consider buying another horse. I confess, I have been wondering. I won’t forget Queenie, but along the way I have discovered a love of horses, and of racing. I could buy another racehorse. Maybe I’ll ask Pat to look out for one that I might be interested in. I could learn to ride myself, even, maybe have a horse of my own. Not a racing thoroughbred, but one I could ride here, in Cumbria. I sign all that to Nick, and he ruffles his fingers through my hair.

  “I’m not fond of the beasts myself, but I daresay we could manage to find room. There’s my twelve acres along the lane—you could put up a stable… Or you could just place it in livery somewhere nearby. There’s loads of places round here.”

  I roll over and hug him. I suppose I’d assumed he wouldn’t want to be reminded of my affluence, but it seems I was wrong.

  “Not much point you being a rich kid if you don’t treat yourself to the things you want. And you should get out more. Riding’s good exercise, lots of fresh air, better than sewing. And cooking. And I do think you should make more effort to keep fit, little sub. I appreciate nice strong thighs in a woman…”

  * * * *

  I awaken late the following morning, but I feel refreshed, better than I can remember in a while. Certainly better than at any time since that fateful day at Black Combe. I roll over, my hand instinctively reaching for Nick. Nothing. His side of the bed is empty and cold. He’s obviously been up for a while.

  I throw the duvet back and perch on the edge of the bed. I listen, and can just make out faint murmuring from along the hallway. The television in the kitchen probably. I detour to the en suite, and grab my faithful short kimono wrap before ambling through the house looking for Nick.

  He pours me a coffee as soon as he sees me. I clutch it in both my hands as I settle myself at the kitchen table. I can smell toast, and sure enough, he places two wholemeal slices in front of me. I smile my appreciation and reach for the butter.

  “Do you want anything else? I could rustle up an omelette, I expect…”

  I shake my head then polish off the toast with relish. Nick takes his seat opposite me and waits until I’m quite finished.

  “Any second thoughts? You don’t have to go through with this, you know.” There’s no preamble, we both know what today’s main event is to be.

  I glance up, and could swear he looks almost hopeful. My heart sinks. I may not be having second thoughts, but he evidently is. I need to put a stop to those notions. I shake my head, determined. “I’m ready. Should I go to the dungeon?”

  He looks at me, long and hard. Then, “I’ve been thinking, and, despite what I said to you yesterday, I’m prepared to draw a line under this. Here. We could start over, from now.”

  It’s my turn to gaze at him, and I know that won’t do. Won’t do at all. I sign my response, “But that wouldn’t be us, would it?”

  His head is cocked to one side, he seems genuinely puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I approached you in the first place because I wanted—needed—a Dom. A good one, a hard, stern Dom, someone to teach me, to discipline me. I wanted a Master, and I found one. You. Uncompromising, harsh sometimes, but always fair. Even when you hurt me, that’s what makes my toes curl. I don’t want to be let off—I need to know that we’re all square. Does that make sense?”

  He continues to regard me silently, assessing.

  I press on, needing to make him understand, “I love you because you’re my Master. I adore you, and I love it when you spank me. I know I won’t love it today, but I’ll love you all the more for doing it. Please, I want to earn your forgiveness. I need to earn it.”

  At last he nods. “I get that. And the fact that you’re saying it tells me you get it too. I do believe we could make a submissive out of you yet. Right then, I want you in the dungeon in one hour, showered, naked except for your wristbands and your waist chain.”

  I smile, nod then start to stand. His voice stops me.

  “Oh, and Freya, if you have time, you might like to Google figging. You can use my laptop. Unless you’re already familiar with the practice…?”

  I frown, shake my head.

  “I see. Well, you will be soon. Now, get a move on.”

  * * * *

  An hour later, on the dot naturally, I’m entering the dungeon, closing the door softly behind me. I expect to find the room empty and to have to wait for my Master to arrive, but on this occasion Nick’s already here. He has his back to me, and he’s rinsing something under the cold tap in the wet room section of the dungeon. No prizes for guessing what.

  I’ve made good use of my time, and of Nick’s laptop. Following my crash course I now know that figging originated centuries ago as a method of disciplining female slaves, and has more recently been adopted within BDSM circles. I didn’t have time to thoroughly research the subject, but I’ve learnt enough to know that he’ll be inserting a piece of ginger root into my arse, and that it’ll sting like hell.

  I stand in the middle of the room, waiting for instructions. Nick glances briefly at me over his shoulder, but otherwise ignores me. So I wait. And I watch. I can see that he’s carving the ginger, whittling it to the required shape and size. And he’s taking his time about it. Long minutes crawl past as I remain perfectly still. I know better than to ask any questions, or seek further instructions. He’ll tell me what he wants me to do when he’s ready.

  At last he turns, strolls casually towards me. My eyes are riveted on the length of peeled and shaped ginger root lying in a shallow bowl of cool water on h
is extended palm. Approximately five inches in length, the root has a deep groove carved around its circumference about an inch from the end. The other end is smoothly rounded. As far as I can see there are no sharp or jagged bits, and I’ve accepted larger butt plugs with no real trouble. Indeed, Nick’s cock is considerably longer and thicker than this, so in theory at least…

  “You know what this is? What I intend to do with it?” His tone is formal, clipped, very much the Dom voice.

  I nod, holding his gaze.

  “It will hurt. As the ginger oil seeps out of the root, it irritates the delicate tissue inside your arse. It creates a burning sensation, and it’s very uncomfortable. And as you may have found out, depending on how far you read up on it, that burning increases if you clench your arse around the root. If you can manage to relax, it may not be too bad…”

  Right then. I can relax, probably, mostly.

  He reads my thoughts and smiles. “I think I can find ways to make you clench up nicely, to achieve the desired effect. I’ve been wondering how many strokes across your delightful bottom would be appropriate for this occasion. What would you suggest, girl?”

  Of course he’s going to spank me, or worse, while the ginger works its unpleasant magic. “I don’t know. I’ve never been in this situation before,” I answer honestly, even as my heart sinks.

  “Indeed. I originally intended a hundred…” He pauses to let that sink in.

  I feel the blood drain from my face.

  “But that seems excessive, even for this. So fifty, I think. And not necessarily all today. The first twenty will be over my knee, with my hand. Nothing too taxing there. Then I’m going to strap you to the spanking bench and the next twenty will be with a paddle. That bit will hurt. The final ten will be a caning. And by then I expect you to be using those wristbands. You can stop me, ask for more time between the strokes, even safe word out of the situation altogether if you have to. But our business won’t be complete until you’ve accepted all fifty strokes, however long that takes. Is that clear? And do you have any questions?”

  I’m starting to shiver despite the warmth in here, but still I shake my head. Fifty strokes—and ten of those with a cane. Shit! He’s deadly serious about making this lesson stick. But despite my fear I know he’ll never injure me. He’ll cause me pain, yes, and in spades today, but I knew that. I expected that.

  “Okay then. Shall we start?” Crisp and businesslike, he’s keen to get on.

  My eyes never drop from his as I nod my consent. He inclines his head, this time gesturing me towards the fuck floor. “On all fours, please. I want your bum in the air. Then, when you’re comfortable, reach back and spread the cheeks of your arse for me.”

  My legs are feeling distinctly wobbly now, and I’m actually grateful to kneel down. I place myself in position, and let my weight fall onto my shoulders, now resting on the padded floor as I reach back as instructed. Nick kneels behind me, and I wince as something probes my tight entrance.

  “Hold still, girl. This is going in there, and the less fuss you make the better.” His tone is cool, dispassionate. “I won’t be using any lubricant as that would interfere with the other sensations I want you to be feeling. But it’s wet, and the ginger oil provides some lubrication. I’ll open you first with my fingers using your own lubrication—it’s lucky for you that you always get wet the moment your knickers come off. Then when I tell you to bear down, I’ll slide the ginger into place. If you can manage to relax, so much the better. If not, at least hold still and I’ll do the rest. Do you understand?”

  I manage another short nod, this time with my cheek pressed against the cushioned floor, and manage to keep still as first one then two long fingers slide into my arse. As always, Nick is gentle, taking this slowly in view of the lack of our usual copious quantities of lube. He twists his hand, opening his fingers to stretch me, and my sphincter loosens, no doubt a conditioned response after the practice I’ve had in recent weeks. I’m glad of it, though. Every little helps.

  His fingers withdraw, and I feel something different, something hard and smooth sliding through my now relaxed sphincter. Instinctively I squeeze, a vain attempt at self-defence. Nick taps my buttock, not hard, but enough to remind me to concentrate.

  “No fuss, remember. And, in any case, clenching hurts. Doesn’t it?” He swirls the end of the ginger root around the rim of my anus, pressing it against the delicate, sensitive tissues there. He’s right, it does hurt. I gasp, but force myself to remain still, in position.

  “Good. Now relax and let me put it inside your arse. Press back against my hand.”

  I hold my breath as he pushes the ginger root firmly through the sphincter, now tightening of its own accord despite my efforts to override my natural response. Nick isn’t rough, he doesn’t force the issue, but his handling is firm, no nonsense, and I’m grateful for it. I feel the burn as the widest part of the root slides past my delicate inner muscles, but I offer no resistance. And in seconds—though it seems longer—my tight opening purses closed around the narrowest section, the carved hollow about an inch from the end. Once there, my body’s natural reaction holds it firmly in place.

  “You can relax now. Lie still while it takes effect.”

  I fall forward and roll onto my side, my eyes closed as I concentrate on the weird but not yet actually painful sensation in my arse. It feels sort of warm, a definite tingle that is fast developing into an insistent throbbing.

  “Look at me, girl.” Nick’s tone is soft but unrelenting.

  I force my eyes open. He’s lying next to me, propped up on one elbow. “It should take about five minutes to reach the point where you’ll really begin to hate it. Not there yet, I think?”

  I shake my head.

  “I reckon I’ll know when you reach that point, but you’ll tell me anyway, yes?”

  I nod, then scramble awkwardly into a kneeling position because I want to sign and it’s difficult lying down. Nick hasn’t told me I can’t ask questions. He watches me, my movements clumsy, but doesn’t offer to help.

  “How long will it last for?”

  He cocks his head to one side and smiles, not especially pleasantly. “That varies. Some people are more susceptible than others. Not less than fifteen minutes, and not usually more than about ninety.”

  “How long do I have to keep it there?”

  “I’ll remove it when it stops working. Or when your caning is over. So the quicker you get through that, the better.”

  I wince, my breath hissing from me as a sudden tingle graduates to a definite burning sensation. I clench hard without thinking, and the pain radiates sharply through my arse. I flop back onto all fours, my eyes watering as I struggle to weather the sudden wave of pain.

  “From that little performance, I’m thinking we’re there or thereabouts. Let’s press on then.” Nick pushes himself to his feet and stands over me, his hand outstretched, offering to help me up.

  I take his hand, and clamber to my feet displaying none of the grace he did. His fingers still interlaced with mine, Nick leads the way across the dungeon to the plain, straight-backed chair he generally uses for spanking me. He sits down, and gestures that I’m to take my customary position across his lap.

  I ease myself slowly into position. This is familiar territory and I’m not particularly fearful of the spanking, though I am acutely conscious of every movement now. Every slight shift or the slightest pressure on the root lodged inside me sends waves of pain pulsing through my lower body. Nick was right—this is definitely not nice, very unpleasant indeed. Guaranteed to ruin a decent spanking.

  “Remember, the more you relax, the more you can control the level of discomfort. Clenching your bum will hurt like hell. Lie still, and don’t tighten up if you can help it. And remember, you have your wristbands, you can call for a time out whenever you need to. Okay?”

  I nod and squeeze his ankle in acknowledgement. Then I nearly fly off his lap as he lands the first spank and my body spasms in
shock. That was a seriously hard slap, or it felt like it.

  “Keep still. I don’t want to have to tie you up, but I will if I need to. So, can we continue?”

  I take a couple of deep breaths, forcing my muscles to relax again. It’s a considerable effort, but at last the burning in my arse subsides to a gentle simmer and my smarting buttock cools. I squeeze his ankle again, and he lands another slap, this time on the opposite cheek. I manage not to shift, but can’t prevent the involuntary clench. Jesus, this hurts!

  Nick waits a few moments then lands the third stroke. I’m managing—just—to remain still and not clench too much, but I can’t totally control my reactions. Still, he doesn’t mess about now that I’m in some sort of rhythm and delivers the next five or six slaps in quick succession. Although he’s not pulling his punches I can handle this, just about. After ten he stops then gently palms my smarting bottom.

  “Do you need to stop?”

  I shake my head. I just want to get through this. He pats my bottom playfully, then takes hold of the length of root protruding from my arse and twists it inside me. I jerk sharply as the burning sensation shoots in every direction. The bastard, just when I was on top of it!

  “Just making sure I have your attention, girl. So, are you all right to carry on?” His tone is light, almost teasing.

  I make a supreme effort not to grind my teeth in frustration. I know that would be a mistake, though, so instead I just nod.

  The next four slaps are difficult, but then I’m back in some sort of groove again, riding the pain and managing not to squeeze around the ginger plug. Well, not much. By the twentieth stroke I’m gasping, my breath shallow, but I get there. Nick stops, his palm stroking my tender buttocks possessively.

  “Do you need a breather before we move on?”