Hard Choices

by Ashe Barker

  Nick says nothing, and I’m beyond coherent thought as I turn in his arms, lay my cheek against his chest and simply savour this moment. But even that’s not enough. I want him, want that total connection. I wriggle upright, facing him, and this time I straddle him. He looks up at me and smiles then mouths, “I love you.”

  I could mouth my reply, but that’s never been my way. Instead I lean in and kiss his face, starting with his eyes then trailing kisses along his cheeks and jaw until I reach his mouth. My palms frame his face as I break the kiss, now just resting my nose against his. He knows what I want to do, what I’m going to do. He holds my hips as I reach down to place his cock at the entrance to my pussy before sinking slowly down onto him. I’m tight, and his erection is huge, solid and thick, and it feels absolutely wonderful as my body stretches to accept him. To welcome him. He’s buried to the hilt inside me, and I squeeze my pussy around his erection like a fist. He’s mine now, I have my Master back. I’m never letting go again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Does the esteemed Mr Furrowes have any experience with pre-nuptial agreements, do you think?”

  It’s a week since my punishment was administered, and it’s been a week of intimacy and ever closer connection between us. We’ve spent every moment together, laughing, playing, sleeping, making love, scening. It’s been intense, sensual and absolutely perfect.

  And today we’ve decided to venture out, lured by the promise of sticky toffee apples for Nick and a more wholesome jacket potato for me. It’s November, and time for the annual communal bonfire at Cartmel racecourse to celebrate Guy Fawkes Night. Nick wasn’t going to suggest we come—too many delicate memories perhaps—but I wanted to. I love Bonfire Night—the smells of burning wood, the fireworks, the food—well, some of it—and the sense of community as hundreds of people huddle together in the cold around a huge bonfire. In fairness, most of the people there will be tourists or holidaymakers rather than locals. Even so, I love the crowded eeriness of so many human shapes all silhouetted against the crackling firelight. Try keeping me away.

  We decided to go down into Cartmel on foot, just as we did on the day we went to the race meeting. We’re hand in hand, strolling along the footpath skirting the meadow that Nick suggests might one day be home to my horse. It’s cold, the air more wintry now than autumnal, so we’re muffled up in hiking jackets, thermal hats and gloves, and waterproof boots—I had to call in at my apartment to collect my outdoor gear because Nick’s spare stuff was miles too big for me.

  I’m just hopping down from a stile. Nick reaches up to help me and casually drops the question regarding Max’s prowess with pre-nuptial agreements into the conversation. Back on the ground, I take a moment to plant my booted feet in the crusty mud, just starting to harden as the night-time temperature drops. I steady myself and turn to him, nonplussed. One moment we were discussing driving back over to Kendal to pick up my sewing machine and other quilting bits and pieces so that I can take over Nick’s dining room again—this time indefinitely—and the next he’s warbling some nonsense about pre-nuptial agreements. I collect my thoughts to answer him.

  “I doubt it. That’s the sort of thing Hollywood film stars go in for. Not much call for it in Cumbria. Not as a rule.”

  “Mr Furrowes isn’t in Cumbria.”

  “Even so…”

  “We’re getting married, you do realise that, don’t you? Legally. You’ll have a ring on your finger as well as your waist chain. And I expect one, too.”

  “Do they make them long enough for men’s waists? Maybe we could get one custom made…”

  “A ring, Miss Stone.” His voice has hardened, the Dom never far beneath the surface, I’ve learned. “You’re being deliberately difficult, and I suspect you’re playing for time. I’ll be spanking you for that when we get home, and any more of that attitude from you now will see you bent over the nearest wall, your jeans and knickers round your ankles. It’s probably a little chilly for that sort of thing, but do you get my drift?”

  I nod, but can’t help smiling. And shivering, because I know it’s probably not an entirely empty threat.

  “So, a pre-nup. You have over forty million quid that needs protecting from my grubby clutches. I don’t want anyone, including you, thinking I’m marrying you for your money.”

  I start to deny it, “I never—”

  “Yes you did. Or you used to. Or you weren’t sure. That was part of the reason why you didn’t tell me.”

  “No, I—”

  He holds up his hand. “Freya, it’s done. Over. Whatever the reasons, it’s behind us and I’m not wanting to drag it all back up again. I don’t care how we got here. I’m much more interested in our future, and I’d feel better knowing your money was secured for you. I bet Mr Furrowes would, too. So I’d like you to drop him a line and ask his advice. And if you don’t, I will.”

  I don’t much care for the notion and I fully intend to share anything I have with Nick, with Callum, with any other children we might have in the future, but if it makes him happy to consult Max about it I will. In any case a pre-nuptial agreement would only really matter if we were to ever separate. And I don’t intend to let that happen. Ever. I sign that I’ll e-mail Max when we get back.

  “Good. After I’ve spanked you for your insolence just now, obviously. Enough about you, though, what about food? I can’t live off toffee apples and all this fresh air’s making me hungry. How about we call at The Plough on the way back? Then maybe the dungeon later on—and work up another appetite?”

  I smile and slip my mittened hand back into his. Sounds good to me.

  * * * *

  Dear Miss Stone

  Thank you for your recent correspondence. I should mention that I have also been approached by Mr Hardisty on the same matter, so will reply to him separately, copied to you as my client, naturally.

  May I start by offering my warmest congratulations on your forthcoming marriage and my very best wishes for your future happiness? I am delighted to learn of your plans, and look forward to making the acquaintance of Mr Hardisty in due course.

  The terminology in England and Wales is a little different, but essentially I could arrange to have a pre-marriage contract drafted that would cover the requirements outlined by you and described in rather more detail by Mr Hardisty. Such pre-marriage contracts are increasingly popular, and in cases such as yours offer an enforceable mechanism to protect assets acquired prior to the marriage. Provided the proper legal safeguards are adhered to it is likely that the provisions of such an agreement would be applied and upheld in any future proceedings associated with divorce or breakdown of your relationship. Also, whilst you have no children, I understand that Mr Hardisty does have offspring, so such an agreement would be of significant value in helping to obviate any future inheritance issues.

  I will instruct our solicitors accordingly if you confirm to me that this is the course you prefer to take.

  On the second matter you raised, I have consulted my colleagues and superiors here at the bank, and whilst we concur that this is unorthodox to say the least, there is no reason we know of why I should not accede to your request. I can therefore confirm that I would be honoured to give you away at your forthcoming wedding, Miss Stone.

  In the circumstances, I think you’ll agree that an early meeting between the parties would be in order, so I wonder if you and Mr Hardisty might be free to join Mrs Furrowes and I for dinner one evening next week?

  I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mr Furrowes (Max)

  Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

  Sure Mastery: Unsure

  Ashe Barker

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  I pulled it off. Mary, Joseph and all the saints, I only fucking did it! Months of planning, sacrifice, sheer desperation and soul-deep tragedy have brought me here. So here’s where I am. At last. Free. Free to start over.


  The monotonous asphalt of the M6 heading north rolls in front of me, miles and miles of it. And every mile taking me farther away from—before. Away from ‘Shaz’, away from poverty and violence and doing without, leaving behind my old life jam-packed with nothing much but drudgery, fear, humiliation.

  Not that the future looks particularly certain. But at least there’s only me in it.

  * * * *

  I remember with absolute clarity the moment I knew I was going to be rid of Kenny. It was July thirteenth 2011 at nine sixteen p.m., the moment when the radiologist at Southmead Hospital’s maternity unit at last finished clicking away at her keyboard, swirling her chilly probe through the gunk on my abdomen, looking again at her monitor and once more for good measure before she finally turned to me. She had on her well-trained sad and sympathetic face as she calmly announced that my baby had no heartbeat. No heartbeat! How can a baby have no heartbeat? He’d be dead if he…

  The maternity unit staff were kind, caring, but they couldn’t put it right. Nothing, no one could put this right. My baby was dead. Dead because my thug of a boyfriend couldn’t keep his fists to himself. One shove too many, one punch too many, one heavy fall too many, and it was done. My baby, gone. I sobbed. I screamed and kicked and refused to accept. Refused to accept a life lost, wasted through thoughtless cruelty and callousness.

  It’s not as though Kenny had even meant to kill my baby. His baby. He just simply hadn’t cared one way or the other. But it was real, this was all real—really happening to me, and eventually my body took over and expelled my tiny, tiny baby son, out onto a cool, clean rubber sheet. Months too early. Dead before his life had even started. Before I’d even looked into his face to say ‘hello’ it was already too late to say ‘goodbye’. The midwife taking care of me—her name was Ann-Marie I think but it’s all something of a blur—scooped him up and out of the way while the young doctor dealt with the afterbirth, and other nurses cleaned me up, made me sanitary and ‘normal’ again.

  Ann-Marie brought my baby back, beautifully laid out in a tiny basket, on a pale blue satin cushion. He was so small, his little limbs matchstick thin, and he was a very deep pink, like a little pixie. Not quite human, yet not quite anything else either. Even though I never asked her to—it never even occurred to me—Ann-Marie took a photo of him with a little digital pocket camera they must keep in the maternity unit for this sort of thing. She also took his tiny little handprints and footprints. And she put all those mementos into a little white memorial card that she gave to me.

  I have it still. I’ll have it forever. That’s all there is left to show my baby was ever here.

  * * * *

  And my mother came, rushing down from Gloucester when they phoned her, even though she hadn’t seen me for a year and had had no idea that I was even pregnant. But she came, she hugged me and she wept with me for her lost grandson. We agreed to call him David, after an ‘uncle’ who’d stayed with us for a few years and I’d particularly liked when I was little. And when I was well enough to leave hospital two days later, my mother piled me into her little white Renault Clio and took me back to Gloucester with her.

  When we got there we both cried some more and planned David’s funeral. It took place exactly two weeks after he’d died, in a chilly cemetery in Gloucester. There was no vicar. I don’t recall a time I ever believed in God and this latest demonstration of the general cack-handedness of fate certainly wasn’t about to change my mind about the benign intervention of some higher power. No, as far as I could see life was just shit, and only marginally better than the alternative. You accepted that and you got on with it. Or not.

  So it was just me and my mother, and a silent, sympathetic undertaker who retrieved David’s little body from Southmead and brought it here in a tiny white coffin. Not even a hearse—he just pulled up at the stillborn babies plot in the cemetery in a black Volvo estate with David’s shoebox of a coffin in the back. He carried the miniature white casket down the stone steps to the pre-dug hole, where two cemetery staff carefully lowered it into the ground. Then the undertaker and the gravediggers stood tactfully back, waiting, patient and respectful and perhaps rather bored, while my mother and I stood, each of us lost in our own thoughts, and we said our silent farewells to the baby I’d known so briefly and my mother not at all.

  The following morning Kenny turned up at my mother’s house, demanding to know what the fuck I was doing in bloody Gloucester. Why wasn’t I in Bristol where I belonged? He needed me and all I could do was bloody cry over a kid I hadn’t even really had. And what the fuck did any of it have to do with my mother? She had been nowhere around when we’d needed a bit of cash last year to stop us getting evicted, so we sure as hell didn’t need her now.

  I told him I wanted to stay in Gloucester a bit longer. Maybe even stay here for good now. He smashed my mother’s greenhouse windows and threatened to boot her twelve-year-old cat to death. I packed my stuff and left an hour later with him.

  Two days later Kenny was arrested for burglary. Apparently an anonymous tip-off through Crimestoppers linked him to a series of ram raids at Co-op stores around the South West. Naturally he denied it, and naturally I provided him with a rock-solid alibi for all the nights in question. The police were struggling to stack up the case, but as luck would have it another anonymous call to Crimestoppers led them to a lock-up where a load of stolen cigarettes and booze was stored. Unfortunately for him, Kenny was never the brightest or tidiest of thieves and his prints were all over the stuff. So that was it. He went down for three years. I stuck to my alibi story, determined not to give him any reason at all to doubt my loyalty. I knew the jury wouldn’t believe me anyway with all the forensic evidence proving Kenny’s guilt so it didn’t really matter what I said.

  In the event, though, it did matter, up to a point. I was convicted of attempting to pervert the course of justice and sentenced to eighteen months in prison, a year of it to be suspended for two years. But I had to serve six months. I was shocked, stunned even. I think the jury were too. I suppose I caught the judge on a bad day, a day when he was minded to make an example of someone and it turned out to be me. I hadn’t ever considered the prospect of prison, but I gritted my teeth again like I always do and I got on with it. As I knew with absolute certainty by then, worse things could happen. So I set my mind to being a model prisoner.

  Three years isn’t long. Kenny would probably be out again within two years. Then he’d come looking for me, expecting to just carry on where we’d left off. And no way was that happening. I’d gone to a lot of trouble and even put up with the inconvenience of time in jail to be rid of him. I wasn’t having him back, not at any price. No way was I returning to that old life. I knew it was no good just going home to my mum’s again. I’d tried that already and I knew he’d react as he had before. He’d come after me to Gloucester and terrorise us both until I gave in. So I needed to get away. Clean away. Somewhere new, somewhere he had no links, no ties. Somewhere he wouldn’t be able to find me.

  My mum came to visit me as often as she could while I was locked up, and we talked and planned. While I was growing up it had mostly been just the two of us, with occasional ‘uncles’ coming and going. Nothing too promiscuous, but my mum liked to enjoy herself and really didn’t care what anyone else thought. I was proof of that, the product of a heated summer romance with a Turkish hotel deputy manager during a holiday in Bodrum in 1990.

  My mother had fallen for Bajram in a big way, negotiated a sabbatical from her job and stayed on the rest of the season to live with him in his tiny little apartment in the back of the hotel. They’d enjoyed mindless sex and Mediterranean sunshine until the end of the season, and my mother had even stayed with him over the winter. But by the start of the next holiday season the magic had apparently worn thin. Maybe she’d been homesick. Anyway, by May 1991 my mother had decided to come back to the UK. And she’d had an extra passenger on board by then. Just a very tiny one. She’d been eight weeks pre
gnant, and I’d come screaming into the world in January 1992.

  Never one to bother too much about convention, my mother had simply taken some time off work to look after me when I’d been very little then had found a child minder she’d trusted with her precious little princess and had gone back to her job at the council. She had a decent job in the planning department and lived pretty modestly over the years. Consequently, by the time she was sitting across the table from me in the prison visitors room she had about thirty thousand pounds tied up in stocks and shares.

  She said she would liquidate it for me, give me the cash so I could move away, maybe somewhere up north, get a job, start again. Unbelievable generosity when I’d brought her nothing but trouble and pain for the last twenty years.

  I’d been useless at school, always in trouble and hanging round with yobs and losers. I’d flirted with drugs, though mercifully had never really got too far into that. And I’d got involved with Kenny by the time I was sixteen. I had been besotted, and left home as soon as I was eighteen to follow him to Bristol. My mother had pleaded with me not to go, tried to warn me, in that way that mothers have. But I loved him, or thought I did, and in any case I knew best. In that way that teenagers have. It was that simple, and I’d gone without a backward glance.

  Apart from occasional cards at Christmas and birthdays the next she had really known of me was when the Southmead had called and told her that I was there and that I needed her. And she’d come. She’d just dropped everything and had been there within two hours.