Hard Lessons (2 page)

But it’s not to be. Not yet at least. With an agile stretching of muscle he gets to his feet, once more towering over me.

“First things first, girl. We don’t play until your earlier lapses of behavior have been corrected. You’re in here to be punished, so let’s get on with it, shall we?” He doesn’t wait for my answer, just continues to recount my errors, my crimes. “There’s the matter of your disobedience, and of your attempt at deception. Both serious issues, both requiring appropriate punishment. I had intended a spanking, but I’ve come to realize that you actually seem to like that. Rather a lot. So as a punishment it’s not much use to me. Orgasm denial would be effective I think, to help curb your lack of honesty—you do love to come, don’t you, you little slut?”

My eyes widen in surprise at the coarse insult, but if he notices—and I suppose he does, he hasn’t missed anything else—he doesn’t let up. “You’re wet and hot and gagging for it now, aren’t you, my horny little sub? Your pupils are dilated, and your lips are slack. You can hardly breathe past your lust, you’re all but drooling, you dirty little slut. My dirty little slut. And eventually I can give you what you want, if I choose to. But
you
have to earn it.
You
have to deserve it. And you haven’t earned it yet, nowhere close.” His tone is low, seductive, at variance with the harsh, contemptuous words.

I realize this is the first time he’s spoken to me like this. Before he’s always been courteous, polite—if crude and sexually explicit. This is different, and I’m cringing under his disdain. I want him to like me—I crave his approval, I need it like a drug. I have to get it back, rekindle it somehow. I simply have to, but I’ve no idea how to do that. So I stay there, at his feet, and do the only thing I can think of that might help.

“I’m sorry. Truly sorry. Please forgive me, Sir.” I sign the abject apology, never once considering it out of place to be all but groveling on my knees before him. His authority is absolute, and I’ve accepted it. Totally.

“I will forgive you. Afterwards. Take your punishment, then thank me for correcting you, apologize and mean it, and it’s finished. Over. We move on. That’s how this works, little sub. If you learn from your mistakes, and allow yourself to benefit from your punishment and correct your behavior, you and I will get along fine. More than fine.” He stops, waits a moment to let that sink in, then, “Stand up, girl.”

My legs have stiffened under me and I struggle to my feet, but he makes no offer of assistance, just waits patiently until I’m standing before him.

“I’ve decided that a beating is appropriate for your act of deception, and I’ll use a paddle again as that seemed to impress you that first night in the Collared and Tied club. Please select one, Miss Stone. There are plenty here to choose from. And I suggest you choose carefully. You need to select a paddle that will administer sufficient bite to teach you the lesson you need to learn. You know, don’t you, almost as well as I do, just how much this needs to hurt to get the message across? So have a look around, take your time and choose well.”

He steps back, resting casually against the column as he prepares to wait for me to do as he’s asked. At first I don’t move, just gape at him, confused. I get to pick my own instrument of punishment? What’s that about? Why not just choose the smallest, lightest paddle? That makes sense, surely?

But it doesn’t make sense, and in that moment I realize this is another test, another opportunity for me to redeem myself by being honest, open, transparent. And to accept the discipline I’ve deserved, without excuse or evasion. I know what I need to do now, as I gaze around me at the dizzying array of possibilities. I walk confidently over to the rack where most of the paddles are arranged then touch each in turn. I count ten, varying widely in weight and potential severity. Which one should it be? Which would be the right one for me, now, today?

I turn back to Nick Hardisty, still apparently perfectly relaxed against the pillar, watching me carefully. “How many strokes?” I sign.

He doesn’t straighten, continues to regard me with interest. At last, he smiles wryly. “Good question, Miss Stone. An intelligent question and I’m encouraged that you seem to have your wits about you this time. As I recall, on the previous occasion you faced me in a similar situation you were shaking with fear. Not this time, though. Why’s that?”

That’s easy to answer. “Because I trust you, Sir. And I’m ready to learn from you.” I forget to slow down my signing, and he chuckles at my rapidly swirling hands.

“That was a little fast for me, but I think I got the gist. In answer to your question, twenty strokes with the paddle should be about right, Miss Stone. But if you want me to prepare you with my hand first, as I did last time, I’d be happy to. You have only to ask me nicely. But that will not count against the required number of strokes.”

Twenty. That’s a lot, more than last time. That was only ten really, once he’d prepared me. But still, knowing that, I turn once more to the rack and make my choice. I lift my preferred paddle down from the rack, a medium weight one in a delicate shade of lilac, the blade supple and flexible. My buttocks clench as I imagine how it will feel against my bottom, especially by the fifteenth stroke. I’m sure this is the one, though, and I take it back to my Dom to present it for his approval.

“So, Miss Stone, this is lighter than the one I used at the Collar. Are you hoping for an easier ride perhaps?” He lifts one sardonic eyebrow, his lips quirking as he leans forward to murmur in my ear, “I could have you safe wording by the third stroke, whichever paddle you choose. You do know that, don’t you?”

Actually, that possibility had not occurred to me, but I see no reason to doubt his word and my heart sinks along with my fragile confidence. “Yes, Sir,” I sign, slowly, “I expect you can. Is that what you intend to do?”

He cups my chin, holding my gaze. “No, Freya, it is not. To have the desired effect, discipline has to be proportionate and fair. So, twenty strokes, of the same severity as before. You won’t like it, won’t find it easy. You’re not supposed to. But that’s fair, wouldn’t you agree?” His tone is firm but not harsh as he answers me. Dominant but not cruel.

I will struggle, I know. This is going to hurt. A lot. More than at the Collar probably. But I nod, ready to proceed, to get this over with. Then I can apologize, thank him for his attention in correcting my lapse, and we can move on.

“Would you like me on the bench, Sir?” I sign my question, eyeing the spanking bench somewhat balefully I daresay.

“Maybe, but not yet. Kneel on the mat again, and place the paddle on the floor in front of you.”

I glance at him, puzzled, but I know better than to ask questions. The instruction is clear, and I sink to my knees. Nick levers his weight lazily off the column and strolls around to crouch in front of me.

“Are you comfortable?”

His question is so left field I just gape at him and forget to answer. He repeats his question, still polite but his irritation starting to become apparent, “Miss Stone, I asked you if you’re quite comfortable. Answer me please.”

I incline my head slowly, frowning in my bafflement.

“Good. Settle yourself, make sure you
are
quite comfortable. You’ll need to be. Because you will not be moving for some time, Miss Stone. Not so much as a muscle. Is that absolutely clear to you?” His voice has hardened, his tone is cold, chilling as he delivers his killer line.

I shake my head, utterly bewildered. He gazes at me for a few more seconds then clarifies the position for my benefit. “It’s simple, Miss Stone. I’m leaving, and you will stay here. Right here, on this mat. You won’t move, you won’t wriggle, you won’t stretch or shift position. You won’t move at all, for any reason. Is that clear?”

“But why? Where are you going? How long for?” I’m signing frantically, my panic suddenly mounting as his intention sinks in. He’s leaving me, leaving me alone, here. I could have faced any level of beating with a degree of fortitude, but this just undoes me. I can’t do it, can’t bear it. I just can’t.

His raised finger stills my frenzied signing. “This is to teach you that when I tell you to stay put, I mean you to do exactly that. Call this a practice, or better still your opportunity to demonstrate to me that you can obey me when you choose to. And, Freya, if you’re serious about learning to be a submissive you will need to choose to obey me. Every time, without fail. And it starts here. Now. And it doesn’t matter to you where I’m going, just that I won’t be here. How long? Until I decide to come back. All you need to know is that I will come back. And that you are to wait for me here. You remain here, perfectly still, until I return. Do you understand what I want you to do?” The hard, uncompromising Dom voice is back, in full force, his gaze intent and penetrating as he waits for my confirmation that I do understand his requirements.

My hands start to form words once more, words of protest, of pleading, but his raised finger puts an instant stop to it. He asks me once more.

“Do you understand, Freya?”

Panic bubbling just below the surface I manage to nod briefly, desperate not to unravel now. Surely I can do this. What’s so hard about sitting still?

“When I come back, I’ll take you up on your kind offer regarding the spanking bench. I’ll leave you to look forward to that.” And with that, he straightens, and starts to walk away. Without thinking I turn my head, intending to follow him with my eyes, only to hear his voice snap back at me. “Eyes front, girl. I won’t tell you again. Do. Not. Move.”

Chapter Two

I sit in the now silent room, trying to track time, to estimate how much time has passed, how much longer before he returns. It obsesses me, my awareness heightened by the lack of a clock. The first ten minutes or so aren’t too bad. Not really. I concentrate on controlling my panic, the sense of abandonment that threatens to overwhelm me. My ears are attuned to every sound, every imagined creak and longed-for footfall that might tell me he’s on his way back. But there’s nothing, just absolute and ear-splitting silence. Not even a sound from elsewhere in the house. He’s totally disappeared.

I rack my brains trying to remember if he locked the door as he left. Did he lock me in here? I can’t recall having heard the key turn, and in any case, why would he do that? And why would it matter anyway? I’m not moving, so I’m not going anywhere.

The next ten minutes drag. At least I think it’s ten minutes. There’s no clock in here, no hand to watch crawling around the face, counting down the time until he comes back. Even the knowledge that his return will herald the twenty strokes with the lilac paddle is no deterrent. I want him here, with me. It’s that simple. I can’t be alone. I bite back the mounting hysteria as it once more churns and surges and threatens to swamp me. Each time it happens it takes a greater and greater effort, more conscious and rigid self-control to hold myself together. I force myself to remain in place, still and calm, at least on the outside. On the inside I’m dying by inches. Disintegrating.

How long has it been? Thirty minutes? Maybe an hour? I’ve never been that good at estimating time, and now I’m losing track entirely. No markers, no clues, no way to slice up the minutes and hours—
has it been hours?
—into coherent chunks that I can make some sense of. How long might he intend me to wait? What if something happens to him and he never comes back? How long should I wait until I finally know?

The thought that he might never return to me is the most chilling. After all, why should he? He hardly knows me. This might all be some huge game to him. Maybe he’s outside just laughing at me. Waiting for me to slip up, to give in, then he can order me out of his house and…

I grab onto my remaining shreds of sense and tell myself firmly to get a grip. On what I have no idea, but I need to hang on, have faith, sit this out. He
will
come back. He
has
to.

Another hour. And another. Time has no meaning now, and I’ve long since lost all and any feeling in my legs. My comfortable kneeling position has passed through all shades of excruciating, tingling torture and I’ve now come out the other side, merely existing. Just being. Quiet, silent, still. Waiting.

Tears are flowing down my cheeks, drying on my face as I can’t even lift my hands to wipe them away. My occasional, gulping, voiceless sobs break the silence as my terror grows and curls viciously in my head, filling the dark corners with all types of faceless, nameless fears. Uppermost is a growing fear of the silence. Yes, me afraid of silence. How mad is that? Then there’s my fear of time, of time passing, slipping away, too fast, and yet painfully, excruciatingly slow. And last, my greatest fear, rushing back at me from the past, from my childhood, and finally crushing me. My fear of being left alone. Again. First my parents, who never came back. Then my gran, who also left me and never came back. And now Summer’s disappeared too. Margaret didn’t leave me, she could come back at any time, and she’s not beyond my reach. But Nick Hardisty is. He always was. And now he’s gone too.

My gaze is riveted to the lilac paddle on the floor, desperation and despair now choking me as I long to feel its sharp bite on my body, only because that would signal that my Dom was here, back again, back with me. I need him to come back. I can’t be alone, I just can’t be. Not for ever.

A click. A soft footfall. Is it? Could it be? I’m imagining it again, as I have so many times over the last hours as I’ve knelt here, waiting. I don’t dare to hope, won’t allow myself to believe.

“Well done, Freya. I’m impressed.”

My eyes are closed—I don’t dare open them just to see the empty space in front of me, just to know I’ve imagined his voice. That I’m hallucinating now.

A hand cups my chin, tilts my face up. A soft kiss on my lips, just a brush, a whisper, but enough. It’s true, he
is
here. He came back for me. I force my eyelids upwards, slowly cracking them to let in the light, to let in the glorious, beautiful sight of Nick Hardisty, who’s once more crouching in front of me, his smile warm, his gaze tender.