Sure Thing (16 page)

I quite liked the idea of hitting the shops, not least because I am in funds. The first payment from the student accommodation team in Gloucester has arrived and I’m almost four thousand pounds to the good. I need some of it for living expenses and the proverbial rainy day, but as Caroline Moffatt has also been successful in shifting a couple of my landscape prints from the gallery in Haworth I’m ready to treat myself. I also fancied the art galleries, and I sort of fancied the kinky clubs, my apprehension tinged with a hearty dose of curiosity. I definitely fancied the prospect of making our own fun, so I agreed to come along with him. Rosie was keen to look after my kittens, so we dropped them and the dogs off at Black Combe to torment Barney. I packed my camera, toothbrush and a couple of pairs of clean knickers, and we were off.

Nathan’s apartment is amazing. I suppose I expected some under-sized loft in a converted warehouse, something trendy and very bachelor-friendly. I definitely did not expect a penthouse, huge glass walls and a large patio. He even has life-size statues of sheep on his rooftop lawn! The place is ultra-modern, especially the kitchen. He obviously likes his home entertainment if the massive plasma screen with surround-sound system mounted on the wall of the sitting room is any indication, and the furniture is sleek but very comfortable. Most of the living area is open plan, but there are three bedrooms. One of them is used as an office, the other a guest room. The master bedroom—or should that be Master—I know Nathan shares Tom’s very particular sexual preferences—is nearly as large as the main living space. Tom heads through the door, clearly intending to dump both our bags in Nathan’s room, making it obvious which one we’ll be using.

I stare around me in amazement at our luxurious accommodation, drifting over to press my nose up against the glass patio doors to admire the early evening view of the Leeds cityscape. I turn to call Tom over to share it with me, just in time to see him disappearing into the bedroom with our luggage. I follow him, still hell-bent on exploring.

The room is dominated, to be fair, by the huge bed in the middle of the floor. It’s peculiar positioning makes perfect sense to me. Tom has moved his bed at Greystones so as to be able to walk easily around it, the better to reach me when I’m tied up, in any position. Nathan’s apartment in Leeds is designed and arranged to suit a Dom’s needs and requirements. This is clearly where Nathan Darke plays, and it’s obvious he likes to have a very good time. Tom walks casually around the room, switching on lamps and indicating which drawer I can use. I can tell he knows this place well—Nathan’s not the only Dom who plays here it would seem. I begin to look at Tom in a new light, the inherent complexity of this lifestyle I’ve entered into becoming more evident.

I suppose it makes sense. Greystones is not a place likely to deliver up a ready supply of submissives. Tom’s appetites are demanding, he clearly satisfies them elsewhere, and now I know where. Well, some of it, at least. As I stand just inside the bedroom doorway, gazing around me, I start to recognize the bondage equipment and apparatus, artfully designed so as to be unobtrusive, unless you know what you’re looking for. The chunky dark brown leather sofa has leather restraints concealed within it, the metal ring set into the ceiling above the bed, and another in one corner, useful for suspending a submissive from. I don’t mind betting that the innocuous-looking linen chest at the foot of the bed contains a dizzying selection of whips, canes, straps, and God knows what else. I look around me, wide-eyed, uncomfortably aware of Tom’s amused gaze. He obviously intends to make full use of the facilities while we’re here. I knew what he had in mind but had no concept until now of the extent of the possibilities to be encountered in Nathan Darke’s playroom.

Then I see it, standing proud and tall and ominous, filling most of one wall. A huge diagonal cross, the St Andrew’s cross, which I know from my forays into research on the internet, is the preferred equipment among Doms for securing a submissive to be whipped. I recall that Tom said he intended to buy one, could this be it?

I look across the room at him, the question there in my face. He smiles, tilts his head to one side.

“I keep my promises, sweetheart. I had it delivered and installed here, though. More room.”

He watches me, and I daresay my emotions are plainly displayed in my expression. I never could keep anything to myself. So now there’s trepidation, surprise, curiosity, anticipation, but all of these are overshadowed by absolute terror. He sees, beckons me over. I don’t move. I’m rooted to the spot.

“Ashley, come here.”

The Dom tone brooks no argument. My feet move of their own accord, carrying me toward him. And now, I’m in front of him, staring at his trainers. He waits for me to look at him, and when I don’t he commands it. I raise my eyes, silently pleading with him to—what? To let this pass, to not force me to do this? Or maybe I’m begging him to allow me to get it over with, to just strap me to that cross and whip me. That’s not going to happen, though. I know he won’t force me, he never does. It
will
be my choice. And my choice is to please Tom, or try to.

Intuitive as ever, he asks me what I’m most afraid of. I look at him scornfully, he quirks one sardonic Dom eyebrow in warning but doesn’t press the matter of my disrespect at this time.

“What, Ashley? Think, tell me.”

“It bloody well hurts. You know it does. How would you like it?”

“I wouldn’t like it, but I’m not a submissive. You are.”

“Am I? I’m not much of one…” I drop my gaze again, but this time he catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilts my face up, forcing me to look him in the eye.

“No, Ashley, that’s not true. You’re good, very good. You’re going to be excellent. Whether you accept my whip or not, you will still be a first-rate submissive. Is that clear? Understood? Do you believe me?”

“How can I be? You want this and I can’t, can’t…”

“Maybe you can, maybe not. We’ll find out, I guess. Tell me this, though. If I could offer you a pill, just one little pill that you could take and this pill would be all you needed to make you able to do this, to do anything at all I ask you to do. If that little pill would, what, toughen you up? Give you the strength, the courage, the whatever… And what if I can guarantee you that it always works, no side effects. Would you take it, Ashley?”

Baffled, I stare at him for long moments, thinking about the bizarre ‘what if?’ Then, “Yes, obviously. Of course I would. Fool proof, you said? No nasty side effects, you said? No tricks?”

“No tricks, perfect solution. If it existed, would you take it?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“Okay, so what does that tell us then?”

I frown, considering hard. Grappling for something but unsure what it is.

Helpful as ever, Tom continues. “What it tells me, Ashley, is that you do genuinely want this, you
want
to be the submissive you imagine I need, but the process of getting there is too hard, too painful. You want it to ‘be done’, but the doing is the stumbling block. That’s what’s too hard. Am I right? Does that sound right to you?” His tone was serious, but softer, less the Dom, more the patient tutor and mentor, trying to help me become what I want to be, to see myself being more than I am.

I nod dumbly. He
is
right, well almost. If I could just somehow magic myself there, become an experienced submissive, like Abbie perhaps, able to handle anything, I’d love that, I’d love to be that person. But the work, the pain and the suffering I’ll have to go through on the journey just terrifies me. At least now, though, I can see the prize. And—most important, most significant of all—it’s a prize I want for myself. In that light bulb moment—I do seem to be having a lot of these nowadays—I realize it’s not just to please Tom, to be what I think he wants. This is for me, but I’m going to have to work for it.

But hey, I understand work, I understand struggle and tenacity. I’ve overcome bigger obstacles than this bloody lump of wood and Tom’s whip, and I’ve done that alone. This time, I’ll have help. Now, I’m unstoppable. Tom won’t have to force me, not even persuade me. He’d just better stand aside or I’ll knock him down in my rush!

“I can do it. I can do it now. Now, Tom. Please. Quick, I might never be this strong again.”

Even as I was saying the words I’m frantically unbuttoning my blouse, fumbling, clumsy in my rush to get naked. Tom chuckles, reaches for me and holds my fluttering fingers still while he looks at me, holds my eager gaze. The Dom is back, firm but also tender. And there’s something else there too. Admiration maybe, approval definitely. And—certainty.

His words confirm it. “Yes, you will be this strong again. Whenever you need to be. I’m going to see to it that you are. Do you believe that. Ashley?”

“Yes. I do. I absolutely do.” I smile at him, borrow his usual phrase, “Now, are you ready to proceed?”

Chapter Twelve

It doesn’t take long to get me in position. I’m naked, my wrists strapped firmly to the upper two points of the cross about three feet apart. My ankles are similarly secured, my legs spread wide. The obvious possibilities are not lost on me, and I’m starting to become wet thinking about it. Maybe he’ll just…before we start… A little warm-up perhaps. Great minds think alike—or is that fools seldom differ? Whatever, I sigh as Tom’s skilled fingers slide between my legs from behind and slip smoothly inside me. He thrusts twice, hard, then withdraws his fingers to circle my clit.

“Oh, God, that’s good…” My words are little more than a sigh as I lean my weight forward, supported by the cross in front of me.

“Mmm, it is. And there’s going to be a lot of this, baby.” The pressure increases, his fingers firmer now as they roll my clit mercilessly.

I start to climax, but he suddenly stops, instead thrusting his fingers back inside me. As I start to protest he simply kisses the back of my neck, bared by my hair tied as always at the back of my head, this time my submissive coiffure executed by Tom after I was strapped to the cross. He’s relaxing his normal rules today, in many ways.

He withdraws his fingers again but this time he slides them backwards to quickly insert one into my anus. I gasp but don’t resist. I’m well used to this by now and I quite like it. I’m not sure I could come with this alone but it makes everything else so much more—intense. Yes, a definite plus. I sigh, wriggle my bottom in approval. Tom’s arms are around me and he uses his free hand to trail a shivering caress across my breasts and belly before dropping it lower to reach for my throbbing clitoris. This time he doesn’t stop, and within a few seconds I’m climaxing, the mad firework display exploding in my head. I clench and shudder with the impact of it, the sensuous waves of pleasure tingling through me, I close my eyes, my head dropping back against Tom’s shoulder as I moan my thanks. His lips are on my neck, and he scrapes my skin lightly with his teeth. He deepens the pressure, sucking my skin into his mouth. I know he’ll leave a mark. I smile privately—I’ve just had my first lovebite.

I drift back to rejoin Tom in the here and now. He smoothly withdraws his finger from my bum, only to replace it immediately with something cool and hard and throbbing. A butt plug. He pushes it firmly inside me, then stands back to let me explore this new sensation. It’s weird. But sort of wonderful too. It’s not very big, maybe not even as big as his finger, and my tight arse closes around it. I lean into the cross, my cheek resting against the wooden frame. I sense Tom move away from me and, with an effort, I open my eyelids. He’s across the room, rinsing his hands at a small vanity sink in the corner. Always hygiene-conscious, I expect it comes from spending so much time in messy barns. He’s quickly back beside me, his customary bottle of water ready to moisten my lips. I accept but realize my mouth is not dry. I’m scared, yes, probably. Or maybe a better description is apprehensive. But I’m certainly no longer terrified.

“How many strokes?” I need to ask, I need to pace myself through it. But I have no doubt now that I can.

“Three.”

I’m astonished. Disappointed even. Only three? “But, that’s nothing. I managed five back at Greystones…”

“Yes, so three’s a doddle, a cert. Nailed on, if you’ll pardon the biblical reference.”

He glances wryly at the cross and I can’t contain my smile. Who’d have thought I could joke about this? The Reader’s Digest were right about laughter being the best medicine.

He continues, explaining his strategy. “We do three, then I think it’ll be time for another orgasm, by way of celebration. Or two. I might just fuck you if you ask me very nicely. Then, if you feel like it, another three strokes. Then more fucking, maybe try out some more butt plugs. Then, possibly, just possibly, four strokes. Or maybe five, we’ll see. But no more, not yet. You can safe word if you want to, you know that. Always. But I don’t think you’ll be needing to this time. I think we’ll stop while you’re still wanting more. And if you do want more, I’ll give you more. Tomorrow. That okay with you, my little Ashley? Does that sound like a plan to you?”

He’s trailing the backs of his fingers softly down my cheek, and I turn my head to kiss his hand. He smiles, lets me take the tip of his finger in my mouth. It tastes slightly of soap. He traces my lips with his thumb before tugging his finger free and dropping a swift kiss onto my mouth. His face is close to mine, our noses almost touching. I can see the question in his eyes—‘Are you ready?’

I nod briefly, turn my face from him as I square my shoulders. No longer cringing, ready to meet this.

And I do meet it. Meet it and beat it. The whip whistles menacingly as it flies through the air, landing across my shoulders. I scream, flinch. I’m only human. But it’s all right. I remember to breathe, to let the pain radiate as I did when he spanked me or flogged me with the strap. It works. I’m on top of it. The whip whistles through the air again. I gasp in dreadful anticipation, let out a whimper as it lands, but it’s bearable. It really is. The third stroke is over mercifully quickly, and Tom tosses the whip to the floor. I can see it, at his feet. I’ve passed the first part of this test, and with flying colors if I may say so.