Sure Thing (7 page)

“Why don’t you take Barney with you when you go out taking pictures. He gets lonely when I’m at school, and he has to stay at home. But he could be out with you. Then you can carry on being his friend. And when it’s not school, I’ll come too. I could, couldn’t I?” She was looking from me to Nathan, expectant, hopeful.

I guess she’s missed her excursions with me as much as I’ve missed having her along.

“I— That’d be lovely. As long as your daddy doesn’t mind…?”

Nathan grins from behind her, his arm looped casually around her neck. “No, Daddy doesn’t mind. It’s a good idea, princess. Barney’ll love it, especially chasing along after a quad. It’ll be good for him, help keep him fit.” He glances up at me. “Just come round by our place whenever you want to pick him up.”

“Thank you. I will.” And so, I now have a companion for my trips up onto the moors. At least one.

* * * *

Tom and I take the quads up onto the moorland behind the farm on the pretext of checking his stock but really because we can’t resist the exhilaration of the chase. Tom’s two border collies bounding along behind us, we all have a brilliant time, whooping and screaming and scaring the wildlife—and I’m hoping that the powers that be at the Rock and Heifer never find out about our scandalous behavior or that’ll be me barred as well as Tom and Nathan.

Eventually we cruise sedately into Tom’s stone-flagged farm yard as dusk is falling. We stroll companionably into the house, dropping our coats onto the backs of kitchen chairs before Tom holds out his hand to me, a silent invitation to go upstairs with him. I smile and take his hand.

Tomorrow, I meet with Abbie.

* * * *

Abigail Delaney turns out to be not at all what I expected. I suppose I had in mind some sort of
femme fatale
in a slinky black dress and six inch fuck-me heels. Or maybe a plain, Sunday school type, all puritan in buttoned-up blouse and sensible lace ups. Instead, the woman waiting for me by the automatic ticket machine at York station is fresh and sporty, her light brown hair pulled back in a bouncing pony tail. She’s wearing khaki chinos and a bright yellow padded jacket, her Nike trainers tapping to the beat of whatever’s coming out of the tiny little buds pushed in her ears. She whips out the earphones as she sees me approaching, her smile wide and welcoming.

“Hi. You’d be Ashley?” I nod and she leans forward to hug me and briefly kisses my cheek. “Lovely to meet you. I’m Abbie, obviously. I’d have recognized you anywhere, you look just like Nathan described.” The lively stream of chatter just bubbles from her as she links her arm through mine.

“Where do you fancy going? Pizza? Italian? Indian? I’m starving. Eating for two, actually…” She pats her still flat stomach and winks at me. “Don’t look so horrified. Me and Mike have eased up on the canings since I found out I was pregnant.”

Painful memories well up of the way Kenny did anything but ease up on his beatings when I was pregnant, but I say nothing. I gulp, pushing those memories back where they can do no harm, for now, and just say the first thing that pops into my head.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me, to talk to me. It’s very—kind—of you.”

“Not at all, any friend of Nathan’s and all that.”

“I’m not sure I’d call him a friend exactly…” I pull myself up short. However inauspicious our early relationship, Nathan Darke certainly treats me like a friend now. And I know it’s not just for Tom’s sake.

“No? Well he seems to like you. Are you and Nathan thinking of…?”

“No!” I interrupt her, perhaps a little too quickly. But bloody hell, what a thought! “No, not that. Not him. It’s, well it’s his friend, Tom, actually. Tom Shore?”

“Ah, yes, Tom. I remember Tom. Tall bloke, blond hair. Very good-looking. And very good with a whip.”

Shit! Talk about going straight for the jugular.

“Er, right. So I’m beginning to understand.”

“I’m guessing, from your face, and the fact that you’re here wanting to talk to me, that you’ve not taken the plunge yet. Not bottomed for him yet.”

I blush furiously and shake my head.

“Okay. But he’s asked you to and you’re thinking about it, yes?”

This time I nod, just once, slowly. “Yes, I must be mad.”

“Do you think I’m mad?”

Her tone is mild, matter-of-fact. The casual question stops me in my tracks. I turn to look at her, embarrassed.

“God, no. No, I didn’t mean that. Christ, I’m sorry.”

She laughs, pats my arm. “Chill, Ashley, we’re cool. Our lifestyle seems strange to you, I get that. I just wanted to make the point that lots of very ordinary, very boring people love these funny little ways of ours.” She grins and takes my arm again, marching me out of the station. “There’s a lot of it about, chuck.”

Our conversation stays with the mundane as we stroll across the dual carriageway in front of the station and through the ancient gates in the massive medieval walls, to enter the historic city. I’m not really here to play Tommy Tourist, but still, the atmosphere of this place is undeniable, the centuries of history lying right under our feet. We make our way along the riverside path and decide on an Italian trattoria opposite Cliffords Tower as the place for our lunch. We soon find ourselves tucked into a small table, cheerily decked out in red, green and white table linen, a bottle of chilled white wine opened between us while we wait for our pizzas and salad to arrive.

Abbie takes a sip of her pinot grigio, licks her lips, before leaning back and regarding me across the table. “So, Ashley, what is it you’d like to know?”

Christ, I don’t know where to start. What questions to ask. I have given this some thought, obviously, planned my script carefully. Rehearsed it in my head on the train across to York this morning. Not that it’s been any use. Now my mind’s a blank. Should have written it down.

Taking pity on me, Abbie smiles. “Okay, let me ask you something. Why are you here?”

“Because I want to know about, need to ask you…”

“About…?”

“About BDSM. About your lifestyle.” There, it’s out. I’ve said it. And the sky’s showing no immediate sign of falling in. “I want you to tell me about BDSM. About what happens, how it feels. And about why. Why do submissives agree to do it? What do they get out of it?”

“Well, I can’t speak for everyone. But I can tell you why I do it, what I get out of it.”

Well, can’t say fairer than that. I nod gratefully, and she continues.

“I like the release and the total freedom of not being in control. I like not having to make any decisions for myself, at least for a while. I like relying on someone else, totally. And I like never being let down. A good Dom is about as reliable as you can get.”

I gape at her, I know I’m staring. It’s rude, but still…I blurt out my first objection. “But it hurts. Doesn’t it?”

“Yes. It hurts beautifully. Exquisitely. But even that’s under control. I know just what, just how much. I set the limits, I set my boundaries. And then I push my boundaries, find new limits for myself. New challenges. My Dom just plays it out for me.”

“You make it sound as though he’s doing you a favor, offering a service.” I’m puzzled. Genuinely bewildered. ‘Reliable’, ‘doing a favor’, ‘a service’. Not phrases I’d expect to associate with a man holding a whip. Even so, something in what Abbie’s saying makes sense to me. It’s elusive, fleeting, but there all the same. I grapple with the tangle of mixed messages careering around my brain, try to sift and sort it, work out what it is I recognize in Abbie that I can feel in me, too.

Ignoring, or oblivious to the turmoil just across the table from her, Abbie continues in her matter-of-fact tone. “Well, he is, I suppose. Or she is. I’ve bottomed for Mistresses as well as Masters. Took me a while to work out which I liked best.”

Crikey.
“So, you’re bisexual?”

“No. I definitely only want to fuck men. Not women. But I haven’t always wanted to fuck every Dom I played with either, male or female. I think of it as being a bit like having a massage or getting a good haircut. Either a man or a woman could do it, as long as they had the skills. If the hairdresser was a gorgeous male I might consider fucking him as well, if he offered, but if I don’t fancy him I’ll still let him do my hair. Nowadays I only have one top, my Mike. I love fucking him. He’s the father of this little one in here.” She strokes her tummy protectively.

“Top? Is that the same as Dom? Dominant?” I seem to remember Nathan using a phrase something like that.

“Yup. Top. Dom. Master or Mistress. All different names for the same thing, pretty much. They’re the ones who set up the scene, dish out the pain. They usually choose the sub they want to play with. Submissive. Bottom. Slave. But the sub doesn’t have to agree to play if they don’t want to or don’t like the look of that particular Dom. And even then you still get to say what your limits are, safe words and so on. But there’s a sort of etiquette too. Once you’ve agreed, set out the terms, then you’re in. Committed, at least to try and play it out. But we all make mistakes, and that’s okay. If you agree to something and then find it’s more than you bargained for and change your mind, you can stop it. Safe words, remember. Crucial. You can use your safe word to stop the action if you need to, if you’ve really had enough and can’t go on.”

“Have you ever had to stop it? Stop a scene, I mean. Use your safe word?”

“Yes, quite a few times, early on. While I was working out what my limits were. Experimenting you could say. Not for a few years now, though. Only once with Nathan. Never with Mike.”

“And Tom?”

“No. As far as I can recall Tom was fine. Sensitive. Tuned in.”

That strikes a chord, I remember what he said the other night, in bed, about being able to hear my heartbeat. Here’s independent testimony, corroborating evidence. My confidence is growing. This could be okay, could even be good.

Why? Good, how? What’s the appeal? To me?

“He didn’t hurt you, then?” Hope flares in my gut. Maybe I’ve been obsessing about nothing.

“Christ, yes. He’s a hard Dom, your Tom. Tough, demanding, very firm. But nice, respectful. And always very courteous. He certainly knew how to dish it out, though, and I slept on my stomach for two nights afterwards. He was into restraint in a big way and he was very much a whip man. And very, very good at it. If that’s still his style your back’s gonna take the brunt of it and you’ll be tied up a lot. I’m more of a cane girl myself, and I’ve got a nice fleshy bum. Absorbs the shock better. Nathan’s into caning, that’s why we always got on so well.”

Canes. Whips. Tied up a lot. Jesus Christ, what have I got into?

My eyes must be out on stalks, but Abbie just shakes her head, smiling at me around a mouthful of her spicy chicken and ham pizza.

“Come on, Ashley. You must have tried some of this already, got some idea what he likes.”

I think for a moment then nod. “He likes whips. I’ve seen them. And straps. And handcuffs. And, he tied me up, and blindfolded me. And, and…” I can hardly get the words out, never intended telling anyone about this. But with Abbie it seems sort of natural. And relevant. “He put an ice lolly inside me and then licked it out.” My voice has dropped, and Abbie has to lean across the table to hear me.

“Wow! And was it good?” Her question is soft, gently spoken.

“Yes. Yes, it
was
good. It was wonderful.” I’m whispering now.

“But?” Abbie’s prompt is equally quiet. But firm. She knows there’s more.

“But he scared me. I wasn’t expecting it, hadn’t agreed to it. He held me down until I stopped struggling.”

“Then what? What did he do when you stopped struggling?”

“He asked me if I wanted to stop. If I wanted to say my safe word.”

“Did you?”

“No. No, I didn’t. And it was fabulous after that.”

“Well then? It sounds as though he was right to push you. Wasn’t he? If you’d known what he planned to do you’d have probably said ‘no’ out of fear and missed out on a fabulous experience. Ashley, ice lollies don’t do any damage. A shock is
not
the same as being hurt. Injured I mean. ‘Hurt’ comes as part of the deal. It
is
the deal.”

I’m staring at her, wide-eyed, still grappling with all of this. “But he held me down. He forced me…”

“I thought you said he asked you about your safe word. Offered to stop?”

“He did. Eventually. But at first, it was… I was…”

“Force, pushing boundaries, the limits are—fuzzy. And Tom’s a hard Dom, he will come on strong. You need to be ready for that, be able to accept that about him.”

I sit for a few moments, thinking over her words. Tom did say more or less the same thing, and I’ve seen his Dom persona a couple of times now. I know he scares me to death—and that he also excites the hell out of me. Maybe he’s worth it. I glance back at Abbie, ready with my next question.

“Have you ever been hurt? I mean really hurt. Injured by a Dom?”

“Hurt, yes, every time. That’s what I’m there for. That’s what I want, what I’m looking for. I want to feel the burn, so to speak. But injured? No. I play with Doms I know, or know of, through a club or other network. If anyone did anything stupid, or outside the rules, it’d soon get round and no other sub would go near them. Doms have a lot to lose, their reputation is everything to them. Subs talk to each other, compare notes. And the Doms know we do. Hard, tough, stern, intimidating. That’s all good. Those are the things we submissives look for in a good Dom. Brutal even, is okay at a pinch. But cruelty? No. Dangerous? No.”

I just look at her, considering.
‘Feel the burn’
. It makes some sort of sense, I guess. I’m silent, thinking, remembering… Remembering what? Then something clicks into place in my head, my light bulb moment.

I remember my early teens. I was a swimmer. A good swimmer. Fiercely competitive, I used to get up early and go to the pool before school. I trained hard, practiced, pushed myself, set myself targets and met them. Beat them, and set more, harder, more challenging. I was obsessed with getting better, faster, fitter. The swimming coach was impressed. Delighted even. I was going to win competitions for my otherwise fairly unremarkable comprehensive. I daresay she could already see the fake silverware stacking up in the cabinet in the hall. But I turned out to be a huge disappointment to her. I wasn’t interested. Nothing she could say could get me to co-operate. She begged, cajoled, threatened, even phoned my mother to enlist her support, but I refused point blank to have anything to do with organized, competitive swimming. I wouldn’t train with the rest of the team, had no interest at all in competitions or winning races. I just turned up at six-thirty every morning and swam as if my life depended on it.