Darkest (8 page)

“We have unfinished business, Eva. Are you ready?”
Meaning, ‘Do you consent?’

“Yes.” My voice is quiet, but I am unafraid. I look him in the eye. He cocks an interested eyebrow and nods briefly. We understand each other.

“Undress, please.” He stands, leaning against the edge of the table, his arms folded. I step forward to stand in front of him, close up. I tilt my head back to meet his eyes, which are dark, hooded. His finely chiselled masculine good looks are breathtaking and I lick my lips. “Everything, Sir?” I ask.

He nods slowly. “Everything, Eva. But first…” He reaches a hand behind my head to pull out the elastic bobble holding my hair back in a loose ponytail. He runs his fingers through the wild length of it, dropping the long waves around my shoulders. “I love your hair, Eva. And I love you. You do realise that?”

I knew, but this is the first time he’s said it out loud. I nod, my eyes never leaving his. My reply is whispered, “I love you too, Nathan.” He nods again, his smile brief but warm as he leans in to brush a light kiss across my lips. He straightens, and leans back, his arms folded once more. Waiting.

I step back, and take my time over undressing. Neither one of us seems to be in any hurry. My loose T-shirt first, followed by my skinny black jeans. I drop them to the floor behind me and stand before him in just my bra and panties—carefully chosen from my selection of sexy matching underwear—before reaching behind me to unhook the bra. I drop it to the floor with the rest of my stuff and start to slide the panties over my hips.

He reaches out, stops me. “No, let me do that. In a moment.” My heart is thumping despite my new-found confidence and my mouth is dry. I stand still, waiting for his next instruction. He turns to the table and picks up the spanking paddle, flexing the rubber blade between his fingers. Turning back to me, one eyebrow raised, he runs the blade slowly down between my breasts before flicking it sharply upward to catch my right nipple. I gasp, flinch. And stand still again as he repeats the action, this time tormenting my left nipple. Knowing what he intends to do, the pain is sharper the second time. My hands move involuntarily to protect myself. His look of reproach is enough to make me drop my arms back down to my sides, as I wait for what comes next. He flicks each nipple with the paddle twice more, and I force myself to stand perfectly still despite the biting sting.

Satisfied at last that I am obedient, accepting, he turns away, pulling a chair out from the table and sits on it. He beckons me to him, and with a soundless gesture indicates that I am to lie across his knees. I step forward to stand beside him, my hands on his leg as I carefully lean forward, positioning myself. When I am comfortable I let my weight rest on him, my head hanging down nearly to the floor. He strokes my back softly, running his fingers down my spine, and I shiver. He repeats the action, this time sliding his hand down over my buttocks, under my panties. He massages the rounded, fleshy cheeks of my bum, sliding his fingers between them to caress my sensitive slick folds. I moan, unable to contain my mounting pleasure.

“How many strokes do you need, Eva?” His voice is curt, harsh despite his gentle, arousing fingers. I am momentarily confused by his deliberate choice of words. What sort of ‘strokes’ does he mean?

The sharp, stinging slap on my bum settles that question. I squeal.

“Be quiet or I’ll have to gag you. We don’t want you waking up the household, now, do we? Now, how many strokes?” He slaps me again, hard. I muffle my squeals with my hands. “I… I don’t know—” I manage to get out before his hand lands on my bottom again and I can’t help but start to wriggle. His arm is firm across my back—I’m going nowhere. Not that I want to.

“I think twenty strokes should see you fine. With the paddle. But first, I intend to warm you up a little with my hand. Is that okay, Eva?”

His gentle, matter-of-fact voice is deceptive. I know I can manage his hand—he’s spanked me before and it’s been wonderful. But the paddle? That’s an unknown quantity. I begin to quake. What have I let myself in for?

“Eva, answer me. And remember your safe words.” I do remember. And I remember how beautifully he took care of me last night, when I got into trouble, was struggling. I relax, feel myself go limp across his knees again.

“Yes, twenty will be fine.” My voice is quiet, but strong now. I’m ready.

“Pull your panties down when you’re ready.” His voice is gentle now and I concentrate on breathing slowly, steadily, as he taught me last night to control my panic. I reach behind me and slide my panties down across my hips to my knees. He leans down to remove them fully, and I realise this is because they were preventing my thighs from parting. He clearly has plans, and I think I’m going to approve of those plans.

I brace myself for the first blow to fall, but instead I feel a strange scratching, first across my shoulders then moving down my back. It’s the vampire glove. Ah, this is new. I know those spikes are sharp and I have to lie still to avoid being cut. The scratching continues, tugging at my sensitised skin, down to my buttocks. I sigh in lazy pleasure as he gently but rhythmically squeezes the smooth flesh, kneading it with his harsh, spiky palms. The feeling is exquisite, the tingle of danger lending a dark edge to the rich, comfortable warmth of the sensuous massage.

I am floating on a sea of sensation, drifting, and taken completely, cruelly unawares as out of nowhere his hand strikes my bottom hard. The glove off now, he lands another stinging blow. Christ, he’s really going for it this time. I bite my lip as the blows continue, each one building on the ones before it, the pain radiating outwards. My tender cheeks are on fire and I am jerking under each blow, trying to relax into the pain. I manage to remain silent, my fist pressed against my mouth. I count the strokes, ten, then fifteen. My eyes are closed tight, and despite my attempts to absorb and ride the pain I feel the tears building. I can’t bear it if he doesn’t stop soon, doesn’t let up soon.

And suddenly he has stopped. I lie still, gasping for air, shaking. His hand is gentle now, soothing over my abused buttocks. He eases my thighs apart and uses the hand that had been across my back holding me firmly in place to part the delicate folds between my legs. I’m wet, swollen and sensitive, ready for him. He reaches for me with his other hand, then into me, his finger sliding inside, first one, then two. Then three. He finger-fucks me hard, and I moan as the first tingle of orgasm grips me. I’m grasping his ankles as the tension builds, spreading my thighs wide to let him touch me, reach me, pleasure me.

As my orgasm approaches the point of no return he slows, withdraws his clever, wicked fingers. I wriggle, trying to recapture that exhilarating friction, that pressure I desperately need. He holds me still.

“Close your legs, Eva.” The quiet command is firm, unrelenting. I know he doesn’t intend to let me come. Not now. Maybe not ever. I grind my teeth in frustration.

“Please, Nathan, I need you to…”

“Twenty strokes. Brace yourself, Eva.”

The paddle lands, hard and firm and sharp across my already sensitive buttocks. My flesh feels to be on fire again. This is agony—I know I can’t bear twenty strokes of this thing. I tell myself to absorb the blows, ride this pain as I did the other. The paddle continues to fall, one stroke after the other, merciless. Relaxation is beyond me and I tense, my whole body a rigid knot of endurance. Somehow managing to detach myself from the pain, if only slightly, I count the blows, my misery piling up until I am overwhelmed by it. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.

“Yellow,” I whisper. “Oh, God, yellow.” And it stops.

“I think you mean ‘red’, don’t you love?” The soft voice is gentle now, the hand once more on my bottom, caressing, soothing. I lie still, waiting for the remaining blows to fall after my brief respite. They don’t. The pain recedes, and I find myself lifted up, to be held in his arms. I feel secure, protected, comforted.

“We’re done, love. You’re fine, we’re fine.” He kisses my mouth and I reach up, snaking my arm around his neck. I cling on, my rock in a sea of pain. He holds me, tenderly nibbling my ears, my neck, my shoulders before kissing me deeply again. After long moments he stands with me in his arms, and turns to lay me on the table. He grasps for a couple of cushions from the floor then arranges them under me, taking care to raise my bum up from the hard surface, providing relief for my red, still smarting flesh. He pulls me to one end of the table and sits back down in his chair, this time turned to face me. He spreads my legs wide, firmly placing my heels on the edge of the table, and I know what’s coming.

His head dips between my spread thighs and he draws his tongue along my cleft, from my tight little anus, around my quivering vagina and up to my swollen clitoris. One long, sensuous stroke.

“How many of these strokes would you like, sweetheart?” He dips his head to do it all again.

“Oh my God. That’s so good…” I groan, rolling my head from side to side, my eyes clamped shut to better savour the exquisite pleasure.

“Not sure? Let’s see how many you can take then, before you come.”

Seven. As the seventh stroke of his wonderful clever tongue slides across my clit I lose it and go off like a firecracker. He knows the instant I come apart and takes the throbbing peak in his mouth to suck on it until I am spent. Which is not for some time. The ripples of delight and release roll on and on and I lie there, legs spread wide under his warm mouth, drowning in uninhibited bliss.

Only when I am finally still, sated, does he stand and unzip his jeans. He leans over me, and I look at him through half-closed eyes as he slips into me, inch by inch, so gently I could weep. He is buried deep within me, stretching me tight around his thick shaft, and I have never felt so good in my entire life. This beats all the academic success, all the degrees and doctorates, everything up to now. This is what love’s like.

Although other subs might have loved him before me, or said they did, I know without having to ask him that he’s never told another sub he loves them. Not even Louisa. We may be Dom and sub, or maybe we were once, in the beginning, but now it’s much, much more. And I’m not even a particularly good sub—he’s pointed that out often enough—but he’s managed to love me anyway.

I hug my happiness inside me as I wrap my legs behind his waist and hold him inside me too.

Chapter Five

I snuggle into the soft warmth of Nathan’s huge bed, now mine too since he moved my stuff into his room. I feel his hard, sculpted chest under my fingers and wriggle closer. He is asleep, but even so his arm tightens around me. My still tender nipples brush against his lean torso, and I remember the sharp ecstasy of last night and our intense sensual play. I smile to myself, remembering how he tied me to the bed and used nipple clamps to torment me before fucking me stupid. Christ!

I open my eyes briefly and see that it’s light outside, but we have nowhere we need to go today, no need to get up. I drift back to sleep.

It seems like hours later that I awaken again. I can hear the distant murmur of voices downstairs and I suppose Rosie must be up, probably chatting to Mrs Richardson and the lovely Nurse Amy. I curl my body around Nathan, who sinks his hands into my hair as he tips my head back for my good morning kiss. The kiss is just starting to deepen into something much more effective in dealing with his massive early morning hard-on when we hear the soft click of the door opening. We both turn to look, and see Rosie, hesitant in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other.

“You okay, Princess?” Nathan looks at her across the room, awkwardly propping himself up on one elbow. She’s taken to coming into our room most mornings, usually with her big hairy shadow hard on her heels. She doesn’t usually stand on ceremony by waiting at the door. “Are you wanting some breakfast?”

“I had toast. Nurse Amy made it.”

“Ah, good.” The agency nurse is turning into a very flexible asset indeed. Not long qualified and specialising in paediatric nursing she worked for a few months in an A & E department in Sheffield before being made redundant in a round of savage NHS cutbacks. Since then she’s been odd-jobbing and working at various temp jobs. The NHS’s loss is our gain, I’d say. Her duties with Grace are actually pretty light but she’s been happy enough to run round with the Hoover and muck in with the cooking. And last night she babysat whilst Nathan and I spent an evening over at Greystones with Tom.

Still stationed by the door, Rosie is looking more than a little nervous. We wait. Then, squaring her small shoulders, she makes her announcement. “We’ve got a visitor. Two visitors.”

“Two visitors? Who’s here then?” Nathan swings his legs out of bed. “Would you pass me my jeans, love?” He’s obviously resigned to the inevitable and is going to get up. Maybe there’s some prospect of coffee in bed…

No coffee. Make that a great big bloody bombshell!

“Mrs Byrne. And a professor.” Trotting across the room to retrieve her daddy’s discarded jeans Rosie tosses the names casually over her shoulder. “They’ve had some toast too. And tea. Nurse Amy made enough for everyone.”

We both stare at her in silence for a moment, then I let out a yelp as the awful realisation hits me. Holy fucking shit! Mrs Byrne! My mother. My prim and proper mother is downstairs eating toast with Nurse Amy and Grace, and Rosie. While I’m upstairs, naked in Nathan’s bed, just gearing up to fuck my employer. Jesus Christ, Mary and Joseph!

I gape at Nathan, my face a mask of sheer panic. Stating the bloody fucking obvious. “God, Nathan! My mother’s here. She’s
here!”

He’s taking all this remarkably calmly for my liking as he holds his hand out for the jeans and sends Rosie off on her familiar errand to get him a glass of water. Does he not appreciate the significance of this? What we are facing is nothing short of a full-scale invasion, an absolute fucking catastrophe, but he hasn’t turned a hair. Clearly he has failed to grasp the enormity of our predicament. I sit up in bed, my mouth working like a crazed goldfish as I start to explain.

“She’s here! My mother! Oh God!”
Nothing if not eloquent in a crisis, that’s me.