Hardened (12 page)

It’s to be a punishment spanking after all then, though I think I can make the experience one she will remember with a degree of fondness. I draw out the pleasure for as long as possible, sucking, nibbling, tracing the outline of her labia with the tip of my tongue. I slide my fingers through her folds to reach her tight little puckered anus and I press there. I won’t penetrate her arse today, I prefer to talk to her before taking that step, but she responds beautifully by lifting her bottom up to offer herself to me. Maybe she’s not an anal virgin after all.

Ah, Molly mine, we’ll have such a lot of fun together. I have some delightful plans for you.

As her climax ebbs away I slide the vibe from her pussy and replace it with two fingers, then add a third. She’s tight and hot and wet. Above all, she’s ready. I roll on a condom then position myself above her and place the head of my cock at her entrance.

“Now, I fuck you.” She knows, but I prefer to say it. And hear her response.

“Yes, sir. I want…”

I lean down to whisper in her ear. “Tell me what you want, Molly.”

“I want you to fuck me. Please.”

“Why? Would it be because you’re a slut?”

“Yes, sir, I think it must be.”

“How do you want to be fucked, Molly?”

“Sir…?” Her voice is a breathy, needy whisper.

“Do you want it hard, fast? Do you want me to ram my cock into you so deep you’ll feel it in your tonsils? Is that the way you like to be fucked?”

“Yes! Yes, sir, deep and hard, but do it now. Please.”

“That will be my absolute pleasure, little slut.”

I drive my cock deep into her in one long, slow stroke. It’s a snug fit; the walls of her channel grip and cling to my dick creating a friction so fucking tight I groan with the sheer delight of it. I’m balls deep in her before I stop, hold my position, allow both of us to adjust and gather our wits. Or what might be left of them. She is stretching around me, her cunt quivering, squeezing me hard. My weight is on my elbows, but I lower my face to brush my lips across hers.

“Christ, you’re tight. And hot. And so fucking wet. Such a sloppy little slut—tell me how much you need this.”

“I need it, sir. I need you—”

“How much, Molly?”

“More than anything, sir. Please, don’t—”

“I’m going to fuck you until you scream for me to stop. Or to never stop. Which will it be?”

“I—”

I pull back and slam into her again, hard enough to drag a whimper from her as her cunt spasms around my cock.

“Is this how you want to be fucked, Molly? Is this how you like it? Are you going to come all over my cock like the hot little slut you are?”

She flexes her thighs and manages to thrust her hips up toward me, whether in demand or surrender I’m not certain but the signals are clear enough. My Molly likes me to talk dirty to her while my cock’s buried in her cunt. She opens her mouth, but before she can speak again, I plunge my tongue inside to dance and play with hers. She tastes so sweet, and I wonder if she can detect her own musky flavours still on my tongue.

Should I release her from her restraints? She’s responding to my rough handling so I decide against it, for now, and withdraw my cock almost pulling right out of her. My next stroke is hard and fast, just as she told me she wanted it, and as deep as before. Molly makes a strangled sound in her throat and arches up to meet me. I tear my mouth from hers and rear up above her, then pound my cock into her like this for a minute or so. Her response builds with each thrust. She’s climbing, seeking, convulsing hard around my dick and I know neither of us will last much longer.

I slow down, just giving her short, shallow strokes now, teasing her entrance but not driving deep. She goes wild beneath me, bucking her hips up as though I might allow her to take over the rhythm, wanting me to pick up the pace again.

I
don’t
think so.

“Be still, Molly,” I growl.

She tries to do as I say, but can’t remain motionless for more than the next few strokes. This time I stop altogether even though the effort is killing me, and I watch as she wriggles against the mattress. When she finally gives up and lies still I plunge my cock right in, filling her entirely.

Molly screams, her pussy convulses. My cock jerks hard, my balls contract, and my semen surges to fill the condom. Molly is sobbing her release and I collapse over her as I succumb to mine, though I do manage to roll to one side so as not to crush her. She continues to shudder for several more seconds. I reach over to release her wrists, then tug the blindfold up over her head. I always like to look into my sub’s eyes as a scene ends because that’s when she’s at her most unguarded, her most vulnerable. I need to know what’s in her head.

Molly’s eyes are closed but I cup her chin and turn her face toward me.

“Look at me,” I command.

Her eyelids flutter and she raises them slowly. Her pupils are dilated, her eyes dark with arousal, with sated lust. She curls her mouth is a small, hesitant smile, which causes my softening cock to have a change of heart.

“Was that okay? Did I do all right?” she asks, then waits, trusting, for my affirmation. Or otherwise.

“Yes, love. You were perfect. Do you feel good?”

She nods, then collects herself. “Sorry, I mean… yes. I feel wonderful.”

“And being tied up? How was that?”

“A bit overwhelming at first, but in a good way. The blindfold too…”

“Would you do it again?”

“What? Now?”

“Are you sore?”
Christ, I hope not. My dick’s already twitching to start over.

“No, sir. I don’t think so.”

“Right then. Just give me a moment to grab a fresh condom, then I’ll see what I can do about that. By the time you leave this room you’ll struggle to remember your own name, but you’ll be able to feel me in every nerve ending you possess.”

She lifts her hand to caress my cheek. “Is that a promise, sir?”

It was, and I hope I made good on it. By the time I’ve fucked Molly twice more, once from behind and then again with her bouncing on top of me, her gorgeous tits jiggling in front of my nose, I’m not sure either one of us can recall our names. We both collapse into an exhausted heap—a tangle of limbs, sticky, panting bodies, matted hair. Molly falls asleep almost immediately, and I doze for a few minutes. When I open my eyes she’s still spark out so I peel myself away from her and roll from the bed. I need caffeine, food perhaps, and a breath of fresh air without a doubt. I pull the duvet up around her and gather up my clothes from the floor, then pad barefoot from the room.

Molly follows me an hour later. She finds me outside, my third cup of coffee in my hand, leaning on the dry stone wall that marks the edge of my patio.

This is one of my favourite places, the view from here nothing short of breath-taking. Combined with the potential I saw in the loft space, this spectacular vista was one of the main reasons I had to have this place. The dramatic landscape of Brimham Rocks is spread out before me, the bizarre mushroom-shaped lumps of millstone grit reaching as high as thirty or forty feet, balancing precariously one on top of the other, their weird contours carved out by aeons of wind, glacial, and rain erosion. The surrounding moorland that wraps around my house in all directions is now a kaleidoscopic riot of autumnal colours, the heathers and gorse shining in purples, golds, vivid greens, and flashes of brown as the bracken darkens to its winter hue. This magical place is a geologist’s dream. Tourists flock here, as do climbers and all manner of outdoors enthusiasts, but for a jailbird turned honest photographer, it’s quite simply home.

I glance over my shoulder as Molly approaches. “Coffee?” I offer her my cup.

“Thank you.” She accepts and takes a sip, then wrinkles her nose. “No sugar or cream.”

I drape an arm across her shoulders. “There’s plenty inside. Come on.”

I settle her at the kitchen table, place a fresh cup of steaming coffee, complete with two sugars and some cream, in front of her. “Are you hungry?”

“A little, but I’m fine for now.” She looks up at me. “Can we talk?”

I take the seat opposite her. “You have questions.” She must; it’s inevitable.

“Yes. Lots.”

“About what happened upstairs?”

She shakes her head. “Not that, well, not only that. It was you I was wondering about actually.” She casts her gaze around the spacious kitchen. “This, all of this, it’s so different from anything I imagined.”

“Not what you expected from a convicted armed robber, is that it?”

She reddens, but nods. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. But—yes. This has been quite a transformation. How did you…?”

“I was lucky, to an extent. But I worked hard too, and took my opportunities when they presented themselves.”

“When did you decide to take up photography?”

“I always liked to take pictures, you must remember that. It almost got me in trouble.” I glance at her, one eyebrow raised as I recall those few minutes we spent together in the prison laundry. She flushes, then smiles at me as she nods. “Right. I enjoyed messing about with my camera, even as a child, but I sort of lost sight of it for a while. I got caught up in all that bollocks you know about. Crime was sort of the family business. My dad spent more time inside than out while I was a kid.”

I pause, wondering how much of my sordid past to share. She sits opposite me, still, silent, just watching me, and waiting. And she’s interested, genuinely wanting to know my story. I decide to press on.

“I grew up in East Leeds. Robbing things was just that thing we did and I never thought of being any different. I saw prison as an occupational hazard and I served my apprenticeship in youth detention centres since I was about twelve years old. The closest I got to a positive role model was the guy who coached down at the boxing club where I liked to hang out, but I lost touch with him after one of my spells away. From there I roamed around the streets with my mates, collected an ASBO or two, became good at stealing motors, and eventually gravitated toward driving getaway cars for anyone needing the service. It was lucrative work, and I enjoyed it.”

“But you got caught.”

“I did, and had my first taste of prison. It was so much tougher than the juvenile facilities I was used to and I hated it. The closed-in feeling made me physically sick. Can you even start to imagine how that felt, compared to this…?”

“Is that why you own a place like this? The wide openness?”

I shrug. “Maybe, I’m not sure. Probably. But even if I hadn’t been able to afford to move out here, I sure as hell wasn’t going back inside. Once was more than enough. I did my time and eventually managed to convince the parole board to let me out.”

“You said you got time added on, for the riot.”

“Yes. An extra year, but I was a model prisoner from then on and perhaps I caught the parole board on a good day. They let me off two thirds of my remaining sentence so I was out by the end of 2011. I went to Rachel’s to spend Christmas there, and just sort of stayed on.”

“Your sister.”

“Yeah. She’d just split from Brad, her husband, and she appreciated the extra help with the kids. She had two under five back then, and a stepdaughter who Brad seemed happy enough to leave with her. She was licensee of a dingy little pub in Morley. I moved in, did the heavy work in the cellar, and kept order in the bar. The arrangement suited us fine. Meanwhile, I was a hobby photographer again and I’d forgotten how much I missed it. I preferred landscapes and I had an eye for those, used to send my favourite pictures in to the television. You know, the ones they show on the weather bulletins—fog over Filey, the snow-capped hills of Skipton, that sort of thing?”

She is gazing at me, silent. But she nods slowly, seems to understand. So far so good.

“I entered an amateur photography competition. It was an impulse. I’d just pulled off a really dramatic shot of the Leeds skyline at dusk that I was particularly proud of, and I spotted an advert in the
Yorkshire Evening Post
inviting readers to send in their photos of the city. So I did. I won, and got a contract to provide more local pictures for the paper. They were picked up by a gallery, I got a corner in an exhibition, sold a couple of pictures, and I went from there. My big breakthrough came a year or so later when I came third in an international show and on the back of that I was offered an exhibition of my own in Brussels. From there on I was a photographer full time, the commissions rolled in, and I was earning good money.”

“So you left the pub and bought this place?”

“No, not for a few years, though by then I was travelling a lot and spent less and less time with Rachel. I helped her to buy The Eagle in Baildon—that’s the pub she owns now, a free house catering to real ale enthusiasts. I had a room there for when I was in the UK. I worked like a demon for the next couple of years, had a fair bit of my material published, built my reputation, and made sure I stayed well clear of my old haunts in East Leeds. When I had enough for the deposit I made an offer on this place. There was a lot of work to do though to make it habitable, so I only moved in a few months ago.”

“So, no more life of crime, then. None at all?”

I shake my head. “None. I’m rehabilitated, a success story for the judicial system.”

“I doubt the system could claim much of a hand in it.”

“Oh, but it could. Prison worked as a deterrent in my case, but like I said, there was an element of luck. Rachel, for example, giving me a place to stay, a job, of sorts. That competition coming up just when it did, the exhibition in Brussels. But I was determined too. I’d have stayed as Rachel’s cellar man if that was the best I could manage, but as it happened…”

“You’re very talented.”

“Thank you.”

“As a photographer, and…”

I wait. No prompting from me, not on this.

“…and as a dom.”

I doubt she’s really qualified to say, but I accept her comment at face value. “No regrets then, about what I did to you?”

She shakes her head, emphatic. “It was awesome, everything I ever imagined. More perhaps…”

That was what I hoped to hear. “Good. You’d do it again then?”