Hardened (22 page)

“I wonder, would you fasten my hands too? Just in case.”

“Of course.” He smiles at me again. “It’s good that you asked me, shows you’re learning to trust me, and yourself. Stretch your arms out to the sides.”

I do as he tells me while Jared finds a set of smaller cuffs for my wrists. In moments they too are buckled into the warm leather bands, which Jared clips to rings set into the sides of the bed. I’m stretched out, spread-eagled face down on the bed, ready for whatever comes my way.

Jared picks up the crop and takes up his position behind me. He waits, saying nothing, but allowing me the moments I need to collect my thoughts and settle. The breathy swish of shifting air heralds the next stroke.

“Aagh!” I scream and jerk in my restraints. Pain sears my bottom, but I am soaring, exalted by the heady impact, pain and pleasure blended together in a rich, seductive cocktail of sensation.

“Okay?” Jared waits again, unhurried.

“Yes, sir. More, please.” I’m trembling, quivering with need, anticipation, lust.

“More coming up. Remember, ‘cooler’ is your slow down safeword, ‘jailbird’ means I’ll stop.”

“I know. I’m all right though, really. I love this, sir.”

“Good to know. Just checking.”

The next few strokes send me flying again. Pain envelops me, pleasure wraps around my senses, confusing, sharpening, muting. I scream and jolt with each one, secure that he has me, that Jared is in control. My vision blurs, I can hear Jared’s voice, soft and low, but as though it’s reaching me from a distance. His words are hard to make out, but nothing of that matters to me as long as he doesn’t stop.

The crop carries on its glorious work, each stroke an exquisite caress, branding my tender skin. I writhe and moan, turning my hips to better catch each stripe. The spanking may have slowed. I’m uncertain, struggling to separate one stroke from another. I can still feel, but it’s all merging, blending until everything coalesces into one sensual hum.

I’m aware, dimly, that Jared has stopped using the crop. His hands are on me now, but not spanking. He’s stroking my inflamed buttocks, rubbing in the pain as though to massage it right into my muscles and flesh. It sinks in, then transforms into a different sensation, something light and tingly, tantalising yet incredibly satisfying too. He caresses away the discomfort to create a rich, warm languor. I stretch my bound limbs, sinking into a sated, contented haze.

“I want you to fuck me, sir. I need you inside me.” The words are mine, but I wonder I can find the energy to express my needs.

“I need to be inside you. You’ll come on my cock, my sweet slut.”

“Yes, sir. Anything…”

He pushes my thighs apart, and I realise he must have freed my ankles. My wrists are still secured to the bed. Jared lifts one of my knees and places it on the mattress, opening me more fully. The punished skin on my buttocks stretches, the discomfort a sharp reminder of the spanking. I wriggle, seeking more of that, as Jared lifts my other knee. His fingers are inside me, testing my readiness. The sounds of hot, wet pussy are unmistakable. I squeeze my inner walls around his fingers, but what I really need is his cock.

Seconds later, he’s there, poised at my entrance, then he drives forward to bury his erection in my channel. I let out a deep, satisfied moan and rotate my hips in silent thanks. Jared pulls back, then thrusts again, the angle allowing him to fill me utterly. I’m panting, bobbing my hips up and down as I seek more friction, greater penetration, an intensity I crave more than air to breathe. Jared seems to know, setting up a fast, demanding rhythm as he fucks me hard, then harder still.

My orgasm grips me. I should seek permission, but I can’t find words. It happens anyway, and Jared seems content with it, reaching around me to stroke my clit as my pussy convulses around his thick length. Seconds later he drives deep again, then holds still as his cock jerks violently inside me. He swears under his breath, something wonderfully obscene as he comes too. I’m still shaking when he reaches to free my wrists, first the right, then the left, then he rolls to the side taking me with him, his cock still embedded within my clinging channel.

I’m very, very glad I decided to give my sexy dom another chance.

“Could we go out? I mean, I know it’ll be dark in a couple of hours, but I’d like a walk.” I roll over in Jared’s arms to nuzzle his bare chest. At some stage in the proceedings he lost his clothes, and now we’re curled up together in his huge bed.

“Sure you can manage that sort of exertion? You must be pretty sore.” He kisses my hair and reaches down to pat my smarting bottom.

“Ouch! Yes, but it’s a nice sort of sore.” I tip my face up to look at him. “Please, I want to climb on those rocks.”

“Okay, but we’ll need to be quick. It gets dangerous after dark, especially if you don’t know the terrain. Did you bring sensible shoes with you?”

“Of course. I brought my hiking boots, just in case.”

“Right. Just let me get a quick shower, then I’m all yours.”

If only.
I shove that unexpected yearning to one side and wriggle into a sitting position. “Feel like sharing? I’ll wash your back this time.”

He rolls from the bed and extends his hand to me. “I’ll hold you to that. Come on.”

An hour later we’re striding through the thick gorse toward the nearest of the rock clusters, a pile of huge flat stones stacked one on top of the other, getting larger the higher they are in the pile. The overall effect is that of a giant mushroom, the whole crazy structure defying gravity.

“Are they natural?” I ask as we circle the rocks at the base. “They look as though they could just topple over, like a giant game of Jenga.”

“Yes, they’re natural. They’ve stood like this for thousands of years. I doubt they’re going anywhere any time soon.”

“How did they come to be like this?”

“I wondered that so I checked it out on Wikipedia. I gather the stone is millstone grit and it’s been eroded over the last few thousand years to carve out these weird shapes. Wind, rain, glaciers, and probably the odd spotty kid with a penknife. A lot of the formations have names, but you need to use a bit of imagination to understand them. It helps to get the right viewing angle too.” He stops and points to a huge tower about half a mile away. “That one’s called the Camel, and over there’s the Turtle. My favourite’s the Dancing Bear but you can’t see that one from here.”

“How far is it? The Dancing Bear?”

“Another twenty minutes or so. Maybe more—it’s uphill, and steep.”

“Do we have time? I’d like to see it.”

He laughs. “Ah, so eager. I do love an enthusiastic little sub. Come on.” He holds out his hand and I take it as we stride out through the crisp bracken blanketing the hillside.

Molly laughs almost all the way up the steep incline as we scramble through the rock-strewn landscape. She’s a game little thing, I grant her that. Despite the discomfort she must be feeling—I wasn’t especially gentle with her earlier—she is undeterred as we climb. I like to think I keep myself pretty fit, but I’m panting hard by the time we crest a rise in the hillside and the Dancing Bear comes into view. Molly is barely out of breath as I point it out to her. She grabs my hand again and drags me forward. I fall into step behind her. With luck we can reach the gnarled lump of stone by nightfall, but we’ll need to pick our way back with care. Lucky I remembered to shove a couple of torches in my pocket before we left.

“This place has been used as a film set. There were some kids’ TV shows filmed here I think, and it was featured in a Bee Gees video.” I dredge up the trivia from somewhere at the back of my mind. I can be a mine of useless information when it suits me.

Molly glances at me, her eyes bright. “We should come here sometime, when there’s no one about, and make our own film. Or better still, you could take photographs. You could tie me to the rocks and record it all for posterity. Do you think the pictures would sell?”

I laugh out loud. “Oh, yes, I reckon they would. I’d produce them in monochrome, very trendy. We could probably display them in the National Trust shop. The tourists would go wild for them.”

“I’d want a percentage, obviously.”

“Goes without saying.”

“What’s the going rate for nude modelling?”

“Nude, did you say?”

“Yes, and in kinky poses, like those pictures in your studio. That must be worth a fair bit.”

“Priceless, Molly. Absolutely fucking priceless.” I grab her and kiss her on the mouth before picking her up and swinging her around. Her booted feet fly out behind her as she whoops and wraps her arms around my neck. We roll onto the springy grass surrounding the rocks and I can’t recall ever feeling quite so at home in my own skin.

Just sex, my arse.

* * *

It’s dusk by the time we start back, and darkness falls quickly in this part of the world. I lead the way, using my torch to pick out the safe places to walk. “Keep close, and watch where you put your feet. It’s easy to break an ankle in a rabbit hole.”

She moves in close, gripping my hand in one of hers, brandishing her own torch in the other. Our progress is slow, but eventually the outline of Cote House Barn looms out of the murky distance. “Home sweet home,” I murmur. I’m more than ready for a slug of good, reviving caffeine.

Inside I set the percolator going while Molly sits on the bench in my back porch to drag off her muddy boots.

“We should have waited before having that shower,” she calls after me. “I’m filthy again.”

“Feel free. You know where everything is. Do you like fish?”

“Fish?” She pads into the kitchen in her stockinged feet.

“Rainbow trout to be exact, in a nice lemon sauce.”

Molly grins. “Sounds delicious. Can I help?”

“No need, I’ve got it covered.” I open the fridge and pull out the fish I bought earlier, on my way to pick Molly up from the station, right after I took a call from Charles Manning.

I phoned my lawyer’s office straight after speaking to Rachel yesterday, but he was with another client. I left a message, and he returned my call as I drove to the station. His advice pretty much confirmed my own assessment, namely the police might well try to tie me in to the offence as an accessory but I can put together a decent defence. The chances of being charged myself will drop dramatically if I help them with their enquiries, and that’s exactly what he advises I should do.

I’ll have to swallow my distaste and make that call. There’s no way I can keep it from Molly once the police become involved, but I prefer to explain it to her myself first. Over a nice dinner will do, which is where my visit to the fishmonger’s came in. Two beautiful, fragrant trout, their eyes glassy, peer up at us from the wrapper.

“Oh, real fish. From the sea,” Molly exclaims. “Are you going to cook it?”

“I just said so, didn’t I? In lemon sauce.”

“I thought you meant something you’d stick in the microwave—not real fish, fish that looks like it might swim off if you chucked a bucket of water over it.” She peers suspiciously at the trout as though expecting them to start flapping about at any moment.

I laugh. “These bad boys are going nowhere. There’s nothing wrong with microwave food if you’re in a rush but I prefer the real thing. And I like to cook. So, are you up for a spot of only-just-dead trout?”

She laughs. “I’ll get fat if I stay with you too long.”

“No chance of that, Molly. I intend to work you hard. Do you know how many calories you can work off in one orgasm?”

That drags her attention from the fish. She gazes up at me, wide-eyed. “I’ve no idea.”

“A hundred and fifty, maybe more.” That’s another snippet of trivia dragged up from I know not which corner of my brain, but Molly looks impressed. I put the trout back in the fridge until I’m ready to cook it. “Come to think of it, I’ll need to feed you well, Molly mine, to keep you from fading away to nothing.”

“Promises, promises.” She makes to dart past me, but I manage to grab a tea towel and flick it across her lush arse. Molly squeals and dives for the door to the stairs.

* * *

My trout is a triumph—succulent, tender, just the right burst of tang from the sauce but not so much that it might overpower the delicate flavours of the fish. I toss in some baby new potatoes and green beans, steamed al dente, and the meal is complete. Molly, still clad in just my oversized towelling robe, clears her plate with lots of oohing and aahing, then licks her fingers to capture the last drops of sauce. My cock leaps to attention and I postpone the serious conversation we need to have. Instead, I’m pondering the merits of ordering her to lose the wrap and drop to her knees right here in the dining room. I could put that nimble tongue of hers to good use. I turn that delightful prospect over in my mind as Molly stands to clear the table.

My train of thought is interrupted by a loud banging on my door. Molly drops the stack of plates she’s holding, her startled expression telling its own story as the hammering continues.

“What? Who’s that?” She clutches her chest in alarm.

I can’t say I blame her. I have a pretty good idea who’s out there and I’m already kicking myself for ever letting her become embroiled in this car crash. Christ, why didn’t I at least tell her what was happening instead of letting myself be led by my dick? It’s too fucking late now.

“Don’t move, you might cut yourself on the broken plates.” The shattered remains of the crockery surround her bare feet. “I’ll get rid of them, then I’ll find a brush.” Already I’m striding for the door, determined to leave Stevie and Brad in no doubt as to the lack of welcome here.

“I’ll go get dressed,” says Molly, ignoring my warning as she picks her way through the shards of broken flatware and follows me out into the hall. She darts for the stairs as I head toward the front door. The thumping is getting louder, and is now accompanied by shouting from outside.

“Open your fucking door.” It’s Brad’s dulcet tone. I entertain the hopeful notion that he might be alone.

“Brad? Is that you?”