Sure Thing (15 page)

As if reading my thoughts, he murmurs in my ear, “Do you mind if I…”

“Please, please do,” I whisper, not even letting him finish the request.

In the next instant I’m flat on my back and he’s thrusting hard. He comes on the second thrust, the rush of his semen hot as it fills the condom. I make a mental note to sort out some contraception when I register with the GP, and that’s my last coherent thought before exhaustion overtakes me.

I’m only dimly aware of Tom finally withdrawing from my body, of me being carefully lifted and placed under the duvet, and of his crawling into bed alongside me. His arm is under my body as I settle myself across his chest, my ear pressed against his heartbeat. And, even though I suspect he thinks I’m already asleep, I clearly recall his final words to me before we both drift off.

“I could easily love you, my little Ashley…”

Chapter Ten

I’ve been living at Greystones now for a couple of weeks and can’t believe how natural everything is between us. I reflect on how wonderfully my life is working out as I lie in bed one morning after Tom has left to deal with farming matters.

We’ve quickly fallen into a comfortable rhythm. Apart from our sexual compatibility, we seem to fit nicely together in other ways too. Tom cooks and is good at it. I clean and I love doing that. He does the ironing—his and mine—and we both look after our household pets. Tom’s long-suffering border collies have managed to get used to my crazy kittens tearing around the kitchen, or at least they manage to tolerate the disruption. The kittens have pride of place in the very warmest spot beside the Aga and the dogs have just relinquished any claim.

Tom tends to get up very early and be out on the farm by the time I surface. Most days he shows up for breakfast with me, then we go back to bed if neither of us has pressing matters to attend to. And usually we don’t. Tom turned over the under-used dining room to me to use as a workroom-cum-studio. The light in there is brilliant, far better than at my cottage. And the views of the moors behind the farm are breathtaking.

For the first time that I can consciously remember, I’m happy.

Bajram phones me at least once a week, or I phone him. I can’t bring myself to call him ‘Dad’ but that doesn’t seem to matter. We both know the score. He’s a charming man and we get on really well. I can easily see why my mother fell for him all those years ago. And why she stayed in touch all these years. What I don’t understand is why their relationship ended so abruptly and so irrevocably when she was just a few weeks pregnant, but maybe Bajram will tell me eventually.

My sisters are lovely too. Ayla is nineteen and has just started to study to be a vet. Melisa is fifteen and seems to want to join her father—our father—in the hotel business. They have extended an open invitation for me and Tom to go out there and visit them, though I know my father has mixed feelings about my obvious relationship with Tom. He’s a modern man in many ways, culturally sensitive and tolerant, but his traditional Muslim values would be more at ease if his daughter was not so obviously having sex with a man she’s not married to. But he’s respectful of my choices, and they like each other, so we’ll be fine I expect. Tom thinks we should go, so I guess we will before long.

Our Dom/sub thing is incredible. I never know what to expect, except that it’s always intense, always challenging, and I always sleep for hours afterwards. Even when there are no whips or canes or leather straps involved our sex life is kinky, off the scale. And it’s absolutely wonderful. Tom’s inventive, and he usually takes the lead—that’s a Dom thing, definitely—but occasionally he’ll let me have my way. He’s never yet turned down a blow job and I’ve become adept at it.

On one memorable occasion I was kneeling at his feet in the barn when Seth Appleyard strolled in looking for him. I was hidden behind some bales of hay, and luckily all Seth could see of Tom was his head and shoulders. Tom maintained a creditable composure as he dealt with Seth’s query on the optimum feed ratio for newly hatched chicks. His hands in my hair, he held my head still, his cock deep in my mouth whilst he chatted with Seth, only faltering once when I flicked the head of his penis with my tongue and sucked hard. When Seth left to go about his business Tom made me finish what I’d started. Then he instructed me to remove my jeans and pants, turned me over his knee, and spanked me. He didn’t pull his punches, and it was probably a good thing that Seth was out of earshot by then. I ate my meals standing up for the rest of that day.

Getting used to being whipped has been a challenge. The first time we tried it was about a week after I moved into Greystones. We’d finished our evening meal when Tom turned to me, fixed me with that Dom gaze I’ve come to recognize, and instructed me to go and make myself ready. That meant I had an hour in which to shower, get my hair dry, do any other personal grooming—Tom prefers no excess body hair on his submissives I’ve learnt—then wait for him in the bedroom. He always wants me naked, my hair tied up out of the way. Sometimes he’ll instruct me to be on the spanking bench ready for him to fasten the straps, sometimes on the bed. If he gives no particular instructions I’m to stand, at the end of the bed, my head bowed until he comes in.

On this particular occasion I was waiting for him at the end of the bed. He came into the room, raked me with his cool gaze before nodding curtly. I’d managed to pass the first part of the ordeal so wouldn’t be spanked at the outset. That always makes things much more difficult later, perhaps because I vaguely resent it. I’m always trying, always doing my best to please him. His instructions are usually clear, and punishments don’t come without fair warning, but I rarely deliberately defy him.

Tom picked up the spreader bar and at first I thought I’d be spending the next hour or so face down with my bum in the air. Not so. To my surprise, he asked me to place my wrists in the outer bracelets and tightened the straps securely before extending the bar to position my hands about three feet apart. He then asked me to kneel on the bed, and when I was in position he pulled my arms above my head, securing the spreader bar to a ring suspended from the beam running across the ceiling. I was stretched tight, my knees just on the bed, just taking my weight. Not quite painful, but definitely not comfortable.

Satisfied, Tom asked me if I needed a drink. I thanked him politely, and took a few sips of water from a bottle he held between my lips. In no particular hurry, he cradled my head in his palms and kissed me, trailing the backs of his fingers over my breasts, upturned toward him in the position he placed me. He rolled my nipples between his fingers, at first gently, then more firmly, then he squeezed, hard. I flinched but managed not to cry out. Tom likes to hear me scream, so he did it again, more brutally this time, and I obliged him at last. He kissed me again before leaving me to stroll over to the wardrobe, the one containing his collection of whips.

I knew what was coming. Sure enough, he came back to stand in front of me, a dark-brown leather whip coiled in his hands. He didn’t speak, but his questioning eyebrow was raised, seeking permission. I nodded and closed my eyes. I heard his soft footsteps as he walked around the bed to stand behind me and I stiffened, tension and fear making me momentarily light-headed.

He made me wait, as always.

“This is going to hurt, Ashley. Really hurt. It’s okay to use your safe word. I’m expecting you to. And whether you safe word or not, I’ll stop if I think you’re struggling. Are you ready?” His tone was cool and business-like. He could have been ordering chicken feed.

If Tom was calm, I was anything but. I didn’t speak, no voice would have come even if I’d tried. Despite the sips of water my mouth was dry. Instead I nodded, just once.

The pain as the lash landed across my back was indescribable. I screamed, struggled desperately against the restraints as the shock rushed through me, sizzling, burning its way out to my fingertips. I was whimpering, shaking uncontrollably. If I thought the studded leather strap Tom used for my first excursion into his world of pain was vicious, this whip was cruel beyond imagining. I sensed Tom positioning himself ready to deliver the next stroke and at last managed to find my voice.

“Amber. Amber.”

He was immediately back in front of me, trickling water between my dry lips. He kissed me lightly.

“Do you want to stop, baby?” There was concern in his tone, in his eyes too.

He tipped my chin up, holding my gaze when I would have looked away. I shook my head, foolishly probably. This was more, much more, than I anticipated. It was too much.

“No, I want to continue. Just, give me a few more moments, please.”

He nodded, trickled more water into my mouth. “Take as much time as you need. Tell me when you’re ready.”

I swallowed desperately, struggling to re-gather my shattered wits, then, “I’m okay now.”

Moments later the whip landed again, and my back once more exploded in an agony of fire. I screamed, but managed not to plead for more time. The next stripe landed, and I desperately regretted my hasty decision. Tom paused, giving me time to use my safe word. I bit it back, refusing to be defeated. He raised his whip again, and even before I heard the whoosh of the lash snaking through the air I screamed it at him, “Smithy’s Forge!”

The whip never landed, and the next instant I was face down on the bed, my wrists freed. I was sobbing, from the pain, definitely, but as much from the sting of defeat. Tom lifted me, hauling me up against his chest while I cried, my fingers clutching his shirt. His hands were in my hair, loosening the knot as he held my head against his shoulder. With his other hand he was lightly caressing my back, and I flinched, expecting to feel pain at his touch against my tender, abused skin but there was none. Soreness, yes, but that was all. I was still shaking but no longer scared.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered my apology, my sense of failure overwhelming.

“Idiot. You’ve nothing to be sorry about. This is difficult, I know that, but you’ll get there. You safe worded and that’s good, it shows me you’re learning how to do this stuff, how to keep yourself safe.” I could hear the grin in his voice and welcomed his reassurance even if I didn’t quite believe it. Yet.

His quiet words of acceptance, of forgiveness, were more than I could deal with. I was suddenly weeping in earnest, huge racking sobs. Tom didn’t try to stop me, just lay back on the bed with me draped on top of him. He held me and let me get it all out of my system. Eventually I was quiet, calm again. He rolled me gently onto my back, leaned over me, his smile soft. He wiped my tear-stained face with a tissue, kissed me, smoothing my tangled hair from my face.

“Will you let me make love to you?” His request was unexpected, the tenderness in his eyes even more so.

“I… Do you still want to? After I… After I let you down?”

He smiled wryly at my stammered response. “You didn’t let me down, love. You were wonderful, brilliant. And you’re so lovely, you absolutely take my breath away. Let me do something nice for you now. For us. Let me make love to you. I’ll make it good for you, I promise. Please.”

I managed a watery smile back at him. Then, “Yes, I’d like that.”

And it was good. Exquisitely good. He was slow, took a long time to prepare me, with his clever, knowing fingers and his sweet, probing tongue. I moaned softly, gasping as he built my desire, made me desperate for him, made me beg. And when he eventually entered me he was gentle, even more so than usual, as though he was afraid of breaking me. He was incredibly tender. I felt—cherished, precious, like a piece of fine porcelain to be handled with the utmost care. If this was my reward for safe wording I thought I might do it more often…

Despite his Dom alter ego, Tom is never rough with me, never anything other than polite, courteous and caring. He’s kind and giving, a generous and skilled lover, and I got the full benefit of it that night as he drew my faltering response from my shattered, fragile body. My first orgasm, when it eventually swept me up, was hesitant, satisfying but muted, as though I needed to regain my confidence. Tom knew, worked with it, stayed with me until I climaxed once more, this time more powerfully, my old self re-emerging, my fingers clutching at the pillow behind my head whilst the familiar clenching and pulsing surged through my body. Only when he was sure I was done, completely satisfied, did he give in to his own needs, thrusting firmly into me to reach his own climax.

Afterwards we lay tangled together in the bedding. I heard his whispered, “Forgive me?”

I reached up to stroke his cheek, the stubble of a day’s growth rough under my fingers. It was answer enough.

The next time Tom attempted to whip me the result was much the same. With a lot of screaming and amber lighting I managed to accept five lashes before my safe word was torn from me. Tom was kind, caring, his lovemaking afterwards just as tender as at my first failed attempt. He was patient, seemingly in no hurry to progress my ‘training’. For my part I was deeply mortified. Despite all Tom’s assurances, and all the fun we have together, both in the bedroom and in our otherwise easy companionship, I can’t shake the feeling that he’ll eventually see through me. That he’ll realize I’m just a pretend sub, and go looking for the real thing.

Chapter Eleven

It was the St Andrew’s Cross that finally did it for me. That and a truly inspirational piece of Dom/sub psychology from my Master.

Tom’s something of a hotshot in farming circles. His innovative approach and humane methods mean that he is much in demand at agricultural conferences and colleges. He writes a regular column for the Farmer’s Weekly and delivers workshops for undergraduates at the agricultural college in leafy north Leeds. February saw his annual slot with the students fast approaching, and he asked me if I’d like to come with him to Leeds. He’d be there for a couple of days, and I could spend my time shopping or slouching around art galleries while he was imparting his wisdom to young minds. Our evenings could be spent visiting some of his kinky club haunts or making our own fun. Nathan has an apartment close to Leeds city center, and apparently that’s where Tom usually stays on those occasions. I’m assured it’s plenty big enough for two.