Surefire Page 10

  Wordlessly, Tom takes his time sliding his fingers out of me. There’s a snap of latex as he slips a condom on before I feel his hands on my hips and the head of his cock slipping just inside my anus. Easily, slick, he’s obviously smeared lube over the condom too to insure an easy entry. I’m grateful for that as he presses home, slides fully into my unresisting body.

  “Christ, baby, that feels so good.” He pulls back, right out of me, then repeats the process again. And again.

  Each time he withdraws fully, just for the sheer joy of entering me again. And each time he’s faster, plunging harder, deeper, until I cry out. Then he stops, it’s enough, and he thrusts more gently, takes his time, the friction building as he uses me, plays with me, enjoys me. Then he leans forward, his fingers once more at my clit, this time the familiar rolling and tugging. It’s good, gloriously good, and I make a soft purring in my throat, the only sound I’m capable of. Again, my climax starts to build, but this time he urges me on, his words of encouragement heightening my wild, wicked pleasure.

  I come again, less violently this time, but every sensation exquisitely teased from me. And he’s there, with me. Tom gives a muttered curse, the pressure within me increasing as his thrusts gather strength, and the final deep, stiff plunge as he holds me still and finally he ejaculates deep inside me.

  He pulls out immediately, and I wait, expecting to be released from the spreader bar, to at last be allowed to collapse onto the bed and sleep. Instead he gets off the bed and walks across the room. Exhausted, I force myself to prize my eyes open. I see him dispose of the condom in the bin, and note idly that somehow, incredibly, he’s still fully dressed in his jeans and white T-shirt. He picks something up from the dressing table, comes back toward me, sees me watching him. He holds the object up between his thumb and forefinger. A butt plug. A big one. I moan, surely he can’t…I can’t.

  Seemingly he can. And so can I. He uses his left hand to ease the cheeks of my bum apart and the other to slip the butt plug inside my anus. It is big. And it’s fucking cold. I shriek and earn myself a swift, hard slap.

  “No rude words, Ashley. I’ve warned you. Swear at me again and I’ll put more stripes on this lovely arse of yours. Is that clear?”

  My bottom smarting, my back passage shriveling around the icy intruder, I’m almost sobbing.

  “Is that clear, Ashley?” Another hard slap.

  I force myself to answer. “Yes. But it’s cold.”

  “Mmm, not long out of the freezer. I remembered how much you liked the ice lolly trick. Are you swearing at me again?”

  I’m sobbing now, gulping in air, shaking. I answer him desperately, “No! No, I’m not. I promise. Please, I don’t want you to hit me.”

  He hesitates, leans in close. “Ashley, are you safe wording?”

  “No. Yes. Yes. Amber. It’s amber…” I’m sobbing, oddly hurt and humiliated, exposed, vulnerable and wishing he’d just be nice to me.

  His palm is on my bum again, but soft this time, a soft caress. He calms me by his gentle touch, his quiet, tender words. “I’ll take it out, if that’s what you want. But if you can stick with it, it will be good. I’ll make it feel good, for you. I promise. And no more spanking, at least not tonight. No matter how rude you are. Deal?”

  “Yes. Deal. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. You can safe word any time you like. Remember that, Ashley. Okay, so no spanking, but what do you want? This maybe?” He slides his fingers inside my pussy once more, gentle, soothing, warm in contrast to the frigid presence in my anus.

  I shiver, the clash of sensations overwhelming my senses, confusing me, stimulating me wildly.

  “Is this okay?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s… Oh, yes.”

  He pleasures me lazily, readying me again before he stands, swiftly peels off his jeans and T-shirt then comes to kneel behind me. “I think a nice, hard fuck now. That suit you?”

  Beyond words I mumble something incoherent, but he assumes it to be agreement. Leaning over me now on all fours, he slips his cock into me. It’s wonderful, absolutely wonderful. I moan, and remember his instructions of much earlier, that I should squeeze him. I clench my inner muscles, deliberately convulsing, seizing him, holding him, caressing him with my body in the only way I can. He holds my hips, sliding his palms up my sides to cup the undersides of my breasts. I savor every stretch and scrape of flesh on flesh, his hardness stretching and filling me.

  Almost spent, the pleasure builds by degrees this time, but builds nevertheless. Tom’s moans of appreciation tell me that the feeling is mutual. The intensity of the cold inside me soon dissipates and the exquisitely gentle pressure inside me takes over, increasing the sense of fullness and heightening the pleasure of every stroke. This is slow, comfortable fucking, sweet, gentle and achingly tender. Despite my restraints I arch under my Dom, totally his, purring once more as my pleasure washes me, warms me, wraps around me.

  My orgasm, when it finally comes, takes me softly, smoothly, tumbling me into the feather bed of shared sensuality as we surrender together. The warm wash of Tom’s semen splashes across my cervix then fills my pussy, adding to the pools of moisture already coating me. He slows, and finally he’s unmoving inside me. He leans forward to kiss my neck before gently withdrawing. He swiftly unfastens my restraints, first my wrists then my ankles, and I at last collapse in a tangle of aching limbs. I hear the thud of the spreader hitting the floor, then Tom lifts me, tugging the duvet back to ease me underneath it. He pulls the quilt up to my chin, crouching beside the bed to nuzzle my nose with his.

  “I need to talk to you, now, while it’s fresh in your mind. While you can remember just how you felt. Are you okay? Was I too rough with you there? You said you didn’t want me to hit you…”

  I open my eyes, smile at him. “It was good. Really. I’m fine.”

  “Ashley? Tell me.”

  I open my eyes again, force myself to concentrate. This is important. “It’s nothing. I like it when you, when you—spank me. Really. Most of the time. It’s just that, sometimes, I need you to just—be kind to me. But I can’t always ask, can’t always say exactly how I’m feeling when you’re… When we…”

  “You can tell me, that’s what safe words are for. And eventually you did, but not before you’d become upset, scared. You’re my submissive, so it’s my job to know. To listen. And to know when ‘no, don’t’ means just that. Safe words are fool proof though. As soon as you said ‘amber’ I knew what you needed. Next time you feel like that, please, tell me earlier.” He nuzzles my nose again, kisses my lips lightly. “So, are we okay, love?”

  I close my eyes again, almost asleep now, and mutter my final words to him on this subject. “Yes. Always.”

  Chapter Ten

  The morning after he introduced me to the highs and lows of the spreader bar, Tom rustles up our customary bacon sandwiches and coffee, and settles himself across from me at the kitchen table. We’re both chewing quietly, planning the day ahead, when he fixes me with a look—that look of his that signals something serious coming my way. I know what it’s likely to be.

  “So, we’re to be parents then, you and me? That’s the plan, right?”

  I look at him, holding his gaze, suddenly filled with doubt, hesitancy and fear that his agreement last night might have been just intended to keep me happy, acquiescent. I do him an injustice.

  “Yes. That’s right. You said it was okay…”

  “It is. It’s a lovely idea. Count me in.” He grins, and it’s infectious.

  My smile must be positively radiant as I glow back at him. A baby. My own baby. Safe, well, healthy. And most important of all—alive. It could happen. It really could happen.

  “But we need to talk, there are conditions, things we need to have settled.” Tom’s tone is serious despite his warm smile.

  “What? What conditions?” My optimism evaporates as I watch his face take on just a hint of his Dom sternness, his solemn green gaze holding my now slig
htly desperate one.

  “Number one, should I be talking to your father? Should I be asking his permission to marry you?”

  Now this I hadn’t expected. Never considered this possibility. I blurt out my surprise, blunt to the point of rudeness, “No! Of course not. Why should you…? I mean, I don’t want, don’t expect… There’s no need to marry me.”

  Apparently less offended than he might be, he just grins at me. “Ah, my generous offer not an answer to a maiden’s prayer then? Okay, set that idea to one side. We may need to re-visit it later, but for now, let’s look at the most pressing stuff.”

  I’m finding this whole discussion little short of bewildering—I’ve no experience of this sort of conversation, this sort of planning. My confusion must be written all over my face.

  “Don’t look so worried, love, I told you I’d keep you safe. And the baby. Our baby. I’d want to look after you in any case, but it’s particularly important to us, isn’t it? You know why.”

  I nod, gratitude and relief flooding me as I wait for whatever’s coming next.

  “Given our—lifestyle—I’ll need to know as soon as you suspect you may be pregnant. You understand why, don’t you? The early weeks are the most fragile, we’ll need to look after you, wrap you in cotton wool, so to speak. And definitely no roughing you up. That means no spanking, no whipping, no caning. Nothing remotely…” He’s obviously searching for the right word.

  Keen to help, I put in my suggestion, “Brutal “

  He fixes me with a stern look, his Dom persona surfacing. “I prefer ‘physically challenging’. Demanding perhaps…”

  I nod meekly, the perfect submissive. “As you say. Sir.”

  “Sassy little wench. You’re not pregnant yet, so have a care. Seriously though, you’ll tell me? Yes?”

  “Yes. I promise. Do nipple clamps count as brutal? Sorry, I mean demanding?”

  He scowls at me, rocking his hand to indicate ‘could be’.

  “I see. And clit clips?”

  He shakes his head. “Depends, but probably not.”

  “Butt plugs?”

  He laughs, shaking his head. “For the avoidance of doubt, sex toys are fine. I think I read somewhere that orgasms are very healthy for pregnant women. Probably help with conception too. We’ll have to put in even more effort.”

  More effort. More orgasms! I feel my face flush at that prospect, but manage to offer a suitably restrained response.

  “Thank you, Sir. I appreciate your help and your concern.” Then, “What about The Hermitage? Can we still go there?” We’ve become fairly frequent visitors to the kinky club in Leeds, although our activities are mainly confined to the private rooms and the health spa.

  He considers that briefly. “Fine, but as a spectator sport.” He regards me seriously, his eyes narrowed in thought. “Not sure how well your corset would fit, obviously, might need to buy you a maternity one. I wonder if they sell anything like that at Marks and Spencer?” He grins at me. “What about your business? You’re just beginning to get somewhere. You’d need to take some time out, at least for a few months.”

  “I know, but I think it could work. I work from home, and I can do my editing and such like when you’re here to look after the baby. If that’s okay with you, I mean. I don’t expect you to do a lot of baby-sitting…”

  He holds up a hand to stop my flow. “Ashley, I’ll help. You don’t have to ask. And I won’t be doing any baby-sitting. Baby-sitting’s what you do for other people’s children. With your own it’s called parenting. If we do this, we do it together. But it’ll affect you the most and I’m just thinking it might be difficult. For you.”

  “I think I’ll be fine. Tom—I want to do this. I really do.”

  He smiles at me, his gaze tender, affectionate. And caring. “I know. I’ve seen you with Isabella. I do know.”

  “And, I could probably pay for a child minder if I needed one, later on. And perhaps me and Eva could help each other out. I’ll ask her…”

  “Parenting, remember. We’ll share the childcare. And the costs.” He sips his coffee idly, his gaze still holding me. Then, “You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought, Ashley.”

  I nod. “I have. It’s what I want, what I need.”

  His mouth turns down, calm, philosophical, obviously accepting my resolve to do this thing that’s going to turn our lives upside down. “I can see that. So, let’s make it happen.”

  Stern Dom or not, I leap to my feet and run around the table to plant myself on his lap and huge kiss on his mouth. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you. God, I love you…”

  He raises his head, captures my face between his palms. “The feeling’s mutual, Ashley.”

  And I’m kissing him again.

  * * * *

  Back at Greystones, daily life resumes. Reinvigorated, my eye once more firmly fixed on a future I can see unfolding for myself, a future I can strive for and is now within reach, I throw myself even more energetically into my new life, incredibly thankful to have this chance. To still have this chance. I’ll probably never know for sure what Kenny and his bunch of thugs intended to do to me that day in Gloucester when they all turned up at my mother’s house, but deep down I do suspect they might have killed me. Or Kenny might have.

  Tom and Nathan play it down, but I’m pretty sure they saved my life that day. Attacking me, abducting me even, would have been an ill-fated, senseless thing to do and Kenny would never have gotten away with it, but he’s too stupid, too deluded, too obsessed with his own self-importance to ever realize that. And in any case, no matter how heavily the full weight of the law might eventually fall once more upon Kenny’s dim-witted head, none of that would have helped me much. The best I could have hoped for would have been that someone would have had the sense to bury me with my mother and baby, but that would be cold comfort indeed—for me, and for those around me who care.

  For the first few weeks after we arrived back I was nervous, although I prefer to think of it as natural caution. I tended to stay close to the farm, only going out with Tom, or maybe just scuttling across to Black Combe in my car to spend time with Grace, or Eva and her mother, Victoria, who seems to have been permanently installed in Nathan’s spare bedroom.

  Rosie’s animated chatter is delightful as always, distracting and amusing, but I have to confess somewhat mixed feelings about baby Isabella. She’s lovely, an impossibly pretty little baby, sweet natured as well. Eva is incredibly lucky—I know that better than most. From the beginning, Isabella’s sparkling presence has reminded me of my own loss, and for that reason I should probably avoid her. It wouldn’t be difficult, no one forces me to pick her up, to cuddle her at every opportunity. No one insists that I volunteer to give her a bottle every time she gurgles or whimpers. No one expects me to be the first to reach for the Pampers when it’s time to change her nappy. But no one stops me either, and I silently bless Eva, Nathan and Grace—and Victoria too—for their tolerance and quiet understanding.

  Perhaps sensing my need for him, Tom’s been around the farm a lot, much more than usual. He’s very busy just now, gearing up for the music festival in a few weeks’ time. The place is over-run with contractors and suppliers, a hive of activity. But despite the manic frenzy surrounding us much of the time, Tom’s always happy to spend time with me. We talk—a lot—and the sex between us has been off the scale during these last weeks of the summer.

  The encounter in Gloucester was terrifying, unnerving, but gradually I’m starting to relax again, to regain my confidence, my self-belief. With Barney in tow most days I’m once more enjoying my trips up onto the moors I now think of as my own, bouncing across the rugged landscape on my beloved quad bike, invariably making long detours to avoid the stiles and narrow footpaths that hikers seem so fond of. There was no direct evidence linking Kenny to the arson attack, so the police questioned him but then had to let him go. The case remains open, but meanwhile the insurance company has settled my claim, paid up a
nd the repairs are well underway. The damage was limited mostly to the ground floor so the house should be fit to let to students again by the time the new academic year starts in October. Mr Miller reports to me regularly, usually about once a week, and I’m intrigued to find myself doing the arithmetic to work out how much loss of income I should be anticipating and the impact of this on my long-term business plan. The financial losses are not that great, and I’m once more intrigued. When did I become such a capitalist?

  And speaking of which, conscious I’ve neglected my business with all these other distractions, I made arrangements for another trip to the Peak District. I spent four glorious days photographing the High Peak landscape, bathed in late summer sunshine, glowing with oranges, golds and vivid greens. I renewed my business contacts in Bakewell and Tideswell, and found a couple of more potential outlets. So many tourist hubs here, and I’m fast beginning to realize the potential of the many and various local markets, galas and shows. I’m pondering a series of prints themed around food—producing, growing, selling, eating—something for everyone. I could call it The Food Chain.

  My head brimming with possibilities, I mulled over the prospects in the Yorkshire Dales, as I made my way back up the M1. Back home. Back to Tom.

  * * * *

  Barn. Now.

  Why? Is there a problem?

  What part of NOW is not clear?

  Ah, like that is it? Who’d have thought he could inject that Dom tone into a text? But he has, and I know I need to be on my way.