Rich Tapestry Read online

  Freya and I went to the same school on the outskirts of Barrow, though we weren’t friends before Margaret’s. We were afterwards, though, inseparable. I often went back to Margaret’s, even after my mother came home and I was restored to her tender care once more. I always felt welcome. It was my second home. Margaret’s house was a quiet place, a haven where I could do my homework. I have no illusions at all that my eventual place at college owed much to Margaret and Freya’s generosity. Best of all, though, Margaret’s house was safe.

  My home was not safe. I never recall a time I believed it was, not even when Connor was still there, though it was certainly better then—maybe because he was my protector, or perhaps I was just too young to be of any interest to my mother’s clients. That happy circumstance did not last, though, and by the time I was maybe ten or eleven, I was acutely aware of the different men coming and going at our house, sometimes several at a time. They all looked the same to me—slimy, lecherous, creepy. They would watch me, make comments and touch me if they got the chance. My mother never made any attempt to stop them. In fact, she seemed to take a pride in how ‘attractive’ they found me. Whenever she was ‘working’, I would hide in the attic bedroom I shared with my sisters, even barricade the door sometimes. I became quite skilled at clambering out of the window two stories up then down the drainpipe to make myself scarce. Sometimes I’d disappear for days on end, especially after I’d met Margaret and Freya and at last had somewhere to go.

  Largely as a result of my escape artistry, I managed to retain my virginity to the ripe old age of sixteen. The first time I did it, it was because my mother convinced me that I really should help her out. There was no choice, I had to help bring in a bit of something to put toward the rent. We’d lose our house if I didn’t.

  I was numb with shock. I didn’t protest, didn’t argue or struggle when she showed the first client into her tiny bedroom where she’d ensconced me for the evening. She told him I’d take care of him from there. He thanked her and smiled at me. He handed over a bunch of notes to her and she counted it before she left us.

  He wasn’t unkind or rough or anything like that. Quite the opposite. He seemed surprised when he realized I was a virgin and was considerate enough to conclude our business quickly. I kept my eyes tight closed the entire time he was there, determined not to look at him. I felt I could somehow lock him out that way, even if I had no choice but to allow him access to my body. He gave me a ten pound note afterwards, for being such a good girl. I still have it, a reminder of how totally shit life can be.

  He was the first of many—countless nameless men, all faceless to me because I refused to look at them. It wasn’t every evening, but it was frequent. My mother still worked herself, but whenever I was around, she’d insist I took a turn. I tried not to be at home very much, but I had to eat, and I wanted to see my sisters. I felt responsible for them. Over the next year or so, my mother sent God knows how many more clients my way. I did as I was told, always crying for hours afterwards.

  I do vividly recall one man, because he hit me. He thought my lack of eye contact was disrespectful and, of course, he was right. I felt nothing but utter contempt for him, for all of them. He fucked me then slapped me hard across the face. I screamed, and my mother came rushing into the room. She told me to shut up and him to get out. He muttered something about insolent slags and left. I followed him down the stairs and out of the door.

  I promised myself then and there that this would never happen again. I wasn’t a punchbag and I was through with fucking men for money, whatever my mother might say. Or need. From now on, she was on her own. I headed straight for Margaret’s, where I stayed for nearly six months. I only returned home when my mum got sent down again, and then only because I thought social services would let me take care of my sisters. Of course, they didn’t, and I was soon back with Freya and Margaret.

  Freya and I left school aged eighteen and went to college, in Lancaster. I was living at Margaret’s, managing to avoid my mother’s house and her vile clients. She tried to cajole me back, offered to pay me a bigger share, even if she had to go short herself. I never did. I swore my mother would never use me like that again, and she hasn’t. No one has.

  Freya’s been acquiring some odd habits in the year or so I spent in in Bristol. It seems she’s discovered her inner goddess or whatever that nonsense is in the book that everyone’s been reading. She lent it to me, highly recommended. I’ve finished reading it, so I hand it back to her across the breakfast table.

  “Did you like it then?” She places her knife on her plate as she signs the question, her marmalade abandoned for now.

  I shrug, not quite certain that ‘like’ is the correct word to use. “It was butt-clenching and sort of…exciting. In parts. But it’s a bit far-fetched. I mean, I know it’s a story, but in real life no one would want to…” I hesitate.

  Freya’s expression suggests my dismissive attitude is not a view she shares. I’m astonished. “You? Never. Surely. But, how? When?”

  It’s not that I have anything against sex as such, despite my less than fulfilling introduction to it. The whole business leaves me pretty cold frankly. By way of making sure, laying my ghosts, you might say, I’ve made it my business to experiment a little. I’ve gone out of my way, in fact, to prove to myself I’m not damaged, not scarred for life. I wouldn’t want to give any of them that satisfaction. As a result, I’ve had a few relationships with men I’ve met at college or work. Never anything especially passionate, well, except for one very unexpected incident, but I’ve made an effort. So have they, for the most part, but there has never been much of a spark.

  There was one occasion with a vet at the zoo who I met briefly, soon after I left my mother’s house for good. He was quite gorgeous as I recall, though what I remember most vividly is his voice. Something in his tone caused my stomach to churn, my pussy to clench, and made my knickers wet. It was disgraceful, I felt like a slut. It was quite inexplicable, so unlike me. He kissed me, and said some very rude things about what he might like to do to me. I wouldn’t describe my response to him as a spark so much as a nuclear explosion. I was terrified. And wildly excited. And now, more than two years later this damned book has rekindled those bizarre responses. I can’t get rid of it fast enough.

  I’m bewildered and not a little alarmed to note some of my old obsessiveness starting to re-emerge. It’s not the sex itself that concerns me, despite my less than positive experiences in my mother’s bedroom in Barrow and the downright bewildering episode with the vet at the wildlife park. No, I’ve sorted that, proved to myself I’m over it. My warning lights are flashing this time in response to the descriptions of unbridled sensual release in this distinctly unsettling book. I try to explain to Freya, who is, after all, familiar with my peculiar ways.

  “It all seems a bit extreme. I mean, all that passion, all that rampant, pain-filled lust. I really can’t imagine myself being so, so…abandoned. No one would. Such a lack of control can’t be good. Can it?”

  Even as I say the words, Freya is shaking her head, her expression a mix of amusement and pity.

  “It’s all about control and restraint,” she assures me. “And you shouldn’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

  “Yeah, right. Not happening. Even if I did have some sudden mental aberration and discover a fondness for whips and nipple clamps and…” I break off, trying to recall some of the other wondrous devices described in such graphic detail in my recent reading matter. I fail and reach for the cereal packet. “Anyway, I can’t imagine there’s much of it going on around here. Is there any milk?” I’ve never said anything to Freya about my unsettling encounter with the vet. Now would not be a good time to start sharing.

  “I joined a club.”

  “A… You did what?” I stop, my hand outstretched across the table as I reach for the milk bottle.

  “It’s very exclusive. In Lancaster. I go there a lot, actually.”

  Words fail me. Freya
takes advantage of my shocked silence to fill me in on the details.

  I’m soon assured that this sort of thing takes place on a nightly basis—all tastes and flavors catered for, no perversion too…perverse.

  “You could come, as my guest. Just to see…find out what it’s about. Everyone’s really nice. And it’s quite safe.”

  “I don’t think so. Not even for educational purposes. And I strongly recommend you find yourself another hobby. What’s wrong with sticking to the sewing you’re so fond of? Much safer. Less messy.”

  Freya has other ideas though and once or twice a week pours herself into an outfit made of some black stretchy, shiny stuff, and teeters out of the apartment on four-inch stiletto heels. She constantly assures me the offer to join her is still open, but failing that, not to wait up. I fear for her safety on those heels, but she seems determined to persevere. She assures me she’s perfectly safe, and she knows what she’s doing. I have my doubts, but it’s her life. I know when I’m beaten.

  * * * *

  It’s Saturday and Freya is late up. This is unusual for her and I can tell immediately that all is not well. Her woebegone face, her drawn expression…she looks to have had no sleep, despite spending the entire morning in bed. I reach to take her hands but she flinches away from me. I insist, and take her palms in mine, turning them over. Now it’s my turn to wince.

  The ugly red welts are plain, vivid and look very, very sore. After much probing I manage to get the story from her. I gather she agreed to a scene with a Dom who thought it might be fun to hit her hands with a ruler.

  I start to ask her why she let him, why she didn’t just tell him no, or better still, to fuck off. Then I remember…she can’t talk to non-signers. Well, not easily. And he must have known, must have been able to tell she didn’t want him to hurt her hands, but he just went ahead and did it anyway. What a bastard!

  After a couple of weeks moping around the apartment and despite my pleading, she’s once more sliding into her Lycra and leather kit and shimmying off to her club. I can only hope she manages to hook up with someone a little more sensitive next time, but I’m not optimistic. And I always wait up.

  * * * *

  Freya’s upset. More than upset, she’s distraught. She’s been banned from this kinky club of hers. I’m nothing short of incredulous. Freya is without doubt the sweetest, most harmless person in the known universe. She is not a trouble-maker, and most definitely not the sort to be banned from anywhere—least of all a kinky sex club. But banned she is, for some act of serious misconduct. It beggars belief.

  Again I have to drag the story from her. It appears she has taken to emailing Doms and offering them huge sums of cash to scene with her. I’m horrified. The phrase ‘more money than sense’ might have been invented for just this circumstance. Mercifully the Dom who would have been on the receiving end of this largesse has turned her down flat.

  Even so, his furious reaction is surely over the top. He could have simply declined her offer and left it at that, but he has indeed banned her from this club of theirs. She is desolate about it but I’m quietly relieved. At least now this madness might be over.

  Chapter Three

  I spoke too soon. Three days after the fateful email exchange, Freya comes bouncing into my bedroom as I’m getting dressed.

  “I’m back in. He agreed.”

  “What? Who?” I have a sinking feeling.

  Sure enough, she deposits her laptop on my bed, gesturing for me to read the latest missive from the Dom she so mortally offended. It’s short and to the point. He’s come to the conclusion that he was over hasty in banning her, and a spanking will, after all, be sufficient to settle his grievance. He’s even offering to administer it next time they are both at the club.

  I look up from the screen to note that Freya is all but buzzing. She’s elated—there really is no other way of describing it. I’ve never seen her so clearly overjoyed, not even when it sank in that she’d won the lottery.

  I know my efforts are doomed, but I feel obliged to try anyway.

  “Freya, you can’t do this. You can’t possibly do this. He’ll hurt you.”

  “I know. I know.” And to demonstrate her perfect grasp of this situation, she’s doing a happy dance round my bed.

  I sigh and give it up. For now.

  * * * *

  I’m terrified for Freya. I can’t see any way this could end other than with my dear, precious friend bruised and battered, and God only knows what other sort of abuse she might suffer. Freya flatly refuses to listen.

  “He won’t hurt me. Well, he will, but not badly.”

  “How can it not be badly? Christ, he could… He could…” I’m not entirely sure I know the extent of what Nicholas Hardisty could do, but none of it bodes well.

  “He’ll spank me. That’s all. It’ll hurt. But I like being spanked.”

  Well, I’ve gathered that much. But even so, a playful slap on the bum is one thing—this is something entirely different. And there’s something else nagging at me, something Freya put in her first email to Nicholas Hardisty which I didn’t pick up on immediately but which seems entirely relevant now.

  “What about safe words? You need safe words, don’t you? Even for this. How will you manage if you can’t speak to him?”

  “I’m not sure. I just will. He’s an experienced Dom. A Master. He’ll know when to stop.”

  “How? How the fuck will he know?” I don’t usually use the F word at Freya. She can’t really reciprocate in BSL. Well, apart from the obvious two finger thing. But there are times she’d make a parson swear and this is one of them.

  She smiles serenely at me, not at all offended. “He will. That’s all.”

  I give in. I have to eventually. I can’t prevent her from doing this thing, she’s a consenting adult. But at least I can inject some damage limitation to the proceedings.

  “How will you get home? Afterwards?”

  “I’ll drive, like I always do.”

  “What if you can’t? What if you’re not fit to drive? Not safe?”

  “I will be. No Dom ever left a sub in a state where she couldn’t get herself home. Well, not at this club. And anyway, if I didn’t want to drive, I’d just call a taxi.”

  “No, you bloody wouldn’t, not if it meant leaving that car of yours in Lancaster all night.”

  Freya just shrugs, clearly not expecting this issue to arise in any case. I stop my ranting. It’s a waste of breath. There’s only one thing left to do, as far as I can see.

  “Right. I’ll come with you.”

  Now I do have her attention. Freya is just staring at me, open-mouthed. Then, “You? You’ll come to the club with me? But why? You always said you’d hate it.”

  Yeah, well…that hasn’t changed. “Moral support, though you don’t seem to need that exactly. But more to the point, someone has to see you safely home.”

  “I’ll be fine. Really.”

  “Maybe you will. Christ, I hope so. But I’m coming anyway. It’ll make me feel better.”

  She hugs me, and I manage to hug her back. It’s that or strangle her. And so the matter is settled to Freya’s satisfaction, if not to mine.

  * * * *

  For more than a month now I’ve been trying to convince Freya of the reckless folly of this course she’s set on. Twice a week we’ve been attending this club of hers, in the hope—if that’s quite the right word—of meeting Nicholas Hardisty. We have not encountered him yet, but on each occasion, I’m not sure which of us has been the most tense. Needless to say, my protests at this folly have not diminished, though I might as well have been talking to the wall for all the good it does.

  Freya nudges me with her elbow before signing the words. “That’s him.”

  She uses her head to direct my attention to the two men at the bar. Not that I’d have missed them in any case. I may not share her submissive tendencies, but I am female and I’m not blind. The men are both gorgeous, in a dark and frankly terrifying
way.

  “Who? Which one?” Not that it matters. They’re both as bad—or as good. They are talking quietly and seem quite unaware of the pair of us hovering by the door. I take this opportunity to do a quick appraisal. They both look tall, over six feet I’d say. One of the men has his back to us, but I can see he has dark brown hair that just reaches the collar of his cream-colored shirt. His jeans are black. The cream shirt is covering a well-defined set of biceps as he reaches for his drink, and his profile is strong, angular, as he turns slightly in our direction. His dark companion says something that clearly amuses him, because he smiles. And I get it. I do at last get why Freya is so fascinated by him. That smile is quite, quite devastating. He places his drink back on the bar and leans in again, now turning fully from us once more. I can’t help hoping, for Freya’s sake, that he’s the famous Nicholas Hardisty, as his companion looks even more sinister.

  I nudge her with my elbow. “Which one is he?”

  “The one with his back to us. I’m not sure who the other one is, but he looks nice too.”

  Nice? Not the word I would have used. Mr Hardisty’s friend has darker hair. It looks almost black in the subdued lighting of the bar, and his clothing is definitely unrelieved black. I’ve noticed that most of the men we’ve encountered on our twice weekly visits here waiting for Freya’s Mr Hardisty to deign to show up, seem to dress in black. It’s a sort of Dom uniform. On some of them it looks contrived, too obvious. On this particular Dom, it looks understated and sort of right.

  The one dressed all in black looks the slimmer of the two, though there’s not much in it. He also seems to smile a lot, and his mouth is what I could only really describe as sensual. I can’t help feeling he looks vaguely familiar, though I’m not sure why. He is facing in our direction, though his attention is on his friend, so I am able to study him more carefully. Difficult to see the color of his eyes, but I’d expect them to be dark to go with the rest of his coloring. His hair is expertly styled, longer than average with a distinct waviness. His shirt shimmers slightly in the light. It might be silk. I have a sudden and unaccountable urge to run my fingers over it, to sample the sleek smooth texture.