A Hard Bargain (17 page)

“This is pretty. What’s it going to be?”

I step forward, reaching around him to pull out a quilt I completed a few weeks ago, this one a Roman-style mosaic. I show that to him, and reach around him once more, this time to pick up the rolled up sheet of flipchart paper I used to sketch out and measure the design I made for the vixen piece. I show him the overall pattern, a collection of scenes depicting the fox in its natural habitat, and point to where the piece he has in his hands will fit eventually. Several other squares, already completed, are piled up on the table, and I lay those out in their final intended sequence to show how it will all work together.

To his credit, he does seem genuinely interested, and impressed with my work. As indeed he should be—I am extremely good at this. It’s a bit of a niche hobby, but highly skilled. A completed quilt can be extremely intricate, requiring hundreds, probably thousands of small pieces of fabric all carefully measured, cut to size, and sewn together perfectly. The execution is difficult enough, but I also design my own stuff, and some of my designs even sell.

“This looks like a very exact science, Miss Stone. Do you have to measure and cut each piece individually?” The bland question seems innocent enough.

I nod, indicating with my head the clear plastic grid square I use and the eighteen inch ruler with a metal edge for accurate scalpel and wheel cutting. He smiles softly as he picks up the ruler, tensing it in his hands as he watches me. And the blood drains from my face as, too late, I realize his intent.

“Ten minutes, wasn’t it, Miss Stone? I think that calls for ten strokes, and this will do very nicely. Are you wearing underwear?”

My mouth is dry as I nod.

“I thought so. Quite decent and proper. Remove it please. Then if you’d be so kind as to clear a space among your work, lift your skirt up above your waist, and bend over the table, that would be much appreciated.” His bombshell dropped, his instructions issued, he leans back, his hips casually hitched on the edge of my table as he waits for me to comply.

My hands are shaking as I hook my thumbs in the elastic at the front of my panties and draw them down. I step out of them then place the white lacy scrap in his outstretched palm. He dangles the delicate concoction from his forefinger, glancing at my pants, then at me. “Very pretty, Miss Stone. Very feminine. They suit you. Please make sure you bring plenty more like this when you come to stay. And I promise you’ll have some even prettier stripes across your bum in a few minutes. The table, please?”

He watches, unmoving, as I arrange my completed quilt squares back into a neat and tidy pile then place them carefully next to the sewing machine at one end of the table. I collect up my other bits and pieces—fabrics, cardboard shapes, pins, cotton reels, scissors, cutting wheel, and place them close to the sewing machine too, leaving half the table empty and clear. Ample space for me to stretch out across the table top and bare my bottom for his punishment.

He evidently thinks so too. He nods and stands, a sharp tilt of his head indicating that I should assume the position. The memory of the discipline he meted out to me at the club is still fresh in my mind, so I’m in no real hurry to do this. This was not what I expected when I rushed out of here less than an hour ago to run down to Costa to meet him, and I didn’t dawdle then. I got there as quickly as I could, half an hour just wasn’t enough time. This is really not fair…

With a growing sense of injustice I scowl briefly over my shoulder at Nick Hardisty as I start to gather my skirt, bunching it in my hands ready to raise it above my waist.

“You have something to say, Miss Stone?” His tone is formal and clipped, stern.

I drop the fabric, my long, loose skirt once more swishing safely around my calves as I glance back at him. He steps forward, the ruler still in his hand as he picks up a pencil from my little pile of stuff by my sewing machine and passes it to me. I glance around among the chaos for something to write on, spotting a few small pieces of paper that I’d been using as templates for shape cutting. I pull one toward me and start writing.

I got there as fast as I could. You didn’t give me enough time.

And, an afterthought—

I’m sorry I was late. Truly
.

He reads my note, then locks his glacial gaze on me once more. “You should have said you needed longer. We could have arranged to meet later. Then you could have arrived on time.” He steps forward, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger, he holds my gaze truly captive. “If I instruct you to do something that you believe you can’t do, you must tell me, re-negotiate, explain. Otherwise you’ll fail to obey, and you’ll be punished. Like now. Do you understand what you need to do to avoid this situation arising again in the future, Miss Stone?”

I nod, blinking back my own tears of frustration that I let this happen. I was so eager to see him again, so pleased to hear from him, I just never considered, never thought…

“But still you feel I’m being unjust?”

I start to shake my head, but his fingers on my chin hold me still. “Don’t lie to me, Miss Stone. If you feel I’m being too hard on you, you can say so. We’ll talk about it. You won’t learn from a punishment you feel is unwarranted. And that’s what a punishment is for, to help you to learn the right things to do, the correct attitude, the acceptable way to behave. So, what do
you
think would be fair?”

Just fuck me, nicely, I’d settle for that.

Not happening, at least, not until he’s dealt with my disobedience. I reach for the pencil again, and write another note.

I’ll accept whatever you think is right. I’m sorry, I realize I should have said I needed more time.

I pass my note back, and wait.

His tone is still hard, stern, but his eyes less chilled now. He watches me for a few seconds, considering, then, “Good answer, Miss Stone. You’re learning. You’ve earned ten strokes, but I think five will get my message across. This time. Fair?”

I smile, nod. He steps back, gesturing with his free hand toward the table. “Right, let’s get this done then. Raise your skirt and bend over the table please.”

This time I do as I’m asked. Whilst not exactly enthusiastic, I manage to comply with considerably less reluctance than a few minutes ago. Five strokes, I can handle that. It’ll be over in no time. Won’t it? And then…

I bunch my skirt in my hands again and turn to face the table. I lean across it, instinctively stretching my arms out in front of me, gripping the opposite edge with my fingers. I hear his footsteps as he positions himself behind me.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, only five strokes, Miss Stone. But just in case, if you need a safe signal, you do two sharp slaps on the table top, like this.” He leans over me, slaps his palm twice on the table to demonstrate. “That’ll stop me, if you need to. Do you understand?”

I nod, thankful and encouraged that, even now, even when it’s just five strokes and we both know I can cope with that, he still gives me safe signals to protect myself. I was right about Nick Hardisty, I
will
be well cared for, with him.

Five strokes, hard ones to be sure, but only five. The first has my breath hissing out sharply.
Christ, that hurts.
Even though I know what to expect now, the next is no better, and I gasp, my knuckles whitening as my death-grip on the edge of my table tightens. My eyes are watering on the third—the fourth and fifth draw my first sobs. Then it’s done, over almost before it’s begun.

Nick Hardisty places the ruler flat on the table beside my face. I start to rise, but his hand on the small of my back keeps me pinned there.

“Don’t move just yet. Stay there.”

He walks away, crosses my living area in the direction of what I suppose he must have worked out are the bedrooms and my bathroom. Sure enough, he’s back a few moments later with a damp flannel and a tub of Sudocrem. It’s usually sold for nappy rash, but I’ve found it really soothing when dealing with the aftermath of a decent spanking, though I usually have to apply it myself. Not this time though. Nick Hardisty smoothes the cream across my bottom, gently rubbing it in. I manage not to squirm too much, especially as discomfort changes quickly to arousal as he pays more attention than perhaps strictly necessary to the furrow between my buttocks. I part my legs instinctively as his fingers slide lower. He’s exploring now, moving on to the next chapter, parting my labia to dip one fingertip into my moist and ready entrance.

“Where’s your bedroom, Miss Stone?”

His mouth is beside my ear, and I feel his breathe on the sensitive spot just behind it as he whispers the words. He withdraws his wonderful, skilled fingers from my body, and again, I start to push myself up. This time his hands are there to help me, and I find myself standing, then he turns me in his arms, kisses me briefly. “The bedroom? Or do I fuck you here on your table?”

I point in the general direction, and he takes my right hand in his left, using the other hand to gesture me to lead the way. I do, hoping I didn’t leave the place in too much of a tip this morning. Would he spank me for my slovenly domestic habits too, I wonder? Or worse?

Apparently not. Nick doesn’t seem to notice the tangled sheets and cluttered floor as he picks me up in the doorway of my bedroom and tumbles me onto the bed under the window. He follows me onto the bed, rolling me under him for a long, dragging kiss. He plunges his tongue deep, tangling with mine as he tastes and explores, his fingers deftly unfastening the buttons down the front of my blouse. I help by shrugging out of the blouse and tossing it onto the floor to join the rest of next week’s washing.

He makes short work of my bra, which soon adds to the pile beside the bed as he releases my mouth at last. But only to work his way down, nibbling his way over my jaw and neck, across my shoulder and down to my elbow, then up again to trace the underside of my breast before opening his lips around my erect nipple. He sucks on it, lightly at first, then more firmly. I remember the intensity of sensation when we scened in the dungeon, the agony and the exquisite ecstasy of the nipple clamps he used to arouse and entice me, and in my mind I’m there again. I tilt my head back as I arch up to offer more of myself, to beg him for more.

He continues to suckle, hard and greedy, as he unfastens his own shirt and flings it aside. Then he takes hold of my waist and rolls onto his back, pulling me around to land on top of him. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of my skirt and eases it down over my hips. I wince slightly as it scrapes over my bottom, but the sensation is one of pleasant soreness. He knows, and his palm is there, caressing my tender buttocks as he continues to tease and nip at my breasts. He alternates his attention from one to the other as I comb my fingers through his hair. My legs are open, straddling him, and he abandons my smarting bum to once more probe my entrance, testing my wetness, my readiness.

He moves again, this time to roll me onto my back. He thrusts his finger deep into me, and I gasp my approval, squeezing down instinctively.

“Ah, baby, that’s so sweet. Sweet and hot and tight.” His voice is a low, sexy murmur as he’s once again on the move, heading farther south.

He stops briefly to dip his tongue into my navel before continuing down, past my now outlawed pubic hair to position himself between my legs. He stops, takes his time to explore with his eyes, using both hands now to open my labia, exposing my sensitive inner lips. He gently opens and closes me, licking his own lips as he carefully picks his spot. Then he lowers his head to flick the tip of my clit with
his tongue before he slowly, deliberately, circles it. He licks the sensitive, engorged bud, just lightly at first, then pressing more heavily with his tongue as I arch and squirm under him. All the time his hands are there, holding me open, exposed and perfectly positioned for his attentions.

My orgasm is on me in moments, bubbling up swiftly, an avalanche of tingling sensation which quickly engulfs me, sizzling, connecting every nerve ending with my throbbing, empty core. I’m shuddering, my awareness now of everything in the room narrowed and focused on this man, this Dom, and what he’s doing to me with his wicked, knowing tongue. And I want him inside me. Now. Any way he likes. But it has to be now!

As ever, he knows. Kneeling, he unbuttons his jeans and slides the zip down. In moments they too have joined the pile on the floor, along with his boxer shorts. He has a condom foil packet in his hand, retrieved from his jeans pocket before he dumped them, and he snaps that open with his teeth. He’s kneeling between my legs, and he offers me the condom to unroll over him. I take it, my fingers only shaking very slightly as I do the honors. Fully sheathed, he leans forward, stretching out to lie over me, his weight supported on his elbows as he looks down at me, spread out under him, ready, waiting, willing and eager. He smiles, his gaze warm, sexy as he lowers his head to brush my lips with his at the same instant he thrusts into me.

He swallows my breathy gasp, and the ones that follow as he continues to thrust, long and deep, but slow. He seems to be relishing this, drawing out every sensation as I convulse under him, around him. My fingers are digging into his shoulders as I grab him and hang on as he picks up the pace. His thrusts are faster now, harder. Instinctively I lift my legs and wrap them around his waist, the sharper angle increasing the penetration. The head of his cock nudges my cervix with each stroke, and it’s fabulous. Absolutely wonderful. My inner muscles take on a life of their own as they squeeze him hard, the movements involuntary now as my arousal grows and peaks. Within moments I’m coming once more, my breath ragged as I’m carried along on yet another amazing wave of mind-blowing sensation. His mouth is now on my neck, nuzzling, nipping me as his own climax builds and explodes. His low curse is muffled against my shoulder an instant before the hot wash of semen fills the condom. He plunges once more, deep inside me, holds that position for long seconds to savor his own release.