A Hard Bargain (20 page)

“Tears, Freya? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

I shake my head, smiling ruefully as I wonder how I could possibly mime ‘tears of joy’. I don’t need to though, as he continues to hold my gaze, his slate eyes warm now, and tender. “I see.”

He continues to wipe away my tears, and I couldn’t stem the flow even if I’d tried to. He doesn’t seem to mind, just waits until I’m collected, calmer. His kiss is brief, approving, before he straightens, catching and holding my gaze.

“This thing we’re doing together is very intense, particularly for the sub who’s just learning, exploring, finding out things about herself. It peels back your emotional layers, releases feelings you weren’t even aware of. Crying’s natural, and it’s honest. If you feel you want to cry, then just do it. Don’t try to fight it or hide it from me. And don’t be embarrassed. This is just me, and I know what’s going on. It helps me to know how it’s affecting you, how I’m making you feel. Especially when you can’t easily tell me any other way. Okay?”

His voice is quiet, muted in this vast space around us as his words are only intended to reach my ears, no further. His face, beautifully masculine, the Dominant severity now veiled under genuine concern and tenderness, is just inches from mine. I can see the lighter flecks in his storm gray eyes as he continues to hold my gaze, connecting with me, this moment every bit as intimate as when his fingers and cock were buried deep inside me.

I nod, my tremulous smile still somewhat watery as he lowers his head to kiss me properly at last. It’s a long, dragging kiss, deep and sensual and totally absorbing. I cling to him as I try to convey my absolute and bone-deep gratitude for the things he’s showing me, teaching me.

He breaks the kiss at last, raising his head to catch my gaze.

“Tears aside, I’m guessing you liked that. All of it.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but I nod my agreement anyway.

He dips his head in acknowledgment. “And you learned from it. I think your boundaries have shifted a lot today. You are a very receptive student, Miss Stone. And so am I. Would you demonstrate the signing for ‘thank you’, please?” He steps back slightly to allow me room to move my hands.

Puzzled, I nevertheless demonstrate the gesture, touching my fingers to my lips before extending my open hand.

He nods, and repeats it back to me. Thanking me for the lesson?

“When I teach you something, you should thank me. So from now on, I expect to see that gesture a lot, Miss Stone. And when I correct your behavior too, when I punish you and you learn from it. You will thank me for that as well. Now, teach me ‘please’, if you would be so kind.” His tone has hardened now, cooled, the Dom voice is back, and once more his mercurial switches unnerve me.

I demonstrate the correct sign. He inclines his head, storing the information. “I expect you to be respectful at all times, assume the proper attitude from a submissive toward her Dom. So you will ask me nicely when you want something, I expect to be seeing a lot of ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. I demand perfect manners from my submissive. And you will need to say sorry when you make a mistake, so now show me how you’ll say ‘I apologize’.”

This time I touch my mouth before making a fist and rubbing it on my other palm, instinctively assuming the downcast eyes and anxious facial expression that would usually accompany the gesture. He notices the whole combination, and takes my chin between his palms to lift my face, bringing my eyes back to meet his once more.

“Eye contact will be an issue for us. Usually I’d require a submissive to lower her eyes, especially when showing respect, or when she’s being disciplined. But your eyes are so expressive. They tell me how you’re feeling, and I need those signals from you. We’ll see how that goes, but generally I want you to look at me, not the floor. Is that clear?”

I nod, and he tilts his head wryly.

“One more key word for now. You’ll call me ‘Sir’. At all times, please. So show me how that should look.”

I think for a moment, the nearest approximation dragged up from my school days although this seems not exactly the same sense of the word. Still, it’ll have to do. I demonstrate the gesture, then, on impulse, I also sign ‘master’. He watches, then regards me carefully. “Are those words interchangeable?” Insightful and intuitive as ever, he knows just what to ask me.

I shrug, wrinkle my nose to indicate ‘not really’.

He nods curtly. “Then I think the first will be fine.” In a rapid shift of mood, he leans down to pick up my discarded jeans and briefs, handing them to me. “Now, I’ve worked up an appetite. For food. What about you?”

I nod. In fact I’m famished. Apart from a few cups of coffee, I’ve not eaten all day. I balance on one leg as I wriggle back into my jeans, and Nick Hardisty, ‘Sir’ to me now, it seems, strolls around to the back of the car to collect my bra and T-shirt from where I placed them earlier. Coming back, he hands those to me as well.

“There’s a nice pub at the far end of the lake. Have you been there?”

I have, many times, and I nod my approval of his choice. The Wasdale Head Inn is a wonderful moorland pub, a mecca for hikers and campers, and does a roaring trade in thick hot soup and chunky sandwiches. They know just the sort of fuel required to sustain the most intrepid fell walker across miles of the most brutal terrain in the country. I daresay they’ll be able to come up with something to see me through my own challenges.

By the time my T-shirt is back in place and I’m thoroughly decent once more, Nick—sorry, ‘Sir’—has the passenger door open and is waiting for me to slide back into the car. I do, belting myself in as my thoughts turn to chunky wholemeal bread and the rather acceptable bowl of carrot and parsnip broth I once guzzled on a previous visit.

‘Sir’ settles into the driver’s seat once more and hits the button for launch control. He slants a mischievous glance in my direction. “There’s nowhere else they could have been going, this road’s a dead end. And they haven’t come back this way yet. So, I wonder if your fan club in the red Citroen will recognize you with your clothes on…”

I gape at him, my eyes widening. I shake my head briefly, they couldn’t have, didn’t. Did they? He just laughs, reversing the Vantage smoothly back out onto the tarmac as two impassive sheep watch our progress from the brow of a nearby rise, clearly contemplating the vagaries of humans and perhaps relieved that we’re leaving them in peace once more.

Understanding my consternation perfectly, ‘Sir’ continues, “There was a little wobble as they went around the bend, maybe. Perhaps just a glimpse, not enough to be sure…”

Chapter Nine

My fan club
is
waiting for us at the Wasdale Head, a middle-aged couple with their elderly mother it looks like, comfortably ensconced in a corner of the bar tucking into slabs of home-made meat and potato pie. We recognized their car in the car park as Nick slid the Vanquish into the adjacent space, and they are the only other occupants of the public room. The evening trade won’t really build up for another hour or so, and the day trippers are all gone.

We nod politely to the red Citroen brigade as we pass their table and settle for a secluded booth by the window. Nick goes to the bar to order coffees and food. I select a tasty Beouf Bourgignon with rice, whilst he follows the example set by the occupants of the red Citroen and goes for a slab of meat and potato pie. By the time our meal arrives, all fragrant and steaming, I’m absolutely famished and dive into mine with a level of enthusiasm little short of gluttonous. Nick finds the whole thing hilarious, observing that it’s encouraging to see I have a good, healthy appetite, that he hasn’t managed to put me off my food. Yet.

Hardly likely.

The rest of the evening is spent chatting over nothing much at all. We have more coffee then I have a couple of glasses of dry white wine. Nick sticks to iced water, as he’s insisting on driving back. I just shrug, let him have his way. I suspect I always will.

I take advantage of the moment to ask him something that’s been puzzling me since our meeting in Costa.

Why did you agree to train me after all? What made you change your mind?

He regards me seriously for a few moments, and I get the impression he’s not altogether sure of the answer to that. Eventually though he does volunteer an explanation.

“I like you. And I saw potential in you that night at the club. Despite my initial impression, you
are
a natural submissive. With proper training you could be superb.”

I nod, thinking that’s all I’m going to get, but it seems he hasn’t entirely finished.

“I think you overstate your, what? Your vulnerability?” He glances at me quizzically.

I shrug. That’s a good enough way of describing my situation I suppose. He continues. “You do have difficulties, I accept that, and some things need to be done differently with you. For you. But not that much, not really. You just need time, and patience, and I know now how rewarding you can be. Your orgasms are so sweet, all that gasping and panting and clenching around my cock.”

He smiles at me, his eyes warm, sexy, and my toes curl. Still he hasn’t finished. “All Doms should be patient, and take particular care of an inexperienced sub, but unfortunately not all are. And you, you’re just an accident waiting to happen. I was worried about you, about what you might try next. And who with. But make no mistake, Freya, I wanted to train you. If I didn’t, I would never have agreed. I’m here because I want to be, just as you are.”

Wow. Nice answer. Mostly. And so not what I expected. I reach for my phone again.

Doesn’t it spoil it, for you? Me making no sounds? I thought Doms liked that sort of feedback. That they liked to hear a sub scream
.

He smiles, shakes his head. “As I’ve said, it’s different with you. And more complex than that. Your responses are exquisite, Freya, it makes my mouth water just thinking about how delightful you are when you come. And you shouldn’t ever let anyone suggest otherwise. If you do ever hear a putdown like that from a Dom, you’re in the hands of an idiot, which is never good, and you need to be out of there. Yes?”

I gaze at him, and nod. He’s so good for my self-esteem.

By the time we’ve finished our drinks the bar is filling up nicely. For such a secluded spot, this pub seems to do a roaring trade. There’s no chance of seclusion now so I’m not surprised really when Nick asks me if I’m ready to leave. By mutual consent we prefer our privacy. We stroll back across the now busy car park hand in hand and I’m oddly pleased when Nick opens my car door for me and hands me in.

Old fashioned courtesy as well as spanking—what a delightful combination.

By nine o’clock we’re gliding to a halt, back in my personal parking bay once more. Nick walks with me as far as the lift then stops. Turning me to face him he drops another light kiss onto my lips. “I’ll leave you here, if that’s all right. I have things to do, things to be sorting out for my trip. I’ll be away for at least a month, but I
will
be in touch. Watch out for my texts and respond immediately. No excuses, okay? And I’ll set up your appointments for you.”

I’m disappointed, I had wondered if he might decide to come back in, maybe even stay over, but I always knew that was unlikely. So I nod, accepting, and as an afterthought sign, “Thank you, Sir.”

He inclines his head, one Dom-like eyebrow raised in approval. “Excellent manners, Miss Stone. You are an impressive student. I’m looking forward to when we next meet.”

And with that, he’s gone, strolling casually over to his huge motor bike, which I now spot tucked away in a visitor’s space at the other side of the parking area. I must ask him when he parked it there, though I assume it had to be before he met me at the Costa coffee shop. He must have been confident he’d end up here.

Doms are so cocky.

* * * *

I receive a brief text from Nick the following morning telling me to present myself at the
Pretty Things
salon for waxing at four o’clock this same afternoon, and that I have an appointment with the club medic the following morning. I text back immediately to thank him, remember to call him ‘Sir’ and confirm I’ll be there. Then I get on the Qantas website to book my flight to Australia for the day after that.

I research Brazilian waxing on the Internet before I go along to the salon, and even find a very explicit video so I know exactly what to expect. The video advises two max strength Anadin’s half an hour before, and a long soak in the bath. I prepare accordingly, but despite my precautions I’m still cringing as I present myself at the glass reception desk in the entrance to the salon. The receptionist is pleasant and welcoming, inviting me to take a seat for a moment and assuring me I won’t have a long wait. She picks up the phone on the desk and speaks into it.

“Mike, your ten o’clock’s here.”

Mike! Surely not…

My desperate hope that Mike might actually turn out to be Michelle, or even Michaela are dashed when my attendant pops out of a room to my right. At just under six feet, sporting a neatly trimmed mustache, and biceps that bear witness to many hours spent in the gym, Mike is most definitely not short for Michaela.

“Miss Stone? This way please…” His tone is efficient and friendly.

But there’s no way I can see myself spreading my legs and letting him wax my pubic hair.
Christ!

I just gape at him, wondering how to explain. How to request a female beautician. Seeing my flustered expression he stops, waiting at the door to his domain.

“Is there a problem, Miss Stone?” This from the friendly receptionist, still perched at her station and watching the proceedings.

I glance back at her, surely she’ll understand. Apparently not. “Mike’s one of our best beauticians. And Mr Hardisty did specify that your attendant should be a male…”

Ah. It all becomes clear. Well, clearer. This is another test of my submission, a demonstration of his authority. He knew I’d hate this. The procedure is bad enough as it is, painful enough, without the added humiliation of having to strip, open my legs and let a man touch me so intimately. And that’s exactly why he set it up this way. I close my eyes, draw a deep breath and follow Mike into his little cubicle.