A Hard Bargain (21 page)

“Mr Hardisty specified an all over wax so I’ll need you to strip completely please.”

Mike’s polite, efficient and completely professional. I can do no less than return the compliment. A few moments later I stand naked before his dispassionate gaze as he examines me for all and every wisp of unwanted body hair. My underarms, legs, all are to be carefully and completely smoothed, utterly hair-free. He snaps on his latex gloves and lays me on his treatment table. He turns me one way, then the other, applying his wax and fabric strips and ripping away the offending hairs mercilessly.

When it comes to my pubic hair he asks me to bend one knee, bringing my heel right up to my bum, then he gently presses my knee to the side, opening me for his work. He offers me one brief smile of reassurance before bending and concentrating on his task, deftly smoothing on the wax then sharply ripping it away to tear out the hairs.

He’s quick, I have to grant him that. And clearly his reputation as one of the salon’s best beauticians is well deserved. I lie there while he works, concentrating on breathing deeply, not wriggling, and offering no protest no matter how intimately he touches me. It’s particularly difficult when he politely asks me to crouch on all fours, my knees spread wide as he gently parts my buttocks to spread the wax around my anus. I’m not sure if the salon staff will be reporting back to Nick, but I wouldn’t be surprised and I’m determined not to disgrace myself. I comply with every request without fuss. If Nick Hardisty wants me to do this, to endure this humiliation, I will. For him.

At last my treatment is complete. Mike smoothes baby oil all over my smarting, tender skin and offers me a mirror to inspect my newly smooth nether regions. Past embarrassment now, I thank him and take a close look. He’s done a good job, I can see that. I have to admit I really do look rather nice down there—all pretty and pink and very obvious. My clit is now on proud display, and I can only shiver at the thought of how much more prominent it will become when I’m aroused. I’ve already noticed that several subs at the club remove their pubic hair and that Doms seem to like it—now I can see why.

* * * *

I drive to Lancaster to see the doctor at her private surgery. She’s already accessed my medical records so is familiar with my aphonia. I’m offered a signing interpreter when I present myself at the reception desk, but I decline. I’d really prefer not to have a third person present, and can generally manage by writing stuff down. I wonder whether Nick had mentioned the possible need for an interpreter, another example of his thinking ahead and anticipating what I might need, or maybe the doctor just worked it out from my medical history. I resolve to ask him.

The doctor is also aware of my diabetes, and agrees with me that it’s under control and not likely to cause me any problems in my coming encounter with Nick Hardisty. Picking up on my communication issues, it’s clear that she understands the precise nature of our planned activities and the potential risks. She stresses, as Nick had, the importance of body language and using other signals to let my Dom know how I’m feeling. But like him, she doesn’t seem unduly worried about that aspect of things.

She asks me questions about my menstrual cycle, does a pregnancy test just to make sure, takes a number of blood samples, weighs and measures me, then does an internal examination before pronouncing me fit for purpose. She promises to send the results to Nick, as agreed, and to forward to me the results of his blood tests in due course.

I come out of her surgery feeling great, oddly elated, and head home to finish my packing.

* * * *

All the way to Australia, as I count the minutes ticking by on the long, long flight to Singapore. All through the seemingly never-ending second leg of the journey into Kingsford Smith airport, my head is teeming with the details of my recent encounters with Nick Hardisty. And even more compelling, the encounters to come, after my return to the UK. I turn over in my mind how much of my kinky lifestyle I could possibly share with Margaret, and to what end? Sharing might be good, but I’m not in need of advice, my mind is made up. I’m committed, and not for a moment regretting the decision I’ve made. I’ve wanted this, so badly wanted this. And now, I’m to have my wish.

I’m not convinced Margaret would understand my unusual sexual preferences. Summer certainly doesn’t and I’ve had years to try to explain. Or maybe Margaret would—she seems to understand everything, and she always ‘got’ me, right from the beginning. But still…

Seeing my adored foster-mother again is wonderful, and as ever I’m delighted that she seems so happy. No one deserves happiness more than she does, and not for the first time I bless the day I won that money and found myself in a position to help her make the leap to grab this new life of hers. I ponder over whether to tell her what my plans are for when I return home, but eventually decide against it. She’s never likely to meet Nick, and I somehow don’t think she shares my fascination with kinky sexual adventures. So we settle for five weeks of good food, swimming, shopping, theater and the rest of what New South Wales has to offer.

Sydney is a beautiful city, one of the loveliest I have ever seen, although admittedly my travel experience is not yet especially wide. I’m getting there though, but I have yet to develop a real fondness for traveling alone. Apart from the world-famous harbor area dominated by the magnificent and iconic opera house, the city has wonderful beaches and watersports to rival anything in the world.

I’ll never tire of watching humpback whales and dolphins, and although I’m not a strong swimmer, I love this beach-based lifestyle. But the shops are my real passion, and Margaret and I spend countless hours that trip in the boutiques and arcades as I replenish my not inconsiderable wardrobe. I recall Nick’s suggestion that I make sure to pack plenty of seductive underwear for my stay at his home, and if Margaret wonders why the pile of skimpy lace and satin objects in my guest room at her house just keeps on growing, she’s too polite to comment. Or maybe she does have an inkling—I’m twenty-three years old after all, it’s about time I started putting it about a bit.

We book one of our regular trips to the Outback, a few days of intense heat, arid dust, rocks and an infinity of scorching emptiness at the Mungo National Park. This must be one of the most beautiful and the most cruelly demanding places on the planet, but I love it. I never tire of gazing across the desert landscape and recalling my earliest memories of the endless sands of Morecambe Bay. I now know the difference between that and a true desert, but the memories it evokes are powerful and we spend much of my trip reminiscing about the UK. Margaret loves her new partner and her new life, but never tires of talking about ‘home’.

The weeks slip by rapidly, a blur of sightseeing and retail therapy. Most powerful of all though is the sheer joy of being reunited with Margaret. We chat, we reminisce. She asks after Summer, enquires about what quilting projects I have on the go, shows me what she’s working on. I rummage through her box of UFOs—unfinished objects—and we spend the evenings companionably as I put the final touches to some of her projects. Despite my generally chaotic approach to housekeeping, I do have a thing about finishing what I start. It’s just like old times, but warmer. Not so wet.

Then it’s over. Before I know it, the five weeks have passed. Margaret and George are helping me to pile my luggage into the back of their car and driving me back to the airport. I cling to Margaret at the entrance to the departure lounge, the huge plate glass doors swishing backwards and forwards behind me as other passengers hurry through, rushing along at the start of their journeys. I know it won’t be that long before I see Margaret again, but even so this does feel like a pivotal moment. As though something fundamental is changing. Perhaps it is.

I tear myself away and sling my hand luggage over my shoulder. I walk through the doors, then turn to wave at the two women. George has draped an arm around Margaret’s shoulders and I can see that Margaret is crying. So am I. I wipe the tears from my own face and manage a tremulous smile before I start to make my way toward the banks of soft seating. I’m quickly swallowed by the crowds, and when I look back again the sea of people hides Margaret from view. I’m on my way home.

* * * *

And now, I
am
home. After a five week stay in New South Wales, and after being on the move for twenty-four hours, I’m at last stepping off the Qantas jet at Manchester. I breathe in the familiar chilly air and glance up at the gray skies before moving along into the airbridge. Spots of rain are pattering against the roof of the tunnel as I troop through with the other first class passengers, heading for the main terminal building. Passport control and baggage reclaim are necessary evils of international travel and I do what I need to do before finally emerging with my suitcase into the damp early evening an hour or so later. I wait my turn for a taxi, and eventually I’m settled in the back seat heading for home. And Nick Hardisty.

I didn’t hear from him at all for the first three weeks. Then I received a text reminding me of the date our month together is to start. I acknowledged it and confirmed I’d be there. A couple of days later I received another text, this time advising me of Nick’s address and providing directions to find his home. I was surprised to find that he lives near me, in Cartmel, only about ten miles from Kendal. I acknowledged that message too.

The next text informed me that my wax treatment from nearly six weeks ago would need to be repeated, and that he’d made arrangements with Mike to attend to me the day after my return to the UK. I confirmed my intention to keep the appointment, kicking myself for not appreciating that the effects would be relatively short-lived and would need to be replenished. I might as well not have bothered with the first ordeal. Of course, Nick knew full well that this would happen, hence the pre-booked appointment.

The next message asked me to arrive at Nick’s home at three o’clock in the afternoon on the appointed date, and to bring only a small bag with essential toiletries and any medical requirements. And he reminded me that my clothing requirements will be minimal.

A potential problem has arisen though, or more accurately the problem had only just occurred to me. I was somewhat nervous as I replied to that latest text.

My apologies, Sir. I’ve just realized I’ll be having my period when I arrive and it will continue for three days into my training. Would you prefer to delay?

His response is typically blunt.

No delay. This was likely to be an issue at some point. Will you be in any discomfort?

No, Sir, not usually.

Good. It makes no difference then. By the end of our time together this issue will probably arise again, and by that time I will require a more relaxed attitude from you.

Thank you for your understanding. I expect I’ll be perfectly well, Sir. And relaxed. I’m happy to proceed as planned.

His reply was typically succinct.

Excellent. Don’t be late.

And now, as I sit in the back of the taxi, purring up the M6 toward Cumbria once more, I know it’s only two more days and one excruciating wax treatment before I see him again.

And it all starts.

Chapter Ten

Two fifty-seven. I pull up outside Nick Parrish’s house about half a mile out of Cartmel and heave a sigh of relief. I’m on time. I took the precaution of checking out the address on Google maps and set off early, but still I’ve been dreading his reaction if I should be even a few seconds late. This is a big deal, much bigger than the coffee shop in Kendal. I get out of my car and gaze in some surprise at the property. It’s not what I expected.

To start with, the place is huge. It’s a long, sprawling, slate built bungalow surrounded by a five foot wall. Impressive wrought iron gates open onto a cobbled courtyard where my lovely Vanquish is now lording it in glorious isolation. I’d expected to see Nick’s motor cycle here, or maybe a car. I guess he must have a car. But there’s no other vehicle except mine. The place looks deserted. I double check my map and the address. I’m supposed to be at a place called Edge End Farm, and I glance back at the gate post to check. Yes, the name plate there confirms I seem to have arrived at the right place. So, where is he?

I walk up to the front door, a pretty shade of red, and knock. I wait. No answer. I knock again, louder. Still no response. I go back to my car and reach in to find my bag. I drag my phone out to double check the required date and time—you never know…

I see that there’s another message, just arrived. It’s from Nick.

I’m delayed. Key at Post office in village. Make yourself at home. Please stay there until I arrive.

To think I managed to get all the way back from Australia in time to keep our appointment, then busted a gut to make sure I was on time today. Seems like it’s another rule for Doms, as ever. Still, there’s no alternative. With a sigh I hop back in my car and head down into Cartmel. I find the post office easily enough and soon retrieve the key to Edge End Farm from the motherly type behind the counter. She eyes me curiously, especially when I hand her a note across the counter like some sort of clichéd bank robber, but obviously she concludes I look harmless enough, and I daresay she has her instructions to hand over the keys so she does just that. I pocket them, nod my thanks, smile my agreement to pass on her regards to Nick then make my way back to Nick’s house to let myself in.

At first sight Nick Parrish’s house really is as nice inside as it is on the outside. I haul my modest bag in from the boot of my car, mostly crammed with seductive underwear and toiletries, and drop it on the floor inside the front door before setting off on my solitary tour.

His text said to make myself at home, so the first thing I should do is to find my way around. The rooms seem to go off a central hallway, thickly carpeted, and I stroll down it, curious and opening doors. I’m delighted to find a large, very well equipped kitchen, and look forward to maybe getting to do some of the cooking in it. Apart from quilting, I have a passion for food and cooking, possibly the result of my diabetes. My dietary needs mean it’s easier to cook healthy food for myself from scratch rather than rely on processed food or eating out.