A Hard Bargain (5 page)

I stop, look down at my two wrists, and glance back over my shoulder at Mr Hardisty. He’s watching me intently, and seems to know the instant the penny drops. He winks at me. The mighty Dom actually winks. And I do something incredible too, something I’d never have thought I could even contemplate doing. Ever. I turn to him, and I run at him. I throw my arms around him and I hug him. His arms close around me briefly before I step back, sedately, and offer him my hand to shake. Sensitive as well as powerful, my gesture of gratitude is not lost on Nicholas Hardisty. He takes my hand, nods to me politely, his softly murmured “You’re welcome” proving beyond any doubt that he gets it. Gets me. Then, it’s back to the business in hand.

“Now, little wannabe sub, on the bench please. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

Chapter Two

“Do you want to see the paddle I intend to use?” The cool, matter-of-fact voice is coming from right alongside me.

He’s very close, I can feel him, the whisper of his jeans, the movement of air as he positions himself.

I shake my head, pressing my face into the buttery soft leather padding on the top of the spanking bench. I’m already positioned, have been for the last few minutes as he’s once more taken his time and made me wait. I’m lying face down, bent at the waist, my feet on the floor and my upper body pressed into the leather. It feels warm against my naked breasts, not unpleasant at all. Just—strange. My arms are outstretched and I’m gripping the far end of the bench tightly. Under clear and direct instructions not to move, I’m acutely conscious of my bare buttocks, exposed and vulnerable, the rear string of the thong my only passing nod at modesty. And all the time I’ve been listening, listening to Nicholas Hardisty moving about the room, listening to him opening one of the cabinets, then another one, obviously selecting which items he intends to use tonight. On me.

“In that case, I insist that you
do
look. Open your eyes, little sub.”

I frown, shake my head again, quickly. Why can’t he just get on with it, get it over with, and let me go?

“That was not a request, and I won’t tell you again.” His tone is hard, firm, implacable.

I have no choice but to obey. He’s standing to my right when I open my eyes and find myself staring at a point just below his belt buckle, not more than six inches from my face. From what I can see, he has an erection, quite impressive, and I’m glad about that, it shows he’s not unmoved by my naked presence spread out before him. He lets me look my fill for a few moments before stepping back. He was holding the paddle behind his back while I ogled his erect cock, but now he brings it around, holding it loosely between his two hands.

“Have you felt one of these before? On your bare arse, obviously?”

I look at the instrument, gulping a little—it looks huge. And weighty. I shake my head.

“This one’s made of rubber. It’s quite flexible, and it’s heavy. It delivers a sharp sting, very painful while it’s being applied, but the pain won’t last long afterwards. You’ll be able to walk out of here a few minutes later. You’re quite small, delicate build, and this particular paddle is at the top end of what you might be able to stand. But this is a punishment beating, you know that. It’s meant to hurt. I won’t be gentle with you, but I’ll do you no lasting damage either. You
will
struggle, especially toward the end, but you should be able to cope. And you have your wristbands—use them if you need to.”

He strolls around to the other side of the bench, and I follow him with my eyes, turning my face to keep him in sight. He stops by my left shoulder and I can feel his eyes raking along my body, assessing. At last, he pronounces his judgment. “You have a pretty little body, Miss Stone, curvy and soft. A little on the small side, perhaps, but still very pretty. And you’ll look even prettier when I’ve brought out the delicate reds and pinks in your sweet little bum cheeks. You’ll be receiving twenty strokes…”

I flinch—twenty! With that huge paddle! I’d thought maybe twelve at most. He sees, smiles wryly.

“Twenty in total. The first ten with my hand, to prepare you a little. I won’t be gentle, but it will give you a chance to get your head together, get used to feeling the pain, riding it, breathing through it. Then the final ten with the paddle. And I want you to hold the paddle please, until I’m ready for it.”

The sadist. The cruel bastard is really rubbing the salt in. He makes me release my grip on the edge of the bench and instead wrap my fingers around the handle and the blade of the black rubber monster he’s selected. Apparently satisfied at last that I’m as terrified as he can conceivably achieve, no more words are spoken as he moves down to stand behind me. I brace, waiting for the first blow to fall, and almost leap off the bench as his palm connects with my left buttock. But it’s not a slap, it’s a caress.

“Keep still, I won’t tell you again.” His tone is firm, stern now as he reprimands me. “I don’t intend to tie your hands, but I will strap you in place around the waist and the knees if I need to. Now, I just want to make sure your circulation is stimulated, get some blood to the surface of your skin, help you to fully appreciate what I have to offer you. Would you like to thank me for my kindness, Miss Stone?”

I concentrate on remaining perfectly still, but apparently that’s not enough now.

“Miss Stone, pay attention. I asked you a question. Would you like to thank me for my kindness? You can answer by nodding. Or not.”

Discretion is without doubt the better part of valor. I nod.

“Good, you’re learning. Now, you should feel free to enjoy this part if you like.”

He continues to caress and massage my bum, digging his finger ends into the fleshy cheeks, sliding them under my thong to trace the crack between my buttocks, even circling my most private little orifice with one gentle fingertip. I manage to remain still, but can’t help the little gasp which escapes me. In the silence of the room it sounds like a steam train. “Are you very sensitive here, Miss Stone?” He helpfully probes my tight sphincter once more, just to make sure I know where he means. “Or maybe just shy?”

Rhetorical question? I’ve no idea—not sure if, or how, to answer. He helps me out of my dilemma again.

“Yellow for sensitive and you want me to be careful, red for shy and you want me to stop. Which is it, Miss Stone?”

I hesitate for just a moment before raising my left hand, the red wristband. No point in anything less than an honest response, no one has ever explored my bum before and I’m not at all sure I like it. I’m definitely acutely embarrassed but much, much too intimidated to move or even think about asking him to stop. But he does stop even so, and I realize that I used the ‘red’ signal. Was that why he stopped? Was that my first little practice at safe wording? His way of demonstrating to me that it works?

I’m still pondering that mystery when the first blow lands, full, hard and sharp across my left buttock, and I jerk on the bench, His hand is heavy, the slap reverberating around the room. He waits a couple of seconds before landing the next one, this time on my right buttock. Again I jerk—it hurts, really hurts. My knuckles are white as I grip the paddle, grinding my teeth to bear the pain. The third slap falls on my left buttock again, followed closely by another to the right. I’m shaking now, only sheer force of his will keeping me in place. I know if I move it’ll be worse in the long run.

Just take it, survive it.

“Don’t fight it, absorb it. Breathe slowly, in before I slap you, and out afterwards.” His tone is calm and measured, his advice no doubt perfectly sound.

Even so my first, inner reaction is along the lines of ‘Fuck you, you sadistic bastard’.

The next slap is harder than the first four were.

“More respect, please, Miss Stone. Now, breathe in and out slowly, it
will
be easier for you.” His near-telepathic reading of my inner thoughts is uncanny.

I bite my lip, my mouth desperately working as I struggle to maintain any sort of calm. Only half way through the so-called easy bit and already my bottom feels to be in flames.

“Listen to me, concentrate.” That low, measured timbre again, but it is managing to penetrate my tortured consciousness.

I’m trying to listen, to obey.

“Breathe in slowly…”

I do, or try to, my breath ragged but responding.

“Now, out.”

Again, I obey.

“Good, that’s it. In, out, in, out…”

Under his direction, I manage to get a grip on my body’s reactions, some semblance of control. I open my eyes and see his face, close to mine—he’s been crouching alongside me, whispering his instructions into my ear. He smiles briefly at me.

“Five to go. So now, you’re going to breathe in, hold it and breathe out when I slap you. And when you breathe out, open and relax your fingers too. Can you try that?”

I manage to nod, and he smiles again before he stands, moves back into position behind me.

“Breathe in, now.”

I do, and a couple of seconds later breathe out in response to the slap landing on my right buttock. It hurts, but the endorphins have kicked in now and combine with my steady, deliberate breathing to make it easier to bear. The pain radiates through me, out of me, and is absorbed almost into the bench. My fingers relax, without conscious effort from me.

“Good, now again. Breathe in…”

I obey, and the next four slaps are delivered, absorbed and melt away into the bench. Instead of getting harder, more excruciating, each slap seems easier, more bearable, more…welcome almost, than the one before it. And then he straightens, he’s done. Done with this phase anyway. Now for the main event.

“Give me the paddle now, Miss Stone.”

Never contemplating for a moment that I might protest or plead, I uncurl my fingers from around it and push it along the bench toward his outstretched hand. He takes it, and in my peripheral vision I can see him flexing it between his hands as he strolls back around to his position behind me.

“Nod when you’re ready for me to start, Miss Stone. And remember, your wristbands are there if you need them. If you want me to slow down, give you a few moments to rest, recover, you use the yellow one. If you need to call a halt altogether, it’s the red one.” He pauses for a moment, then, “You’re doing really well, Freya. You
can
do this. Now are you ready?”

I nod, and have the presence of mind to breathe in slowly and deeply before the first blow lands. Then all presence of mind leaves me in a blinding rush of intense pain. This is worse, much worse than anything I could have ever imagined. I forget to breathe in slowly, forget to breathe at all as the next blow lands. And the next two follow, in rapid succession. If I could scream, I’d be screaming now, rattling the walls and lifting the roof with my screams. As it is I grind my teeth, press my body and my face into the soft leather and try to remember how to pray. I can feel my tears soaking into the leather under my cheeks, my face is wet, I’m sobbing soundlessly. I’m gripping the end of the bench, my last desperate hold on consciousness.

“Okay, time out.” Nicholas Hardisty has stopped, and a few seconds later he’s crouching once more beside me, lifting the hair from my face. He presses the open neck of a bottle of cool water against my mouth. “Drink.”

Gratefully, I swallow a few drops of the cool, refreshing water, my throat working frantically. He offers me more, I accept.

“You forgot to use your safe signal. The yellow one, at least. You needed to stop back then, and you should have told me.”

I open my eyes again, frown at him, puzzled. Why
did
he stop then…? He sees my confusion, fills in the blanks.

“You were barely conscious. Another stroke and you would have lost consciousness, and then you’d be helpless. I was watching you. I could see you were losing it, and I won’t let that happen. A Dom relies on body language as much as on words to know how his sub is feeling. But you have to look after yourself too. Take responsibility for yourself, make your own choices. I’ve given you the signals, you have to use them, to protect yourself. Do you understand me?”

I stare at him, perplexed, struggling to take it in. Protect myself? Make my own choices? Easy for him to say, when I’m the one lying naked on a bench, beaten almost senseless. His eyes are on mine, the deep, dark gray boring into me, as if he knows what’s in my head.

“You’re here because you’ve chosen to be.” His words convince me that somehow he does know what I’m thinking. “You consented and you can withdraw that consent at any time. You can stop this whenever you want, you can get up, get dressed and walk away. And you can stop frowning and shaking your head. It’s true. And before you ask, no, I won’t have your membership here revoked if you safe word before I’m finished with you. If you’ve genuinely taken all you can, if you’ve reached your limit and can go no further, then I’ll accept that. We’ll be done here, this will all be over. Do you want to do that, Miss Stone? Do you want to use your red wristband?”

I regard him for a few more moments, then I amaze myself and perhaps him a little too, as I shake my head. His eyebrows are raised in silent admiration as he nods his approval at me and stands up.

“Good, I’m impressed. Shall we finish this now then?”

Again, I nod. He retrieves his paddle from the floor and once more, he takes up his position. “Six left. Are you ready for me to continue?”

At my quick nod he brings the paddle down again. It hurts again, just as much as before. I try, vainly, to apply the breathing trick, but this is just too much, the pain too intense, too blinding to have any hope of overcoming it, riding or getting above and beyond it. I can only lie there, trust him not to kill me and whimper to myself in silent agony until it’s done.

And that’s what eventually works. A lifetime later, or was it really just a few seconds, he’s dropping the paddle to the floor. To his credit, Nicholas Hardisty doesn’t hang around over getting me past the finishing post. He’s lifting my hair from my face, pouring cool, refreshing water into my mouth, across my parched lips. I swallow, running my tongue around my dry mouth, only now realizing how arid that inner landscape has become. He holds the bottle to my mouth, encourages me to take more.