A Hard Bargain (7 page)

You promised. You promised me. You can’t go back on it now.

He takes my chin in his hand and turns my head to make me meet his gaze. He looks puzzled. “Go back on what?”

I start to type again and he releases my chin to let me see the screen.

I’m twenty-three years old, and I know what I want. I want you. You promised we could go back up to our room and

He chuckles again before I can complete my sentence. “Well, aren’t you eager? How nice. Okay, don’t panic, a promise is a promise. And your inexperience is no use to you here. A liability in fact, someone could be clumsy, not realize and get carried away, really hurt you. Since you’ve asked so nicely, I will fuck you, and I’ll do it very slowly, very gently, very thoroughly and very well. I’ll stop short of fucking you till you faint—we really should work up to that more gradually—but you will see stars. And if you say please very prettily, I’ll probably even agree to do it all over again, just to make sure you got the message. That suit you?”

I turn my head of my own volition this time, gape at him over my shoulder.
Christ, what an offer!
Then, a little belatedly perhaps, I try for some shred of decorum as I turn my attention back to the phone.

Yes, thank you, Sir. I think that should do very nicely.

“Well I’m glad we’ve got that sorted. Sounds like a plan. Now, before I start working on widening your experience in the fucking department, what would you like to do here? Any requests, anything you particularly fancy trying, or will you let me choose?”

I turn in his arms and point to his chest.

“Me then. Okay, something—intense—I think. A bit of edge but not too painful. Needs to be memorable though. And maybe a bit of a mind-fuck as a prelude to the body-fuck later. I know just the thing for you. Come on.”

A mind-fuck? Not sure I like the sound of that. But still, when he stands, turns to me, his hand outstretched, I take it. Modesty abandoned, I get to my feet, naked, and follow him across the room. He leads me over to the dungeon-master, my usual protector. Frank is stationed behind a small desk at one end of the room. His strategic position means he can see everything that’s happening, everywhere in his domain. Nothing goes on here that Frank doesn’t know about and allow. He’s huge and imposing—ex-Army I’m sure, and he rules the dungeon with a rod of iron. But I like him. Frank’s always quite nice to us subs, especially the unattached ones like me. His job here, mainly, is to look out for us, to make sure no one takes anything too far, and that no one gets hurt. I appreciate Frank, his presence, his rules. But I don’t usually parade around in front of him naked. He doesn’t turn a hair though—not that he has much—just nods politely at us.

“Mr Hardisty, Freya, I trust you’re both enjoying your evening.”

Nicholas Hardisty smiles amiably, relaxed and casual, his arm loosely slung across my shoulders. “Yes, so far. And it promises to get even better. Could I trouble you for a blindfold please?”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Yes, there will be later. Would you mind coming over to us in a few minutes please? For now just the blindfold though.”

“Certainly.” He turns to me then. “And may I ask, Freya, what arrangements have you agreed regarding safe words?”

I stand, waiting for Nicholas to answer for me. He offers nothing so I glance up at him. He just shrugs and gestures toward Frank with his head, indicating that I should speak for myself. I hold up my hands to show the huge guardian of public safety my new wristbands.

He nods once, this time directing the gesture at Mr Hardisty. “Very good. I assume red means ‘stop’ and the yellow means ‘caution’?”

I nod, and smile confidently at him. I can do this. I can actually join in now and do this. Maybe I could have managed something along these lines before—it’s hardly rocket science, just a couple of colored wristbands—but it’s so incredibly difficult to explain even the simplest things, let alone negotiate, when the people around me don’t understand signing. And even though I always have my phone or my iPad with me, it’s in my bag, back in the cloakroom. No one here ever handed me their phone or a set of wristbands before.

Apparently satisfied that matters are under reasonable control, the huge man slips through a door behind him into a store room where lots of miscellaneous paraphernalia is kept. He returns a moment later with a thick felt blindfold, the sort that ties at the back. Nicholas turns to me immediately, places it over my eyes and ties it tightly around my head.

“Can you see anything?”

I shake my head, reaching out with my hands to feel where he is. He steps in front of me and I clutch the front of his shirt.

“As I said before, your eyes are very expressive, you tell me a lot with your eyes, about how you’re feeling, how you’re responding, and I’m taking a risk covering them. And what I have in mind for you tonight might feel strange, might surprise you, might frighten you a bit. It’s meant to. But I won’t hurt you. Do you trust me, Freya?”

I nod, but in reality, despite my wristbands, I’m pretty nervous. I feel totally cut off. He can’t understand my signing, and without my sight I can’t write, I can’t communicate anything except with my wristbands. But now his hands are on my shoulders, stroking and soothing, his voice easing into my head, steadying and grounding me.

“Trust me, I won’t let anything happen to you. And you can stop me at any time, you know that. Okay?”

I nod again. He takes my hand, and starts to lead me across the room. My footsteps falter as I follow him, terrified I’m going to trip or bump into something. I don’t though, he smoothly negotiates me around the dungeon until I have absolutely no idea where I am or what equipment he has led me to. I’m disorientated and totally lost.

“Shuffle backwards, slowly.” His soft instruction is murmured into my ear. I obey and feel something behind me, against my bare legs and back, some sort of apparatus, a solid structure.

“Raise your arms over your head.”

Trusting still, I do as I’m told. And immediately wish I hadn’t. He quickly secures my left wrist with a strap, then my right. It feels like leather and my arms are held above my head, my hands stretched wide apart. My last means of signaling suddenly withdrawn I start to tug, to struggle in earnest. He’s there again, close, his breath against my ear.

“Be still, Freya, trust me.”

But it’s no good, I’m shaking my head wildly, scared, starting to lose it. He takes my face between his palms, holds my head still and places his mouth on mine.

The effect is instantaneous. His kiss, so unexpected, quiets and calms me, especially as my mouth instinctively opens under his and his tongue slides inside, exploring, tasting, claiming. One hand remaining on my face to hold me in position, he deepens the kiss, at the same time as his other hand slides down my body, across my breasts then farther, to tease the softly curling, neatly trimmed hair between my legs. He trails his hand through that, and between the slick folds. I arch, open my legs to let him in, and he accepts my invitation, plunging one finger deep inside me. Then, and only then, does he lift his head, breaking the kiss but remaining close—I can feel his breath on my face.

My body is moistening, his finger gently sliding in and out, my juices starting to flow in earnest now.

“I’m thinking you like this, little sub. Is that right?”

I nod then drop my head back as he continues to stroke me, adding a second finger to stretch me a little farther.

“Do you want me to stop?” His fingers go still, deep inside me but not moving now.

I shake my head, use my inner muscles to squeeze around him. Desperate, I want him to move, to stroke me, to give me the friction I suddenly require more than oxygen.

“Ah, that feels so good. And when you squeeze around me like that, whether it’s my fingers inside you like now, or my cock later, that’s another signal. That’s you telling me, ‘this is good, I like this, I want more of this’. Yeah? Does that make sense?”

I dip my head in understanding, but he hasn’t finished yet.

“Can you make this sound?” He makes a clicking sound with his tongue, the sort of sound you might use for calling a dog over.

I nod, of course I can make that sound.

“Do it, let me hear it.”

I click for him, and he drops another light kiss onto my mouth. “Not quite without vocal sounds then. That’s your safe signal for this, while your hands are tied. If you need me to stop, or slow down, you click like that. I’ll hear you, and I’ll stop, check with you what you need, what you want to have happen. And if you want to stop, we will. So, are you okay still?”

I can manage a hearty whistle, but I never before considered clicking my tongue as a way of signaling. As I bow my head again, I admire his ingenuity. I’m not sure if he’s making it up as he goes along or if he pre-planned all this, but it seems this inventive Dom has an answer for everything, a way of dealing with all my issues and problems. Angela was spot on in her recommendation. He was the right Dom to ask to train me. He could help me, he already has.

He takes my face between his palms. “I told you, upstairs, that I’d never lay a hand on you unless you had your safe words ready.” His voice is low, sexy, sensual. And very firm as he continues. “You’ll always be able to take back control whenever you want to. But submission, real submission, is when you choose not to, when you let your Dom have the power, and keep it, when you let your Dom do whatever he wants to with you, with your body, because that’s the way you want it. Because it arouses you, excites you, fulfils you, because you want to please your Dom, and you trust him to always take care of you.”

He stops, as though waiting for me to take that in, to assimilate this new thinking, re-align my beliefs and attitudes, my assumptions and pre-conceptions. Then, presumably when he thinks I’ve had enough time to get my head around it, he continues, “So, ready to play?”

I nod once more and wait. Nicholas steps away, and I’m lost without his close presence, bereft almost. I can hear his voice, low, nearby, and someone else answering. Frank? Then Nicholas is back, his hands on me once more, molding and squeezing my breasts. I let my head drop backwards, enjoying the sensation, even as he increases the pressure, lifting and squeezing, pressing my breasts together, running his thumbs across my nipples. My breathing hitches. I’m gasping, sighing—he must know how he’s affecting me.

“Is this good? No clicking yet?” Sure enough, his voice is in my ear, checking.

I respond by arching my back, thrusting my breasts farther out, into his hands. He kisses my mouth again before dropping his head farther, taking my left nipple between his lips. He runs his tongue roughly around it before sucking, hard. He presses the engorged bud against the roof of his mouth and the exquisite pressure is beyond anything I have ever felt. The pleasure is almost too much, too intense. I’m panting, rigid as he continues to work my distended tip mercilessly.

Then when I’m sure I must need to click, I can’t bear any more, he lets me go. Only to latch his mouth around my right nipple and repeat the performance. This time though his fingers are rolling my already erect left nipple, keeping the pressure on, building the sensation there as he brings the right tip up to the same heightened level of intense sensitivity. Moisture is pooling between my legs, my wetness increasing with every tug on my buds. My legs are free to move, and I try vainly to squeeze them harder together, somehow, trying to create the friction there, to sooth the throbbing in my clit.

Nicholas realizes what I’m about and puts a stop to it. “Oh no, little sub. You haven’t earned that yet. Your clit can wait its turn. Until I’m good and ready.” He releases my sore tip and crouches at my feet, quickly securing my ankles so that my legs are spread wide.

Then he stands, and although I can’t see him and he’s no longer touching me, I can feel his presence, his eyes all over me, admiring me, admiring his handiwork.

“Have you worked out where you are?”

I think I might be on the St. Andrew’s Cross, but I’m not certain. I shake my head slowly.

“Think. Think harder. You do know, don’t you? And you know what you’ve seen happening here, to other subs. Don’t you, Miss Stone?”

I start to shake my head again, but he takes my face in his hands, holds me still. “Now, Freya, you know how things can get if you’re not entirely honest with me. No games, no evading. Now, I’ll ask you again. Do you know where you are?”

I nod.

His closeness is comforting, reassuring, despite the veiled threat of a moment ago. “The St Andrew’s Cross, right?” His voice is low and sexy, and right by my ear.

I nod again.

“And you have your back to the wall, so you can be sure, this time at least, I don’t intend to whip you. At least, not a punishment whipping. This is all about arousal, sweetheart. And it starts here, with these.”

He takes both my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, rolling at first but quickly increasing the pressure, squeezing and pulling until I’m gasping under the onslaught of pain. “I’m going to do this until you click. I want to know how much you can take. When it becomes unbearable, let me know. Okay?”

I grind my teeth, stiffen against the straps holding me in place as he relentlessly twists, squeezes and pulls my nipples. And after a few seconds he has what he wants. I click my tongue, and he stops increasing the torment. He doesn’t release me though, just holds me in that place between intense pain and—what—exquisite pleasure dancing just out of reach. Confused, maybe just a little frightened, I chew my bottom lip as I’m held there, helpless in his hands, waiting to feel whatever comes next.

I almost sigh with relief as he lets go of my nipples, only to jerk back to full, alert awareness as something bites down hard, first on my left nipple then on the right. It’s not sharp, but it’s tight and mean and the grip is vicious. A weight is tugging at me, dragging my nipples downwards. I try to move, but the pressure increases, the heavy object swinging, pulling, tormenting me. It’s awful, frankly awful. I can’t bear it.