A Dom is for Life

by Ashe Barker

  “I agree it does seem out of character for you. And you would have a lot to lose. You still work at Carter and Benbow?”

  “Yes. You know I could pay. I’d be happy to pay now…”

  “It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid. That’s no longer an option.”

  I sigh. “Right. So, what are my options then?”

  “I either decide to press charges, in which case the police will take over and you’ll be processed through the magistrates’ court in all probability…or, I have the discretion to dismiss the matter and allow you to leave.”

  “You’ll let me go?”

  “I have that option, although nothing you’ve told me so far would go any way towards convincing me that would be the right course of action. If I were to just let you off, it would be on the basis of you being my wife, nothing else. That might be convenient, but it would hardly be professional.”

  “Ex-wife,” I correct him. “And everything I’ve told you is true.”

  He meets my gaze again, and I detect the faintest hint of a smile. “Our divorce isn’t yet finalised. You are my wife, at least in the eyes of the law. And you’re also a thief—unless a magistrate says otherwise—in the eyes of the law.”

  Outraged, frustrated, and more than a little scared, I stand and lean over his narrow desk, glaring down at him. “This is bloody ridiculous. Look, I had a call from Michele. You remember Michele? My sister?”

  “Of course. How is she?”

  “She’s well. Very well. She had some good news today, and we were going to celebrate.”

  “I see. Then the sooner we get this matter sorted, the sooner you can be on your way.” He picks up a pen and taps the form in front of him. “I just need some details… Name—Elizabeth Novak… You do still use your married name, I assume?”

  I give a curt nod, and he writes my full name at the top of the sheet, then glances up at me. “Do sit down, Libby. Now, are you still living in Salford?”

  I resume my seat, my arms folded, my mood mutinous. “No. I moved to Knutsford a few months ago. It’s in Cheshire.”

  “Very nice. The full address, please?”

  I reel off my new details then sit back. Josh completes the rest of the form. He recites my date of birth, marital status—so recently clarified—my nationality, and other particulars from memory. I provide my new phone numbers, landline and mobile. The matter takes a few minutes, then he passes the documents to me.

  “If you want to check the details, then sign just there. I’ll get the police to send someone over to pick you up.”

  “What? What do you mean, pick me up? I thought you were going to let me go.”

  “I am. I’ve done my bit, and now this will become a police matter. They’ll question you and decide whether or not to press charges. I shouldn’t worry too much. You’ve a decent chance of convincing them—good character, no previous convictions and all that. You don’t have form for this sort of thing, do you?” He lifts one eyebrow and offers me his pen. I daresay my expression provides the necessary response. “Thought not. So, just sign it, and we can both get on.”

  “No. No, I’m not signing. I’m not a criminal, and you can’t just hand me over to the police. You can’t—”

  “No? You have some alternative course of action to suggest? I’m listening.”

  “I… No. I don’t know. I didn’t steal anything. I just want to get out of here. I want to see Michele, and…and…” I break down, sobbing, as the full implications of this whole bloody mess wash over me. A bundle of tissues is thrust into my fist.

  “Libby, it’ll be all right. You just need to explain to the police how this happened and they won’t press charges. They’ll believe you.”

  “Why would they? You don’t.”

  “I do, actually.”

  “Then why involve the police?” I gaze at him, his handsome features obscured by my tears.

  His smile dazzles me. It always did. “Good question. Fair enough, we won’t involve them. You can go.”

  “No police?”

  He shakes his head. “You’re no criminal, Libby. I know that about you, at least. And our fine constabulary has better things to occupy them than dealing with an airhead who never concentrates on what she’s doing. I remember this was something I had to take issue with often enough when we were together, and you haven’t changed, it seems.” He shrugs. “Still, it had its compensations as I recall, and you took discipline very well.”

  I redden as I, too, recall those disciplinary sessions. Josh could always deliver a fine spanking, and he was a demon with a paddle or cane. Perfect for a pain slut like me.

  “You can leave now, Libby, and I suggest you give Scents a wide berth in future. Mrs Davis never forgets a face.”

  “You’re letting me go? No police, no punishment?” This is what I said I wanted, but as he gestures to the door, I begin to think I’m not ready to leave after all. Not yet.

  “Punishment, Libby? I never said anything about that. I’m head of security here, that’s all. I nick ‘em, but I don’t decide on guilt or dish out punishments.”

  “You used to. Dish out punishments, I mean.”

  “As your husband, yes. And your Dom. When you deserved it.” He regards me under lowered brows, his beautiful dark eyes glinting.

  I know that look, that expression that would send me panting to my knees every time.

  I resist the urge to drop to the floor at his feet now, though it’s a close-run thing. “You’re still my husband. You just made that clear enough.”

  “But not your Dom. Not anymore.”

  “No, but…”

  “Do you want me to punish you, Libby?”

  Yes! Oh God, yes!

  “No, of course not.”

  He holds my gaze, his expression steely. The sterner he becomes, the more my pussy convulses with longing, with something suppressed for too long. My knickers are damp.

  “Do you want me to punish you, Libby?” he repeats the question slowly, each word enunciated with calm precision.

  “Yes, please.”

  Chapter 2

  Libby

  Christ, did I really say that? Did the words actually come out loud?

  Seemingly, they did. Josh’s lip quirks in that smile he has which seems to say he sees straight through my bullshit.

  “You want to be punished for this? The perfume?” He taps the small, long-forgotten package of Angel, still before him on the desk.

  I writhe in embarrassment. I should put a stop to this nonsense right now.

  “If you like. Whatever.”

  He leans back in his chair, watching me as I imagine a cat might regard a mouse just before it pounces. He has me trapped, but this situation is of my making. I could be halfway to the exit by now, on my way home to get ready for a fun night out with my sister.

  “Why do you want me to punish you, Libby?” His tone is low, almost soft. But shot through with that thread of cold steel I remember so well. He expects answers.

  I wring my hands, a nervous habit of mine. I stop myself, deliberately lacing my fingers together to keep them still. I meet his steady gaze and do my best to scratch together a coherent response.

  “I don’t know. Lots of reasons. Because I miss it, and no one else does it like you do.”

  He lifts one eyebrow. He appears amused. Almost. “You’ve tried others, then?”

  I nod. “Two. It wasn’t good.”

  “What happened. Libby?”

  “It was at a club. Not here, it was in London. Just spanking, with a paddle…”

  “What went wrong?”

  “Nothing really. I just wasn’t comfortable. I never trusted them. I… I safe-worded each time, then gave up altogether.”

  “That’s a pity. How long ago was this?”

  “Just over a year.”

  “I see. So whatever happens here, today, would be…for old times’ sake? Because you’re feeling contrite and maybe a little horny. Your itch needs scratching.”
/>   “I’m not asking you to fuck me,” I retort.

  “Not yet. But you will. We both know that when your knickers are off and you’re over my knee, your bottom bared and thoroughly spanked, you’ll beg me to fuck you. You always do.”

  “You’re being very crude, Josh.”

  “You’re an experienced submissive. You know the rules about speaking plainly on these occasions. So, am I wrong? And if I’m about to punish you, it’s ‘Sir’.”

  I pause for several seconds before shaking my head. “You’re not wrong. So you’ll do it then? Sir?”

  He smiles, but it’s a grin lacking in warmth. It is sensual, though, dripping with sexy promise. “Take off your jacket and hang it on the back of the door. Then remove your underwear.”

  No further answer is required. Butterflies take flight in my stomach. Gleeful anticipation of the sensuality to come in the next few minutes, guilt at the forbidden pleasure and fear of discovery, are all at war within me. “What if someone comes in?”

  He leans back in his seat and unbuckles his belt. “No one comes in here without my permission. You have a count of five, Libby. Jacket, underwear, then you lay yourself across my lap and raise your skirt. Alternatively, if you prefer, you can just leave and we’ll say no more about any of this.”

  I’m not leaving. No way am I going anywhere yet.

  “You intend to use your belt?”

  “I do. It’s been a while for you, and you need something quite…intense, I think, otherwise you wouldn’t be asking me for this. Would you agree?”

  I offer him a sharp nod while my pussy convulses again. Without another word, I turn from him and shrug off my jacket. I hang it up as directed, then reach under my skirt to peel off my tights and knickers. I step out of my spiky-heeled shoes to remove my clothing, but Josh gestures towards them when I would have left them behind me on the floor.

  “Put the shoes back on, please. I always prefer your submission to be delivered in sexy heels.”

  “I’m not your submissive. Not anymore.”

  “A few minutes ago I might have agreed with you. Now… well, we’ll see. The heels, please.” His tone is cool, clipped, and oh-so familiar.

  My pussy dampens more as I slip my shoes back on, then stand before him, waiting.

  Josh gets to his feet and draws his belt from the loops at his waistband. He takes his time, holding my gaze. Then, the belt dangling from his right hand, he walks around the desk. He takes the chair I was sitting on, moving it away from the desk and into the centre of the room, where there’s more space. He smiles at me, sits on it, then he pats his right thigh in invitation. “I think you know the drill, Libby—unless you find yourself in need of a spot of retraining?”

  “No, Sir. I remember it perfectly. Thank you.”

  We were always ultra-polite at moments like this. Nothing has changed—at least, in that regard—over the three and a half years we’ve been separated. I step forward to stand beside him, then lean over to position myself across his lap.

  The first thing I register is the hard bulge of his erection pressing against my right side. I take satisfaction from this. I always loved to know how much I could arouse him, despite his finely honed Dom cool. This is a reaction he can’t conceal behind an impassive, stern expression or clipped commands. Not that Josh was ever cold, exactly. He was controlled, disciplined, exceptionally firm, but always considerate, and his approach to aftercare was sublime. Josh was always hot on cuddles, tender words, and the most exquisite lovemaking when occasion called for it.

  He could read situations, by which I mean he read me like a book, and always delivered the perfect formula. If I needed hard, rough, savage, that’s what he would provide. Alternatively, there were times I just wanted to be held, to feel loved and cared for, and he would do that, too. He always knew, always got it right.

  Today, I need to hurt. And he already has his belt coiled in his hand.

  “Lift your skirt, Libby. Above your waist. Then put your hands and feet on the floor. I want your bottom lifted up, ready for me.”

  I reach for the hem of my loose-fitting skirt and raise it, gathering much of the fabric in front of me. The waft of cool air on my naked buttocks sends my pussy into yet another frenzy of clenching.

  Despite my enthusiastic anticipation, I still flinch when Josh lays his palm across my right cheek, massaging the sensitive skin in large circles. He repeats the action on the other side.

  Memories rush back. Warm, sensuous memories as I recall his unhurried preparations, his insistence that I be thoroughly readied, especially for an intense scene. I wriggle against his thigh, loving the solicitous attention. No one ever made me feel as vulnerable, or as safe as Josh.

  “I guess you’re liking this, Libby.”

  “Mmm, yes, Sir. I am.”

  “And this?” He drops the first few light, teasing slaps onto my upturned bottom.

  “Yes, Sir, that, too.” I writhe on his lap, turning my bottom to try to catch maximum impact with each stroke.

  “Libby, you know better than that. Keep still.” He ceases the delightful slapping, waiting until I resume my original position.

  “I’m sorry, Sir. I just…”

  “Hush. It’s okay. Do you still use the same safe word?”

  “Yes, Sir. Murgatroyd. But I won’t be needing it.” My mother’s maiden name hasn’t been pressed into service for a while now. During my ill-fated scenes with other partners during our separation, I’ve stuck to the more traditional traffic-lights system.

  “Probably not, but just checking. Apart from the last couple of times that you just told me about, how long is it since you were last spanked? Really spanked, I mean, into sub-space?”

  “Not since you and I… Oh!” I let out a sharp cry when he ramps up the intensity.

  “Okay, and has it been just spanking or have you tried anything else?”

  “If you mean have I fucked anyone else, the answer is no. I’m not— I mean, I like kink, but…”

  “Okay, I get that, too. I was thinking about any other types of play. You liked to be tied up, I recall.”

  “N-no. Nothing else, Sir.”

  “I see. This still all right?”

  He’s dropping quite hard slaps on my bottom now, raining them all over the tender flesh. I’m managing not to clench because I know that just increases the pain, but it isn’t easy.

  “Yes, Sir. It’s fine. Thank you.”

  “I missed you, Libby.” He delivers this line without breaking his rhythm.

  “I-I missed it, too.”

  “It? I said I missed you, girl. Not this. Well, not only this.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be. You should never have left me.”

  “I had to. You knew why I had to.”

  “I know what you told me, but you were wrong. You were impatient. You should have given me more time.” The pressure of the slaps has risen again, the spanking is really hurting now, and it’s linked to this conversation somehow. He isn’t striking me in anger. He never did and never would. But there is a connection.

  I feel compelled to at least attempt an explanation, though my wits are scrambling fast, and I’m not sure how coherent it will be.

  “I couldn’t stand it. I begged you to leave the army, but you refused. In the end, I had no choice.”

  “I would have put you first. You knew that. I always did.”

  “I didn’t know. How could I? Oh, oh, Sir…”

  The spanking pauses for a few moments. Josh leans down to pick up his belt from the floor beside him. I suck in a breath and hold it.

  “I always did,” he repeats. “I asked you to wait. You should have trusted me.”

  “I… Aagh!” There’s a whoosh as the belt slices through the air, then a loud crack when it lands across my bottom, wrapping itself around both buttocks. “Oh God, oh Jesus that hurts.”

  Josh ignores my comment and my scream, readying himself to swing the belt again. Another rush of
air, louder this time, and the belt again connects with my searing flesh.

  “Oh, oh. Christ.” I screw up my eyes. Tears are already prickling behind my eyelids. Surely I used to be much more resilient than this. I’ve become soft, out of practice.

  “Why couldn’t you trust me, Libby? Did I ever let you down?”

  The belt lands again, leaving a third river of agony across my bottom. My arse is scorching, yet still I lift it to him, offer myself up for more punishment. I know—I’m sure we both know—this isn’t about a bottle of perfume, nor is it about a lapse of memory, a moment of carelessness. This is about trust, broken promises, disappointment, and long-suppressed anger.

  At some level I know Josh has wanted to do this since the day I phoned him in Afghanistan to tell him I was leaving our army apartment and seeing a divorce lawyer. He was cool at the news. He didn’t ask me to reconsider or to wait. He just told me to do what I felt I must and wished me good luck for the future. All subsequent correspondence between us until today has been via our solicitors.

  The belt lands again and again. I am sobbing now and barely managing not to raise one hand in a futile attempt to protect my bottom from further abuse. Josh is no longer talking to me. Instead I know he must be concentrating on dropping stroke after stroke across my bum, leaving no spot untouched, yet managing not to land in just the same place twice. I’ll have stripes to show for this tomorrow and maybe for a few days after. Josh could usually leave marks that would still be evident a day or two later, and I used to take enormous satisfaction from those. Especially when in the days that followed a particularly heavy and satisfying scene, he would trail them with his tongue or his lips, arousing me to a near frenzy of longing.

  The pain radiates across my bottom, sinking deep into my muscles, soaking through me, becoming a part of me. I know, as I always have, that moment when my mind gives up, when I submit absolutely. That moment when I allow myself to be wholly carried along, swept up on a wave which is purely about sensation, about feeling, yet not physical at all. The intensity of the beating is more muted, deeper but softening. My body stiffens, then becomes loose, fluid, pouring over my Dom’s lap. Even if I chose to, I couldn’t move my hand to protect myself now. The only sound I am capable of is something between a groan and a purr, and I’m suspended in a place where time seems to stand still.