by Ashe Barker
Foolishly, I don’t answer. I should have learned by now. The hard slap across my butt makes me jerk, and I gasp.
“Miss Byrne. I said ‘are you paying attention?’”
“Yes!” I shout, smarting. Oddly humiliated that he is spanking me, and keenly aware that I can’t move at all—I am totally helpless.
“Good. Shall we begin, then?”
I manage to mumble my response. “Yes.”
An instant later, I hear the rush of air as the cane swipes toward me, landing full across both buttocks with force enough to send my whole body into spasm. The air is forced from my lungs and in my current position it’s much harder to drag oxygen back in. Torn between screaming and breathing, the asthmatic in me opts to breathe, and the next blow falls. This time I do scream, my fingers opening then clenching tightly around the restraining bar. My knuckles are white, I notice.
“Eva, it’s difficult the first time, I know. Remember, don’t fight it, let it flow. Tell me if you need to slow down. Or stop. Safe words, remember.” Nathan’s tone is gentle, reassuring. I take advantage of the brief lull in proceedings to drag in a shaky breath. He notices, comes around to crouch in front of me, lifting my face. “Do you need to stop, Eva? Your inhaler?”
I shake my head, defiant. “No, no, it’s not that. I just… You winded me. That’s all.”
“Are you okay to carry on?”
I nod. Please, just get it over with. Please.
He holds the bottle of water to my lips again, dribbling a few drops into my parched mouth, before he stands and walks away. Back around me. Back to his cane.
I concentrate on my breathing. Low, slow breaths— that seemed to help me last time. It works, for a moment. Then the cane lands across my bottom again, the whistle as it flies through the air the instant before contact more menacing, almost, than the white-hot pain when it lands. I jerk, groan, beyond screaming. I thought I could handle it, but this pain is worse, much worse than before. I need to stop this. There’s a way… What do I do? What should I be saying?
The swish of air whispers around me and the next blow falls, driving all coherent thought, all sense of self-preservation from me in a white-hot rush of perfect agony.
“Eva, answer me. What are your safe words? Do you need me to stop?”
I can only lie there, suspended in terror, desperate for this to be over. I struggle to respond, to remember what I need to do. Dimly, I am aware of Nathan’s voice behind me somewhere, relentless, asking me if I’m okay.
No, no, no! I scream, but there is no sound, my voice paralyzed with the rest of me.
Did he say how many strokes? Did I think to ask? How much more of this is there? How much more can I stand? Not much. None…
“Are you okay to continue?”
Like an idiot—a stubborn, foolish idiot—I manage to mumble, “Yes.”
The cane whistles through the air again, lands. I lie still in silent, deathly agony. My body is shattering under the wicked, searing pain, starting to shut down. I can’t think straight. I know there’s something I could—should—do now, but I can’t remember how to help myself. The edges of my vision are gray, blurring. I shake my head, trying to get my wits together.
The next blow falls, my only response now a pathetic, beaten whimper. It’s too much. The gray darkens, blackens. My world goes mercifully dark, and I feel nothing anymore.
Chapter Nine
Mist. Dim, cloudy, swirling. Pain, intense pain, burning, searing pain. A voice, harsh, angry, cursing words. Lifting, moving. “No, stop, please… Hurts.”
“Sorry, angel. Christ, I’m sorry. Lie still, let me help you.” Soft, comfortable, gentle hands, soothing, cool.
“Aah!” More sharp pain intruding, spearing, trust-breaking. I sob, struggle. I need to escape.
“Easy, love, you’re going to be okay, I’ve got you…”
Darkness again, sweet, silent darkness. I float, drifting, escaping…
* * * *
I wake. The room is in semi-darkness, the heavy curtains closed to shut out most of the sunlight. I am face down, lying on top of the duvet on Nathan’s huge bed. I lie still, listening. Silence. But I sense I’m not alone.
The first forgetful moment of wakening slips past and I start to remember, to recall what happened. The sofa, tied down, helpless, exposed. And the cane, the beating. Jesus, the sheer mind-numbing paralyzing agony of it. Then it stopped. I must have passed out. Nathan must have released me, carried me to the bed.
He was there then. I start to recapture bits of memory, pulling the threads together. I remember Nathan’s voice, shocked, then angry as he realised I was losing consciousness, then nothing as the black fog covered me. I’m pretty sure I heard ‘Holy fucking shit’. Then nothing.
Then, much later perhaps, his hands, his arms lifting me, hurting again. My fear, my desperation to escape, to be safe. His soft words soothing, his gentle hands spreading healing, cooling cream over my tender skin. Him rousing me when I wanted to sleep, when I wanted to drift away. I don’t want to return, to be hurt anymore. Asking me my name. Asking me where I am. At last, satisfied, he let me be. I remember drifting away again, peaceful now, resting, sleeping.
And now I’m awake, and he’s here somewhere. Not talking. Watching me, perhaps. I stir, try to move, but the pain overwhelms me again. I groan, lie still. Where is he? Where’s Nathan? I need to talk to him. I need to tell him what I think of him and his bloody games. The bastard. The heartless, vicious, fucking bastard.
“Eva?” His soft, tender voice sounds close to my ear. I can feel his breath, whispering across my hair. I turn my head, face him.
The words of accusation tumble out, unchecked. “You promised not to hurt me. You promised to take care of me. You… You…” His deep, chocolate eyes are, if anything, more pain-filled than mine, but I’m not letting up. I’m driven by unexpected disappointment. In me? In him? And by a self-righteous sense of betrayal. I spit my words at him. “You bastard. You total and absolute bastard. Sadist!”
He’s crouching beside the bed, at my eye level. He doesn’t back away in spite of my anger. Neither does he retaliate, seek to defend himself. He just gazes at me.
“What date is it today, Eva?”
“How the fucking hell should I know? Go buy a newspaper. And drop dead while you’re at it.”
His wry smile only serves to enrage me further.
“Fuck off. I hate you. I hate you.” The last words are sobbed, my anger spent suddenly, giving way to grief. He reaches for me, pulls me into his arms. And I go. Unresisting, I cling to his black T-shirt, sobbing noisily. “I was scared. I was so scared… I thought I was going to die.” My voice is small, no more than a whimper. He just holds me, stroking my hair, my shoulders and my back.
“You’re not dead, love. Nowhere near. I’m sorry, though, it was my fault, I should have seen… You should have told me. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I couldn’t… I just couldn’t.” Incoherent, I just cling on, my tear-stained face buried in the fabric of his T-shirt. He doesn’t press the matter. Not now. Not yet.
Embarrassed, confused, my head in turmoil, I retreat into my normal mode of defense. Myself. “I want to be on my own for a while. Please.”
“I’m not sure…”
“Please. I need to think. I need to sleep. Please, just leave me on my own for a while.”
Not convinced, he’s frowning at me. Then he relents, slightly, “All right. But I’ll be downstairs. In my office. And you, you don’t go anywhere. Understood?”
“What? Where would I go?” Bewildered, I stare up at him. I’m in no condition to go gadding about bloody Leeds, that’s for sure. The man’s an idiot as well as a sadistic bastard. Just my luck.
His smile, gentle, tender, suggests he knows what I think of him at this precise moment and has some sympathy with my views. “Okay, I’ll go, leave you in peace. For now. But I’ll be back in a couple of hours. No more.” He gestures with h
is head at the table beside the bed. “Your phone’s there. Text me when you wake up.” He stands, looking down at me for long moments before adding, “Eva, we need to talk about what just happened. Really talk. You scared me. I thought… I thought… Shit. We need to talk.”
I don’t answer, just pull myself over to lie on my side, my back to him. I hear him cross the room, hear the door close gently behind him and at last I am alone with my thoughts. I close my eyes again, and I sleep.
* * * *
And now I’m awake and find myself perversely wishing he was still here. I should never have sent him away. I need to apologize—I let him down. I let me down. I need to know we’re okay.
I struggle to push myself up onto all fours, not yet trusting myself to be able to sit. The pain has subsided to a sharp sting, but I’m sore, very sore. I need to get to the bathroom, shower, get a drink of water. I shuffle sideways to the edge of the bed, ease my legs over, then get my feet connected with the floor. I carefully, slowly, push myself up into a stand, grabbing the bedhead for support. I wait for my head to clear, for my knees to lock, ready to carry me.
A note. On the pillow next to where my head was. A note in a small white envelope. My name on the front. Eva.
He’s gone. Not far, only downstairs. I sent him away. But he left me a note…
I pick it up, turn the envelope over in my hands, then drop it to the duvet as I suddenly need to rush for the bathroom. I get there in time—just—and heave up my guts. This is getting to be a habit in moments of stress around Nathan. The nausea isn’t going away any time soon. I spend the next half an hour clinging to the side of the toilet, making a disgusting spectacle of myself.
Eventually, weak, feeble, fragile, I totter back to the bed. I realise I am still naked. Bruises have started to develop on the backs of my wrists. I guess I must have been straining against the straps as he caned me. So much for leaving no marks. There’s a mirror on one of his wardrobe doors so I stagger over there, twisting my body to see the damage to my bottom.
It is strangely unscathed, just three or four light pink stripes to show for my ordeal. I test the marks with my fingers. The skin is tender, stings slightly, but otherwise I seem to be okay. Desperately relieved, my confidence in Nathan marginally starting to recover, I go back to the bed. I sit down carefully, shifting to test my throbbing bum. It’s bearable.
I pick up the envelope and without giving myself time to think I slide my thumb under the flap to tear it open. I pull out one sheet of A5 paper, handwritten.
Eva
I’m downstairs if you need me. Text me when you wake up to let me know that you’re OK.
If you’re awake by then, I’d like to see you in my office at 4.30 p.m. James is expecting you.
You scared me. I was so worried about you.
Eva— You have some explaining to do, starting with what you consider to be meant by the concept of safe word.
Nathan
Shit. He was so kind before, so gentle. Contrite even. I don’t need to see his angry face, hear his harsh words to know he is livid now. An anger born of fear maybe, but I will be getting the full force of it. Soon. I know I’ve screwed up. Badly.
I glance at the clock—it’s quarter to four already. I scramble for my phone, text him quickly as instructed, keeping it cheerful.
Hi, Nathan, I’m awake now, a bit sore but fine. No need to come back up. I’ll be there at 4.30. Thanks for looking after me. See you soon.
Then I head for the shower.
Twenty hot, steamy minutes under the powerful jets of water help to relax my stiff body and I feel the kinks of tension easing as the warmth permeates. I’m feeling a lot less delicate as I scout around the spare bedroom, rummaging in my Harvey Nicks carrier bags for something decent to wear.
As my equilibrium returns to something more akin to normal, I’m reliving the whole bizarre episode and wondering how the hell it all went so wrong. I may be a bit flaky sometimes, naïve even, but I’m far from stupid. Very far indeed. It was simple enough—all I had to do was say ‘stop’. Or ‘red’. Or something like that. And I can’t deny I had my chances—he did ask me if I was okay.
What was I thinking? By the tone of his note, that’s pretty much what Nathan will be wondering as well, and I have no idea at all what I’m going to say to him.
At twenty-five past four, I slip out of the apartment. I cross the landing and press the lift call button. I have dressed myself carefully for the occasion in one of my new outfits, smart beige chinos with a floppy black silk blouse. I am tempted by the fuck-me red heels again but decide not to be too obvious and settle for shoving my bare feet into my black Toms slip-ons. I have my small black leather satchel for my bits and pieces—glasses, phone, tissues, a few quid in cash and my somewhat under-used credit card. The lift arrives quickly, and I am on my way to the eighth floor.
Exiting the lift, I approach James’ desk again, and if anything, I’m even more nervous than yesterday. At least then I’d thought Nathan would be pleased to see me. Today, well, who knows?
James sees me, smiles and picks up his phone. “Miss Byrne is here, sir.” After a moment he replaces the receiver and smiles up at me. “Mr. Darke is expecting you. Please, go straight in.”
The door to Nathan’s office is closed. I walk up to it and decide against knocking. I walk in, before closing the door quietly behind me. He is at his desk, his eyes riveted to the screen of his laptop, his fingers leaping across the keyboard. His hair, loose when I saw him last in the bedroom of his apartment, is now scraped back into his severe businesslike ponytail. I stand, leaning back on the door, unsure what to do now. The obvious place to sit would be at the conference table, but the sharp recollection of being stretched across its polished surface yesterday and beaten with a ruler makes me hesitate. I’m unwilling to take a seat at that table but not sure if my legs will carry me right across the room to the visitor’s chair in front of his desk.
Long moments slide by as he makes me wait. He appreciates the importance of timing, I’ll give him that. Whether he’s about to deliver a withering dressing down like now, or a severe beating across my naked bottom like earlier, he knows the added value of making me wait. Giving me ample time to anticipate. To dread. Eventually he looks up, his dark eyes boring into mine. Still he doesn’t speak. I swallow—my mouth dry. If he seemed harsh, cold the night we met, he is positively glacial now. Christ, he’s so very, very angry. And I’m so very, very scared.
Defensively I try to convince myself it’s all his fault. If he doesn’t want me to pass out and spoil his fun, he shouldn’t hit me so hard. A glance into that icy gaze and any bravado I might have been gathering is splintered.
“Come here, Miss Byrne. Can you sit?” He gestures at the chair in front of his desk. I nod, then walk hesitantly to him, before easing my body gently into the chair. His expression is wry—he knows how sore I am. “Backside smarting, is it, Miss Byrne? Good.” He shoves his laptop aside. I have his undivided attention now, and he goes straight for the jugular. “So, Eva. Safe words. What are your safe words? What are they for? And why the fucking hell didn’t you use them?”
I stare at him, open my mouth intending to speak, but belatedly I realise I don’t have an answer. At least not one he’ll be interested in hearing. Does he really want to hear how I was paralyzed by pain, unable to move, unable to speak or scream? How, somewhere buried in the fog of my brain I knew I had a solution? How I knew I could stop the agony, somehow, but forgot what I was supposed to do? To hear how pain and desperation and fear drove all sensible thought from my head? How I could only lie there until he beat me senseless?
No. I need to come up with something better. I think for a few moments, desperately casting around for something, however flimsy. Unfortunately, there really isn’t anything better, anything more convincing. There’s only the truth. And that’s it. So that’s what he’ll have to make do with. I open my mouth again, take a deep breath in a futile attempt to steady myself, and thi
s time I tell him. The truth. All of it.
He listens quietly. His face is a mask of incredulity. An expression of utter disbelief—I assume, at my stupidity—drives all else from his handsome face. Or maybe he’s just completely astounded by my sheer bloody feeble weakness. He doesn’t interrupt, waiting until my voice trails away before delivering his reaction. And it is not sympathetic.
“You forgot. You wanted to tell me to stop, but you couldn’t? That’s fucking not true. I asked you. I stopped, I waited and I bloody well asked you if you were okay. God knows how many times, I asked you if you wanted to stop. I was totally focused on you and I thought you might be struggling. I asked you if you were okay to continue. You told me yes so I carried on.” His voice is cold, his words crisp, clipped, his temper only just reined in.
The door opens behind me and he falls silent, though his angry glare holds me in place, pinned to my seat like a specimen butterfly. I hear James come in, then the clink of coffee cups as he places a tray on the table. The table where Nathan gave me twenty blistering strokes with a ruler then followed it up with a mind-blowing orgasm. My lower body starts to clench. The sensations, and my response to him, no less powerful for being remembered.
“Thanks, James.” Nathan’s voice is chilled, clipped as he dismisses his PA.
“Right, Mr. Darke.” And he is gone, leaving me once more alone with the very angry, very, very intimidating Nathan Darke. If Nathan with a whip in his hand seemed formidable, Nathan in an ice-cold seething temper is positively awesome, crushing. Am I cowering? I think I might be. If not, I should be. And I suspect I soon will be. I try to salvage something from the carnage.
“It won’t happen next time,” I offer earnestly. “I’m a fast learner.” That’s true, I’m probably one of the fastest learners on the planet.