by Ashe Barker
Getting a job isn’t imperative, I have enough in savings to last me another six months at least. I do intend to go back to Kendal, well before my cash runs out. I know Freya’s worried about me, despite the message hurriedly texted from the back of Ted’s taxi, just as we cruised past Preston on my journey south.
Sorry I missed u. Going away for a bit. C u soon.
She’s texted me several times since, asking me where I am, if I’m okay, when I’ll be back, but I haven’t replied. I feel bad about that, but I have no idea what to tell her.
Soon. When I’m ready. Never?
From her messages to me, all of them unanswered, I know that Freya went on holiday soon after I did my bunk. She went to visit Margaret, our mutual foster mother, in Australia. I wish I’d thought of that. My funds would have run to a long distance flight and I haven’t seen Margaret for years now. The last I heard, Freya was back from Australia and was staying with Nicholas, in Cartmel. She mentioned that she’d seen Dan and he’d asked after me. I turned my phone off, stuck it in a drawer and went out and bought a pay as you go handset, just in case of emergencies. I haven’t given anyone my new number.
I’ve had a lot of time to think, especially in the first couple of weeks I spent here, holed up in a Travelodge on the Bristol ring road until I could sort out a short-term lease on a flat. When I wasn’t busy sorting the hotel stationery out into neat piles, I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, contemplating the clever and witty things I might say to Dan Riche should I ever encounter him again. The things I ought to have said to him in that bar. The million and one put-downs I might have come up with that would have convinced him I was not the easy prey he clearly—correctly—thought me to be.
Not again. Not next time. There never will be a next time.
It should never have happened. That’s all there is to it. We all make mistakes—that night with Dan Riche was one of mine. A whopper, it’s fair to say. But I need to forgive myself and move on.
Except it’s not that simple. Not when I can still feel his hands on my body, his fingers inside me. Not while I still clench uncontrollably at the memory, my underwear moistening as I relive the way he stroked me, the effortless way he licked and sucked and sent me into orbit. How he spanked me, hurting me and pleasuring me in equal measure. He totally overwhelmed me, demanding obedience, nothing less than total surrender, and I gave it.
He called me a submissive, a slut. His slut. Lying there on my Travelodge bed, I told myself I wasn’t accepting that. I’m not his anything. And certainly I’m not a submissive. It was a one-off, that’s all. A mental lapse.
I now have a nice flat in the street next to where I used to live. I’ve taken it on a twelve week let while the owners are away on an extended tour of South America.
Staring at ceilings never got me anywhere and that thought motivated me to get out and find something meaningful to do, to keep me busy and take my mind off what happened. What I did…what I agreed to do. So I volunteered for a reading support program, training as an unpaid classroom support worker to help with reading in primary schools. It’s good fun and useful work. I like the children, love seeing their bright little faces light up when the mysteries of the printed word are revealed, especially those who were struggling. I find I have a natural ability. The children I work with make good progress. The school seems delighted.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror in my small but spotless bedroom. Should I try a light brush of mascara? A spot of deep pink lipstick perhaps? Or is that too obvious on a first date? I glance over my shoulder at the outfit laid out on the bed, a plain but smart enough cream blouse and a navy and white skirt with a matching scarf. Nothing too eye-catching. It’s what Margaret would have termed ‘serviceable’. Freya would call it frumpy. I think it’s just perfect. For me, now.
I’m at the school most mornings, but the afternoons I spend here, in my private domain, watching daytime television and trying not to remember Dan Riche’s voice, his touch. His amazing, dominant presence.
I need to stop devoting so much brain power to him. It’s not as though I have all that much to spare, and he wasn’t that special. He caught me in a weak moment, that’s all. When I was concerned about Freya and suddenly thrown headlong into an environment I didn’t understand. It wouldn’t happen again. It’s vanilla all the way for me from now on.
And now, an opportunity has arisen to test that hypothesis. Mr Barnard, who teaches year five, has invited me out for a meal. He’s nice, I think. Pleasant. He smiles a lot. The children love him, especially when he does the after-school drama club. They’re performing Bugsy Malone this year and it’s a sell-out, I gather. All of this bodes well for an evening of intelligent conversation, decent food and uncomplicated sex. There’ll be no nonsense with whips and handcuffs, not with Mr Barnard. No spanking, no hard, uncompromising voice ordering me to kneel. ‘Sir’ will be left behind in the year five classroom.
I ruthlessly crush the insistent little voice telling me there’ll be no screaming his name when I come either, nor will there be a feast of wickedly sensual caresses in a Jacuzzi. But it will still be good. Mr Barnard’s smile is almost as dazzling as Dan’s was, his eyes equally beguiling in a twinkly, hazel sort of way. And as for the rest, well there’s a lot to be said for warm pullovers and beige shoes.
Mr Barnard—James, he insists—picks me up at my flat and we drive to the restaurant. I left it up to him to decide where we went, and he’s chosen a nice, little Italian trattoria, its menu jolly and bright. The tables sport patriotic red and green tablecloths, with candles stuck in the necks of empty wine bottles. The place clearly majors on pizza and pasta, and all the regulars are here to be enjoyed. I like pizza. I eat it a lot. I’ve found it’s one of those things that are easy to cook under the grill.
I choose a Hawaiian, ham and pineapple, my usual. James goes for pepperoni—the pizza equivalent of vanilla. We slice our pizzas into manageable lumps and chew in near silence. The evening passes awkwardly. I’ve no idea what to say to him. James appears not to sense the stiltedness between us or if he does, he chooses not to remark on it. My eye is drawn constantly to the clock. I watch the minute hand creeping around the dial. Our chats in the staffroom were far less labored. There, we have children to talk about, school activities, lessons to plan. Here, I’m not at all sure what we have in common.
Still, he’s nice. He’s polite and undemanding. Reasonably good-looking. He won’t have any unpleasant surprises in store. He’ll be harboring no plans to spank me—I’m certain of that.
There’s also much to be said for predictability.
An hour and a half after we entered the restaurant, we’re dragging out our cappuccinos, sharing a chocolate fudge cake. James constantly asks me if it’s all right for him to have this bit or that bit. Do I want the rest of the chocolate sauce? The cream? In the end, I put my spoon down and tell him to finish it off. He does.
Eventually it can be put off no longer. We troop back out to James’ car and he drives me back to my flat. If I’m totally honest, I’d just as soon say a polite goodnight, thank him for the lovely meal and get an early night. James is also looking forward to an early night, but he clearly does not intend to go home for it. And I have ghosts to lay, so now’s as good a time as any.
“Would you like to come inside for a while?” I turn to him, managing a brittle smile.
“Yes, if you like.”
I’m not right fussed either way, but might as well get it over with. I nod, fish around in my bag for my keys then get out of the car. The sound of James’ car door closing tells me he’s following me.
I open the outer door to my apartment building and James trails after me into the narrow shared hallway. I lead the way up one flight of stairs to my flat on the first floor. I unlock my door and gesture him inside.
James wanders past me into my little living room. He glances around but makes no move to sit down.
“Coffee?” I tidied my kitchen cupboards only yesterday, so
I’m pretty sure I don’t have any, but this is what you’re supposed to say on these occasions. Fortunately, James has had enough coffee for one night and prefers to move on to the next course. Me.
He shakes his head, shrugging out of his jacket. He drapes it over my one and only sofa, and I automatically reach for it to hang it up.
“Leave it. Please.” He steps closer, places his hands on my shoulders.
His thumb brushes my neck, just above the collar of my blouse. He loosens my scarf and drops it onto the floor. This irritates me, and I just know Dan would not have done that. He would have been too intent on tying my hands together with it…
I shiver, making an effort to stifle all further thoughts of Dan. He has no place here.
James’ hands are cold. I don’t recall that Dan had cold hands. Surely I’d have remembered. And so much for banishing Dan from my thoughts. He just keeps on coming back. In fairness to James, we have just come in from outside. He’s sure to warm up.
Best to make sure. “I’ll just turn up the heating…” I start for the kitchen where the thermostat is housed.
“It’s perfectly warm in here. Let’s go to bed.” James’ chilly fingers have moved to my buttons and he’s fumbling with them awkwardly.
So much for sweet talk. Still, it’s an improvement on ‘strip and kneel’. Isn’t it?
Somehow James is not managing to get my panties wet. Still, there’s time yet. I push his clumsy hands away and unfasten my own blouse. I slip it off and unbutton the waistband of my calf-length skirt. James is still peering around my living room, clearly wondering where the bedroom is. I step out of my skirt and take his hand, leading him back into my little hallway and down to the bedroom door. I open it, and he follows me inside.
On occasions, borderline OCD can be a blessing, and this is one of those times. There are no discarded items of lingerie or yesterday’s underwear lurking accusingly under the bed, no deodorant sprays or makeup tubes scattered across the dressing table, no books piled untidily on the windowsill. The bed is meticulously arranged, the duvet perfectly square and smooth. No wrinkles or misaligned stripes to be found on my bedding. This scene of well-ordered perfection, however, seems lost on James Barnard, who immediately wrenches off his tie and drops it on the speckless carpet, to be followed by his shirt. I glare at the offending heaps of crumpled menswear sullying my inner sanctum, and my overwhelming urge is to gather him up—him and his messy things—and bundle the lot out onto the pavement.
I don’t do that, though, as I have other plans for Mr Barnard. A point to make. I grit my teeth and take a deep breath, reminding myself that I have greater matters to attend to—such as proving to myself that Dan Riche was just a flash in the pan, a man like any other. James Barnard is much more my type. And what’s more, he’s giving every indication that he’ll be more than willing to fuck me. He extracts a condom from his trouser pocket and tosses it onto my bedside table. Moments later, his pants and socks have joined the offending piles on my Axminster, and he’s hooking his thumbs into the elastic of his boxers. Nothing subtle in James Barnard’s approach.
The boxers join the rest of his clothes and I’m treated to a fine display. Well, I’m sure James thinks it’s fine, and in fairness, he’s not bad. Solid, well-toned muscles. Perhaps a little more chest hair than I really like on a man, not that I’m awfully picky, although I do prefer dark to James’ sandy brown. And I’m not terribly fond of freckles either, but I suppose they go with the hair color.
Again, I smother the unwelcome comparison. And I manage not to wince as James hurls himself onto my bed, shoving one of my carefully arranged pillows onto the floor. His erection is reasonably impressive and that is, after all, the main thing. Best not to waste it. I’m quick to shed my remaining clothes, but then I grind to a halt. This is not my normal approach on first meeting a new man, except at a BDSM club obviously. I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, wondering what to do next that won’t seem too eager, or worst still, desperate. James helps out by reaching for my hand.
“You’re lovely, Summer. Like a beautiful bird. A swan—tall and pale and graceful.”
Dan described me as willowy, slender. And he said my breasts were pretty. But a swan? No, I’m not in the least swan-like. Still, I take James’ hand and let him tug me forward, onto the bed. I lie on my side, curling into him as he trails his palm along my ribs, my waist, my hip. His eyes follow, and inevitably he spots my swallows. Well, one of them.
“Good God, what’s this?” He leans up to peer more closely. “You’ve got birds on your bum! What are birds doing on your arse?”
“Not birds. Swallows.” My tone has developed a defensive edge, and I reach to lift his hand from my buttock.
He does not resist. “Swallows are birds. What I want to know is why? You don’t look the type to have tattoos.”
Defensiveness is replaced by belligerence. Who does he think he is? “No? What type do I look then? And what ‘type’ has tattoos? In your considered opinion.”
“I don’t know, not really. I just know that you look too—nice. Too ordinary.”
My sarcasm is lost on James or perhaps he just chooses to ignore it.
He shrugs. “Still, not to worry, I hear you can get tattoos removed pretty well these days. And no one will notice any scarring there.”
Well, I can name at least one person who most definitely would. And I may be lots of things but ordinary is not among them. I’m probably not that nice either, in truth. And my swallows will be staying. Clearly James and I are not to be soul mates, but maybe he can still pass muster as a fuck buddy. I’m nothing if not resolute.
Dismissing my swallows, and seemingly impervious to my rather snippy response, James rolls me onto my back and leans in to kiss me. His lips are soft, dry, warm, and he’s actually a much better kisser than I anticipated. I open my mouth, and he slips his tongue inside, curling it sinuously around my own. This is really rather nice, and I decide his less than charitable attitude toward my beautiful swallows might not be terminal after all. Unfortunately, James is less enamored of the preambles to lovemaking than I am, and he breaks the kiss almost as quickly as he started it, to embark on an exploration of my right nipple.
He drums up a competent performance, sucking and nibbling artfully. The tight little bud responds. Clearly Dan Riche was correct in his assessment—I do appear to have sensitive nipples and they harden and swell obligingly. James seems encouraged by this—as well he should be—and transfers his attentions to my left breast. He repeats his ministrations, and soon my left nipple is pebbling to his satisfaction.
James seems keen to press on, trailing his fingertips across my stomach then reaching down to slide his hand between my helpfully spread thighs. He parts my not particularly moist folds gently, wasting no time in pushing two fingers deep inside my pussy. I’d expected maybe a little more preparation than this, and it’s uncomfortable. I gasp, but manage not to wince. Well, not a lot. James is undaunted, and not for the first time, it occurs to me that he’s quite oblivious to my responses. I lie still as he withdraws, to plunge his probing fingers deep again. My pussy is at last starting to take notice, and the second stroke is slicker and vaguely pleasurable. Maybe my ghosts are to be laid after all, though for a moment back there I doubted it.
James continues to finger-fuck me enthusiastically, and my earlier discomfort is quickly forgotten. I jerk my hips, my pleasure building as he manages to hit my G-spot at least half the time. I gasp and tighten around his hand, at the same time reaching for his cock. He seems to interpret that as my signal to move matters on, though in this he is sadly mistaken. Really, I’d prefer to take more time, but James is on a mission and not about to take his foot off the accelerator any time soon, it seems.
He withdraws his fingers just as matters are getting seriously interesting and reaches for the condom he tossed onto my bedside table. He rips the foil and sheathes himself quickly, waving away my offer to unroll the condom onto his cock. He rolls to p
osition himself between my legs, supporting his weight on his elbows and knees as he maneuvers the head of his cock between the lips of my pussy. I’m wet and more or less ready, so I don’t expect this to be as painful as when he thrust his fingers inside me, but I’m slightly nervous all the same.
I needn’t have been. He eases his cock inside me slowly, taking care over this, at least, and my pussy is moist and welcoming. In moments, his erection is deep in me, and he holds still in apparent satisfaction with his work so far. I close my eyes, relishing the sensation of fullness as my cunt stretches and shapes itself around his length. I savor the promise of delights soon to be delivered.
“You all right, Summer?”
These are the first words he’s spoken to me since he told me I was ‘nice’. I recall that Dan was considerably chattier during the evening we spent together and at the time, I resented it. I wanted him to get on with things, whether it was to spank me or to fuck me. He did the former and refused me the latter. Now, with James, I would value a little more communication. I’d really appreciate a sense of connection that seems to be missing between us. At least, I think that’s what’s lacking. And, most disconcerting of all, not even waiting for my confirmation that I am indeed ‘all right’, James is now fucking me with a brand of determined enthusiasm I might have considered quite impressive, were I not so generally disillusioned with the whole business. Now, in comparison with Dan’s more restrained but emphatically more satisfying approach, it just seems like a waste of energy.
I shift under James, trying to re-position myself so that his plunging cock hits my G-spot but as I do so, he changes his angle of entry to compensate and my efforts are foiled. I try again, but the outcome is the same. I look up into James’ face, wondering if he’d take kindly to a little direct advice. His eyes are clenched shut, his grimace one of what I now realize is fully self-absorbed ecstasy. He has no idea at all what, if any, impact his efforts are having on me and his concentration is wholly focused on his own pleasure.