Darkest (The Dark Side)

by Barker, Ashe

  I quickly slip out of my clothes, including my pants. There’s nothing I want to keep hidden from Nathan, even temporarily. This day is a new beginning for us. For me. Now I’m his. And he’s mine. And here we are, playing out our scene.

  Naked, I lie on my back on the bed, my legs spread wide, my knees bent, and carefully insert the eggs into my pussy. I’m already deliciously wet, no lubricant required. Nathan has always been able to have that effect on me. I stand carefully, slowly, half expecting the eggs to come sliding out but they don’t. My pussy clenches, wrapping itself around them, gripping them, gently holding them in place. I move towards the cross and feel the sensation immediately, the rolling, undulating pressure deep within as the unevenly weighted eggs shift inside me with every move I make. It feels wonderful. I squeeze, remembering the previous time we played with something similar, in Tom’s barn last summer. I experiment now with the glorious self-induced internal massage. It’s a little bit like the anal beads that I remember quite vividly from when I was last here, but maybe a little gentler. Possibly a little less intense.

  At last, moaning already with pleasure, I step up to the cross and fasten the waist restraint around myself, buckling it at my side. Then I place my wrists through the leather bracelets, and slip my feet into the straps at the bottom two points. And I wait.

  Nathan doesn’t keep me waiting long. Only a couple of minutes, hardly anything at all in Dom time. Just enough time to help me anticipate what’s to come, and to continue to explore the pleasurable feeling of those lovely little eggs doing their delightful rocking and rolling thing inside me My forehead resting against the oak beam in from of me, I tense in surprise as the eggs suddenly start to vibrate inside me. Activated and controlled remotely by Nathan, my desire starts to build and peak as I hear the door open. Then the quiet click as he closes it behind him. I remain still, in my place on the cross. I know better by now than to attempt to move until my Dom instructs me that I should. I listen intently, hear his soft footsteps as he crosses the room, barefoot I think, to where I stand, waiting patiently for him.

  “You like them, Miss Byrne? Our new toys?” He makes no move to touch me yet, but I am aware of him standing behind me. Close behind me.

  “Yes, I like them.” My response is simple. I’ll ask him about the cross later. For now, I’m here to sample, to savour, to enjoy.

  “Good. Me too.” He leans above me to tighten the wrist restraints then crouches at my feet to secure my ankles in place. “Not too tight, Miss Byrne?” he asks solicitously.

  “No, I’m fine,” I reply. How polite we are.

  Nathan steps away and I hear the familiar sound of the lid on the chest at the foot of his huge bed being lifted then clattering back to rest against the footboard as he reaches inside. He takes his time, careful in making his selections. At last he straightens, closes the lid and comes to stand behind me once more.

  “Your safe word, Miss Byrne, is it still the same or do you want to choose a new one?”

  “Will I need it?”

  He responds with a severity I now know to be mock, but convincing even so. To the untutored ear. “Miss Byrne, you scare me sometimes. You have a reckless streak and I intend to cure you of it. Yes, you will need your safe word today. So what is it to be?”

  “Red, then, as usual.”

  “Thank you.”

  Then I jump, startled by the light caress on my shoulder before he scoops up my hair and pushes it forward, off my back. He steps away slightly. I hear the faint rustle as he picks something up, turns back to me. “No last minute change of heart then, Miss Byrne?” His voice is soft, but the familiar steel of the hardened Dom is there, threaded through his tone, menacing but comforting in equal measure. He is Master here, and therefore I’m safe.

  “No. I want this. Please. Please, Nathan…” And I yelp in pain as the first blow lands.

  The whip has fallen across my shoulders and back. Despite my eager enthusiasm of moments ago I can’t help the expletive that bursts from my lips. “Christ, fucking hell, Nathan…”

  “Miss Byrne?” His question hangs in the air between us, unspoken but clearly stated. I gasp for a few seconds, collect my scattered wits before I settle back into position, rest my forehead once more on the massive wooden frame of the cross.

  “Please, continue,” I whisper.

  Four, five, six, seven. Each time the whip falls, my whole body tenses and I cry out, I can’t help myself. This hurts so much. And so beautifully. Every tense clenching that he forces through my helpless body causes the eggs deep within me to increase their delicious pressure, my desire to mount further. I’m gasping, moaning, no longer able to separate the pleasure from the pain. Not sure, not even caring where one begins and the other ends.

  The regular, repetitive blows are strangely hypnotic and I find myself relaxing into them, accepting. Welcoming the pain and riding it, a part of it but detached, too. At times it’s like watching myself from outside my own body, as if this torture is happening to someone else. But at the same time I’m right there in the heart of it. Or it’s at the heart of me.

  Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. The pain builds, grows, expands to fill every corner of me. I hurt everywhere, my back and shoulders are on fire, there’s now nothing else in this world apart from me and that whip. And those wonderful, glorious eggs massaging me gently from within. I’m so close to orgasm that I scream with frustration as I feel my body sag, the bite of the restraints on my wrists tightening as I’m no longer able to support my own weight, melting into the cross.

  “I have you.” Nathan’s arm is around my middle, supporting me as he releases first my wrists, then my ankles, carrying me swiftly to the bed. He lays me down on my stomach, and slides his hand between my legs to finish the job. He strokes my clitoris, at first delicately then firmly as I groan, loud and hard, my hips thrusting upwards to offer myself to him. Wordlessly begging him to help me.

  “Come, come for me now, beautiful Eva. Come, Angel.”

  The soft command is all I need, and the tsunami of orgasm, powerful, beautiful and quite overwhelming rocks my world. I shudder, gasping as wave after wave of pure, sweet ecstasy flows through me, all other sensations pushed aside, starting at my core and radiating outwards to every extremity.

  Only as the last tremors fade does Nathan gently remove the sweet little eggs before lifting my hips between his hands, raising me up enough for him to slide into me from behind, gently, sweetly.

  “Let me love you, beautiful Eva. Let me make love to you. Please, now…”

  “Yes,” I murmur. “Yes, yes, yes…” And it isn’t until afterwards that I realise what he said—‘make love’, not his usual ‘fucking’. Not until he slides out of me, rolls onto his back and pulls me over him to lie on top, gazing down into his face.

  “I think you got into the zone back there. You had a good time, didn’t you?”

  I wince, conscious of the sharp stinging still evident across my back every time I move, then I nod. It had hurt, hurt like crazy, but I know what he meant about the zone, that strange, almost trance-like state between pain and pleasure where I had found myself floating, suspended within my own body before my legs gave way. It was a little bit like being drunk, sort of detached and floating, observing and participating at the same time. And it felt absolutely fabulous, truly wonderful.

  Nathan grins, his tone teasing. “Maybe you do have what it takes to be a decent submissive after all.” Then, “Kiss me, Miss Byrne.” His tone is low now, seductive, his smile soft. His eyes are deep, bottomless, and I just adore him. I’ll always adore him.

  “Not Miss Byrne,” I whisper. He frowns, quirks his head, questioning. “Mrs Darke has a nicer ring to it, I think. If your offer still stands…?”

  “Oh, it still stands, Miss Byrne. It definitely still stands. Now be a good little sub and do as you’re told for once. Kiss me.” I lower my lips to his, and do exactly as I’m told.

  * * * *

  And now, another w
eek has gone by. A week in which I’ve watched everyone around me caring for Isabella, smiling at her, holding her and cuddling her, and I want to snatch her back. She’s mine. Isn’t she? Could she be?

  Most mornings now I wake up and I can see the sunlight. I feel happy. Well, happier. I’ve come to expect days to be good, to anticipate nice things happening to me. I find myself laughing, looking forward to tomorrow, making plans. We haven’t told the rest of our household that Mrs Darke might be joining us soon, but Nathan and I are talking about it, tentatively planning the future together.

  I expect happiness now, contentment, and so that’s exactly what I’m finding. My own self-fulfilling prophecy. I’ve been out on the moors a few times with Nathan, Rosie and Barney. And with Ashley. Sweet little Ashley who has her own interesting secrets, I suspect. I asked Nathan about his recent additions to his erotic paraphernalia and was stunned to learn that he didn’t buy the St Andrews cross—Tom did. There are questions I’d like to ask Ashley, notes to compare perhaps, maybe, when we know each other better.

  I’ve even been playing my violin again. I felt a bit sheepish having to ask Rosie to let me have it back but she relinquished it readily enough. Our duets are rusty but coming along okay. I soon feel tired, I usually do these days, and any activity doesn’t last long. But I’m enjoying myself at last. As long as I don’t have to deal with Isabella.

  But this morning I’m awake, before dawn, and I want her. I want my baby so much it hurts. I can’t bear to be parted from Isabella a moment longer. Nathan’s still asleep so I slide out of bed slowly, carefully. Nude as usual when sharing Nathan’s bed, I reach for a robe, before creeping silently out of his room and along the dark corridor, to Rosie’s. To Isabella.

  By the glow from the dim night light I can see she’s sleeping, on her back in her cot, her breath rapid and even, in that way that only babies have. I lean down, scared to touch her, just breathing in her warm, milky, baby scent.

  And my heart turns over. I love her, I love her with all that first passion I felt after she was born, the selfless devotion that only mothers feel. This little person, I would die for, kill for, give up everything for. And I’d so nearly lost her, so nearly been lost.

  Overwhelmed by a sense of urgency and near panic at how close I’d come to absolute disaster I grab her out of the cot, holding her tightly against me and swearing I’ll never, ever let her go again. I stagger out into the corridor with her in my arms and lean with my back against the wall, slowly sliding down it.

  And it’s there, crouched on the floor, hugging Isabella as though my very life depends on it, that Nathan finds me. I hear his bare footsteps on the carpet and see those feet stopping in front of me. He’s pulled on a pair of jeans, but that’s all. I look up at him, and he winks. He says nothing, just turns and slides down the wall to sit beside me on the floor. He slips his arm around me, pulling me to him, and I lean my head on his shoulder. He kisses my hair, strokes Isabella’s cheek.

  And I know we’re okay.

  Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

  The Dark Side: Darkening

  Ashe Barker

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Don’t you just love Beethoven?

  Well, I do. I always have, since I was tiny. I’m just drifting along nicely to his Symphony Number 3 in E-flat major and contemplating the heroic doings of Napoleon Bonaparte—apparently Beethoven’s inspiration for this particular symphony—as my mobile starts trilling. Definitely need to choose a new ringtone sometime soon—this din could be mistaken for a budgie caught in a car door. What could I have been thinking, choosing that? Napoleon never had ringtones to contend with. Neither did Ludwig van. And I don’t appreciate the interruption.

  It’s not even seven o’clock in the evening yet, and I am curled up in bed. I am surrounded by archaeology textbooks although I’m not in the mood for serious reading, and I do have Ludwig for company. But still—in bed by seven and trying to teach myself about the mysteries of ancient Egypt out of sheer boredom is just pathetic. I so need to get a life.

  The phone has somehow disappeared under the duvet. I know it’s there somewhere because the budgie’s still screaming its silly head off. It gets louder after a few rings. God, what overpaid nerdy whiz-kid thought that little gimmick up? A pushy phone—that’s all I need. I get enough nagging from my mother. ‘I just want what’s best for you, dear…’

  “Sod ringtones.” Now I know I’m losing it, because I’m actually talking to myself. I suppose the real danger sign is if I start answering. An uncomfortable thought. I shudder as I shove it brutally aside. I’m fine, absolutely fine. Now.

  On that thought, I finally get my hands on the screeching HTC spawn of Lucifer and drag it out to face the light, punch the passcode into the keypad and answer.

  “Hello, Eva Byrne…?” Always that expectant little pause, my name turned into a question as though I might not after all be me. Wishful thinking.

  “Eva…? Evangelica, is it…? Ange, is that you? It’s Natasha…” A little pause, no doubt to give me time to remember who Natasha might be. It doesn’t work—my mind’s a complete blank. And no one I know calls me Ange. Or Evangelica—unless it’s my mother in a very bad mood.

  “…from the agency.”

  Right, that Natasha. The snooty bitch with fuck-me heels and killer red talons glued onto her fingernails who looked at me like I was a lesser life form when I called in at the Little Maestros musical tuition agency a couple of weeks ago. I was looking for some alternative way of making a living, and if I could find something I actually liked doing, so much the better. I love music, and I quite like teaching, so I dropped off my CV and qualifications with a few agencies, just in case they might have some temp work going somewhere. Natasha looked a fraction more respectful when she spotted my first class honours degree in music from King’s College, London, but rather spoilt the effect by asking me for proof of identity. Obviously she thought I’d stolen the degree certificate.

  On reflection, I think her suspicions were aroused by my skinny black jeans, No Fear grey hoodie and psychedelic Converse trainers, topped off by a mop of wavy—or should that just be plain frizzy—red hair falling to the middle of my back. I’m not your archetypal music teacher.

  My unruly hair is a constant nuisance, the bane of my life. It bounces, frizzes and waves everywhere, and short of shaving it off I have never found a way of controlling it. When I was a child my mother tried everything to get it into some semblance of order, and brushing it every morning became a war of attrition. The hair was winning, hands down, until eventually my mother had one of her Hiroshima moments where she takes decisive, drastic and usually disproportionate action. She marched me along to The Cutting Shop down on Stamford Hill High Street and had the lot chopped off. It curled more than ever in defiance after the vicious assault, but at least it would fit under a hat.

  At five-four in heels and looking about sixteen—I am twenty-two, but like to tell myself I have worn well—I guess I didn’t fit the image of a serious violin teacher as I perched in a trendy little black leather bucket chair in front of Natasha’s pristine white desk, while she sneered down her aristocratic nose at me and suggested I was an impostor.

  I wasn’t especially desperate to impress Natasha the super-bitch—other agencies are available—so she was treated to my scruffy, sullen teenager look. Maybe my unpromising first impression was why it took her so long to get back to me. Oh, well—I need the work so I’d better make an effort now. If humble and well-mannered is called for, that’s what I’ll do.

  “Ah—hello, Natasha, how are you?” Always polite, that’s me, whatever the provocation. It’s my mother’s influence.

  “There’s a job come up you might be interested in.” She pauses to let this sink in, make sure I’m listening. “Music tutor to an eight-year-old girl. She’s learning the violin.”

  I am listening, and suddenly I’m very interested. I need to get a life, we’ve already es
tablished that, and here’s one that might just do. I really want a job as a musician if possible, at least for now. I’m not bothered about earning much, and I know that private tuition is hardly going to keep me in shampoo and tampons, especially with the agency creaming off most of the fee. But with my somewhat unique talents I can earn enough in a single evening to cover pretty much anything I might need. This job sounds just right, just what I’m looking for. I can play a mean violin—shouldn’t be too difficult to teach a little girl the basics. I put Ludwig on pause for a few minutes and resolve to be very polite indeed to Natasha.

  Natasha rushes on with her explanations, obviously in a hurry and clearly desperate, which is probably why she’s ringing me. “Valerie was doing it.”

  Valerie—do I know a Valerie?

  “She’s been teaching her for the last three months, but she busted her leg skiing and she’s laid up somewhere in the French Alps.”

  French Alps—all right for some… But still, she’s got a broken leg and now I’ve got her job, so I guess life sort of levels itself out.

  Natasha is still gushing on. “Our contract with the client says we’ll provide a replacement, and you’re it. If you want to, of course… I need to know now, though, because we’ve already blobbed for two days and the client is not best pleased.”

  No need to ask me twice—I’m sold. “I’ll do it. When do they want me, and where is it?”

  “Ah, well, that’s the thing. You start tomorrow, at nine—the client is very definite about that. Doesn’t want little…whatever her name is…ah, yes, Rosie, little Rosie, missing any more of her lessons just because of a broken femur.”

  Sounds reasonable. “Okay, give me the address.”

  “Black Combe, Oakworth.”

  “Where?” Quick flick through my mental A–Z of London—nope, no Black Combe that I know of. Probably one of the new high-rises in the Docklands. Can’t place Oakworth either, come to think. But not to worry, that’s what satnavs are for.