by Ashe Barker
“Open your legs wide, Eva,” he whispers into my ear. “Wider. Let me touch you.”
I do, gladly, gratefully, as he strokes my clitoris with his clever fingers. At first he is gentle, teasing, featherlight in his touch, but as my arousal grows he strokes me more firmly, pressing harder, more insistent. “Is this good, Eva? Is this how you like it?”
“Yes. Yes. Oh, that’s fabulous. Fabulous.”
“More? Would you like more, Eva?”
“Please, yes. Please don’t stop. I just need…”
“Is this what you need, angel?” He continues to circle and rub my clit with his thumb as he slips two fingers deep inside me, and with a final scream I am gone. The clenching, clutching convulsions of my powerful orgasm grip me, grip him as the walls of my vagina squeeze around his fingers, still moving inside me to draw out the final waves of pleasure.
At last I am still, lying back against him, his arms around me, one hand across my stomach, the other still between my legs, still lightly caressing me. Soothing me, reassuring me as my senses return. He kisses my ear, nuzzling his face in my hair, still loosely plaited, tendrils falling free around my face.
I feel the release of pressure on my nipples as he opens the clamps, removing them gently. He rolls the still painful tips between his fingers, encouraging the circulation back to normal. “Is this sore, love?” he asks as I wince under his hands.
“Yes, a little. But it was wonderful. Thank you. And thank you for the ice, at the beginning. I don’t think I could have managed it otherwise.” I twist my head to look up at him, into his deep, chocolate eyes. He is smiling, his expression tender, caring.
“I told you, Eva, that I’d stretch you, push you to your limits. But that I’d never hurt you more than you can bear. You needed the ice, this time. But next time, who knows?” His grin mischievous now, he leans down, plants a quick kiss on my lips, before pulling me upright in front of him. With a few deft tugs my hands and arms are free, and I realise how much they are aching as I pull them stiffly in front of me, rubbing my joints to get them loose and moving again. Nathan stands, pulling me to my feet. I notice with surprise that he is still fully dressed, and open my mouth to comment on that as he sweeps me into his arms. I decide to cling on instead as he strides across the room and through the door to his bedroom. He drops me in the middle of his huge bed, standing over me as he wastes no time in shedding his clothes. The shirt goes first, and my mouth waters as I admire his sculpted chest and defined abdomen muscles. His trousers are next, then his shorts, and his powerful, huge erection juts out at me.
The head of his penis is slick, a bead of moisture on the end. I reach out to touch it, to smooth it across the tip with my thumb as he so recently rubbed my nipples. With my other hand I cup his balls, heavy, taut, moving in my palm. I shift, intending to take him in my mouth, but this time he stops me, coming onto the bed to kneel over me, pressing me back against the duvet. His hands behind my knees, he parts my legs, positioning himself between them. He pushes my knees upwards, holding them either side of my chest, raising me up for better access, better entrance.
“Just a little gentle fucking now, Eva, does that sound nice to you?”
“Yes, that sounds very nice. But not too gentle. Please.”
“Anything to oblige.” He enters me quick, hard, deep. I feel his cock hit my cervix as his balls slap against my bottom. He is huge, wide. I feel my inner walls stretch to accommodate him, but there is no pain this time. He gives me a moment to adjust before starting to thrust. Slow at first, pulling right back almost out of me, then deeply, smoothly plunging fully into me once more, right to the hilt. I groan, writhe under him. He shifts slightly to get the perfect angle to hit that certain spot, and sets up a rhythm. I moan with pleasure as he strokes me smoothly, the friction delicious and delicate against my vagina, and the now familiar first tug of orgasm drifts across me. I squeeze him, crossing my ankles behind his waist to pull him farther in. His hands now free, he slips one between us to lay his thumb over my clit, every thrust causing the sensitive little bud to scrape against him. Quickly the pleasure builds until I shatter, crying out as I clench and convulse again, and he stiffens above me, holding himself very still for the few seconds it takes for my orgasm to pass.
When I am still again, my legs flat on the bed beneath him, he drops down, his weight on me, and takes my face between his palms. He kisses me, long and deep, not moving again, not yet, but still huge and hard inside me. After a few moments he pushes himself up, placing his knees under my bottom so I am lifted up, my hips draped across his thighs. He looks down at that spot where we are joined, then back into my eyes.
“So sweet, Eva, so fucking gorgeous.” Then with his hands resting in my groin he uses both his thumbs to stimulate my clit again, running them alternately along the swollen nub, from my entrance, now stretched fully open by his cock planted deep within me, towards the front. Continuously stroking, the pleasure is absolutely overwhelming. The intimacy of the gesture, the tender, caring, gentle caress so sweet I feel tears behind my closed eyelids.
In that moment I know for sure that I can, will, do love this man.
I’m so tired now I can hardly move in response to the waves of pure pleasure washing through me, but I know I don’t need to. He knows. He is watching me, and as my climax again rushes towards me he increases the pressure enough to send me spinning away once more, floating, shaking, convulsing until eventually I lie still. One very satisfied, very contented little sub.
Leaning over me once more, with a couple of sharp, hard thrusts, and a muffled curse, he is done. I feel his hot sperm shoot deep inside me, as the shudders ripple through his tight, hard muscles, the veins on his arms standing out as he strains against me, inside me. Then suddenly his arms give way and he drops onto me. I expect his full weight to pin me to the bed again, but at the last moment he rolls, taking me with him as he did before, that first time when I cried all over his chest, and once more I land on top. He is still inside me, but only just as his erection slips away. I shift slightly, and we are separated. Which does seem a pity.
“You okay, sweetheart? Not too rough?”
“I’m fine. Absolutely wonderful. And the fucking was wonderful too.”
I wonder if, when, I should tell him I love him. Is that suitable conversation from a sub to her Dom? Probably not.
Shit!
Chapter Three
We slept late on Saturday morning. Well I did, certainly. Sex with Nathan, indeed everything with Nathan, is wonderful. Sensual, intense, all-consuming and absolutely exhausting. I have felt drained each time, and slept like a log.
It is bright daylight when I awake, the summer sunshine streaming into the room, warm and golden. Or maybe that’s just me. I squint over at the clock. Ten fifteen. I can hear Nathan moving about in the kitchen, the splash of water and clink of crockery suggesting the possibility of coffee on its way. On that optimistic thought I roll over, snuggle happily back down into the duvet and wait, hugging my tummy in excitement as I rewind through yesterday’s events. The trauma of yesterday morning, the shock and tension of the afternoon’s interview in Nathan’s office and the sweetness of the evening, topped off by the most incredible lovemaking. Although Nathan would never call it that. To him it’s always fucking. Sometimes gentle, sometimes not at all gentle, but always fucking. A Dom fucking his sub. Simple.
But this sub’s in love. Or thinks she is. Except, hell, how would I know, really? I’ve no solid frame of reference for this, and given what we’ve been getting up to, who could I ask? My mother? Normally I might talk to her. Maybe. But I can just imagine the conversation. ‘Mum, there’s this guy I’ve met and been sleeping with. He’s a dab hand with a whip and can do amazing things with nipple clamps. And I think I might be in love with him. Oh, and yes, I’m not a virgin anymore…’ I think not!
I have a strong suspicion this is not going to turn out to be simple at all, especially when Nathan gets wind of how I feel. Yesterday I wa
s afraid he’d dump me for being a freak. Today I think he’ll quite probably dump me for being in love.
Shit indeed.
“Coffee, croissants, paracetamol and a nice long, hot bath. In that order.” I hear the clink of cups as Nathan plants a tray on the end of the bed and sits beside me.
Paracetamol?
I roll over onto my back, nervous suddenly as he peels back the duvet to reveal my breasts. He runs his fingers from my shoulder, down over my breasts to circle my nipples, then onto my tummy, quirking one sexy eyebrow, his smile reassuring, familiar, intimate. His touch feels natural, safe. I arch into it. But apparently just now he has different ideas.
“Sit up, time for breakfast.” He pulls me up briskly, propping pillows behind me and scrambles onto the bed himself to lounge alongside me. He has on his boxers but that’s all, his long muscled legs stretched out on top of the duvet. I make a mental note to ask him how he keeps his superb body in shape, but first things first…
“Who’s the paracetamol for? Got a headache?”
“It’s for you, sassy lady. You’ll be glad of it.”
He grabs a croissant, tears off a chunk and shoves it into his mouth, washing it down with coffee before turning to me.
“You’ve got your first Brazilian wax coming up. It is your first, I assume…?”
I nod slowly, wishing I’d paid more attention yesterday.
“Well then, that’s gonna hurt. Probably. The painkillers will help, though, and if you take them before your bath they’ll have time to kick in. So, eat up, and get those tits under control, or I’ll fuck you now until you faint again.”
I pull up the duvet, instinctively squeezing my legs shut at the thought of the upcoming wax job, but he laughs and tugs it down again. “Relax, Eva. It’s a lovely view and very tempting, but I’ll manage to control myself. Well, for a few more minutes anyway. Don’t want you to starve. So eat.”
“Right, sir,” I mutter, “Straight away, sir,” reaching for a croissant.
“You were right, you do catch on fast.” He chuckles, and takes another glug of his coffee.
If only he knew.
“I’ll run you a bath. Help to soften you up for your wax job.” And he is gone, disappearing out of the door again, presumably to some house bathroom as the en suite is only blessed with a shower. A jumbo-sized power shower plenty big enough for two, but no bath. The sound of running water from somewhere out in the apartment tells me the morning’s fun and games are on.
I eat my croissants leisurely, and sip my coffee. Then pour myself another cup. Let him wait. I know full well he’ll come and get me when he’s ready.
As the minutes tick by and no Nathan reappears I begin to get curious, especially when the sound of running water stops. I slide out of bed and nip in the en suite to use the loo. Then, still not quite sufficiently uninhibited to walk around his apartment naked, I slip into Nathan’s discarded shirt from last night and go looking for him.
I take my time. This is the first chance I’ve had to wander round, explore this place where Nathan lives for half his life. And on closer examination it really is very impressive. The airy lounge area opens into a dining space, which then extends off into the kitchen. Like at Black Combe, everything is state of the art, expensive, classy. From the black granite worktops to the glistening halogen hob, from the huge flat-screen TV to the Bose sound system, everything is top quality, designed for comfort, and for luxury. The leather sofas facing each other across the lounge, the beautiful oak dining table and matching carver chairs, the Aubusson rugs scattered around the hardwood floor, all speak of taste and perfection. There is modern art on the walls, not an area I know much about, but I am sure Nathan has chosen well. The place is pristine, spotless. He obviously employs someone to look after it all for him—I can’t somehow imagine the sexy Mr Darke flitting round with a duster.
Small personal items are placed around the space—a photo of Rosie on top of an upturned beer crate—very trendy, a Leeds United supporters’ scarf dangling over the back of one of the dining chairs and a guitar case leaning against the kitchen worktop.
I can’t help myself, I have to open it, have a look at the instrument inside. I lift it out carefully, a Fender acoustic guitar, not top of the range but certainly sweet enough. I dig around in the case for a plectrum and, finding one, settle on the arm of the sofa, the instrument across my knees, and strum gently. I listen for the tone, absently twisting the tuning pegs on the neck to get the perfect sound. I may be making my living as a violinist just now, but in fact my best efforts are on the piano, which I play to concert standard. There really isn’t any musical instrument, though, that I can’t get a decent tune out of within a few minutes of experimenting and I reckon this sweet little Fender will be no exception. I remember myself in time—it’s rude to just pick up someone else’s instrument and play without permission. I’d go spare if anyone messed with my violin. Regretfully I place the Fender back in the case and prop it up against the worktop where I found it. And hope he hasn’t heard me.
I stroll over to the floor to ceiling picture window and realise it is actually a patio door, leading to a stunning rooftop terrace and garden. There is outdoor furniture, ornamental trees in huge pots and even two life-size statues of sheep, grazing on a small patch of grass. Real grass? Looks like it. And all with breathtaking views over the Leeds city skyline. Private, secluded, Nathan’s own little oasis in the heart of the city.
But for all the high-end interior design and stunning location this place is not a show home. It’s a place that is lived in, played in, enjoyed. The overall effect is one of invitation, of welcome. It’s not quite Black Combe, but still, I love it.
I really do need to find him now, though, before he gets irritated and comes looking for me. My instincts tell me I should avoid irritating him if I can. Glancing around there are only two other doors Nathan could have gone through. I know which is his bedroom, obviously, and which is the guest room I used on Thursday, when I was getting ready for the awards dinner. I try the first possibility and find myself looking into a small home office. A quick glance tells me, not surprisingly, that it’s fully fitted out, dominated by a mean-looking desktop computer with a huge screen—I remember that Nathan is an architect so probably uses CAD. He also has a traditional drawing board under a large window, no doubt catching the best natural light.
I step back, closing the door softly, and turn to the last remaining possibility. I turn the knob and open the door, peeping inside. Wow! This is it. This is the most beautiful, luxurious bathroom I have ever seen. I step inside, close the door and lean back against it, taking in the sight.
The spacious room, tiled in black with shiny brass fittings, is dominated by a huge bath. The bath is deep and wide, and looks to be made of wood. It’s full to the brim, topped by a layer of rich bubbles, and Nathan is lounging at one end, his arm slung casually over the side, a glass of what looks to be orange juice in his other hand, watching me quietly.
“You took your time, Miss Byrne. I guess you’ve been exploring?”
“Yes. I had a look around. Is that okay? I didn’t mean to pry or anything, it’s just that this place is… Well—wow, look at all this!” I step forward, eyes wide and open-mouthed, turning slowly to take it all in. The heated towel rail, the piles of fluffy cream-coloured towels, another multi-jet shower behind a teak semi-screen, another loo discreetly tucked away behind more teak. A double sink unit set into a polished teak vanity, the shelf above sporting such mundane necessities as toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap and a flannel.
But the bath, the magnificent bath, is centre stage, free-standing in the middle of the room, with a small step in front of it. There are shelves at the rim level, to two sides, where Nathan has placed a jug of orange juice, a half bottle of champagne, opened, a small bottle of chilled water and two small white tablets in a tiny porcelain dish. No candles, but the lighting is soft, seductive. And the scent of pine and forest fills the steamy air.
He smiles, obviously cool with my curiosity. “No problem, you’re welcome. I’ll do the grand tour for you later. And you can demonstrate your prowess on my guitar again. Another of your private concerts, perhaps?” Oh hell, he did hear then…
“But now, come and join me, Miss Byrne,” he says, still smiling softly, but the thread of steel is back.
“Is this thing made of wood?” I ask, incredulous. I’ve never heard of a wooden bath. “Won’t it leak?”
“Yes. And no, it won’t leak. It’s seasoned, treated teak. Built for warmth. And comfort. And pleasure, Miss Byrne. So get in. Now, please.”
I catch the warning note in his tone, but find I’m not quite so easily cowed anymore. With an impressive show of defiant bravado, somewhat undermined by my need to use the step to clamber up onto the bath I sit on the edge, looking down at him. I’m still wearing his shirt and making no move yet to undress for him.
His gaze hardening as he notes my show of defiance, he takes a sip of his orange juice. And offers me one last chance. “My shirt looks much better on you than it did on me, Miss Byrne, but take it off now, please.”
I turn to dangle my bare legs and feet in the tub, still perched on the edge, watching him, waiting, defying. Goading him. Sooner or later Nathan’s Dom persona is going to surface, and recklessly I rather think I’d like to see that now.
Nathan does not disappoint. Discreetly setting his drink down, he gives me probably a full five seconds more to comply with his instructions before he lunges for me, grabs me and pulls me in, shirt as well. The bath is about three feet deep and I am under the water, struggling in his strong arms for the few moments he takes to pull me, gasping, to the surface. Coughing and spluttering I fight to push my masses of wet hair away from my face and glare at him, spitting outrage and accusation.
He is unmoved. “The shirt, Miss Byrne. Or do I need to duck you again?”