Darker

by Ashe Barker

  “The list said no drowning.” I snarl at him, affronted by this breach of our agreement. How dare he!

  “You’ll know soon enough if I decide to drown you. The list also said obedience. Immediate, no arguing. So, for the last time, Miss Byrne…?”

  I know when not to push it—my Dom is back in full force, and scary as hell. “Okay, okay,” I mutter, starting to unbutton the shirt but struggling with the wet fabric. Apart from holding me by the waist to steady me and keep me afloat he doesn’t help, just watches me fiddling with the buttons until eventually the shirt floats free. He grabs it and tosses it out onto the tiled floor before taking a long look up and down my body. Appreciating, admiring, owning…?

  “Much better. Now, your medication, Miss Byrne.” He passes me the porcelain dish and, docile now, I scoop the two painkillers into my hand, tossing them into my mouth as he passes me the bottle of water to wash them down. I screw up my face at the bitter taste.

  “They’ll do you good. Now, do you want a more pleasant drink as a chaser? Juice? Buck’s Fizz?”

  “Er, what are you having?”

  “Bit early for me to hit the hard stuff. And anyway I want to keep a clear head, and you’ll be glad of that soon enough when I get to work on your sweet little body. But you? If you want a drink that’s fine. Might even steady your nerves.”

  I’m tempted, but probably best not. “Just juice, please. I think I’ll keep my head clear too.”

  His lopsided grin is his only response as he pours me a glass of orange. Then turning me easily in the water he pulls me against him, my back up against his hard chest. He reaches round me to hand me the glass, then lays back, his arm loosely around my middle. He picks up his own glass again, takes a leisurely sip. Then, putting his drink down on the shelf alongside his head he reaches out, picks up a small remote control. Pointing it at a wall-mounted sensor on the opposite wall he presses a button, and a moment later the room is bathed in sound. The wonderful, melodious sound of classical guitar. I feel myself relax against him, immediately enchanted by the music. I love classical guitar, play a bit myself but not in this class. Nevertheless, I can appreciate the naked acoustic beauty of Milos Karadaglic’s Latino.

  “Like that?” He murmurs the question softly against my ear. I nod contentedly. “Mmm, thought you might. And later you’ll play for me again?” It could be a question, a request, or perhaps an instruction. I decide to test the water, so to speak.

  “Maybe,” I respond. “Depends how much I dislike you after the waxing.” No harm in flexing my own muscles, such as they are. Occasionally. And it seems I’ve got away with it. This time. No further words required, I lie back, luxuriating in the warm, scented water, lulled by the delicate, evocative, intricate strains of Milos’ exquisite skill.

  Nathan stretches out his arm again and flicks a switch. Suddenly the water explodes into fizzy frothing all around us as the jacuzzi jets start up. His arm tightens as I shift, startled by the swirling waves, then loosens again as I relax.

  I’ve been in jacuzzi spas before, public ones in the gym or swimming pools, but never one that felt as fabulous as this one. The sensation is wonderful, a warm, soft, all-over massage. I let my legs drift upwards, floating, trusting Nathan to hold me, keep me afloat. I sip my juice then put the glass next to his, closing my eyes as I lay my head back on his shoulder. With his free hand he gently caresses my breast as we savour the sensuality of the music and the foaming, churning, gurgling spray tingling and swirling all around us. After a few minutes Nathan moves, shifting both of us more upright. His knees are between mine and he uses them to gently ease my legs apart, exposing my sensitive flesh to the jets shooting up from the bottom of the bath.

  “Just wriggle around. Position yourself so it catches you just right, just where you like it most,” he whispers in my ear. I do, and it feels fabulous, the warm disembodied pressure directly against my clitoris. I groan in ecstasy as he tightens his hold to keep me in position, holding me in place as the waves of delight flood over.

  “Can you come like this or do you need more? Do you want me to help?” His whisper is low, husky. I can feel his erection hard and big under my bum and I wonder what ‘help’ he has in mind? Anything would be wonderful. I wriggle against him in answer and he chuckles softly, tipping me forward onto my knees. I reach for the opposite end of the bath with my hands, while Nathan spreads my knees as wide as the bath will allow. Which is pretty damn far.

  He enters me quickly, slipping into me from behind whilst still making sure my clit continues to receive the full benefit of the jets shooting at me from below. He moves slowly, sliding in and out so tenderly I feel I could cry. This is gentle fucking with bells on! It’s soothing, so, so comfortable, and so, so very slow. The tension and tug towards orgasm build little by little, softly, creeping up on me until I start to clench, shifting my body to increase the pressure, silently seeking more. But Nathan is ruthlessly unhurried and I have to wait, eventually tumbling sweetly, softly, into my climax. The familiar sparkle and internal fireworks shoot through me as I come, clenching around him, screwing my hips around as I instinctively bear down on him, begging him without words to increase the pressure on my sensitive inner walls. Responding at last he thrusts, sharp, hard, hitting that exact spot with unerring accuracy as I convulse, moaning, gasping my gratitude.

  I feel the hot spurt inside me as he climaxes soon after I do, then he pulls me backwards to sit astride him. He is still buried deep inside me and apparently going nowhere, his finger now gently, lightly circling my clit. The effect is more one of calming than of arousal and I open my legs wide to appreciate it fully.

  “Enjoying your bath, Miss Byrne,” he murmurs.

  I can only sigh, roll my shoulders in contentment. He gets the idea and lightly kisses the top of my head, continuing to caress me with his fingers. “Tell me how you feel, right now…” he whispers.

  “I feel fine. This is so good.”

  “Your body feels fine, I can tell that. But what about your head?”

  “My head?” I am at a loss, what is he after now?

  “I can control how your body feels, pretty much. Pleasure, pain, I can deliver. On demand. Agreed?” Still bemused as to where this is going, but with a growing sense that it could be important, I try to gather my thoughts.

  “Eva? Do you agree?”

  He isn’t letting up, so I answer, whispering, “Yes. Agreed.”

  “When we talked, in my office on Friday, you told me you wanted to explore the physical side of your sexuality. Did I understand that right?” At my silence he prompts, gently but insistent still. “Eva?”

  “Yes, yes that’s what I was trying to say. Not sure it came out quite like that, but yes.”

  “Okay. And you also said you wanted to understand, experience your emotions better. Relationships, being around other people, liking yourself and being liked, being loved… Did I get that right too?” This is much more personal. Much more intimate. But he’s still spot on. Did I really say all that? Did I really let him see, hear all of that? Did I really hand him all that power to hurt me? And more to the point, starting to panic, can I get it back now?

  “I, well, I’m not sure I meant. I mean, I do like myself. Obviously. Why wouldn’t I?”

  He’s still gently stroking me, his cock still inside me, and I am struck by how incongruous this conversation seems to me. Not to him, though, apparently, as he continues, his voice steady, even, as though he might be addressing a business meeting or chatting across the breakfast table with Rosie.

  “You tell me, love. What’s not to like? Not to admire? You’re clever, funny, talented, brave. You’ve got a body to die for, the most responsive little clit I’ve ever come across”—he pauses, flicks my clit lightly to emphasis his point—“if you’ll pardon the pun, and you’re the best lay I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a few, believe me, so I am an authority.”

  I can only gasp in reply—there’s really no answer to that. He’s not done yet, t
hough. “I repeat, what’s not to like? You’re gorgeous, absolutely stunning. And brilliant too. The full package. I can’t believe my luck that you turned up at my house that night. And that somehow I managed not to scare you away.”

  Does he mean me? He can’t be talking about me. I am stunned. Absolutely speechless. No one, no one has ever spoken about me like that. No one ever thought of me like that. The best lay he’s ever had? God! I should be affronted that it comes down to sex, but this is repressed, virginal little Eva Byrne we’re talking about, flat-chested, nerdy little Eva Byrne, the boring swot with no tits, no friends and hair like a bunch of carrots. And somehow, incredibly, this gorgeous hunk of a man who knows more about sex and sensuality than anyone I’ve ever met, a one-man Karma Sutra, thinks I’m a good lay. Me! I could dance on the ceiling. Or failing that, I might just stroll across this ocean of a bathtub of his.

  This can’t be real. I have to ask. My voice cracking, I whisper, “Are you just saying all that? To make me feel better? Are you just being kind?”

  “Well, I hope I’m being kind. I do try, most of the time. With you. And yeah, I do want you to feel good, Eva. But that doesn’t mean I’m not telling you the truth, telling it like I see it. If you won’t believe it from me, who would you like to hear it from? Is there someone else?” His voice is soft, gentle. No accusation here, no jealousy, just concern. For me.

  It’s too much. Compliments I can laugh off, admiration I can dismiss. But care and concern? Those just shoot straight through my carefully built defences and hit me direct in the heart. My face is wet, and I realise it’s not only the bathwater. Intense emotion just undoes me. I can’t handle it. Quite simply, I just never learnt how. Overwhelmed, with a gulp I turn in his arms and bury my face in his chest. I sob quietly as he holds me, strokes me, whispers sweet things in my hair.

  “Beautiful, beautiful Eva. So sweet, so gorgeous, so sexy, so lovely… Talk to me, Eva. Cry if you need to. I’ll wait, then we’ll talk some more. Don’t stop talking to me, sweetheart. Please. Promise me that, love.”

  My voice broken, halting, stumbling over the emotion surging through me, this strange, unfamiliar sensation that I don’t know how to handle—yet—I manage to scrape together a near enough coherent reply. “I promise. I need you, Nathan. I need you to help me. Please don’t stop helping me, caring about me.”

  “Caring comes easy, love. You’ve got that, always. And I’ll help you if I can. For as long as you’re here, as long as we’re together, I’ll be on your side. Okay? Believe me?”

  “Yes, I believe you.” I love you. As long as I’m here. As long as I live.

  His voice is firmer now, the gentle lover receding. “Earlier, when I pulled you into the bath, you were…what? Being cocky? Defiant? Playing with me? Challenging me? Not very sub-like, Miss Byrne. I think you were feeling a little over-confident, yes? That it would be okay to push me a little?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “And I crushed it. Scared you. Put out the spark? Drowned it, I suppose would be more accurate?”

  “Yes. Maybe. I didn’t think of it like that.”

  “I never want to squash your spark, Eva. It’s just a role. You do know that, don’t you? Play-acting. We both play our parts, and it’s fun. Well, I enjoy myself.” He tips my chin up with his finger to look into my eyes, his questioning gaze light now, teasing.

  “Me too.” I smile, still a bit watery but managing to pull myself together.

  “It’s okay to be cocky. To say whatever you like to me. Always. I want you to know that. When we’re in Dom-sub mode there are rules and I’ll come on strong, intimidate you. Scare you, possibly. That’s not real, though, never serious. But there’s this other connection we have, these moments we have when you cry sometimes, usually when my cock’s still inside you, like now.”

  Christ, how could I have forgotten that?

  He nuzzles my neck as he continues, “When you share your secrets with me, when I listen, try to understand you. And that is real, that’s not a game. And I want you to know you’ll always be safe with me. Whether we’re playing or not. Does that make sense?”

  I nod. No words can help me to express the shell of safeness, of well-being he is building around me, within me. My gratitude, my appreciation, my sheer bloody wonder that he wants to be bothered. I put my arms around his neck and just squeeze him, tight. It’s enough, he knows. And soon enough he eases me back around, careful not to let us disengage, and I am once more draped over him, my back against his chest as he feathers his clever, caring fingers across my body once more, my breasts, my tummy, stroking through the curls covering my pubic bone to slide between my legs.

  For a few minutes the sensation is one of calm relaxation, before desire insistently kicks in again. It does for him too, as I feel his cock harden, growing and stiffening, stretching me from within. If anything, if it were possible, he feels even bigger this time. Despite my now far from virgin state I’m not sure I can manage this. I start to protest…

  “It’s okay love. You’re okay. You’re just very, very sensitive just now and it feels bigger. Enjoy. This is going to be one hell of a ride.” Gently placing my hands back on the opposite rim he kneels up, and holding my hips firmly thrusts. Hard. I scream. He thrusts again, and again. And again. The pounding picks up a rhythm and I start to push back, strengthening the friction, pushing the pace. It’s deep, powerful, relentless, made more raw by the pent-up passion now released, now surging though me after his emotional dam-busting exercise of a few minutes ago. I hang onto the bath and take it, take him, all of him. God, it’s absolutely wonderful and my screams of pleasure are ringing around the room, drowning out Milos’ efforts. My climax hits me moments before he collapses into his, and seconds later I am hanging onto the side of the bath, my cheek pressed against the warm teak, and I’m sucking in air as my senses slowly return.

  “Okay, Miss Byrne. Work to do. Time to move on before we both end up like little wrinkled prunes.” Sliding out of me at last, he pinches my bum, hard enough to make me squeal and jump up.

  “What was that for?” I rub my abused bottom, glaring at him.

  “For fun, love. Just for fun.” He stands up, gloriously naked and dripping then strides over the side of the bath, using the step to leap down onto the floor. “You finish washing your hair while I get stuff ready out here. Don’t be long, Miss Byrne.” After leaning down to drop a kiss on my lips and wrap a towel around his hips he is gone.

  I hurry with my hair, slapping a splodge of shampoo on and giving it all a quick rub, then rinsing with the small shower spray attached to the showy brass taps. I even spot some conditioner, ‘specially formulated for frizzy, fly-away hair’. Nathan’s hair is not even remotely frizzy so I can only assume he’s got it just for me, the lovely man. I help myself, smoothing the creamy, calming lotion through the length of my hair, finger combing it into some sort of order before setting to again with the shower spray.

  At last I’m done, I think, so I clamber out. I poke around the side of the bath and find the switch to still the foaming water, then I press the lever to let out the plug. With a soft little gurgle the huge bath starts to empty. I help myself to a large fluffy towel and wrap myself in it, then grab another smaller one for my hair. I twist my hair in it turban-style, and check out my reflection in the full-length mirrors opposite me. My face is pink from the steam and our exertions in the bath—the flush accentuated perhaps by the contrast with the creamy fluffiness of the towels.

  Nervous about the coming prospect, I find myself playing for time. I drift over to the double sink unit and help myself to one of the toothbrushes there, quickly brushing my teeth. I check them with a growly smile in the mirror, wondering if he’ll mind me nicking his toothbrush when I could have easily gone to fetch mine from the en suite in the bedroom. Then I give my hair a blow-dry with the wired in hairdryer clipped into its holster next to the mirror, the sort of thing you sometimes find in hotels. Leaving the slightly damp copper and amber
tendrils loose around my shoulders I find a long dark navy towelling robe—very masculine—hanging next to the shower cubicle and decide to borrow it. It seems more secure, more decent, than my towel so I slip my arms through it and tie the belt. Tight.

  At last, stalling over, I take a deep breath, then another, and turn to leave.

  I expect Nathan to be waiting in the bedroom, but instead he is in the dining area. And clearly this is where he intends to perform the next instalment of my adventure. Wearing just his jeans now, zipped but unbuttoned, he has laid a couple of towels over the dining table, and piled cushions in the middle. An angle poise lamp is positioned at one end, throwing a spotlight down the length of the table. He has pulled a small trolley alongside, similar to the sort of thing Damien had for his rollers and foils when he transformed my crowning glory a couple of days ago. But Nathan has collected strips of cloth by the look of it, a handful of flat wooden lolly sticks, a pair of scissors, tweezers, a bottle of baby lotion, and has a bowl of something in his hand, which he is stirring slowly. He looks up as I come in, then drops his gaze back to his bowl.

  “You took your time. Still, your problem. The softer your skin is for this the better so it’s best to do it immediately after a bath. Not half an hour later. And those painkillers won’t last forever so let’s get on, now you’re finally here. Would you mind climbing onto the table, Miss Byrne? On your back please.”

  “I didn’t realise. You should have told me.” One sardonic eyebrow quirks as he looks at me across the table, shrugging. “And anyway, what’s wrong with the bedroom? I could stretch out on the bed, more comfortable…” I ask, still hedging for time, though by now I should know that’s quite pointless.

  “You’re not going to be comfortable wherever we do it. And it’s too messy. And the light’s better in here. Don’t want to miss any of your important little places, Miss Byrne. And the microwave’s handy—for heating the wax,” he explains helpfully.