Hardened

by Ashe Barker

  “Why don’t you fly out too, after you’ve finished your legal stuff? I can arrange a ticket for you to pick up at Heathrow.”

  She pauses; I can tell she’s tempted. Then, “I can’t, really. I have to work.”

  “That’s a pity.” I can think of worse things than spending a few days playing at being tourists with Molly—getting caught up in Stevie Horrocks’ little escapades being right up there at the top of the list. “Another time, perhaps.”

  “I’d like that.” She hesitates.

  I know there’s something else she wants to say. I wait, silent.

  “When can I come back?”

  I smile to myself. “Whenever you like, though after tomorrow I’m away until the weekend. I’ll phone you when I’m back in the UK.”

  “Right, okay. I’ll wait to hear from you then.”

  She thinks that was a brush-off. I’m not having that. I need her to trust me. “Molly, I told you, you can call me any time. I meant it.”

  “I know. It’s just—”

  “Any time, Molly. Remember that.”

  “I will.” She pauses, as though considering whether or not to believe me. Then, “I should go. I need to catch up with some orders, and get my invoices in order.”

  Fair enough, she does have a lot to think about. “Okay. We’ll talk soon, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Soon.”

  “Good night then.” I hang up, wondering what I need to do to convince her I’m sincere and going nowhere. My train of thought is shattered when the phone rings again. I decline the call, but it’s followed straight away by a text.

  FUCKING ANSWER THE PHONE, DOG SHITE

  He doesn’t scare me, never did, but I think of Rachel and take his call a couple of minutes later.

  “Like I said we need a wheel man, and it’s you. Thursday. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Thursday.”

  “Fuck off.” I end the call and switch the phone off again.

  This is fast degenerating into a farce. I amend Stevie’s ID in my phone to read Dickhead. Do Not Answer. I’ve done enough for him already by tracking down Brad. I don’t need to read his texts or take his calls, and there’s no way on God’s green earth I’m going on a bloody job with him.

  Fucking loser.

  * * *

  Heathrow is manic. It’s just turned two on Sunday afternoon when I emerge from customs into the bright, bustling chaos of the arrivals hall. Thousands of weary travellers are milling around, many with phones pressed to their ears as they seek to negotiate their onward journey. I switch on my own phone and wait until the network reconnects as it comes out of flight mode, though I don’t need to call a taxi or minibus firm. I find Molly on speed dial and hit call.

  “Jared? Hi. I… I wondered where you got to. Is everything all right?” She sounds anxious. I don’t blame her, I suppose. I am two days late.

  “Yeah. Ran into some problems with the weather so the shoot took longer than we anticipated. It’s done now though.”

  “Are you back then? In the UK?”

  “I am.”

  “I was thinking, I might come up to Yorkshire next week. If that suits you, obviously. I mean, I know you said any time, but—”

  “I said it and I meant it.”

  “Yes, of course. Would Wednesday be okay? I have some stuff to complete, and… I thought I might bring some work with me and my laptop. Then I wouldn’t need to rush back.”

  Yes! I grin to myself. Molly MacBride makes for very pleasant company.

  “Wednesday’s fine. Bring whatever you like.” I drag my small suitcase on wheels out through the massive plate glass doors of the airport onto the flagged forecourt teeming with passengers scurrying to be away. The chill of an autumnal afternoon in England hits me, the contrast sharp after the dry air-conditioned atmosphere of international arrivals. I shift my phone to my other hand and hail a cruising taxi.

  “Jared? Are you still there?”

  “Yes. Sorry, just got distracted. What are you doing right now, Molly?”

  “I was just going to have a shower actually, then I thought I might nip out and do some supermarket shopping. On second thought though, if I’m not going to be here—”

  “Are you up for a visitor?”

  “What? Who?”

  “Me. Who else? I can be there in under an hour.”

  “I thought you were two hundred miles away.”

  “I’m at Heathrow, and the cab driver needs an address to dump me at. So…?”

  “But, I wasn’t expecting… I mean, I—”

  “Say no if you want, and I’ll see you on Wednesday.” Having me suddenly pitch up on her home turf might not appeal. At least when she comes to my place, Molly can leave whenever she decides she’s had enough. I won’t press her on this. But I cross my fingers anyway.

  “Yes. Yes, I’d like that. Do you have my address?”

  “You told me it before you left. Wait for me, we can shower together. Oh, and I have a present for you. Well, a couple of presents, in fact.” The nipple clamps and clit clip caused a raised eyebrow when the female security officer spotted them in the plastic tray as I came through Charles De Gaulle airport, but she offered no comment, just smirked and nodded me past. The toys are now tucked away in my jacket pocket, and I can’t wait to see them glistening on Molly’s curvy little body. I hope she’s going to find them as entertaining as I know I will—eventually.

  “There’s no need to bring me presents. I mean, it’s not as though…”

  I sigh, knowing what she’s thinking. My agenda is, I am beginning to realise, somewhat more complex than Molly’s, but I’ll start from where we are. “I know, just sex, right. But wait until you see what I brought you before you say any more. An hour then?”

  She hesitates, then, “An hour. Yes, sir. Bye then.”

  “Bye, Molly.” I end the call and lean back in the rear seat of the cab. The driver regards me in the mirror.

  “Where to, mate?”

  “Wandsworth,” I reply. “Can you get me there in less than an hour?”

  “No problem, guv’nor.” He signals and pulls into the lane headed for the M4 and inner London. I settle in for the ride.

  * * *

  Exactly fifty-seven minutes later I press the doorbell for entry into Molly’s building. Hers is the basement flat in a converted terrace house, complete with three square yards of garden and a window box sporting the bedraggled remains of summer bedding plants now succumbing to the seasonal chill. The neighbourhood is not exactly salubrious, but I’ve seen worse in inner East Leeds.

  Molly’s disembodied voice from the intercom invites me to push the outer door and come straight in. Her door is immediately inside, on the left. I do as I’m told, to find Molly awaiting me in her tiny entrance hall.

  She looks utterly delicious. Her hair is shorter, cropped back into the sleek, sassy style I recall. It’s much more her. She’s barefoot, wearing faded black jeans and a loose-fitting tunic-style top in a rich shade of blue that complements her eyes to a tee. Unless I miss my guess she isn’t wearing a bra. I lean on the door jamb and watch as her nipples pucker and harden under my scrutiny. Oh, yes, clamps will be perfect—an inspired choice. The clit clip was an impulse buy at the adult store just off the Champs Ėlysées but if I can convince Molly to experiment with it the toy will send our level of intimacy soaring. Maybe I will need to be just a little more forceful…

  “Sir, I… It’s good to see you.” She steps back to allow me to pass her. “Come in. Please.”

  She ushers me into the compact space that doubles as sitting room and bedroom, her three-quarter-sized bed nestling in a small alcove at the far end of the studio flat. A cluttered worktable is the only other furniture, unless you count the bookcase, the tiny portable television balancing on an upturned milk crate, and the single chair. I suppose the bed must serve as seating as well as a place to sleep. Two door
s lead off the main room, one to a kitchenette where I can just make out the corner of a sink, and the other I assume must lead to the shower and toilet. The place is minuscule and rekindles unwelcome memories of my cell at Armley. All we’re missing is two farting, snoring cellmates and a solid steel door.

  I force this notion to one side, Molly is a far cry from my previous roomies. Apart from the table the place is neat enough. From what I know of London property prices, this studio flat with just about enough space to swing one very modest-sized cat is no doubt costing her an arm and a leg.

  “It’s not much, but I haven’t been here long. I do have a garden though.” She offers me an apologetic little shrug. “I’m looking for somewhere a bit further out.”

  How about two hundred miles out? I keep that notion to myself for now. Molly has family in London although I get the impression that despite the geography they may not be that close. She chooses to live here for her own reasons, I suppose, and this thing between us is just sex. Or so she thinks.

  I dump my overnight case beside her table and turn to face her. A two-handed finger-wiggling summons is all it takes to bring her into my arms. I hug her and bury my nose in the soft, freshly clipped ebony-coloured locks and inhale the fruity fragrance of her hair. Apples, perhaps and a hint of vanilla. Very apt. I run my fingers through it.

  “Nice. Much better.”

  “I got it cut yesterday. I… I had a Brazilian wax too.”

  Jesus, Mary, and the fucking donkey! My cock springs to attention.

  “For me?” I manage to keep my tone level. More or less.

  She nods within the circle of my arms. “I read somewhere that in the BDSM lifestyle it was sort of expected. So I thought, maybe—”

  I tilt her face up so she has no option but to meet my gaze. There’s to be no hiding. “I would have asked you to do it soon enough. I prefer my subs truly naked.”

  “Is that what I am then? Your sub?” Her features are flushed, her expression uncertain.

  “That’s a choice only you can make. If it’s truly what you want though, I’d be honoured if you’d put yourself in my hands.”

  “That is what I want. I was hoping, wondering…” She breaks off, chewing on that full lower lip again, one of her infallible tells. I bend my neck to lower my lips to hers and brush a soft kiss over her mouth.

  “What were you hoping and wondering, Molly? If it’s in your head, tell me. If you have questions, ask me. This is as much about honesty between us as it is pleasure and pain. Did your kinky reading not tell you that too?”

  She nods. “I read a lot about trust too. I do trust you, sir.”

  “I’m starting to trust you as well. And myself. It’ll build, over time.”

  Her brow furrows. “Why do you need to trust me? You’re the one with the whips and paddles?”

  I smile. “Ah, Molly, you have a lot more to learn. I need to trust you to tell me what’s happening, for you. How you’re feeling, what you like me to do to you. And I need to trust myself to listen, to watch, to take notice and to take care of you.”

  “I see.” Her expression suggests otherwise.

  “Do you? I wonder. But you will, I promise you that.” I wink at her. Enough of the intense navel gazing, it’s time for some kinky fun. “So, did you wait for me, for that shower?”

  “Of course. Do you want me to wash your back?”

  “Maybe. After you’ve sucked my cock, on your knees, naked, as water streams over the pair of us.”

  Her eyes widen, the tip of her tongue pokes between her lips. She bows her head, her posture that of the perfect, obedient little submissive.

  “I’d love that, sir.”

  She’s not alone. “Get naked, Molly. Now. Oh, and for future reference, next time I arrive here I expect to find you kneeling at the foot of your bed, nude and ready for whatever I decide to do by way of a greeting. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir, perfectly clear.” She steps back one pace and tugs the tunic over her head.

  Her beautiful breasts are bared for me, pert and firm, her dark pink nipples pearling and swelling. That reminds me…”Ah, yes, your present.” I open my jacket to retrieve the clamps and drop them onto the corner of her work table.

  They’re the tweezer sort, decorated with small, azure beads that dangle from each one, a delicate chain linking the two clamps. I could attach a weight to the chain, but I think not this time. I drop the clit clip next to the nipple clamps and wait for her to ask the question writ large across her pretty features.

  To her credit, she unfastens her jeans first and shoves them down, her underwear too, and steps out of the clothes to stand before me naked.

  “Nipple clamps, sir?” Did she just wince?

  “Yes. They’ll look very pretty.”

  “Will they hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the other thing? Where does that go?”

  “It’s a clit clip.”

  “Oh.” Her face pales. I decide to put her out of her misery.

  “That doesn’t hurt, but you’ll have to trust me on that.”

  “Do I need to put it on? I’m not sure I know how.”

  “No. I’ll handle all of that. You just need to lie still with your legs spread wide for me. Can you manage that, do you think?”

  More lip chewing, then, “I believe I can, sir.” She manages a nervous little smile. “Shall I help you to get undressed?”

  “No. You go on and get in the shower. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Delightfully obedient, she steps past me and through the door. A few seconds pass, then I hear the sound of running water. I’m naked in less than ten seconds and I follow her into the bathroom.

  Correction, there’s no room in here for a bath. A toilet, a tiny wall-mounted washbasin, and the shower cubicle fill the space. The frosted glass doors are already steaming up, but Molly’s silhouette is still clearly visible. I pause to admire her for a moment, then I slide the door open and step in with her.

  Molly moves back out of the spray to make room for me, then she drops to her knees.

  Christ, what a find. I arrange myself against the tiles opposite her, my shoulders resting on the cool white surface. The water streams over my chest, stomach, thighs, the flow powerful and comfortably warm. Thank God for decent water pressure. I glance up and note that the showerhead is the sort that you can adjust to create a narrow, concentrated spray. I have plans for that later.

  I turn my attention to the lovely Molly, kneeling at my feet. She looks up at me, her wet hair in dark spikes around her face, the residual spray from my body trickling down her breasts and belly in gentle rivulets. My cock has been rock-solid since the moment I heard her low tone through the door entry system but now I take my erection in my fist and pump hard.

  “Open your mouth, girl,” I command.

  Molly inches forward and parts her lips. I place the head of my cock against her lower lip and allow her to widen and accept it. She shuffles closer, taking the whole of the head and a couple of inches of my shaft into her hot, wet cavern.

  “Ah, Molly, that feels good.” I comb my fingers through her dripping locks, tightening my grip at the back of her head. I don’t force her head forward, but I hold her fast, leaving her in no doubt who’s in control here.

  Molly laps at my cock, pressing her tongue against the sensitive area at the base of the head, then running the tip around the rim. She bobs back and forth, hollowing her cheeks to create suction.

  Jesus, yes!

  “Use your hands too. Cup my balls.”

  She does as she’s told, squeezing and lifting, caressing my scrotum with her left hand as she wraps her right fist around the base of my shaft, the part she can’t quite manage with her mouth. She runs her hand up and down, the hot, wet friction sending my senses reeling.

  “Harder,” I rasp. “Faster.”

  She complies, increasing the pace of her rhythm. Her teeth scrape acros
s the head of my dick, creating an additional edge of excitement. My balls draw up and contract. This won’t take long, though I suppose I could spin it out if I wanted. I decide not to. It’s been the best part of a week since she left my house in Yorkshire. I could have jerked myself off, I usually would, but I haven’t felt so inclined. I want Molly and she’s worth the wait but now I have an increasingly urgent need to shoot my load.

  “Swallow it. All of it. Understood?” My voice is low, little more than a growl. I glance down. Molly’s eyes are wide, meeting mine, her gorgeous lips stretched around my cock as she nods her acceptance. Her hands find an additional gear as she speeds up her ministrations. She sucks harder, swirling her tongue over my cock and massaging my nuts to generate the last frisson of stimulation that tips me over the edge. My balls clench and twist, sending the surge of jizz up and out. I visualise my cum hitting the back of her throat in warm, viscous ribbons. A few drops spill from the corner of her mouth but she uses her fingertip to swipe them back between her lips.

  My semen continues to flow, filling her mouth again as her throat works fast to clear her airway. I twist my fingers in her hair to the point I know I have to be hurting her, but she makes no protest, just continues to suck, to lick, to swallow until at last I’m spent.

  I release my grip and relax back against the tiles as Molly eases my cock from her mouth. She holds it in both hands, using her tongue to clean the head thoroughly before finally looking up at me.

  “Was that okay, sir? I haven’t had much practice.”

  My eyes are closed, my head tilted back as the world rights itself again. “It was fucking wonderful. And believe me, practice won’t be an issue.”

  She remains on her knees until I extend my hand to help her up. She reaches for the soap but I shake my head. “Turn around, Molly. Lean on the tiles and shove your bottom out. Spread your legs as wide as you can.”

  As soon as she’s in position I dislodge the showerhead from its cradle and adjust the spray. The powerful, concentrated flow causes the shower to press back into the palm of my hand. Fucking perfect.