by Ashe Barker
His words should offer me some measure of comfort, and maybe they do at some level. But no woman likes to be told she’s so unattractive that no man would be interested. And Tom Shore seems to delight in telling me how unappealing I am, rubbing my nose in it. My sexuality has never been a big deal to me, but even so, the pain of his careless rejection twists in my gut. I could so easily come to hate this man. Maybe I’m already there.
Uncaring for consequences now, I ask the question uppermost in my mind. “What did he mean? What he said as he was leaving, about ethics? And why did you call him a purist?”
His answer is slow in coming. He regards me silently for long moments before finally deciding to satisfy my curiosity. He smiles. “Ah well, seems you have an unlikely champion, little Ashley. Nathan doesn’t approve of what I did to you yesterday. A great believer in consent is Nathan. Especially in bondage games. Safe words and all that. You know the sort of thing.”
I’m staring at him, baffled. Games? In what sort of twisted logic could any of what happened yesterday be construed as a game? “What are you talking about? What sort of thing? How would I know?”
He smiles, his grin now broad, genuinely amused. He continues, “Ah yes, Nathan’s right. You are a little vanilla. How sweet.”
I’m really beginning to regret ever starting this, but I need to know now, need to understand. I tilt my chin up, searching for some shreds of dignity. “He called me that too. What does it mean?”
Head cocked to one side he regards me seriously. “It means you like your fucking plain and simple, no added extras. Nothing to spice it up. That sound like you, Ashley?”
“No! I mean…”
I stop. How to even start to explain? No way am I sharing my inadequacies with this arrogant man but my experience is admittedly limited. What I mean is I don’t like sex—‘fucking’ as he insists on calling it—at all. Whether plain, simple, spicy or in any other variety. I’ve generally found the whole business to be rather painful, messy and always deeply unsatisfying. I know others don’t agree—the few female friends I’ve had over the years have laughed and giggled and shared jokes and sexual innuendoes. Not me, though. I’ve always felt left out, excluded, as though everyone else knows some secret I’ve not been let in to. And now here, too, I’m out of my depth. Totally. God, I should never have asked.
Tom Shore can see my discomfort but can’t seem to resist having his fun with me. “No? Maybe there’s hope for us yet. Maybe that inner submissive is going to make an appearance after all. So you do like the idea of being tied up, Ashley, whipped maybe? Could I interest you in a little nipple clamping?” He leans forward, whispering now, “Would you let me fuck your gorgeous little arse, Ashley?”
My horrified squeak is all the answer he needs. He leans back, shrugging. “No, thought probably not. Don’t look so scared—like I said, you’re safe enough. I’m not interested in your sort of vanilla fucking, far too pale and uninteresting. I like my partners to enjoy the same games I do. Nice and kinky. Hot and sweaty. Dirty.”
Incredulous, I latch onto the one word in all that which made any sort of sense to me. “You call tying a woman up and beating her a game? That’s sick.”
“Sick? Not if she’s as keen for it as I am. So yeah, Ashley, it is a game, a game that subs love just as much as Doms do.”
“Subs? Doms? What the hell…?”
Impatient now, bored, he waves his hand at me in dismissal. “Look, I’m busy, you’ve taken up enough of my time today already, and I’m sick of attending to your sex education. You’ve got Internet access on that laptop of yours, yes? Well, Google it then. Do the research. Google BDSM, bondage, Dominants and submissives. See what you come up with. Then if it strikes a chord, and if you’ve got questions, you can ask me. Maybe I’ll even give you a little demonstration. If you ask me nicely.”
My silence is all the answer he’s getting. He’s demonstrating nothing to me, I’d die first. He doesn’t seem to mind. Dismissing my pathetic sexual ignorance as being of no interest or consequence to him, he’s on to the next topic, one he’s much more interested in discussing with me. The issue that brought him here in the first place.
“And now, what was that text earlier about? And what makes you think you can just up and go before you’ve fulfilled your part of our bargain?”
Still reeling from the violent, vivid images now swirling around my head of women—women who look and sound horribly like me—bound, gagged, whipped and beaten, I don’t hear him at first. He repeats his question. Dragged back to the present conversation, I’m indignant at the suggestion that I’ve reneged on our deal. I fling my response back without thinking of any possible consequences. “You broke the bargain. You promised me you wouldn’t tell anyone. About me. And then he turns up, threatens me, steals my camera. You had no right…”
His voice is level, calm. Infuriating. “I promised not to report you to the police, no more than that.”
“I thought it was just to be between us. No one else. I didn’t expect you to send your friend, your pervert friend, to have a go at me too.”
“Watch your mouth, Ashley. Do the research before you start slinging insults around. Now, just so’s we’re clear, I do my own dirty work. I didn’t send Nathan. I didn’t know he intended to come here. But I do know he wants you well away from Black Combe, preferably locked up in a cell. It’s about protecting his family mainly, although he was pretty pissed off about what you and your mates got up to in Bristol. You’ll do well to stay away from him, and from Rosie and Grace. Don’t attract his attention and I’ll make sure he leaves you alone from now on.”
I’m sad to lose the embryonic friendship of Rosie and Grace, but I can see there’s no realistic alternative. I nod my acceptance of these terms. “What about my camera?”
“He shouldn’t have taken it, I agree. Apparently it was done on impulse rather than planned. But he’s brought it back anyway.” He reaches for the camera box, slides it across the table toward me. “There, all present and correct.”
“Is that it then, no apology?”
“Don’t push your luck, Ashley. Now, how’s that sweet little arse of yours? Still sore, I’m guessing. You look as though you’re sitting on broken glass.”
His crude suggestion of moments earlier, what he’d like to do to my ‘sweet little arse’, is enough to start me blushing furiously. I cringe at the blunt reminder of what he already did do to me, the mortification of being stripped, spanked. Then, even more humiliating, brought so swiftly and ruthlessly, so thoroughly, to orgasm like some pathetic, sex-starved slapper. And, having no illusions about his personal distaste for me, his ability to arouse me at a slight touch is unnerving, degrading. I am making uncomfortable connections as the image of Dominance and submission and all that might means churns around my head, which is already spinning just thinking of it. Reluctantly I remember his hands parting my thighs as I lay across him, helpless but not resisting, and imagine his fingers on me again, in me. I shift in my chair, conscious of the continuous throbbing pain in my bottom but more aware of the sudden dampness between my legs.
“Let me see.”
“What? No!”
“That wasn’t really a request, Ashley.”
I feel the blood drain from my face as his meaning sinks in, the threat no less chilling for being so softly delivered. I can’t let him touch me, though, not again. Not now. My pride and self-respect may be shredded, battered beyond recognition, but they are still there, buried somewhere. I lift my chin, my resolve to resist now hardening. Assertive Ashley is making a reappearance—and I hope she’s not going to live to regret it.
“No! No way am I letting you near me again.”
“Who says you’ve got a choice?”
I stiffen in my chair, hold his gaze, fairly steadily in the circumstances. I refuse to back down now. “I do. I’m choosing. And I choose ‘no’. I’ll be fine.” His sharp mossy gaze is locked with mine, and he gently places his mug back on the table top. Starts t
o rise. My courage deserts me, but I know I’m not giving in gracefully, not this time. There’s a difference between being beaten and being defeated. A big difference. He might not realize that, but I’ve come to know it over the years. And it’s really very clear to me now.
“Just leave me alone. Please, just leave me alone.” My voice cracks—so much for assertive Ashley. Still, she tried.
His lopsided grin indicates wry amusement at my short-lived burst of bravado. The bastard! Incredibly, though, he just shrugs and tips the last mouthful of tea down his throat. “Okay, have it your way. This time.” He reaches behind him into the pocket of his waxed jacket and tosses a pack of paracetamol and a tube of anti-inflammatory cream on the table in front of me. “These should help. There’s enough there for a couple of days. You’ll be feeling a lot more comfortable by tomorrow. Hopefully.”
He stands, picking up his jacket. He shrugs into it, turns to leave. He tosses my car keys onto the table next to the medication.
“You’ll be needing these, I dare say. Oh, and by the way, I’m a working farmer, so I’m usually busy during the day. If you need to contact me again, make it in an evening please. No more hysterical texts, though, if you don’t mind. I can’t be dropping everything to come down here every time you get in a strop. I’ll be in touch about when I want you to start work.”
Chapter Seven
I sit for several minutes after he leaves, just looking at the stuff scattered on my table. Eventually I stand, carry the dirty mugs into the kitchen to dump them in the sink. I run myself a glass of tap water and swallow two of the painkillers. I’ll try some of the cream later, maybe.
Then I unpack my camera. It’s a beauty, it really is. Quite large, bulky, not the common-or-garden pocket variety that most folk take on holiday. And the specifications are way out at the high end, well beyond anything anyone has yet managed to cram into a mobile phone, however ‘smart’. Thirty mega-pixels for ultra-high resolution. Fifty times optical zoom for close-ups, wide angle too. And a facility for making up composite landscapes—particularly useful for my specialty. Yes, I should be able to make some sweet magic with this piece of kit.
The problem is I just don’t like it. Already I’m comparing it to the one I had, the one I returned to its rightful owner yesterday. And I’m finding it wanting. Tom Shore’s camera felt right in my hand. Comfortable. I could sense its moods, it knew what effects I wanted and it always delivered. This new one may be state-of-the-art but it isn’t me. It’s too heavy, too lumpy. Unresponsive. Maybe it could become me. Eventually. Maybe we’ll grow on each other. If I work on it.
I should really go out and try some shots, practice using it. But I don’t feel like hiking the moors today. I’m sore, stiff. Exhausted. Too much nervous energy expended, I dare say. It’s only mid-afternoon, but I heave myself back up the stairs and lie down on my bed. Face down. And I sleep.
* * * *
The following day I wake soon after dawn, feeling better, stronger. The soreness has more or less gone. I manage to struggle into a pair of jeans, walk around without too much discomfort. Heartened, I pour a cup of coffee, two more paracetamols and a couple of Hobnobs down my throat—my normal breakfast, except for the paracetamols—before pulling on my waterproof jacket, my sturdy boots, and setting off up onto the moors, my new camera stowed in my rucksack.
I’ve given myself a good talking to, as my mum used to call it. The events of the last few days have been horrendous, no doubt about it. I’m entitled to feel as I do, unsettled, uncertain. Scared even. Hurt—and not just physically, though that was bad enough. The emotional and mental battering I’ve endured is just as debilitating, my self-respect still reeling under the weight of Tom Shore’s contempt. Nathan Darke’s too, although I can more easily dismiss him as I don’t expect our paths to cross again. I have absolutely no intention of going anywhere near him or his family again. I’m not sure yet how I’ll avoid Rosie up on the moors, but no doubt her father will tell her to give me a wide berth from now on. Pity, I’ll miss her. And her dog.
But I’ve survived everything so far. I’ve faced—and overcome—worse setbacks. Losing David. Prison. My mother’s death. I can pick myself up again, continue. I’ve made my choices, good choices. This is still the right place for me to be, it’s just not going to be as easy to establish myself here as I anticipated. But nothing’s ever easy, it seems to me, nothing worthwhile anyway. So I’ll do what I have to do, and I’ll get back on course.
My biggest problem, I’m beginning to realize, will be loneliness. I have no near neighbors except for the inhabitants of Black Combe and Greystones, and neither of those is going to offer me any companionship. Maybe I should buy a television, although I’ve never been that interested. Still, the winter evenings are going to be a bit dull, just me and Sadie. I could just throw myself into my work. That’s probably the best thing. The most productive option. So be it.
The next couple of days are uneventful. I spend the daylight hours out taking pictures, building my portfolio, and the evenings editing my collection, grouping them around the themes I want—colors, seasons, subject matter. I have in mind a series of ‘wilderness’ shots, pictures where no hint of human influence can be seen on the landscape—not easy to find, I might add, given the preponderance of dry stone walling, old mine workings, electric pylons and the like. Still, I’m finding some stuff, and I can do wonders with Photoshop. I also want to do something along the lines of ‘nature’s geometry’, a series of close-ups depicting naturally occurring linear shapes and patterns. The idea was triggered by a spider’s web I came across on a farm gate, covered in dew that had frozen overnight, the shimmering beauty caught in the thin early morning sunlight. I photographed it, and began subconsciously looking for other examples. I found them in the underside of a wild mushroom, the delicate fronds of a partridge feather, the skeleton of an oak leaf. I’m not sure yet what I’ll do with those, maybe a set of prints.
My peace is shattered, as I knew it would be, by a curt text.
Tomorrow. Greystones, 7am. Wear old clothes. Back door will be open.
I reply, in similarly succinct vein.
Fine.
* * * *
It’s still dark as I leave my home at six forty-five the following morning. I had intended to walk up to Greystones, but decided against it, preferring the warm, cheery comfort of my car and the inane chatter of Chris Evans to the dark, damp early November morning. I know the farm gate, I’ve been here several times to avail myself of the services of the vending machine—my diet recently has been pretty much limited to whatever ingredients I can buy there. I’ve been living off bacon sandwiches, boiled eggs and toast—always hard and usually burnt, respectively. I don’t have an egg timer, and even if I did I’ve no real idea how long an egg needs to be boiled for anyway. Or where to set the dial on my toaster to get it the nice pale brown I like. I’ve got a bag of spuds too, but no chip pan. Still, I’m managing.
Greystones is only a couple of minutes away by car. I turn into the large gate, which is standing open, drive slowly past the vending machine and continue on up the graveled track. I soon enough come to the farmhouse, a substantial stone-built structure with that air of timeless presence that seems common to most buildings hereabouts. The actual house at Greystones is not as big as Black Combe, although there are a lot more outbuildings and an air of space around the property. The place is shrouded in early morning silence as I pull up alongside the battered Land Rover I recognize as Tom Shore’s main mode of transport.
I climb out of my car and stand for a moment in the forecourt, looking around. The place looks tidy enough in the gray dawn light, well maintained, efficient. All the paintwork looks fresh, some sort of blue probably but I’m not sure in the half-light. I spot a small black cat, obviously heavily pregnant, slinking around the side of a barn off to my left but no other sign of life. I take a deep breath and stride confidently up to the door. A Post-it note is pinned there, the message short and clear.
<
br /> Ashley—back door. It’s open.
Ah yes, he did say in his text. Right then. I walk briskly around the side of the house before I lose my nerve. Not that ducking out of this is an option. He’d come looking for me and I really don’t want to give him any reason to come to my cottage again if I can help it. After a couple of days of relative calm, and a lot of positive self-talk, Smithy’s Forge is just starting to feel like a sanctuary once more… Almost, more or less. If I’m to settle here, even just for a few months, I really need to keep it like that, safe, secure. And I need to rebuild my battered self-confidence and self-esteem. I’ve been giving that last matter some considerable thought and concluded I need to set my stall out the first opportunity I get. And this morning might well be it.
As I round the final corner to reach the backyard of the farmhouse I’m greeted by two sleek border collies. They rush at me in welcome, no barking but tails wagging furiously. They slink on their bellies around my knees, rubbing happily against my legs. It takes some fancy footwork not to tread on them, or end up flat on my face, but I manage to reach the door at last. I raise my hand to knock, then remember the Post-It and think better of it, and try the door handle instead. The door opens and the dogs rush past me to get inside, abandoning me now I seem to have outlived my usefulness to them.
The door opens directly into a large, stone-flagged farm kitchen, dominated by a solid-looking oak table set squarely in the middle of the room. Tom Shore is seated at the table, leaning down to tie up the laces on his usual work boots. He glances up at me as I stand, hesitating, in his doorway. A brief, low command to the dogs sends them scurrying to lie contentedly in front of the Aga, and his attention is then back to his shoes.