Unsure (Sure Mastery)

by Ashe Barker

  Then, his voice low, soft, he responds, “We behaved badly, both of us. I know Tom’s apologized since, and I want you to accept my apology too, for the part I played in it. I was cruel, deliberately so. I should never have confronted you that day. And taking your camera was a really shitty thing to do. I can’t believe I did that. I was already on my way back with it when Tom phoned me. Christ, he was pissed off. With me, not you. And I never considered how it would look to you, us both showing up at your cottage. I doubt if Tom did either, it would have never crossed his mind. I realized you were taking it badly when I saw you trying to escape through the bedroom window. I was mean to you even then, but mainly because I was terrified you were going to jump.”

  He pauses, and I relive that scene in my head. Yes, that could be an explanation for his callous reaction, his apparent heartlessness. I remember I was more scared of Nathan than of Tom, and I’d preferred to stay in the bedroom, face up to Tom and whatever he might do to me, than try to get past the formidable Nathan Darke. He smiles at me wryly.

  “Despite first impressions, we’re not like your Kenny.”

  “Not my Kenny,” I mutter.

  He shrugs, continues, “No, I see that. Well, whatever, we’re Doms. Dominants. That means we can be intimidating, harsh, stern. A submissive might feel nervous around us, apprehensive. That all goes with the territory, it’s the role we play. But she should always feel safe. A Dom/sub relationship is not about abuse. Doms don’t bully, or threaten. We certainly don’t rape. We would never lay a hand on a sub in anger…” I jerk my head up in protest, and he reacts. “Yes, I know, I know. Tom broke our rules that day. He knows it too, bitterly regrets it. You can be certain it will never happen again. Tom cares for you, he will look after you. Whatever you decide.”

  He sees my confusion. His smile is reassuring. “Ashley, if you don’t want to submit for Tom, if our lifestyle is just not for you, then that’s fine. If you’re not a submissive, and never want to be, then you only need to say so, there’ll be no pressure, no coercion. Tell him straight. Tom’ll still want to fuck you, and he’d be very good at it. I really think you’d like that. Wouldn’t you?”

  I find myself nodding. Only slightly, but enough for him to know.

  Nathan nods in return, and continues. “So, you could just do that. Have fun. Keep it safe, keep it on your terms. Your choice, Ashley. Now, do you have your phone with you?”

  “What?”

  “Your phone, please.” He holds out his hand, waits patiently.

  Puzzled, I pull my phone from my pocket, hand it over. Nathan punches a few keys and hands it back.

  “I’ve given you a phone number. Abigail. Abbie. She’s a good friend of mine, I’ve known her for years. She knows Tom too, I think. Anyway, she’ll explain this lifestyle of ours to you far better than I can, from a female, submissive’s perspective. Talk to her, tell her I gave you her details. It’ll help you understand what we’re all about, and what you could expect from submission to Tom.”

  I’m amazed, incredulous. “This—Abigail? Is she your…? I mean, have you…?” God, this is awkward. What’s the right word for this?

  “Is she my submissive? No, but she was, for quite a while. She was good too. Not for the last couple of years, though. She’s in a regular relationship now, talking about getting married last I heard.” He leans toward me, his voice low, serious. “Talk to her, Ashley. It will help you to understand us, maybe understand yourself. And decide what you want.”

  I shove my phone back in my pocket as Nathan stands up, our discussion apparently concluded. “You hungry? Grace is still in bed, and in any case it’s her holiday too. So, my repertoire extends only as far as bacon sandwiches this morning, I think. That suit you?”

  And so, incredibly, I find myself sharing a relaxed Boxing Day breakfast of bacon sandwiches and coffee with the devilish Nathan Darke. And enjoying it. I feel more relaxed, more hopeful, than I have in a long, long time. Especially when he casually mentions that I can expect a call from Caroline, the co-owner at Moffats, when the shop reopens after the holiday.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Despite everything—despite David, my mum, Sadie, my suspended sentence hanging over me—I do feel that life’s good as I make my way up to Greystones the following Friday to spend the day with Tom. As his guest.

  Caroline Moffat, the shop’s co-owner along with Nathan, has indeed phoned me to say that circumstances have altered somewhat and she is after all in a position to stock my work if I still have samples available. We’ve arranged to meet next week. The weather’s still cold but the light has a crisp, wintry quality to it, the low cloud dropping into the hollows on the landscape in huge fluffy cotton wool pools. I’ve been up on the moors each of the last two days, and I even took up Tom’s offer of borrowing his quad bike. He brought it round to my cottage the morning after Boxing Day, showed me how to ride it and left me with the machine, a crash helmet and a can of petrol to keep me going.

  It’s brilliant fun, so wonderfully exhilarating to speed across the moorland tapestry. The sense of freedom and space is intoxicating, and as if that’s not enough it’s really practical for me as it means I can achieve so much more. I started to thank him but Tom just grinned, said I’m welcome and that he’d need it back at lambing time. And to make sure I rode up to Greystones on it the following day. I really must put one of these bad boys on my shopping list if I ever manage to make any money out of my pictures.

  So, Friday morning sees me scrambling up the hillside behind my cottage toward Greystones, the powerful quad bike roaring under me. I may need to leave it there tonight and walk back as Tom mentioned eating and drinking, and I won’t want to be riding this monster if I’ve not got a clear head. That’s an excellent way of ending up underneath the thing. I reach a wide bridleway and follow it up to come out on the lane leading to Greystones. I turn in by the vending machine, roaring up the farm track to the large house. I make my noisy way around to the back and pull up alongside a second quad bike parked outside the kitchen door. Tom would have to be stone deaf not to know I’m here so I turn off the engine, remove my crash helmet, hop off and pocket the key before opening the door softly and slipping inside.

  Tom’s at the kitchen table, a newspaper spread out in front of him. He smiles as I enter, standing up to greet me, which he does by taking my face between his palms and kissing me. It’s a long, slow, lover’s kiss, and as a ‘hello’ it definitely works for me. He parts my lips with his tongue to dip into my mouth. I’m surprised, I wasn’t expecting this, or at least not so early in the day, but it feels wonderful and I see no reason to argue.

  I sink into it, reaching my hands up to link behind his neck as he picks me up easily and deposits me on the edge of the table. He continues to kiss me, gently cupping my cheeks with his large rough palms, positioning my head for his mouth. My world spins just a little, and I part my lips greedily, seeking more, and instinctively I join in the dance of tongues. Not sure of the etiquette here I slip my tongue forward to explore Tom’s mouth, tentative at first but then with more confidence as he sucks my tongue in. I’m thrilled by the sudden, unanticipated intimacy, intrigued by the textures and tastes of Tom Shore. He’s delicious, soft, inviting, and I run my tongue eagerly along the insides of his lips.

  Eventually he lifts his head, smiling down at me as I catch my breath.

  “Good morning, gorgeous.” His first words to me.

  “Good morning, yourself. And wow, you certainly seem pleased to see me…” I can’t help the breathless giggle that creeps into my voice. It’s been a long time since I was kissed like that. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed like that. Kenny didn’t go in for such unnecessary niceties.

  “Mmm, I certainly am. And if you care to go through my pockets again you’ll find out just how much.”

  “Again? I…” I pull up short, gulping the words back as I recall the last time I went through his jeans pockets and discovered his erection. That awful night on
a riverside path in Bristol. Embarrassed, blushing furiously at the memory—not least at recalling my reaction to his arousal that so startled me then—I drop my hands from behind his neck and try to wriggle away, to hop down from the table. But he’s having none of it. His hands on my hips hold me in place and he drops his head to nuzzle the delicate skin below my ear.

  “It’s done, love. Over with. I didn’t mean to upset you. It was a joke, but I’m sorry I mentioned it. Forgive me?”

  “Forgive you? It was me who…”

  “Shhhh.” And his mouth covers mine again. There is no talking for a while.

  “I didn’t know you had two quads.”

  “I don’t. The other one’s Nathan’s. I borrowed it.”

  “If you need yours you don’t need to lend it to me. It’s great, but if you need it…”

  “I don’t use it that much. I get around in the Land Rover or tractor mostly. The quad’s good fun, though, and like I said, come lambing time it’s faster on the really rough terrain up on the higher hills. I’ll need it back then, for a few weeks at least.”

  “So why are there two outside now?”

  “Because I want to show you Greystones. All of it. And the quads are the best way to get around. And most fun. First, though, I’ve never known you show up here and not be hungry. Can I interest you in breakfast?”

  I smile and nod happily. He most certainly can.

  An hour or so later we’ve managed to do justice to a slow, relaxed full English-style breakfast-cum-lunch. I don’t usually go in for the full works but Tom just set to grilling sausages, bacon, tomatoes, griddled some eggs, and put the whole lot in front of me along with a plate of his perfectly browned toast. I’d no idea how hungry I was and tucked in and shifted the lot. And swilled it down with three cups of coffee.

  “So, do you fancy that? The grand tour?”

  “Oh yes! Lovely.” And I really do fancy it, my enthusiasm is genuine. I’ve pumped the Appleyards for information about the farm and they’ve been forthcoming enough, when they have time, but I’ve still got lots of questions about the rare breeds and the frequent influx of visitors who arrive usually in minibuses. Often it’s groups of schoolchildren from what I’ve seen, but occasionally adults. They never come in the house, but I see them trooping in and out of the barns and across the fields with either Tom or Seth Appleyard leading the way. Often they get involved in some farming activity such as feeding the chickens or loading bales of hay onto the trailer behind Tom’s huge tractor. I somehow doubt they’re particularly efficient as farm hands but Tom seems patient, tolerant of mistakes, and always welcomes his visitors.

  “Right, come on then. You’ll need to be well wrapped up…” And in no time I’m enveloped in a huge woolly pullover, the sleeves rolled up to free my hands, and a waxed waterproof jacket similar to the one Tom always wears. He pulls my crash helmet down over my ears and kisses my nose before reaching for his own outdoor clothes. He’s similarly togged up as we stroll out to the quads.

  “We’ll go around the lower meadows first, look in on some of the different breeds we keep here.” He sets off around to the front of the farmhouse and I follow. In a few minutes we’re roaring up the hillside, the golds and browns of heather and bracken whizzing past us, the wind whipping strands of my hair across my face. I tied it back before I left Smithy’s Forge but somehow Tom’s managed to loosen it. I laugh out loud, the sheer pleasure of the ride, the wild beauty of this glorious landscape feeding my soul as Tom’s breakfast earlier fed my body. If I let him, this man could be so good for me.

  Eventually Tom rounds the top of the nearest hill and pulls to a halt, gazing down at the foothills below us. I stop alongside, warmed by his easy smile. He pulls off his crash helmet and I do the same as he points to a group of woolly sheep milling about on the rocky, craggy slopes, grazing contentedly. Most are clustered together in a fleecy huddle, bleating shrilly at each other. One or two hardier souls have ventured away from the group to forage among the dilapidated dry stone walls, springing nimbly up onto the tumbling ruined ancient barriers to get a better view of their wild environment. Instinctively I reach for my camera, as always shoved into my pocket before I left home. I frame a few shots, take some close-up studies of the sheep as Tom sits silently watching me.

  “How’s the new camera working out?”

  “It’s okay. I preferred yours, though. Still…”

  “You can have it back. As a Christmas present.”

  “Oh no, really, I didn’t mean that. It’s yours. I had no right to it.”

  “I want you to have it. Please, Ashley, take it. For me?” Again, his smile is contagious, engaging. Irresistible. I smile and nod my thanks.

  “Those beauties down there are Leicester Longwools. Brilliant fleeces. And over there”—he points to another small flock about a mile away—“those are Teeswaters. Similar high-quality wool producers. Decent meat too. Do you like lamb, Ashley?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Would you like to come up here and help out with lambing, choose yourself a lamb that you saw being born, maybe even helped into the world? Help to rear it, maybe come onto the farm at weekends or in the holidays, help out with shearing and rounding up? Or other jobs around the place. And eventually, when it’s time, you get your own lamb, freshly slaughtered and butchered and delivered to you in freezer-ready lumps. How’s that sound, Ashley?”

  “My own lamb? Eat my own lamb?” My face probably betrays my horror. “Would it have a name? My lamb?”

  “Best if it doesn’t probably. It’s not for everyone, but our community agriculture scheme is fairly popular. Most of the lambs born here are pre-purchased, and their owners come along from time to time to get involved on the farm as part payment. It makes good local produce more affordable for them and provides me with labor when I need it. And it’s more humane. No terrifying long-distance trips to the abattoir for my sheep, they’re slaughtered right here on the farm. No food miles. If you’re going to eat meat you could do worse. You should try it, love. Your freezer definitely needs stocking up with some decent food.”

  I shudder, but I can see his point. “Fine. I’ll buy one, but I’ll have no money to pay you until January. Will you make me lift hay bales? Like the school groups?”

  “I’ll wait. Or you can pay me in kind—I think I’d prefer that. And you only get to load my hay if you ask very nicely.” He winks at me and I find myself smiling back, beginning to think this sort of transaction is not without its attractions. He laughs, and I suspect my thoughts are more transparent than I might like.

  He goes on, “And they’re not schools as a rule. Most of the kids who come up here are young offenders on various types of rehabilitation schemes. Community reparation, but also some diversionary activity. You know the sort of thing, intended to keep the little dears out of worse mischief, give them a chance to do something useful and build self-esteem.”

  “Kids like me, you mean?”

  “You’re not a kid, Ashley. Thank God, given what I’ve got in mind for you later. And no, most of the young people who come up here are nothing at all like you. You’re smart, determined, brave and independent. Under all the swagger and bravado most of these kids are frightened, vulnerable little characters. Fragile really, and in need of a decent role model, some care and some consistent discipline. That’s what we try to offer.”

  I stare at him, stunned. Not least at his plans for later on. I drag my thoughts back to the serious matter of youth crime prevention. “What is this, the Tom Shore School for ASBO ’As-beens? Does it work? And how long have you been doing this?”

  “Just a year or so. And I think it might work, some of the time. I guess you could say our first encounter on the riverside in Bristol inspired me. And don’t get defensive, love. What’s done is done. I’ve moved on. You should.”

  Well, maybe, but even so…

  “We get paid for hosting the visits, mainly by the probation service but some youth organizations come up here a
s well. And yes, some schools too. So the project is economically viable, just about. It has to be or we couldn’t continue. The farm has to pay its way.”

  “Do you get tourists coming to look at the rare breeds? Hikers? Campers?”

  “Yes, all of that. And every two years we hold a music festival and that brings thousands of visitors here over the three days. There’s one in September.”

  “The place must get very crowded. I thought farmers wanted to keep trespassers off, not attract them.”

  “Most do, but I wanted to be different. I took this place over because I wanted to prove that you can make a decent living out of farming but still be humane. I treat my stock well and they thrive. They pay their way and that’s good enough. I welcome people onto my land, try to encourage them to stay a while, get involved. And that pays its way too. I have several holiday cottages and those make a decent profit. Smithy’s Forge is proving to be exceptionally rewarding…” Again that sexy smile, full of promise and heat.

  I’m starting to shiver, and not because I’m cold.

  “You okay, Ashley? Do you want to go back yet? There’s more to see, but if you’re cold…”

  “No, I’m fine. Let’s stay out a bit longer.”

  “Right then, saddle up.” And he’s back astride his quad, the engine firing into life. I scurry back to my machine and start it up. We turn to head farther uphill, up onto the highest, wildest section of moorland. We climb steadily, the throaty growl of the quads throbbing beneath us as we ascend. The moorland is harsher up here, the grass still thick but wiry and tough, the wind cold and sharp in our faces. We’re so high it feels like we’re flying, soaring above the wilderness stretching below us for miles in every direction. We ride in silence, side by side, not racing, just enjoying the views and each other in equal measure.

  Eventually Tom slows, pulls up. I slide into place beside him and we both remove our helmets again. The force of the wind up here is tremendous and my hair is again whipping around my face. I struggle to stuff it down the neck of my jacket. I’m shivering—and this time it is owing to the cold.