A Hard Bargain

by Ashe Barker

  The years rolled smoothly by, and I was settled with Margaret. I went on to secondary school, where they gave me a dedicated tutor all for me, because I was so ‘special’. I couldn’t speak, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, I was ‘looked after’ as well. One time I saw the phrase ‘multiple disadvantages’ on a report in my tutor’s file on me, and I wondered who she was writing about and how this other kid’s papers had gotten into my file. I never felt disadvantaged, and surely being ‘looked after’ is a good thing? It definitely is if the looking after is done by Margaret Maloney, who eventually filled in the forms and formally adopted me when I was fourteen.

  I’ve never called her ‘mum’ and I never will. She’ll always be Margaret as far as I’m concerned. But she means the world to me and that won’t change, even though she now lives in New South Wales with George. George, short for Georgina, is an Australian restaurant owner she met on holiday in Tunisia a couple of years after I moved in with her. The two women hit it off and corresponded endlessly after they returned home. They continued to meet once or twice a year in various exotic parts of the globe over the years that followed, often with me in tow. It took me a while to work out the true nature of their relationship, but by the time the penny dropped, I adored George and it never occurred to me that there was anything unusual about their set-up. They finally formalized their civil partnership a couple of years ago, and Margaret moved to Sydney. I suspect she’d have emigrated a lot sooner but for me. She wouldn’t leave me, wouldn’t uproot me, and she steadfastly put me first. It wasn’t until I hit the Euromillions jackpot, and moved out of her house in Ulverston to take up residence in my own fancy apartment that she finally put up the for sale sign and made arrangements to move Down Under.

  Unfortunately by then the credit crunch had put a stop to pretty much all house sales, and Margaret was stuck here in the UK, waiting for a buyer who wouldn’t be materializing any time soon. I loved her and I didn’t want her to move half a world away, but I knew she’d stood her watch as far as I was concerned, so I bought her house. I did the deal through my lawyer and an agent—she never knew it was me who cut the last tie holding her here. She’s always flatly and absolutely refused to accept any share of my winnings so I had no choice but to keep a low profile. But now she’s happy, doing front of house stuff in George’s restaurant, and I visit them when I get the urge. Which is pretty often.

  Winning the Euromillions lottery absolutely floored me. I was only just nineteen then, and bought the ticket on impulse. It’s the one and only time I ever did buy one. How mad is that?

  I was still living in Ulverston with Margaret and at college trying to top up my meager stash of A levels. I left school with a few GCSEs and an A level in English Literature, not enough to get me into university, and in any case I wasn’t convinced that was the right route for me. At that time I had no real idea of what I wanted to do, but I loved cooking and was vaguely wondering about a career in catering. I had a dream of running my own little tearoom or guest house, and having grown up in an area overrun by tourists for most of the year, I naturally assumed I could make a living in the hospitality industry somewhere. I had my sights set on catering college eventually, once I’d met the entry requirements, and would probably have done all right, but events took another course for me.

  I didn’t even properly understand the Euromillions system, and in fairness I’d gotten it all a bit confused with the Camelot set-up. I thought I was on the look-out for six balls and the Bonus Ball. I checked the result of the National Lottery draw that weekend and couldn’t work out why there wasn’t mention of main numbers and Lucky Stars. But I’m persistent, I fiddled about online in my bedroom, eventually found the Euromillions site, and bingo! Well, so to speak.

  And even then I didn’t get it, didn’t really understand what I was looking at. The numbers on the screen were mine, exactly the same as mine, all five main numbers and the two Lucky Stars. Estimated jackpot, given it was a rollover week, forty-four million pounds. But it couldn’t be true, I convinced myself that somehow my own numbers had gotten entered into my computer system, I must have done it while I was trying to check, and what I was seeing was hypothetical. For hours I steadfastly refused to let myself even start to consider I might have won. I never breathed a word of it to Margaret, just went to bed that night as if everything was quite, quite normal. As if my life was not about to be changed forever.

  But I hadn’t put my numbers into my computer. I knew, deep down I knew I hadn’t done that. So, eventually, curled up in my bed late that night, just before I was to go to sleep, I logged on again. This time I knew exactly what site to go to, and I concentrated hard. No mistakes, no misunderstandings. I was looking at the actual draw that had taken place the previous day, those actual numbers were the winning ones. And yes, they were my numbers. Definitely.

  No harm in getting a second opinion though. I texted Summer, my best friend since we were both fifteen and she had shared my bedroom at Margaret’s for a few weeks. She was in bed I expect—it was after one in the morning by then I recall—but I typed my message asking her to check the Euromillions website for the most recent draw and text me back the winning numbers. Then I turned off my laptop, and I went to sleep.

  The following morning I checked my texts. There was one from Summer. With my numbers in it. I looked again at my ticket, as if the numbers might have somehow magicked themselves into something different overnight, but no, there it was. I was a winner. A big winner. I texted Summer back—I needed her to make some calls for me. And I went downstairs to talk to Margaret.

  And the rest is history. With Summer’s help, and Margaret’s, I claimed my winnings, and soon learned that I was, subject to final checks, proudly in possession of forty-four million, seven hundred and thirty-seven thousand, two hundred and ninety-seven pounds. And a few pence. I opted to keep a low profile, much to the disgust of the company representatives who wanted to make a big splash about me. ‘Lottery virgin hits the jackpot at first attempt’ sort of stuff. I wasn’t having it, only my close friends and family knew what had happened—Summer, Margaret, George—and apart from staff at my bank and at the lottery itself, I’ve kept it that way ever since.

  As well as buying the old house in Ulverston, which I’ve since had converted into holiday flats, I treated myself to a lovely home just for me. I wandered into an exclusive estate agency in Lancaster, having been referred to them by my wealth consultant at Lloyds private bank, and explained that I wanted an apartment. My needs were straightforward enough. I was looking for a luxury place, somewhere in Cumbria, the best they could find. No upper price limit. They came up with a list of about six to consider, but my place in Kendal ticked all my boxes. The right size, town center, private spa, gym and pool, not too remote. I loved it as soon as I set foot in it, and it set me back just over one and a half million pounds. A bargain, I thought.

  Then I bought myself a decent car. I originally settled for a modestly priced BMW coupe, as I hadn’t even passed my test at that stage. I booked some lessons, got myself a provisional license, failed my test twice, but eventually managed to convince the driving examiner I was fit to be let loose. Then I started looking around for something really nice, and I found the Aston Martin Vanquish. Again, it was love at first sight. I ordered one, stumped up my two hundred thousand pounds, then had to wait three months for delivery. It was worth the wait.

  The lottery people sent a very nice gentleman called David Carnegie to see me. He’s a wealth manager, retained by the Euromillions folk to go round and talk sense into the newly filthy rich. It’s David’s job to stop us going mad, taking up extreme sports and getting ourselves killed, or giving it all away to the first clever conman that knocks on the door. It’s David’s job to explain about investment, about financial planning, about avoiding criminals and scroungers, about making gifts to causes that I choose, and about not spending it all at once. In reality, he didn’t tell me anything that my gran and Margaret hadn’t already drilled
into me, just that this time the numbers were big. These numbers had commas in.

  At that stage I hadn’t yet discovered my submissive side, so Mr Carnegie’s exhortations to avoid the more foolhardy pursuits seemed superfluous. I’ve never harbored any ambition to leap from a perfectly serviceable airplane, or fling myself off a cliff attached to a rubber band. I don’t swim that well so there’ll be no white water nonsense for me. Quilting seems safe enough.

  By way of celebration once I’d sorted out my apartment, I booked a luxury trip to Australia to spend a bit more time with Margaret. First class flights, VIP airport lounges, five star hotels—I splashed out big-style. Just for once it was nice to feel I could have anything I wanted, do anything I wanted, go anywhere I wanted. Except it wasn’t, isn’t, just for once. It’s forever, probably. Forty-four million pounds takes a lot of shifting, especially when you’re me and there’s nothing, really, you want to buy with it.

  At David Carnegie’s suggestion, I deposited the balance of my fortune with Lloyds private bank. They were very pleased to see me, especially when it became clear that my winnings were still pretty much intact. They allocated another personal wealth consultant as my adviser, a very serious middle-aged chap by the name of Max Furrowes. Max spent a lot of time with me discussing my attitude to risk, and finally arriving at a ‘risk tolerance’ diagnosis of medium. That means I don’t mind some uncertainty, within reason, but I won’t be putting the lot on the three-thirty at York. I did, however, seriously consider buying a racehorse until Max pointed out that this would represent a ‘moderate’ risk. I don’t do moderate, and settled instead for a prudent portfolio of unexciting but workmanlike investments expertly managed by Max and his extremely reliable colleagues at Lloyds. I made a few charitable donations, but by the time I’d exhausted my shopping list, the bank still had over forty-two million pounds of mine to play with, which even conservatively invested returns earnings of over six hundred thousand a year. I worked out that I can live comfortably on a hundred thousand a year, and the rest gets reinvested.

  How’s that for prudent? Max is definitely impressed.

  I loved seeing Margaret again, and my trip to Australia was fabulous. I was delighted that the foster mum I adored was so happy with the love of her life—that said life was turning out as she wanted it to. But after a few weeks basking in the heat of an Australian summer, I knew I wanted to come home, back to the UK, back to the Lake District where I felt I belonged. And where it’s cool most of the time. And wet.

  And now, four years on, I shouldn’t complain. I have my lovely apartment, more money in the bank than I know what to do with so no need to worry about working for a living. My time’s my own, so I do a lot of quilting. I still enter the shows and exhibitions, although it’s not nearly as much fun without Margaret to share it with. Despite Max’s efforts to suggest opportunities I might like to consider, I’ve never developed much of a taste for the trappings of wealth so I tend to live fairly quietly—figuratively, that is as well as literally. I buy nice clothes, no economies there. And my apartment is beautifully furnished and equipped—not that you could tell under all the clutter I accumulate. I skip off to New South Wales to catch up with Margaret a couple of times a year, and on the odd occasions that I decide I want something, I just buy it. With the notable exception of Nicholas Hardisty.

  It was as I set out on one of my long, solitary journeys to see Margaret that I found myself browsing the shelves in WHSmiths at Manchester airport. I was looking for something to keep me amused between airline meals and the in-flight movies when I came across that book. Copies were piled high by the entrance and selling by the cart-load. I admired the rather fetching black and white cover, discreetly adorned by a gray tie, then checked over my shoulder to make sure no one was looking. I wondered what all the fuss could be about and decided there was one way to find out. So I bought it. I brazened it out with the bored-looking spotty teenager on the till, who frankly couldn’t have cared less anyway, and stuffed my purchase discreetly inside my hand luggage. And there it stayed until I was safely ensconced in first class, my complementary dry white wine on the table in front of me, and the Qantas steward nowhere in sight. I dragged out my book, and didn’t put it down for eight hours.

  Apart from enforced breaks to eat and go to the loo—white wine has that effect on me, I find—I read it non-stop from cover to cover. And I knew, I just knew, this was for me. I tingled, clenched and shivered through all the sexy scenes, re-reading most of them for good measure. To make sure I didn’t miss anything important. Desperate to continue my fix of BDSM, I managed to buy the sequel at Singapore, and hunted down the third installment in a bookstore at Kingsford Smith Airport in Sydney. I was antisocial for the best part of a week as I claimed jet lag and greedily devoured the rest.

  I wanted to try it for myself, I just had to. I wasn’t sure how, when, and certainly not why. But I was determined. And I had money, so surely I could do anything I wanted. Couldn’t I?

  I did my internet research and came to the conclusion that the best way to embark on this latest venture was to join a club. A nice club, where I could be sure of meeting people with similar interests to my own. Then—who knows? In the event, it didn’t turn out to be so simple. The Collared and Tied club is perfectly fine as far as my exacting quality standards are concerned, but until I attracted Nicholas Hardisty’s attention, no one there, except for Frank perhaps, was the least bit interested in me. Making conversation with other submissives is a non-starter, and up until my evening with Nicholas, my handful of direct experiences with Doms did not go especially well.

  As a new submissive, at first I wasn’t short of invitations to play. However, despite my enthusiasm for the idea of submission, the theory of it as understood from my forays into erotic literature, I found the requirement to strip on demand, regardless of my audience, more than a little disconcerting. And I’ve never become comfortable with the prospect of fucking strangers. I did it though, and despite my reservations and inhibitions was not disappointed with the arousing effects of a well-administered spanking.

  Then I met Nicholas Hardisty. He was utterly wonderful, and seemed to have a good time too, but he’s not in any obvious hurry to repeat it. And after Nicholas, I have no wish to scene with anyone else. So we have stalemate. Or I do.

  Despite my wealth, my shopping list was remarkably brief. One thing I could buy, I suppose, is a synthetic voice. Computers can do wonderful things these days, including converting type into speech. I checked out a couple, but they sound to me like a satnav at best, so I don’t bother. My lack of speech has never seemed particularly troublesome to me. It just is what it is. The medical term for my condition is aphonia, which in a nutshell means that my larynx and vocal chords don’t work. Apparently I contracted a massive viral infection of my throat and chest when I was about eighteen months old which permanently damaged the nerves, affecting how my larynx functions and paralyzing my vocal chords. So that was me silenced for good. I don’t recall a time it was ever any different though, and I’ve always felt I communicated perfectly well by signing. Until recently that is, in my not especially fulfilling forays into sexual fetishism.

  My gran understood British Sign Language. Margaret quickly picked it up, so did a few of my friends at school did, and my special tutors. These people helped me by speaking for me when I needed it. Summer’s my best friend. We met when she came to Margaret’s while her mother was serving four months in prison for persistent shoplifting, and she’s fluent at reading my signing. And of course now there’s the internet, emails, texting, where I’m on the same level playing field as everyone else. Obviously I can’t use a phone to speak to people and it’s awkward in shops sometimes, but I manage to buy a lot of stuff online. And traveling can be a challenge. But mostly I get by just fine. There are far worse problems.

  Like loving someone who I can’t have, for example. Someone such as Nicholas Hardisty.

  * * * *

  It’s been three we
eks since I spent that incredible evening with Nicholas Hardisty at the Collared and Tied club, and I’ve not been back there. I fought tooth and nail, was prepared to endure just about anything he cared to dish out to me just to hang on to my membership, and I find now I’ve completely lost interest in the place. I thought it was so important, so fundamental to my happiness, my sexual fulfilment—I felt desperate, distraught when he stripped me of it. Now I couldn’t care less.

  It’s because of him. It’s because he doesn’t want me, and I can’t even start to think about wanting anyone else. I have no interest in scening with any other Dom, can’t imagine allowing any other Dom to touch me, and I know if I went to the club they might. I might well be invited to join in some scene or other, and my popularity has probably increased because I spent that evening so publicly with Nicholas Hardisty. Others would have noticed, would maybe wonder if I might be worth a closer look. Doms who would never have looked twice at me before might be interested now, and I’d have to turn them down because they’re not Nicholas Hardisty. That wouldn’t go down well, not for long. Unless you’re in an exclusive arrangement, submissives are sort of expected to be available, amenable to all reasonable offers, so to speak. And these days, I’m none of those things. So I stay at home.

  Summer hasn’t come back yet either, although I’ve had several texts from her assuring me she’s fine. I had an email from Nicholas Hardisty the day after our encounter at the club telling me that Daniel Praed had also vouched for her health and safety when she left him that night, so I suppose she must be okay. It would be good to see for myself though.

  I’ve thrown myself into a frenzy of quilting and designing, done some of my best work in the last couple of weeks—amazing what abject misery and total solitude can do for the creative juices, it would seem. I’ve not been going out, not even turned the television on for weeks. The nearest I get to the outside world is the odd half hour on my balcony watching the river flowing below me, and only then at night usually.