A Hard Bargain

by Ashe Barker

  Am I lonely? No. Well, it’s not only loneliness. I’m hiding. I’m licking my wounds and taking stock. And I’m trying to work out where to go from here. Apart from making lovely quilts, there’s a whole lot of nothing else I need to do. A whole world of no one needing me at all, of no one relying on me for anything. I may have money, but it doesn’t buy happiness. Or love. And it definitely can’t buy me Nicholas Hardisty.

  I’ve over forty-million pounds sitting in the bank, and the one thing I would want to buy is not for sale.

  Chapter Seven

  I can’t be bothered getting out of bed, but I suppose I’ll have to eventually. It’s getting on for three in the afternoon, and I’m slipping into some really bad habits here. If I find myself watching Countdown in my pajamas, it’s time to get sorted. Even my precious quilting is losing its appeal. I need someone to talk to, I really do. But Summer’s still AWOL. There’s nothing else for it, I need Margaret. I can’t just ring her up, but I could Skype her. She’ll be able to put me on video and read my signing.

  Or better still, maybe I could get a flight and go to see her. Yes, that’s what I want to do. Time to drag my arse out of bed and get online. Got to buy an airline ticket.

  So, it’s with some semblance of a sense of purpose that I tug my laptop out from under the settee and plug it into the mains. I fire it up, waiting patiently while the little icons flash and leap about on the screen as the whole carry on lazily hauls its own arse into gear. I’m reminded of the palaver Margaret used to have to go through to get me out of bed on a school day when I was about fourteen. My laptop’s hit puberty I think. It’s become a stroppy teenager. Next thing it’ll be demanding money for hair straighteners and a new bra. Oh well…

  I spot the unread email icon flashing on my task bar and open my Outlook. Might as well delete the junk mail while I’m here.

  Shit! There’s a stack of emails from Nicholas Hardisty. I skim through them, and can see that he’s been emailing me for days, and getting no response.

  From: Nicholas Hardisty

  To: Freya Stone

  Date: 20 May 2013

  Subject: Are you playing hard to get?

  From: Nicholas Hardisty

  To: Freya Stone

  Date: 21 May 2013

  Subject: Playing Hard to get

  You’ve not been to the club for weeks. Frank says you used to come at least twice a week. I repeat—are you avoiding me?

  From: Nicholas Hardisty

  To: Freya Stone

  Date:21 May 2013

  Subject: FREYA—respond please

  From: Nicholas Hardisty

  To: Freya Stone

  Date: 22 May 2013

  Subject: Bloody hell, Freya!

  You’re pissing me off, girl. And you know how unpleasant I can get when you piss me off. I want to know if you’re all right. And I want to know why you haven’t been to the club. And I want to know NOW.

  Nick

  It’s clear he’s not best pleased. I re-read his messages, and I’m puzzled. Why the concern? I mean, it’s nice, lovely in fact, but why would he care? Why would he bother talking to Frank about me? Why would he imagine I’d want to avoid him? Christ, just the opposite. I want to throw myself at him and beg him to fuck me, if he can find the time that is.

  I pull up his latest email and try to think of a response.

  From: Freya Stone

  To: Nicholas Hardisty

  Date: 23 May 2013

  Subject: I’m fine, thanks

  Good afternoon, Mr Hardisty

  Sorry, I’ve only just turned my laptop on. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I haven’t fancied going to the club for a while. If you let me know when you’ll next be there, I’ll try to make it too.

  It would be really nice to see you again.

  Freya

  From: Nicholas Hardisty

  To: Freya Stone

  Date: 23 May 2013

  Subject: I don’t make dates with subs

  But I’ll keep an eye out for you

  Nick

  Oh. Oh well. And…Nick? Not Nicholas then. I sit on the edge of my settee staring at the screen and wondering how he got the idea I was trying to make a date with him. I need to set him straight.

  From: Freya Stone

  To: Nick Hardisty

  Date: 23 May 2013

  Subject: Dates

  Good afternoon again

  I didn’t mean a date. I just meant that I’ll make sure I’m there if you let me know when’s convenient for you. Otherwise though, I’ve no plans to be at the club again for a while.

  Best regards

  Freya

  A bit formal, but I can’t help it. He really does get the wrong end of the stick a lot too easily.

  From: Nicholas Hardisty

  To: Freya Stone

  Date: 26 may 2013

  Subject: You fucking win!

  All right. If your offer still stands, I’m willing to discuss it. But no fee. Absolutely no room for negotiation there.

  Meet me for a coffee. We’ll talk. Or I’ll talk, you’ll listen. And write.

  Nick

  P.S. Email me your mobile number

  I win! I fucking win! What’s that supposed to mean?

  Who cares what it means. He wants to see me. Wants to talk to me. At me, whatever. I email him back my mobile number as requested. No, scratch that, as instructed. And I wait.

  But I don’t wait for long. Within five minutes the ping from my phone tells me a text has arrived. And sure enough, it’s from him.

  Meet me at Costa, in Kendal town center. Half an hour.

  Half an hour! Shit! Still, no point messing about. I quickly punch in my reply.

  I’ll be there.

  In the event, it takes me forty minutes to throw some decent clothes on and scurry down into town to the Costa coffee shop. I know he won’t take kindly to me being late. Doms tend to get distinctly shirty about things like that, and I’m already flustered as I rush through the door. At first, I think I might have somehow managed to get here before him as I gaze frantically around and he’s not there, only to spot him lounging on an outside table in the alley next to the coffee shop. There are two cups in front of him—looks like he might have ordered for me already. I take a deep breath, hoping to steady myself a bit before facing him again, and I step back outside.

  As I approach, he uses his foot to nudge the spare chair at his table out for me to sit on. I nod my thanks and take the seat, earning myself a few more moments respite by gesturing at the spare coffee then at myself, asking if that’s for me.

  “Yeah. I remembered you like it white, no sugar. That right?”

  I nod then take a sip. I replace the cup carefully in its saucer and meet his eyes. Slate gray, icy, piercing. And not at all amused. I’m puzzled—he invited me after all. He didn’t have to be here. I swallow nervously, and wait for him to tell me what this is all about. He bides his time, taking a sip of his coffee himself before leaning back in his chair to watch me squirming in front of him. Eventually he speaks.

  “So, do you still want to be trained? In the fine and noble art of submission?”

  A good question. Do I? Yes, in a manner of speaking, but my parameters have changed. I want him to train me—I want to learn from him, for him. Only him. Is that what he’s offering? A long term Dom/sub relationship? I seriously doubt that. But, ever the pragmatist, maybe I just need to take what I can get, accept the limits of what’s on offer and live for now. I’m a natural optimist, and I can’t help but hope for more later. Maybe I’ll end up being disappointed. I accept that possibility, but I have to try.

  So I nod. Slowly but definitely. I’m in.

  He sits up straighter, leaning in toward me, his gaze holding mine. In that moment he reminds me of my bank manager, the one I used to have to persuade when I was a hard-up student begging for an overdraft at the Nat-West, obviously. Dealing with Max Furrowes and his colleagues at Lloyds Private Bank is a whole different kettle of fish,
it goes without saying. Nicholas—Nick—Hardisty is of the Nat-West variety.

  “Okay. I’ll give you a month then. One month of exclusive, intensive one on one tuition. You’ll spend that month with me, at my home. It’ll be hard. Very hard. And you’ll hurt in places you never even knew you had. You’ll have no privacy, no secrets. Your body will be mine for that month, your time, your life, all mine, willingly given up to me.” His voice is curt, business-like, formal. My knickers are dampening just listening to him.

  “You’ll do exactly as I say, however difficult it is, however scared or humiliated you feel. And it will be bloody hard. You’ll think I’m brutal at times. You’ll be frightened, embarrassed, tired, sore. But I’ll thrill you too, delight you. I’ll make you feel so fucking good, Freya, you’ll think you’ve gone to heaven. And there’ll be no respite, no let up. Once we start, you’re mine for the duration, or unless you decide to end it. You once asked me what I’d consider a fair price for training you. Well that’s it. That’s my price. Whatever I ask, whatever I instruct you to do, you do your level best to deliver. No excuses, no delaying. You just do it. If you decide my price is too high, you can walk away at any time, but if you do decide to walk, that’s the training program finished. Over. So, are you up for that, Freya?”

  In truth, I’m his forever, if he did but know it. I hadn’t expected the one month twenty-four-seven arrangement, but I don’t object to that. In theory at least I know what’s involved, although I can only imagine how some of it could make me feel. Degraded? Powerless? Helpless? Delirious? Those emotional aspects rather than the physical pain are the issues which concern me, but they come with the territory. Don’t they? I’m turning all this over in my head, although I know already, knew from the outset, that I’d accept whatever terms he put before me.

  He leans in again. “For a natural submissive—and, honey, after the evening we spent together, I do believe you are a natural—submission to a Dom you trust is intensely satisfying. Liberating.” Now his tone has become gentler. Lower, more seductive. ”You hand over control, and in exchange can expect all your sensual, emotional and physical needs to be met. I’m offering to show you that, to take you there if that’s what you want. If you’ll trust me, if you’ll let me take care of you as you explore what’s deep within you, and make your journey. So, will you trust me, little Freya?”

  Put like that…

  I nod. Yes, of course I’ll trust him, I always did. So, I’m still in.

  He smiles, his gray eyes now softer, warming as he regards me, raking my body as he did that evening at the club, and I suspect he’s mentally stripping my clothes away. Not that I mind overly much—nudity is a big part of this deal, I do know that. And talking of which, his specific instructions grab my attention, including taking nakedness to a whole new level for me.

  “Right, here’s how it’s going to happen. You’ll spend the month at my home, and during that time we’ll be together twenty-four-seven. You’ll live with me, eat with me, sleep with me and your body will be available for training at any time. Don’t worry about food, accommodation, any of that. You’ll be very well cared for, very comfortable indeed. Except for when I’m hurting you, obviously.”

  I nod my understanding. Obviously.

  He continues. “I already have all the equipment we’ll need, but of course if you have any favorite toys or implements please feel free to bring those too. I have to go away on business from tomorrow for a few weeks, so we won’t start our program for another six weeks, but then it’ll be full on, until the month’s up. Neither of us will have any other outside commitments, is that clear? You need to clear your diary for the entire month and I’ll do the same—no distractions, no interruptions.”

  Wow—he does mean ‘full on’. And what diary? What commitments? I was thinking about going to Australia, but I can be back in time for this. A whole lot of nothing is what my long-term diary consists of. I just nod, no problem there as far as I can see.

  “Right, I’m glad that’s clear then. And you’ll have some work to do in the six weeks between now and when we start. To start with, I like my subs naked. Properly naked. So I want you to make sure all your body hair is removed. And I mean all. I prefer you to be waxed rather than shave—lasts longer and it’s a better job. Have you ever had a full Brazilian wax?” He pauses, lifts an eyebrow as he waits for my response.

  I gulp, shake my head nervously. Now this I don’t like the sound of. I just know this’ll hurt. He reads my mind, as ever.

  “Coward—I have far more…excruciating treatments planned for you. And I won’t be offering pain relief. This place will though…” He shoves a business card across the table at me.

  I pick it up, glance at it—Pretty Things Beauty Parlour.

  “These guys can sort you out, unless there’s somewhere else you know of and prefer to use?”

  I shake my head, slipping the card into my bag for later.

  “Okay. You can charge any expenses like this to me. I don’t expect you to pay.”

  I shrug, least of my worries. And I’ll pay extra for the pain relief.

  “I also want you to have a full medical check-up. The medic retained by the Collared and Tied club can do it, she knows what sort of information I’ll be needing. I want to know about any underlying health conditions, anything at all that might affect your fitness to endure the demands of what I intend to do to you. With you. Anything I should watch out for, or need to take into account…” I dive for my bag. There’s something I need to ask, need to tell him before the doctor does. He pauses, waits for me as I fish around in my bag. I pull out my Samsung Galaxy phone, glad I remembered to shove it in there as I was dashing out of my apartment, and note his silent nod of approval as I start to write.

  Does diabetes count?

  I pass the note to him. He glances at it, then at me.

  “Oh yes, I’m sure it does. Are you on medication? Do you need any treatment? Are you likely to go into a diabetic coma as soon as I wave a whip at you?”

  I take my notepad back, and start writing again.

  No, none of that. I don’t take any medicine. Not yet. But I have to eat very carefully. Healthy food like fruit and vegetables, wholemeal bread. Pasta. Low fat, low salt. And no sugar. Absolutely no sugar—that’s very important. Will that be OK, my diet I mean?

  Again he reads, and again he glances sharply back at me. “The diet’s fine. We’ll manage that no problem.” He points to my screen. “What do you mean, ‘yet’?”

  More typing and I pass the phone back to him.

  I’ll probably need to take medication eventually, but I can control my blood sugar fairly well so far by eating properly. I have done for years.

  He nods, seemingly satisfied for now. “Make sure the medic knows about your diabetes. I’ll expect to see it mentioned in the report, and I’ll want to get the all clear. And I want you to sort out contraception too. We’ll use condoms some of the time, but I don’t want any accidents coming back to haunt either of us later.”

  Again I reach for my phone.

  I’m on the Pill already—is that OK?

  “Yes, that’s fine. Again, I want to see it confirmed in the medical report. And I’ll be wanting blood tests for HIV, hepatitis, STD’s, the usual. The doctor will know. I’ll supply you with the same information, naturally.”

  Naturally.

  “There’ll be more details I’ll need you to know and I’ll let you have those in due course, exact dates, times, location, that sort of thing. And I may have more instructions for you. I’ll text you, as you seem good at ignoring my emails. If—when—you get any message from me I expect you to acknowledge it immediately, and respond as appropriate. Is that clear?”

  I nod, but that’s not enough apparently.

  “Just so there’s no doubt, I need you to understand that although we don’t get into it properly for another six weeks, you and I have an agreement from now on. I expect you to obey my instructions, and assume the proper attit
ude of respect. There will be breaches, you’re learning, and to help you to learn, I’ll correct any lapses incurred during this next six weeks at the start of our intensive month. You will be disciplined if required, and that discipline will be physical. The severity of any punishment will obviously depend on the nature and extent of your misdemeanors. Do you accept that? Will you accept punishment and learn from it?”

  So, here it is, the nub of our relationship. This is what a Dom/sub agreement hinges on. And once I accept this, once I agree to his terms, from then on I acknowledge his authority over me, and his right to punish me. I allowed him that right once, and he delivered a punishment beating I’ll never, ever forget. Maybe I’ll never attract anything of that severity again, but I can’t be sure. But this is not about being sure. This is about trust—trusting my Dom and trusting myself. I nod, and by way of additional emphasis offer him my hand to shake. He takes it, and our deal is sealed.

  He smiles at me again. “Well, Miss Stone, we’re going to have an interesting time together. I’m looking forward to it. Now, you live near here I believe…?”

  I nod, wondering how he knows where I live, but I don’t have time to ask him before he continues. “If you’ve finished your coffee, we’ll go to your apartment now, because, with your agreement obviously, I intend to fuck you. And they don’t take kindly to that sort of thing here in Costa. Upsets the other customers and leaves a sticky mess on the tables. But first, there’s the matter of you being ten minutes late meeting me here. We’ll need to deal with that. Shall we go?”

  He stands, as I do, and he gestures for me to precede him back onto the main pavement. I do as I’m told. Might as well start as I mean to go on.

  Chapter Eight

  The ten minute walk along the River Kent, back to my apartment block, passes in silence. Only to be expected I suppose, he’s said all he needs to say for now. And I have the matter of my ten minutes of tardiness to contemplate, which has without doubt earned me some form of retribution.