A Hard Bargain

by Ashe Barker

  He continues to suckle, hard and greedy, as he unfastens his own shirt and flings it aside. Then he takes hold of my waist and rolls onto his back, pulling me around to land on top of him. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of my skirt and eases it down over my hips. I wince slightly as it scrapes over my bottom, but the sensation is one of pleasant soreness. He knows, and his palm is there, caressing my tender buttocks as he continues to tease and nip at my breasts. He alternates his attention from one to the other as I comb my fingers through his hair. My legs are open, straddling him, and he abandons my smarting bum to once more probe my entrance, testing my wetness, my readiness.

  He moves again, this time to roll me onto my back. He thrusts his finger deep into me, and I gasp my approval, squeezing down instinctively.

  “Ah, baby, that’s so sweet. Sweet and hot and tight.” His voice is a low, sexy murmur as he’s once again on the move, heading farther south.

  He stops briefly to dip his tongue into my navel before continuing down, past my now outlawed pubic hair to position himself between my legs. He stops, takes his time to explore with his eyes, using both hands now to open my labia, exposing my sensitive inner lips. He gently opens and closes me, licking his own lips as he carefully picks his spot. Then he lowers his head to flick the tip of my clit with his tongue before he slowly, deliberately, circles it. He licks the sensitive, engorged bud, just lightly at first, then pressing more heavily with his tongue as I arch and squirm under him. All the time his hands are there, holding me open, exposed and perfectly positioned for his attentions.

  My orgasm is on me in moments, bubbling up swiftly, an avalanche of tingling sensation which quickly engulfs me, sizzling, connecting every nerve ending with my throbbing, empty core. I’m shuddering, my awareness now of everything in the room narrowed and focused on this man, this Dom, and what he’s doing to me with his wicked, knowing tongue. And I want him inside me. Now. Any way he likes. But it has to be now!

  As ever, he knows. Kneeling, he unbuttons his jeans and slides the zip down. In moments they too have joined the pile on the floor, along with his boxer shorts. He has a condom foil packet in his hand, retrieved from his jeans pocket before he dumped them, and he snaps that open with his teeth. He’s kneeling between my legs, and he offers me the condom to unroll over him. I take it, my fingers only shaking very slightly as I do the honors. Fully sheathed, he leans forward, stretching out to lie over me, his weight supported on his elbows as he looks down at me, spread out under him, ready, waiting, willing and eager. He smiles, his gaze warm, sexy as he lowers his head to brush my lips with his at the same instant he thrusts into me.

  He swallows my breathy gasp, and the ones that follow as he continues to thrust, long and deep, but slow. He seems to be relishing this, drawing out every sensation as I convulse under him, around him. My fingers are digging into his shoulders as I grab him and hang on as he picks up the pace. His thrusts are faster now, harder. Instinctively I lift my legs and wrap them around his waist, the sharper angle increasing the penetration. The head of his cock nudges my cervix with each stroke, and it’s fabulous. Absolutely wonderful. My inner muscles take on a life of their own as they squeeze him hard, the movements involuntary now as my arousal grows and peaks. Within moments I’m coming once more, my breath ragged as I’m carried along on yet another amazing wave of mind-blowing sensation. His mouth is now on my neck, nuzzling, nipping me as his own climax builds and explodes. His low curse is muffled against my shoulder an instant before the hot wash of semen fills the condom. He plunges once more, deep inside me, holds that position for long seconds to savor his own release.

  My eyes are closed as I wait for the world to right itself once more. I feel him relax, the tension of orgasm dissipating quickly as he drops another swift kiss on my lips.

  “Christ, girl, when you decide to expand your horizons, you do it right. That was fucking wonderful.”

  My thoughts exactly, but the best I can manage is a smile before he rolls over and I find myself on top once more. He quickly lifts me, breaking our connection to dispose of the condom which he knots and tosses into a waste bin beside my bed, full of tissues and other girlie rubbish. I really must tidy up…

  He settles me back alongside him, half across his chest and half snuggled in to his side. He’s idly stroking my back, and he’s silent. Thinking? Planning?

  For once I’ve been doing a bit of planning of my own. He’s instructed me to make and keep various appointments in preparation for our intensive month of my training, and I will. It’s not as simple as he thinks though. I can’t just phone up the beauty salon and arrange a time to show up for my Brazilian wax treatment. Nor can I phone to arrange the medical checks he’s insisting on. Unless Summer turns up sometime soon, I’ll be reduced to actually going along to these places and doing the best I can to make myself understood over the counter. A notebook or my phone usually does the trick of course, but it’s cumbersome. If he’ll help, make the calls perhaps, that will make a big difference to me. And I need to ask him soon, before he disappears on his business trip.

  And there’s another thing now. I was intending to visit Margaret in Australia. I still am, I hope, and I’ve time to make the trip in the six weeks he’s allowed me between now and the start of my training. But I’m not sure of the rules. Do I need his permission? He did say that our ‘arrangement’ starts now, so maybe…?

  “What’s going on in your head, girl? I can hear the cogs whirring from here.” His voice is soft and low, warm, not the Dom tone.

  I lean up on my elbow to look him in the face, wondering where my iPad might be in all this chaos. He’s in a good mood so now might be a good time to ask him for help. I put up a hand, indicating that he should wait, and I scramble off the bed. I rummage around on my dressing table, find my tablet and press the ‘on’ switch. It’s fired up and ready by the time I clamber back alongside him, and he casually loops his arm across my shoulders to pull me back in.

  I need to make some appointments, the salon, the doctor. But I can’t use the phone. Would you mind ringing them for me?

  He glances at my screen. “Shit, of course. I should have thought. Sorry. Yes, I’ll do it. I’ll text you with the dates and times.”

  I start typing again.

  I was planning a trip, to see my family. I’d be back in time for the training, definitely. Is it OK for me to go? You said we’d wait six weeks. I’d do the doctor thing and the waxing before I go if you arrange appointments for as soon as possible.

  He reads the note, and glances back at me. “Your family don’t live near here then?”

  Sydney. New South Wales.

  He whistles. “Well that’s not exactly just round the corner.” He pauses, thinking, then, “When do you leave?”

  Ah, no suggestion then that I might not be allowed to go. I’m relieved. I wouldn’t have been happy about that, but I would have obeyed him.

  I haven’t booked a flight yet.

  “I see. Well, as long as you’re back in time to start our arrangement in six weeks, and as long as you respond when I text you, I don’t mind what you get up to in the meantime or where you go. Within reason. You need to plan your trip so I’ll sort out your appointments for some time in the next day or so, maybe call in some favors to get it sorted for you. And I’ll confirm the date I want you to show up at my home. Will that do?”

  I smile, nodding. He really can be very reasonable when he wants to be.

  * * * *

  “So, did your maid not turn in this week then?” Dressed now in just his jeans, zipped up but still unbuttoned—very sexy—Nick is idly strolling around the chaos which is my living room-come-dining area, idly picking up magazines, empty mugs, discarded junk-mail, books, bits of fabric, half-finished quilting projects. He looks curiously at each item he selects then replaces it exactly as he found it. He catches my gaze, holds it, waits for my answer.

  I manage to curtail my drooling at his impressive pectorals and six pack sufficiently
to shake my head, shrug. I know I’m untidy, this place is a tip. But I do know where everything is, truly I do. More or less. And in a way he’s right about my maid deserting me. Summer usually tidies up, but she’s not been around for weeks. Not that I want her to do my housework, but she sort of sneaks up on me.

  She often stays here when the din and aggravation at her mother’s little house in Barrow gets too much. She has two younger sisters, and an older brother who is serving with the army in Afghanistan. Her mother tends to have what would probably be generously described as a somewhat chaotic lifestyle. She’s been known to swan off without warning, leaving Summer to care for the younger ones. It can get pretty manic there, and Summer tells me she hates all the messiness and din. It’s true she’s neat to the point of compulsiveness, but her aversion to going home is so deep-rooted I suspect there’s more to it than just untidiness.

  Whatever, Summer definitely appreciates peace and quiet, and order, so she just turns up with a couple of bags and takes up residence in my spare room. We get along fine, and I may be messy, but at least I’m quiet. And she makes it her business to restore order.

  She usually waits until my back’s turned, when I’m in bed or out shopping or at the Collared and Tied, then she strikes. She tidies and sorts and puts away. She waves a duster around and digs my normally relatively untroubled hoover out from the utility room off my kitchen, where it hides behind the equally untroubled ironing board, and trundles it around the place. I don’t like these domestic commando raids much, but at least I know what to expect from her. It takes me weeks to find all my stuff again, and I sort of put up with the meticulous neatness because she’s my friend and it’s how she likes things. So the system works. I occasionally flirt with the notion of hiring someone to come in a couple of times a week, keep on top of things a bit better, but Summer always manages to talk me out of it. I’m her project. By the less than impressed look on Nick Hardisty’s face I maybe should be re-visiting that notion.

  I reach into the pocket of my short kimono-style wrap for my phone and tap out a short, apologetic message.

  I’m sorry. I’m not very tidy I’m afraid. I won’t mess your place up though.

  He reads my words and glances up at me sardonically, strolling over to me to accept the mug of coffee I’ve just made him. My kitchen is clean and tidy, I do at least insist on that.

  “Oh, I expect you will, Miss Stone. And if your messiness gets too much, I’ll have to correct you.” He smiles, leaning around me to pat my bottom, then continues to lift the short robe and caress my naked my buttocks suggestively.

  I shudder in delighted anticipation at the intimacy of the gesture, the promise of delightfully playful spankings to come. Edging me backwards toward the sofa in the center of the room, Nick places his mug carefully in the space beside a pile of quilting magazines balanced precariously on an antique side table before using his other hand, now free, to lift my hair from my neck. He leans in to nuzzle, sending exquisite little shivers down my spine.

  “You may not be a domestic goddess, Freya, but you have other fine qualities. I intend to explore them with you. Thoroughly.” He continues his sensual assault, his mouth covering my own, his tongue probing and exploring and drawing mine into an erotic dance.

  I reach up, clasping my hands behind his neck and hang on as he lifts me to perch on the back of the sofa. Not breaking the kiss, he unravels the loosely tied belt of my kimono and continues his exploration.

  “I could fuck you all night. Would you like that, little sub?” His voice is low, seductive, full of sensual promise, the words dropped lightly into my ear.

  I’m melting at the prospect of returning to bed with him. If we get that far. I gasp as two slick fingers slide easily into me, his swift and sure thrusts quickly bringing me back to the brink of orgasm. Then he slows this movements to hold me there, suspended on the edge of ecstasy, tingling with anticipation.

  “Unless you have other plans. Do you have any plans for tonight, Freya?”

  What? Plans? Nothing long-term. I can’t think much past the next few minutes. Seconds even. I wriggle, clenching and writhing against him, and he chuckles as he takes pity on me. A couple of more sharp thrusts, a third finger inside me and the heel of his hand expertly angled to rub my clit, and I’m gone. The delicious, beguiling, absorbing waves of intense pleasure engulf me once more and I simply hang on to him and let it wash over me. My arms are still draped around his neck and his arm around my waist holds me in place as the impact of my release scrambles any sense of balance I might have laid claim to.

  “So, do you?” His voice is soft and low.

  I look up at him in puzzlement as my senses slowly return to something resembling normal. He catches my frown of confusion.

  “Do you have plans for tonight?” he clarifies, helpfully.

  I shake my head.

  “So, shall we go out somewhere then?” He pauses, then, “Would you let me drive your car, Freya?”

  My car? I’ve been known to let Summer borrow it occasionally, but no one else. No one except Nick Hardisty, it now seems. I find myself nodding.

  “Get dressed then.” He drops another quick kiss on the top of my head and scoops up his shirt from the back of a chair. I’m still gazing at him, perplexed, as he reaches up to disentangle my hands from around his neck. Then, his hands on my shoulders, he gently turns me and shoves me in the direction of my bedroom again. Alone. “Clothes, Freya. Now.”

  And I obey, of course.

  * * * *

  Dressed in jeans and a loose T-shirt, my hair brushed and tamed marginally, now pulled back into a casual pony tail, I settle a little uncertainly in the passenger seat of my Vanquish. Apart from when I bought it, and the Aston Martin dealer insisted on demonstrating all the fine features laid on for my ultimate motoring pleasure, I’ve never sat in this seat. Nick Hardisty certainly has a unique effect on me, on many levels.

  He experiences no such qualms, relaxing easily into the driver’s seat, using the electronic controls to shift and adjust his position exactly to his liking, and repeating the exercise with the mirrors and black leather steering wheel. He nods approvingly at the soft beige leather interior upholstery, casually enquiring as to how many cows died to provide the materials. I shrug, honestly never having considered that, but I do have some qualms about the carbon emissions. I know the Vanquish is somewhat on the high side, and I firmly quashed that objection when buying it. Still, the knowledge sits uneasily with my stance on the otherwise high moral ground on all matters relating to sustainability and renewable energy.

  Nick easily works out how to use the launch control button and the brake to start the engine, his knowing smile warm as my gas-guzzling guilty pleasure roars into life. The sound fills the underground parking area as he slowly reverses out of my personal bay and heads for the automatic door.

  “Let’s go find us a lake, shall we?” He glances at me as the roller shutter glides smoothly up to let us exit the car park.

  I nod, happy to let him decide. Even so, I assume we’re headed for Windermere, the closest lake to us. It’s very much a commercial, touristy sort of place, but at this time in the early evening it will probably not be too crowded.

  I’m surprised when instead he takes the road leading to Barrow, then turns off to head toward the coast. I guess he’s just enjoying the ride as my prized Vanquish purrs easily along the dual carriageway at a steady, almost-silent sixty miles an hour. It could easily do double that, but Nick seems to be taking speed limits seriously. Which is more than I do, sadly, hence my current crop of six points on my driving license and one never-to-be recovered afternoon spent reflecting upon the error of my ways on one of those stern speed awareness courses.

  We leave the dual carriageway to hum along the fast but winding road toward the west coast, and my car handles it all quite beautifully. According to the literature, which I studied minutely before I splashed out and bought the car, whilst not especially built to stun on the track, t
he Vanquish is superb on the road. Just heavy enough to grip and feel secure, light enough to handle at the slightest touch. And as I’m not exactly build like a scaffolder, that matters to me. I like to feel safe while I’m taking my risks, which is sort of why I fixed my attention on this gorgeous man beside me in the first place. I relax, at ease with him and proud of my car. It’s not practical, the tiny seats in the back hardly qualify and there’s not a lot of luggage space. But I love it, and apparently that makes two of us as Nick continues to put her through her paces.

  The miles slide past us as Nick obviously enjoys zipping along the coast road, heading north. He turns off after half an hour or so, and I realize we must be heading for Wastwater. I’m pleased. Not at all commercial, Wastwater is my favorite lake. Dark and brooding, deep, cold, mysterious, I just love the atmosphere here. The secrets and the barely concealed menace, thinly veiled behind a veneer of calm. In the still evening, the unruffled surface of the vast lake comes into view, just the southernmost fingers of it at first, then more as we turn to drive sedately along the narrow road skirting the western shore. Nick has to frequently slow down or stop to avoid suicidal sheep sauntering across the road, and after a few minutes he pulls over into one of the many lay bys provided to cater for the hosts of walkers and tourists who arrive here in droves. Earlier in the day these would be jam-packed by cars abandoned by hikers, campers, fell walkers, but at this time all those hardy souls have left and we have the parking areas all to ourselves. And the lake.

  We get out, and Nick doesn’t even try to lock the car. No need, it locks itself with a distinct and efficient clunk as we walk away. Instead he holds out his hand to me, and I take it without thinking. Together, our fingers linked, we stroll down to the pebbly lakeside to gaze across at the opposite shore. It’s even wilder over there, no road, just a steeply rising fell, layered in various shades of gray, brown and green as the rocks give way to shale, then bracken, then more luxuriant vegetation. Not the gentle rolling hills I can see over the rooftops from my balcony, this is the real Cumbria, the wild, rocky mountains and deep, dangerous lakes. Deceptively cold even in mid-summer, Wastwater is a magnet for hardy scuba divers with thick wetsuits rather than sailors, and the occasional angler. Mostly though, this is walking country, a place to come and simply absorb the bigness of the space, the emptiness, the silence. I adore it. This is why I live here, why I continue to live here.