Hard Choices

by Ashe Barker

  As soon as we appear in her cramped office upstairs at the Collar she throws her arms around me and crushes me to her leather-clad chest in a bear hug. To say I’m relieved would be an understatement.

  “Freya, how are you? It’s lovely to see you again. And how’s the training going? Is my brother shaping up?” She turns to Nick, plants a quick kiss on his cheek, then her attention is back on me.

  “Nick tells me you’re a natural submissive, all the right instincts. I knew it. I knew you would be, given the chance. And the right instruction. I told him that. And now you’re to help me out with this Manchester gig he’s gone and got us into. Thank God for that.” She shakes her head as she returns to ease her frame into the chair behind her tiny desk.

  I’m not sure what I fear for most—the tight leather pants stretched to splitting point across her bottom as she bends, or her state-of-the-art laptop perched perilously on top of a teetering column of files and papers. It’s all I can do to resist grabbing it—the laptop, not the pants—but Ange is unconcerned.

  And she’s not done complaining yet. “I could do with him buying bloody clubs left, right and centre if he was prepared to run them himself. But no, someone else has to up sticks and go charging down there to knock it all into shape…”

  She stops to draw breath, flashes him a look of mock irritation, then launches in again, “So, Nick thinks you’d be good at the member services aspect. I gather we’ve got a dungeon master already, possibly. Sorry, mistress. What do you make of her?”

  I look at Ange, perplexed. Not only do I have to find a way of explaining my opinion on our staffing situation when as far as I know Ange understands no BSL, but I also need to get my head around the fact that I appear to have an opinion worth hearing. I glance at her, then at Nick, not sure how to proceed. Then Nick steps in.

  “Just sign, love. I’ll do the rest. Unless you’d rather write?”

  I shake my head as he turns to Ange. “And I can give you the name of a good BSL tutor. You’ll need a crash course.”

  “Right, right. Email me the details. So, Freya, tell me about our in-house dominatrix.”

  “She’s scary, but I think that’s a good thing.” Hesitant at first but gaining confidence as neither of them interrupts or contradicts me I start to outline my impressions of the formidable Portia. “The staff obviously respect her, and she’s on top of things, knows what goes on in her dungeon. We watched her intervene when a scene was going slightly wrong. Nothing too heavy, but she was on it.”

  Nick’s simultaneous translation is impressive—he certainly has a natural aptitude. Or maybe he is highly motivated—I like to think so.

  I hesitate in my account. Despite her obvious skills and suitability for her role, I was quite unable to warm to Portia. And I doubt she’ll welcome me. “She was all over your brother, though, and I found that a bit wearing. I think she might be surprised to see me back as her boss. She’d be much happier working for Nick.”

  Ange shrugs, dismissing Portia’s concerns. “Her choice, but I reckon she’ll learn to live with it. If she wants to keep her job.”

  Ange is decisive, certain of her authority and now mine, it would seem. And there’s no doubt where her loyalties lie. Portia, along with all the rest of the staff at The Glory Hole, will be toeing our line. And I realise, with a start of surprise, that it is indeed ‘our’ line. Somewhere between getting out of the car, nervous about how I’d be received by Ange, and arriving at this conversation, I’ve become part of the Hardisty empire. Who would have thought it?

  “Okay, our management style. I think you’re familiar with it to some extent. Emphasis on supervision, safety, consent. That’s why the dungeon is so vital, sort of sets the tone for the rest. Did Nick mention we’d be sending Frank down there?”

  I nod, and she continues, “Apart from having Frank on site all the time for the first two or three months I’d like one of us to be there quite often as well, say two nights each a week. It’ll involve commuting—are you okay to drive?” She gestures at my plastered wrist.

  I nod. The stiffness has largely gone and I think I probably could manage to drive if pushed, though I’m not sure about my insurance situation. Nevertheless, I mention an idea I’ve been hatching, “Yes. But I’ve been thinking I’d hire an automatic for a month or so… Or maybe a driver.” I glance up at Nick, suddenly wondering if I should have mentioned this to him first. Apparently not.

  He beams at me. “Hey, excellent idea. I should have thought of that. Your own personal chauffeur—when I’m not driving you around, that is. Would you like me to…?”

  I interrupt, “No, no, I can do it. Online.” By which I mean I can email the wonderful Max Fellowes, or more probably his PA for this. A few months after he started handling my affairs, and when he’d come to appreciate my specific difficulties in some matters, he told me that I was to feel free to use the services of his office staff. I think he envisaged that I’d eventually appoint my own. I can’t somehow see me with a private secretary, but I do find it handy to be able to make use of his whenever Summer’s not around.

  Ange gets to her feet again, and the laptop dances dangerously. This time I do grab it, and place it carefully on a smaller, more stable pile of filing. If ever a place cried out for Summer’s attentions, it was this chaotic little office. She’d have a field day. Ange seems oblivious to all the mayhem around her, gliding effortlessly towards the door despite her teetering four inch heels. “Time to do the rounds, keep everyone on their toes. Coming?” She glances back at the pair of us.

  Nick makes to follow her. I take advantage of the newly vacated seat.

  “I’ll catch up. I’d like to sort out my transport first.”

  Nick smiles at me over his shoulder as he leaves. “If you do hire a car get them to drop it off at my house. We’ll be in the dungeon. Don’t be long—I have plans for you.”

  Plans! My stomach clenches in delighted anticipation as I tug my phone from my pocket and tap the screen to bring up my email account. I quickly type in my requirements, remember to say please and thank you in advance, then hit send. I have no doubt that there will be a nice automatic hire car waiting for me in Cartmel by the time I get back. And details of a driver whose services have been retained on my behalf should I decide, after all, to use my Vanquish.

  * * * *

  Nick’s plans include a delightful all-over tingling massage with a suede flogger, followed by a long, slow over-the-knee spanking. He’s reluctant to use the normal restraints even though my wrist is no longer painful, so the experience is perhaps slightly muted. But what it lacks in psychological edge he more than makes up for in exquisite accuracy and adroitness. My Master knows his craft, and I spend a glorious hour becoming transformed from efficient deputy manager to a quivering tangle of electrified nerve endings—expectant, anticipating, desperate. At last I’m begging him to let me orgasm, but each time he nudges me delicately to the brink and dangles me over the edge before drawing me back.

  I’m draped face down over the spanking bench, naked, my legs spread wide, his fingers and tongue working their magic. He traces the outline of my pussy carefully, using his thumbs to open me before plunging his tongue deep. His slick fingers are in my arse too, soon to be replaced by a vibrating butt plug helpfully supplied by Frank.

  Both hands now free to attend to me, my pussy and clit are teased mercilessly, his fingers feathering lightly across the throbbing bud, then rubbing swiftly before abandoning me completely as I teeter on the brink once more. Standing behind me, his hips holding my legs apart, Nick leans over me to whisper in my ear, “Be still. Don’t move, let yourself calm down. Then, we can start all over again.”

  I do, we do, and I lose count of how many times he coaxes me right to the edge then steps away, leaving me to collect my shattered wits before he repeats the sensual journey but never arriving at the eventual destination. Each time, I’m sure this must be it. He’ll slip up, nudge me past the point of no return then he won’t be ab
le to stop my headlong fall. Maybe if I don’t let him know how close I am…

  Not a chance. He’s so closely attuned to me that he’s aware of every heartbeat, every ragged breath, every desperate clench deep inside my pussy. He knows exactly what’s happening, how I’m feeling, how every touch and lick and exquisite stroke affects me.

  I’m so aroused I’m almost beyond rational thought when he, at last, decides to put me out of my misery.

  “Room nine?”

  Thank God! Oh, please, please, please! I manage to nod, and I’m quickly scooped up in his arms. The butt plug is still in situ, whirring away inside me. Oblivious to the fact that I’m being carried, naked, through the public areas of the club I cling to his neck. I’m conscious of nothing other than that I need to come, and I need to be fucked. Not necessarily in that order. Moments later I hear the door of room nine click shut behind us, and I’m on the bed. I watch through half-closed eyelids as Nick swiftly undresses, then he stretches out alongside me.

  “Okay, Freya, your instructions. Are you listening?”

  He’s slipped his fingers between my legs again, sliding between the sensitive folds to dip the tip of his middle finger into my pussy. I gasp, my body starting to shudder with impending release. He withdraws his finger, and I grind my teeth in frustration.

  “I’m going to fuck you now, hard and fast, and you’re going to come as soon as I put my cock inside you. You’ll come immediately, and you’ll do it very thoroughly. Is that clear?”

  I don’t answer, so he flicks my clit to get my attention. It works. I open my eyes, nod briefly, and pray silently for him to get on with it and quit the preamble. What is it with Doms and all this bloody talking? It appears, though, that he’s not finished yet.

  “And then, when you calm down again, there’ll be no more fussing and fidgeting. You’ll keep still and accept what I’m doing. And you won’t come a second time without my permission. Is that clear?”

  I nod again, desperate to convince him that he just needs to get on with it. Now!

  “One last thing. If I hurt you, so much as a twinge, you fucking tell me. Is that clear?”

  He rolls into position, his cock at my entrance. But he’s making no move to fill me, and I realise he’s waiting for my answer. This time I give it in the form of a smile, and I reach up with my good hand to cup his cheek. He turns his head slightly, kisses my palm. And I arch as he plunges his cock deep into my pussy, the continuous whirring and fullness in my arse just enhancing the sensation, increasing the feeling of fullness. My orgasm is every bit as instantaneous as he demanded—in this matter I do not disappoint. Neither does he. He continues to thrust hard and deep as I convulse wildly around his cock, both my passages squeezing down hard on the welcome invaders.

  My release seems to continue on and on, that familiar sense of weightlessness washing through me. I’m spinning, dizzy as the firestorm of flashing lights explodes in my head, and the crackle of electricity shoots through my veins and out through my fingers and toes. Delayed gratification may be a pig while it’s hanging there, tantalisingly out of reach, but it’s bloody wonderful when it arrives.

  At last, though, the waves of sensual energy subside, and I remember his instructions for how this is to continue. I go still, willing my body not to respond, not to urge or squeeze or otherwise attempt to effect proceedings. My reward? He slows his movements right down. He’s frustratingly slow, but his angle of penetration is unerring with every stroke, rubbing my G-spot mercilessly. I’m conscious of only that, and I spread my legs wider, planting the soles of my feet on the mattress below me, my hands unrestrained beside my head as I concentrate on trying hard not to move. With a wry grin of amusement Nick slips his hand between our bodies to stroke my clit. I close my eyes, start to arch, but his low growl warns me to restrain myself. He’s doing this on purpose—I know he is—to test me. And I am sorely out of practice at controlling my orgasms of late.

  Nevertheless, I manage to contain myself, at least for a while, chewing my bottom lip anxiously as the sensations mount. Despite his ridiculously slow thrusting, the impact is devastating, each stroke reaching deep and sure, filling me totally. I feel the familiar bubbling of impending orgasm, and I’m sure I can’t hold back much longer. I open my eyes, searching his face for any sign he may be approaching his own climax, but all I see is a knowing, sardonic smirk.

  “Is there something you’d like to ask me, little slut?” The words are soft, his tone low and sexy.

  I nod, start to lift my hands, but he takes both my wrists gently in his hands.

  “No hands. Let me give you a clue…” He leans down, kisses me lightly, tracing the outline of my lips with his tongue before dropping his head farther to take my nipple in his mouth. Again I arch, and this time he bites me, not hard, but enough to remind me of my instructions. It’s a huge effort now to lie still under him, but I manage it, panting as every cell and every nerve ending clenches ready to burst into orgasmic life.

  He lifts his head, and again he’s poised above me, his cock relentlessly sliding slowly, deeply inside me. I look up at him, and he smiles at me again. “If you want to come, you’ve only to ask me.”

  I frown, baffled. My hands are gently secured, he’s instructed me not to move or squeeze or attempt to speed things up. How, then?

  By way of answer he leans in and gently brushes his lips over mine again, and I suddenly remember. Way back, before the debacle with Dan, before he sent me away and then brought me back again, he taught me how to ask for an orgasm without words or hand signals. I blow him a kiss. He lifts one eyebrow, and winks at me before shifting gear.

  And suddenly he’s pumping into me hard, each thrust now jolting me off the mattress. He releases my hands, and I take that as a signal that I’m free to move, to respond. It doesn’t take long—moments later I’m spasming again around his rigid cock, my legs locked behind his waist as he continues to pound into me. My climax is powerful, twisting my senses to send me spinning out of control again. And he’s right there with me this time. His cock twitches hard as he stiffens then surges forward for one last, powerful plunge. His growled “Holy fuck…” is the only sound I can hear above the furious beating of my own heart as we cling to each other and wait for the storm to pass.

  Eventually, Nick rolls to one side, withdrawing from me. He turns to pull me into his arms.

  “You okay, gorgeous? Worth the wait? Both times?”

  I nod, kiss his chest and take this opportunity to nuzzle his small, flat nipples. He kisses the top of my head, rubbing my shoulder blades with one hand while he caresses my bottom with the other. Long, easy, relaxed moments pass as we lie still, savouring each other, enjoying the sensual aftermath of pleasure shared. Then, his voice low and sexy, he leans down to murmur in my ear, “I love you, Freya.”

  My eyes ping open, I scramble up to kneel beside him. Did I hear him right? He has told me this before, but never in a scene.

  He repeats it, for the avoidance of doubt. And I smile, my heart bursting now as everything I ever thought I wanted, and couldn’t have, couldn’t buy, despite my wealth, drops into my lap.

  “I love you too. I always have. Master?” I sign the words, and the question, back at him.

  He smiles at me, his expression warm and sexy as he leans against the pillow propped behind his head. He kisses me before answering this time.

  “Yeah. But you’re just quicker on the uptake than me, it seems. Still, I caught up eventually. So, is that how you want it to be between us then?”

  I nod, absolutely no doubt in my mind that Nick Hardisty is the Master I want, will always want.

  “Okay then, consider yourself claimed, Miss Stone. We can have a ceremony here, in the lifestyle if you like, and definitely a vanilla one to make it legal. You will be marrying me, you understand?”

  In fairness, I hadn’t thought much beyond the claiming bit, but marriage to Nick Hardisty sounds like a reasonable way to spend a lifetime to me, so I nod happily.


  “Well then, do I get to tell Callum the happy news? That he’s going to have a stepmum?”

  I shrug. I guess it comes with the paternal territory. And he’s waited long enough.

  Chapter Nine

  It’s the day of Callum’s interview at Dan’s friend’s farm. Dan has gone down to Yorkshire already and will meet us at Greystones. He texted Nick with the details and Nick Googled it. The results are encouraging. Greystones is a working farm, but more besides. Its proper title is the Greystones Rare Breeds and Agricultural Heritage Centre, and it is here that it seems a new career awaits—provided Callum can convince the farm foreman that he deserves the chance.

  Nick’s efforts at smartening his son up have met with mixed success. His hair is short at least, though I suspect this was achieved by Nick standing over him at Cutting Edge, the unisex hairdresser’s down in Cartmel where the versatile Carol lopped it into some sort of order. His clothes aren’t exactly traditional interview gear, but as Callum points out, they won’t want to see him in a suit and tie. Just as well because the black moleskin jeans and grey sports shirt are hardly that. But he looks smart, and I think he’ll pass muster. Most importantly of all, he seems keen. I just hope he gets that across to Mr Appleyard rather than burying it under a pile of teenage cool.

  We decide to go in my Vanquish rather than the more practical automatic Cortina now gracing Nick’s forecourt alongside his motorbike. We retrieved the bike from the car park under my apartment as soon as the Cortina was dropped off by the hire company. Nick’s glad to have it back, though he hasn’t used it since. The prospect of driving my Vanquish down to Yorkshire is one he seems to find tempting.