Darker (18 page)

We eventually ended up here in Nathan’s bed after trying out just about every other viable surface in every part of the penthouse. Floors, worktops, the table—twice. We made good and creative use of the extremely versatile brown leather settee with its built-in restraints. I confess I had been a little puzzled about those leather straps discreetly hidden within it but I now understand these items of special BDSM-friendly furniture can be obtained from the Internet too—who would have ever thought it?

Nathan’s arm tightens and I know he’s also awake. His semi-erect penis against my bottom is another signal, and he nuzzles the sensitive skin on the back of my neck as his hands drift upwards to cup my breasts. I allow him free access, loving his touch, the feel of his hands on me, and everything else. I roll onto my back to smile up into his face as he pushes himself up on one elbow to lean over me. He drops a kiss onto my mouth.

“Someone needs to go and get the coffee sorted.” His long, bed-tangled hair is loose around his face, his smile wide, his delicious brown eyes warm and seductive.

“Why? What time is it?” Blinking up at him, I can see it’s broad daylight. The sun is streaming in through the opened curtains.

He reaches over me to grab his phone from the bedside table. “Ten thirty-nine. I reckon that means we’ve had about five hours’ sleep. So, volunteers for getting coffee?”

“It’s your apartment. I wouldn’t know where to find anything. And anyway, I make crap coffee.” I turn onto my side again, this time facing him, and try to wriggle back under the covers.

“Idle slug. Still, I suppose you do need your beauty sleep… Ouch!” He chuckles and rolls out of bed, rubbing his ribs where I dug my elbow in. Through half-closed lids I watch him pull on his jeans and head for the en suite, before I drift off to sleep again.

* * * *

When I next wake up I feel a lot more like facing the day, or whatever’s left of it. Nathan’s phone is gone, but the radio alarm tells me it’s now turned twelve. Definitely time to get up, particularly as there’s something really important I want to do today. If I can just remember what it is…

Ah yes, caning.

I want Nathan to cane me again today. I know he’s not keen, but I need him to do it. I need to do it. For him. And for me. It has to be today because we’re leaving later to go back to Black Combe and I’ve no idea when another opportunity might present itself. So, it’s today.

Best get on then.

I sit up in bed and find a cup of lukewarm coffee on the bedside table. I taste it—not too bad. I swig most of it before heading for the en suite. In the shower I lean against the cool tiles, reflecting on all the parts of my body that ache, including some parts I didn’t even know I had. Christ, last night was some marathon. It was good, better than good. Absolutely bloody fabulous, in fact. But now I’m paying dearly for my over-enthusiastic athletic performance. I keep forgetting I’m new to all this. I only hope Nathan’s feeling the strain too, but somehow I suspect he’s fine.

We reprised just about all the activities and positions Nathan has introduced me to in the last three days. Except, I realise, he never even suggested tying me up and there was no ‘discipline’ of any sort. Just sex, plenty of it, mind-blowing and superbly kinky in places, but still, just sex. No whips and canes, no handcuffs.

Butt plugs, yes. Nipple clamps again, yes. I wince and gently smooth shower cream into my tender nipples as I remember the sharp ecstasy of the hard metal clips squeezing the engorged, sensitive buds. Ouch. And wow!

And what that man did to my arse! Oh my Lord, surely that’s not legal. And I can’t believe I let him do it. I’m blushing just thinking about it. I knelt on the settee, leaning forward with my bum in the air, legs spread wide, while he worked lubricant into me, first with one finger, then two. Possibly three, I’m not sure. Then he fucked me. There. He rolled me onto my back and pushed my knees up to my chest to lift my bum up. He held me still and rammed his huge cock into me. But not before he asked permission. He held me there, poised and ready, and waited until I said it was okay. I could have said no, and that would have been fine too, but he wanted, needed me to say it. I did. I even said please.

I took all of him, and Nathan is not a small man. Not at all small. It hurt a little at first as he pressed for entry, then I managed to relax my protesting inner muscles and accept him, and from there on it was just wonderful. I lay there under him, his cock inside my anus and my legs wide open. His clever fingers did their magic in my vagina, but most of all on my clitoris. And that lovely little horseshoe-shaped vibrator played its part too. Jesus, I had a good time.

I have absolutely no idea how many orgasms I had in the small hours of this morning, or Nathan had for that matter. No wonder we slept the rest of the morning away, well, I did. And no wonder I’m absolutely starving now. I begin to think fondly about breakfast, or maybe lunch, and apply myself to washing my hair so I can get on with finding some food.

Back in the bedroom, wrapped in one of Nathan’s lovely fluffy towels—who does his laundry, I wonder?—I drift around the room, finding my clothes. Nathan brought everything through from the spare room and dumped it all in one of the wardrobes, still in the boxes and bags. I start to sort stuff out, hanging things up, folding and smoothing, and admiring all my lovely new clothes. It still bothers me that Nathan paid for most of it, but I suppose that three grand from last night will go some way towards settling the account.

Time to get some clothes on so I start with lovely underwear, a lacy front-fastening bra and matching pants in delicate lavender. Then I choose my nice black trousers, the ones I wore on Friday, the day we went to the opera, and team them with a loose-fitting cream cotton shirt. Then, unable to delay the moment any longer, barefoot, I pad across the room to kneel in front of the chest at the foot of the bed. I lift the lid to survey Nathan’s impressive collection of whips, canes, floggers—you name it, it’s in there.

I wonder which one he used on me. He probably showed me it, but I was so rigid with fear at the time I doubt I could have even remembered my own name. I stare into the chest for long minutes, remembering Nathan’s assurance that this is not necessary and I’m tempted, really tempted to just slam the lid back down and go for some lunch. Forget all this extreme stuff and enjoy what’s on offer now.

I know that won’t satisfy me, though, and at the back of my mind is the nagging worry that it won’t satisfy Nathan for long either. Sooner or later he’s going to want this stuff. He’s going to want to take a cane or a whip and tie a naked sub to his bed, or strap her to his special sofa, and I don’t want that to be anyone else but me. So I take a deep breath, shove my fears into a corner in my head, and reach in. I sort through the collection. And I make my choice.

I lift out a slender, pliable cane. It has a thin leather strap at one end, and I assume that’s the loop to go around the Dom’s wrist. It wouldn’t do for him to drop his cane before the sub has been thoroughly flogged, would it? Shuddering I test the sting of the supple rod against the palm of my hand, gently at first, then harder. I gasp as the pain bites, and the whistle as the cane swishes through the air before making contact is terrifying. Will I hear that sound before the cane lands on me? Yes. Probably. Jesus!

I stand up, close the lid quietly and make for the door. Time to face him.

Nathan is seated at the dining table, engrossed in his newspaper. I’m still barefoot and light on my feet and he doesn’t hear me coming. By way of raising the subject I drop the cane onto the table, on top of his newspaper. He looks at it, then lifts his eyes to mine.

“Morning, gorgeous. Or should I say afternoon.” He stands, goes over to the kitchen worktop where the coffee jug is gurgling happily and he pours me a cup. He puts it in front of me on the table before returning to his seat. Nodding in the direction of my carefully selected instrument of torture he looks back at me. “I see we’re fancying a little sport later. Can we eat first?”

“Food sounds good. Then sport. Shall I cook something?”

“Do you cook, Eva?”

“Well, a bit. I can try.”

“Can you rustle up roast lamb, mint sauce and all the trimmings of a Sunday lunch? With apple crumble and custard for afters?”

At my look of horror he chuckles and stands again, swilling the rest of his coffee down his throat. “Thought not. Right then, I know someone who can. Get some shoes on, we’re going out. And whilst we eat I’m going to try every way I can think of to talk you out of this mad little project of yours. Okay?”

I don’t need asking twice where food’s concerned, and a roast dinner sounds heavenly. Especially if I’m not cooking it. I slip on my lovely comfy Toms and grab my bag, and within a couple of minutes we’re in the lift headed for the ground floor.

“You’re not going to talk me round, you know.” He needs to understand, I’ve made up my mind on this.

“Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll just refuse to do it.”

I grab his arm, suddenly panicking as I see all control, and decision-making power in this matter being jerked away from me. He could just say no and there’s really nothing I can do, or say, to make him do it. Except beg. Beg him to use me, beat me, not to leave me for someone else who can deliver what he wants. There are tears in my eyes as I look up at him, and I feel my voice cracking a little. “You promised. I trusted you, because you promised. I believed you…” I am in front of him, clutching both his arms, tightening my fingers around the hard muscles.

His gaze softens, my distress is obvious and he clearly doesn’t intend to upset me. His hands frame my chin as he bends his head to look down at me, his expression puzzled. “What promise, love?” His voice is soft, gentle. “What did I promise?”

“Not to force me. You promised I could always choose. And if you just refuse I can’t choose. You’ll force me to do it your way…”

“I meant I would never force you to do something you didn’t want to. That you had only to say no or ask me to stop, and I would. And you don’t want to do this, do you? Not really. You hated it last time and now you think you have to endure it again, even though I’ve told you till I’m sick of hearing myself that you don’t. You still think you have to honour some sort of bargain, some agreement between us, but that’s not true.”

“It
is
true. We
did
have an agreement, it was written on your paper, that list of things you would do to me, and things you wouldn’t. Caning was there, on the dos. We have a deal. Had a deal.”

“If we did have a deal, as you put it, then you broke it by not safe wording when you should have. That was part of our deal too.” I start to stiffen, ready to protest, but he’s not to be interrupted. Holding my face still his gaze is steady, unrelenting. “But we’ve got past it. So now we have a new deal, different terms. And I like our new terms very much. So, please, love, drop this other stuff. Please.”

I gaze at him in silence. The lift arrives at the ground floor and I hear the doors glide open behind me, but still we stand there, neither of us wanting to break eye contact but eventually it’s me who weakens. Closing my eyes I whisper, “I can’t. Please, Nathan. I can’t drop it. It’s so important to me. I need you to do this with me, for me. I need to see this through.”

He mutters something that sounds a lot like ‘Shit!’, then ‘fucking stubborn woman’, before his arms are around me and he is holding me tight, my tears once more dampening his shirt front. His hands are on my back, gentling, calming, and he kisses my hair. “Okay, love, don’t cry, we’ll work something out. Please, don’t cry over this.”

Nathan shuffles us both out into the empty lobby—thank goodness it’s Sunday so none of the normal commercial occupiers and their visitors are here to see me making a fool of myself. He shoves me into the equally deserted ladies’ loo and helps himself to some toilet roll from one of the cubicles.

“Here, dry your eyes.” I do, and he leans against the hand dryer, watching me as I splash water on my face and generally make myself presentable again.

“I’m sorry about that. I guess I’m a bit emotional about all this… This…” I don’t know what it is I’m emotional about really, just that the tears are never far away. “Do I look okay now? Will I do?”

“You’ll do fine, Eva. Just fine. Come on, there’s a roast shoulder of lamb calling my name out there.”

And suddenly we’re back to our normal, companionable selves, strolling back through the lobby and out into the fresh air, Nathan’s arm casually across my shoulders.

“Where are we going? To a wine bar?” I ask.

“A place I know, called Whitelocks. It’s a really ancient old pub right in the middle of Leeds city centre, sort of tucked away behind Marks & Spencer’s. They do a wonderful roast dinner. You’ll love it.”

“A pub?”

“Mmm, but not your usual city centre pub with lager louts and smoking shelters and a ninety-inch screen showing European football—not that I mind football, of course, but there’s a time and a place. No, Whitelocks is ye olde worlde traditional pub. I think it was there before Leeds was and the city sort of grew round it, shopping arcades got built and somehow they forgot to demolish Whitelocks to make room. So it stayed, and it’s still here. It’s really popular with shoppers in the week—you need to book a table or you wait hours—but it tends to be really quiet on Sundays. The cook’s called Kath and she lives in the block of council flats across the river from us. I hope you’re hungry—Kath doesn’t do small portions.”

“I’m starving. I think I can measure up to Kath’s high standards. Must have used up about twenty thousand calories last night so I need to replenish.”

“Yes, I do recall you were very active, very demanding. Have I told you before what a fun date you are?”

Laughing, we cover the few minutes’ walk quickly, both of us driven on by growling stomachs. Turning onto one of Leeds’ main shopping streets I stop to look at the stuff in Marks & Spencer’s window before Nathan drags me on. A few yards farther he suddenly turns and pulls me into a narrow alley, literally behind M & S. I thought he was joking about that but he wasn’t. Once through the entrance, the alley widens into a sort of enclosed yard with upturned beer barrels as tables and wooden benches. Some shrubs in pots are dotted around to provide a splash of colour and foliage. Two elderly men sit at one of the barrels nursing half-pints of beer, a small Jack Russell terrier on the ground alongside them, but otherwise the yard is empty. The pub entrance is halfway along the alley, a narrow stone doorway with a very weathered and worn doorstep. This place must be two hundred years old at least.