Hard Lessons (11 page)

An hour later my stomach is satisfied. One juicy grilled chicken breast, a mountain of salad, a fluffy jacket potato, and that’s me sorted. For now. Nick settled for a chunky beef hotpot with doorsteps of locally baked soft white bread, and washes that down with half a pint of lager. I stick to the Diet Coke—not much of a daytime drinker myself. I’m considering the deep and meaningful question of whether I could have a pudding, and what there might be on the menu that wouldn’t overload my sugar levels when Nick solves that one for me.

“Ice cream. There’s a shop by the Priory that does a particularly wonderful strawberry ripple—they even have some sugar-free ones. How does that sound?”

It sounds absolutely fucking marvelous, and my beaming smile is clearly enough to convey that sentiment. A few minutes later we’re heading back through the quaint old market square. We pass a small hair salon, sporting the somewhat improbable title of The
Cutting Edge across its frontage. I have to step into the road as the door opens and one particularly happy customer strides out. I can’t help noticing her hair, and have to grant her that it’s been money well spent. Her flowing locks are glossy, the layers sleek and lively, the whole lot tumbling and rippling across her shoulders. I reach up and tug at my own dark brown wavy mane, and wonder—not for the first time—if I really ought to get something done about it. I’m still standing there, peering in through the small front window of the salon, when Nick ambles back along the pavement having just noticed that I’m missing.

“Hey, I thought I’d lost you. What’s the hold-up?”

“I’m thinking I should get my hair cut.” I sign the words. He looks baffled, starts to ask me to repeat it before he notices where I am and what I’m looking at. Then the random remark makes sense.

“Ah, right. Now?”

“No, not now. I don’t have an appointment. But soon.”

He lifts his hand, gently fingers my hair. “Not short? Please.”

“No, not short. Probably. Just…nice. And bouncy. Like hers.” I tilt my head in the direction of my rapidly disappearing inspiration. “And maybe some highlights. I wonder if they do nails too.” I’m peering in the window again, craning my neck to see what delights they might have to offer inside.

“Come on then, let’s ask.” He takes my hand and makes to go inside with me. I pull my hand back sharply, shaking my head. He looks at me, puzzled. “What’s the problem? I’ll help you make an appointment. You can hardly ring them up, can you?”

Well, that’s true, and a few seconds later we’re inside the small salon and Nick is towering over the petite little dark-haired receptionist-cum-sweeper-upper.

“My friend wants a haircut. When can you fit her in?” He leans on the counter, turns on his most dazzling smile, and Miss Multitasker jumps to it.

“What is it you want? Just a cut and blow?”

I turn to Nick, signing rapidly. “Tell her I want highlights too. And ask her if they do nails.”

“Got it.” He turns his attention back to the receptionist, passes on my requirements. She looks at the pair of us in bemused astonishment then gathers her wits and starts thumbing through the huge desk diary that serves as an appointment book in these pre-digital establishments. Despite the name blazoned over the door, Cartmel’s not exactly at the cutting edge of technology, though I suspect someone in here knows their way around a pair of scissors if that previous customer is anything to go by.

“For highlights you’ll need at least a couple of hours. Carol can do it, but she’s booked solid until…” She turns the pages, her sad expression indicating that I’m not getting my hair done any time soon.

“Didn’t Sophie cancel?” The voice comes from the rear of the shop, where a small, middle-aged woman is merrily applying hair dye to a customer’s head with a paintbrush. “You could have her slot, love. If you don’t mind waiting an hour, that is.”

An hour!
She can do me in an hour. That’ll leave no time at all, really, for backing out and deciding to just settle for a trim instead. I start to panic, start to find reasons not to be too hasty. I remember Max Furrowes and his careful monitoring and measuring of my risk aversion levels, his detailed questions that firmly established me as moderate. Prudent. I don’t do this—don’t rush headlong into mad schemes.

Except perhaps I do, just a little, on occasions, since I got involved with Nick Hardisty. And this is only a haircut. I’m not donating a kidney. It’ll grow back.

Not that any of my head full of rubbish excuses is relevant at all as I hear Nick telling the receptionist and the lady with the paintbrush—Carol?—that an hour’s fine. We’ll be back. He gives my name and his phone number. Satisfied that all’s sorted he grabs my hand to leave.

“We’ve time for that ice cream first. And remember, not too short.”

I smile and nod my agreement as I follow him along the narrow pavement in the direction of the Priory.

We’re seated on a bench in the grounds of the ancient church, our ice creams dribbling messily down our crunchy cones, when Nick turns to me.

“So, what was it you wanted to talk about, Freya?”

I look up in surprise. I can’t honestly recall what it was now. I shrug, ready to let whatever it was go. Not so Nick Hardisty.

“Think back. Something was bothering you when you woke up. Something from when I fucked your pretty little arse…?”

Mmm, I think to myself. Does he have to be quite so graphic? It’s enough to put me off my ice cream. Well, nearly. Still, under his insistent prompting I manage to remember why I wanted to talk to him.

I balance my ice cream between my knees to free my hands. “You called me a S-L-U-T.” I have to spell the word as I don’t actually have a sign for it. Well, you wouldn’t, would you?

“Yes. And?” He leans back against the bench, takes another long lick of his strawberry ripple. The sight is provocative, I suspect deliberately so.

“And, it’s not very polite. No one’s ever called me a S-L-U-T before. Is that what you think I am?”

“Well, no one ever stuck their dick in your arse before.”

Well, that’s true…

He takes another lick and sits up straight, his eyes on me. “If I didn’t know you, if we weren’t involved in something so…intimate together, then maybe it would be rude. But in the situation we were in earlier, when you were as aroused as I’ve ever seen you—and, sweetheart, I
am
an authority on your libido now—then sluttish is a good description. It’s not meant as an insult, but it does describe very well the way you were feeling at that moment. All eager, open, willing. Maybe a hint of desperate. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I drop my eyes, study my ice cream cone carefully. Then I look back at him, and nod.

“So, you’re happy to be my slut, then?”

I smile. “Yes. Sometimes. If you deserve it.”

He frowns, puzzled, asks me to sign it again. It takes three attempts before he catches my meaning.

He grins, genuinely amused. “Right. Fair enough. I’ll try to measure up, and bring out your inner slut. Now, are you about ready to go and face Carol and her scissors?” He stands, holds out his hand, and I take it.

* * * *

My hair is absolutely magnificent. Carol is a genius, an absolute maestro around a pair of scissors. She sat me down, dumped a pile of magazines on my knee, and told me to look through for colors and styles I liked. She double-checked with Nick what I wanted, in broad terms, then she told him to make himself scarce. He offered to hang around, in case I needed someone to speak for me, but Carol was having none of that.

“We’ll be fine. Just dandy. Won’t we, love?”

She turned to me for confirmation, and I nodded. I liked her instantly, and I just knew she was going to be wonderful. So Nick shrugged, shoved a hundred quid in twenties into my hand, and said he’d see me back at the bungalow. Or if I wanted a lift home I could text him when I was done.

I was glad of the cash. It’d never occurred to me to think about that, one of the consequences of having so much money that it never seems important. I have my cash card with me, but a lot of hairdressers don’t accept cards so the money was helpful. I absolutely must pay him back. I recall noticing an ATM close to the entrance to the racecourse—handy no doubt for relieving punters of their hard-earned cash. As soon as I emerge from the tender mercies of Carol at The Cutting Edge, duly spruced up and feeling quite wonderful, I head there to make a withdrawal.

Two and a half hours after he deposited me in the salon I’m strolling through Nick’s front gate and across his pretty little forecourt. My Vanquish is still there, just where I left it, and Nick’s sleek black motorcycle is parked alongside. They look very cozy. I use my key to let myself in.

“In the kitchen…” Nick’s voice echoes down the hall so I head toward the sound. He glances up from his laptop as I enter, his face betraying his amazement at my transformation

“Wow. Fucking wow. You look…stunning. Love the color.” He stands, walks over to me, runs his fingers through my hair. It ripples and waves over his hands. I’d never have thought of having my hair colored dark red with hints of purple, shimmering shades of aubergine and plum, but it works. It really does work. I hunch my shoulders, shivering with pleasure. Nothing like a really nice hair job to boost a girl’s spirits. Not that mine were in any trouble, but still.

And they did do nails. They did mine. I flutter those out for him to admire too. He seems less taken with them, but drops a kiss on my mouth anyway.

I reach into the back pocket of my jeans and pull out the hundred quid I owe him. I hold it out to him. He looks puzzled.

“You didn’t pay? How come?”

“I did pay. Of course I paid. But I have enough money to cover it. I got this from the cash machine in the village, to pay you back.”

He makes no move to take the notes, just watches me, his eyes darkening. I know there’s something wrong, but I have no idea what it might be. He was fine until a few moments ago. Surely he’s not going to insist on paying for everything. Even though I’ve not come clean about the extent of my lottery win, he must know that I’m not short of money. I can certainly afford a new hairdo without relying on handouts. Indignant, I start to sign that very point to him. He stills my hands by simply lifting one finger. I stop, wait.

“How did you take money from the cash machine?”

What?
My bafflement must have been plastered all over my face. How does anyone get money out of a hole in the wall?

“Do you remember, back at your apartment, when we were agreeing our arrangements for your training, I instructed you to bring nothing with you? No cash, no credit cards, nothing. Do you remember that, Freya?”

The question clarified, I nod. I do recall it, vaguely. I thought it an odd thing to say at the time, unreasonable even, and just dismissed it. No one goes anywhere without cash or cards, do they? Except apparently they do, if they’re a trainee submissive who’s been instructed to do so by a Dom.

“So how, then, without your cash card, did you manage to get money from a cash machine?” Nick’s features are harsh, unforgiving, as he refines his question, and closes the trap.

I step back, the twenty pound notes forgotten in my hand. I start to sign an apology, but I know, just from the expression on his face, that no amount of being sorry will be enough. Not yet, anyway. I shove the money back in my pocket and pull out my cash card. I offer it to Nick. He ignores my outstretched hand, homing in on the matter that seems to concern him most, the issue of my continuing disobedience.

“Why did you bring it? When you do seem to recall my instructions that you leave it behind?”

I shrug, not from any sense of nonchalance, but because I genuinely don’t know why I brought it. I just did. I just always do. Doesn’t everyone?

“Why, Freya? Was my instruction somehow unclear?”

“It was clear. I just didn’t think you meant it. And then I…forgot.” My hands are shaking, I know from the angry glint in his slate gray eyes, and the low, measured tone of his voice, all authoritative, stern Dom now, that this is going to get really, really unpleasant for me.

Sure enough, “And when did I ever give you an instruction that I didn’t mean? One that you were free to just forget about? When did I ever do that, Freya?” His voice is quiet, his tone deathly low now, almost a growl.

I’m mortified as the reality sinks in. I have no excuse, there’s really nothing I can say except to apologize. So I try that again.

“You
can
apologize to me, and if I believe you’re genuinely sorry and determined not to do it again I
will
forgive you. And we will move on. Eventually. But first, you’ve deceived me and disobeyed me, and not for the first time, Freya. I punished you for it once already, and now it seems I have to do it all over again. It seems to me you haven’t learned obedience very well at all so now I need to find a way to make the lesson memorable enough so you get the message. First, though, is there anything else you need to be telling me now? Anything else you really don’t want me to discover later? It’ll be so much better for you to resolve everything now and start again with a clean slate.”

Here’s the point where I could, just possibly, tell him how much money I have sitting in the bank. So, why don’t I then? Is it because I don’t think it’s any of his business? Maybe, to an extent. Or is it that it’s private and personal? Well, so is my arse, but I let him in there. Or maybe it just seems irrelevant. Or perhaps he just wouldn’t be interested. Or is it that I’m just too scared that he’ll dump me, either because he thinks I’m a freak who can’t find anything worthwhile to spend forty odd million pounds on. Or to prove he’s not interested in me only because I’m wealthy. Or maybe he would be after getting his hands on my money. Even as that final thought flitters through my head I dismiss it. Whatever my reasons, though, I keep my financial status to myself.

I shake my head, signing, “No, there’s nothing else I need to say.”

“Wait for me in the dungeon, Freya. You know the drill. And, Freya, do not expect to be getting off with a nice spanking this time. I have something else entirely in mind as your punishment—something that I think
will
get your attention and make my point very well indeed.”