Sure Thing (13 page)

I twisted and turned in front of the mirror in Tom’s bathroom this morning as I was drying off after my shower and couldn’t see so much as a red mark on my bum, though it’s still a little tender when I sit down. Nothing to bother me, though. Again, I’m baffled by how he’s able to do that, ramp up the pain to such an extreme then turn it off almost as quickly with no lasting effects. It shouldn’t be possible but clearly it is. I guess it just comes with practice. I have mixed feelings, if I’m honest, about all the subs who Tom has had before me, although neither one of us has a past to be entirely proud of. Not that Tom seems to harbor any misgivings about his previous relationships—if that’s the right term for whipping someone then fucking them senseless—and he’s managed to consign my sorry past to history where it belongs. So maybe we are starting with a sort of clean sheet.

Looking him in the eye, I firmly resolve that that’s how it’s going to be from here on in.

He regards me seriously as he asks his next question. “So, would you do it again? Or something similar?” This is the killer question, I suppose, for the morning after the night before

I don’t hesitate. “Yes. Definitely.”

“Last night I cut the scene a little bit short. I won’t always do that. Sometimes I’ll push you, push you really hard. I can be—demanding, relentless.”

Tell me about it!
I look at him, my gaze steady, serious. “I trust you. I really do. And I can always use my safe word. And last night you did slow down when I got a bit, well… You did the ‘amber’ thing.”

“I did indeed. And there’s always that. It’s my job, to get between you and disaster. And while we’re dealing in feedback, is there anything I did, or said to you, that you would never want me to do or say again? It’s always hard for a sub to make that sort of thing known during a scene, but you can tell me afterwards. I’m learning your limits too and I’ll try to respect them.”

I hadn’t expected this, although I suppose I should have. Tom’s hard, challenging, a stern Master, but he’s also a nice man. And there’s my puzzling dilemma again, I need to ask, articulate it somehow. I take a breath and this time I do better. “Which is the real you?” Well, marginally better.

Tom looks bewildered. “Excuse me?”

“Which is the real Tom Shore?”

He continues to regard me as though I’ve sprouted an extra head in the last couple of minutes or so.

I need to explain so I attempt to. “The one who beats me with a studded leather strap and refuses to make love to me until I plead, and intimidates me until I hardly dare look him in the eye? Or is this the real Tom, the man who asks if I’m okay, who gives me kittens and finds my father for me, who rescues me and takes care of me and…?” I pick up my cup, take a sip of the hot coffee and meet his gaze. Waiting.

Tom is leaning forward, his elbow on the table, his face propped on his hand, watching me, thinking. Then he smiles, leans back. “Let me ask you a question. A few questions, actually. Which is the real Ashley McAllister? Is she the timid, lonely woman who arrived here a few weeks ago, scared of her own shadow? Or is she the sassy, confident business woman, building her business up single handed, using her skill and intelligence to produce beautiful prints and sell them to make a living? Or is she the courageous, generous woman who risked her life to save a child? Or is she the sexy submissive who lay down across my bench while I thrashed her with a strap, then begged me to fuck her before she fell asleep in my arms? Which Ashley McAllister is sitting at my breakfast table now?”

I stare at him before the penny drops. “All of them. They’re all here. And I suppose all the Tom Shore’s are here too.”

“We’re all complicated people, love, in our own peculiar ways. Best not to over analyze, I think. Go with the flow, enjoy what’s on offer. So, last night, was there anything you really didn’t like? Apart from the obvious.”

His wry smile is teasing, and I find myself sharing it. Amazing.

“No, nothing. It was fine. We’re fine.”

He nods, briefly, and we finish our coffee in comfortable silence.

* * * *

“Will you be back tonight? To stay I mean, not just grab these two terrors?”

I glance up at Tom, lounging against his doorjamb as I pull my crash helmet over my head, intending to ride the quad back to Smithy’s Forge. I couldn’t work out a way of carrying the kittens safely on the bike so I’m going to come back in my car to collect them. I could have taken them home straight away, but because I knew I was intending to go to York, then coming back here probably, last night, I’ve yet to take them to Smithy’s Forge. So they’ve spent the last couple of days scurrying around Tom’s kitchen, driving his dogs crazy. The two collies seem quite horrified at the invasion but they are stoic creatures and they know better than to throw their weight around in Tom’s house. They apparently have no problem at all with the concept of “Master,” and I’m beginning to appreciate that I don’t either. Who knew?

I glance back at him, smiling. I intended to come back later anyway, but I’m pleased that he’s asking me. Not taking it for granted I’ll be there. “Do you want me to? I mean, I know you’re used to having the place to yourself…”

“Well, I can stand it if you can.” Then, “We both live alone, I guess you like your own company too.”

“Well, yes…”
Liar!
I hate my own company these days. I live alone through necessity. I should have been living with my mother. And David. But I don’t say any of that, I don’t want to crowd him, outstay my welcome. And I definitely don’t want to look desperate.

He continues, strolling out to help me onto the bike. “I prefer your company to my own, Ashley. I’d like you to come back later, bring your laptop and whatever else you need. You can work here, there’s plenty of space.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll be back on Friday anyway. To clean…”

His quick interruption takes me by surprise. “No, no you won’t. That’s finished. You’re not my cleaner, not anymore.”

I gape at him. My Fridays mean everything to me, my regular visits up here, a chance to chat to the Appleyards if they’re around, look out for visitors and tourists, have breakfast with Tom. Even making small talk with his daft dogs is better than talking to myself. I’m, horrified at the prospect I may not be able to do that anymore. “What do you mean? Am I fired? On what grounds?”

He smiles at me, shoving my clumsy fingers aside to adjust my helmet strap. “Not fired. Promoted.”

“Promoted? What’s my new job title then?”

“Lover. Sub with benefits. Whatever. You choose. But you’re not a servant here. Definitely not.”

Logically I know it’s probably okay, I’m going to be here even more than in the past, as long as my relationship with Tom continues. And that’s just it, I suppose, I do like the sex, and all the rest of what’s apparently on offer in Tom’s bedroom, as well as his pleasant, easy company. But what if we were to fall out? Or—more likely—what if he was to wise up to what a useless sub I am and decide to replace me? Then I’d be out and alone again. I need my job, it’s that simple. So I gear up to fight for it.

“You can’t do that. I love that job, I like cleaning this place. It gives me time to think, to plan my projects. It’s—therapeutic.” I’m stretching the point somewhat but needs must.

“It might be therapeutic but it’s not healthy.”

As I bristle, obviously intending to take serious issue with him, Tom the Dom raises one stern finger and I’m silenced instantly.

“If it means that much to you, there’s only one way I’m going to allow you to continue cleaning Greystones.”

“Yes, what’s that then?” My tone was mutinous, but he’s not backing down.

“You can continue, on condition you live here too.”

“What?” I’m absolutely incredulous. He’s only known me a matter of weeks, and most of that time he hasn’t even liked me. Well, I thought he didn’t. He’s only
really
known me for a few days. And, if I’ve understood him right, he’s asking me to move in. Not possible, I must have misunderstood. I stare at him, my jaw working like a goldfish. He just laughs.

“You heard. Even under that bloody crash helmet. I want you to move in here. With me.”

I wrestle the helmet off my head again and in typical Ashley style blurt out the first thing that comes into my head. “What, so you can batter me every night?”

He takes my face between his palms to hold me still, his green gaze fastened on my bemused one. He smiles sardonically. “Every night. And twice on Sundays, yes. And I prefer to call it topping.”

“But you, but I can’t… What about my cottage? I leased it for a year.”

“Yes you can. Keep the cottage on if you want. Sub-let it. Or I’ll give you a refund.” He moves in close, tips my face up and kisses me lightly. “And no, it’s not just so you can sub for me the whole time, even if you are consumed with enthusiasm for your new talents. Christ, you’d be dead in a week if I left it up to you. It’s because I like you, I like having you around. I want you here, Ashley. Please.”

He likes me. It’s a start, I can work with that. It’s a lot more than I ever got out of Kenny. So, when he puts it like that…

I smile, kiss him back and throw caution to the winds. I’ve learnt by now to grab an opportunity when it presents itself, and in any case I have a very, very good feeling about Tom Shore.

“You can hang on to my kittens. I’ll go and get my things.”

* * * *

I offered to cook dinner on our first night officially ‘together’. Tom likes to eat well so wisely declined. Instead we enjoyed a very acceptable meal of grilled lamb steaks, chips and salad, prepared by Tom whilst I busied myself finding space in his wardrobe for my clothes and shoehorned my bits and pieces alongside his in the bathroom and on the dressing table. My tampons next to his shaving gear, my deodorant next to his shampoo. This is a level of domestic bliss I’ve never before experienced or achieved. My mother’s house doesn’t count, I just took that for granted like all children do. And I never had a home with Kenny, just a place to crash.

After our meal we chilled on the huge sofa in Tom’s—our—lounge. Deep, seductive kisses, Tom’s hands inside my clothes, fondling, exploring, possessive. And my hands all over his cock, his balls, his tight athletic arse, his jeans unzipped and shoved aside to let me at him. Despite all this, neither one of us was in any hurry to take the foreplay to the next level. Yet.

Tom even got up and turned on the television. We watched the ten o’clock news between kisses and gropes, both of us very, very aroused but not yet ready for orgasm. Eventually, both naked, both tingling with anticipation and undisguised lust, Tom stood, reached down and picked me up, threw me over his shoulder unceremoniously and started for the door. I wriggled. He slapped my bare bottom, hard. I stopped wriggling.

Now, in the bedroom, Tom drops me onto the bed before strolling over to pull forward a chair from below the window. He sits, gloriously naked, splendidly erect, watching me. “Time for your practical examination, Ashley. To see if you were paying proper attention to my careful demonstration yesterday. Go and get the vibrator. You’ll find it in the bathroom.”

I look at him and realize I’m looking at Tom the Master. He expects me to do as I’m told. Right now. I make no protest as I scramble to my feet and head for the bathroom. I quickly find the familiar purple vibrator between the toothbrushes and soap, give it a quick swill under the tap—well, you never know, it seems the right thing to do—then head back to Tom in the bedroom. Suddenly uncertain, I stand before him, the vibrator in my hands, and wait for further instructions.

“That was quick. Am I to understand you’re eager to start?”

I hesitate, then, “Yes.” My voice is breathless, unsteady. And modesty has no place here.

“You can call me Master, or Sir. I prefer Sir. And in future Ashley, when we’re in here, unless I tell you to leave it down I want your hair up, off your back. It’s very beautiful, like you, but it’ll get in the way.”

I tip up my chin defiantly. “I could get it cut. Sir. “

“Don’t even think about it.” The warning note is clear, threatening.

I know when to step back and simply nod my acceptance. I reach up, start to twist my hair into the loose knot I usually manage to make with it. Tom watches me coldly, then briefly nods his approval as I finish my task.

“That’ll do fine. Now, lie on the bed and spread your legs wide. I want to be able to see you, see what you’re doing.”

“Me?”
See what I’m doing…?

“Yes, you. You’ll do the work this time. And I’ll watch.”

Oh. My. God!
I stare at him, horrified, mortified, beyond embarrassed. He can’t mean to make me…do that. In front of him. I’ll die of shame.

“Ashley, on the bed, please. Now.” The Dom tone is unmistakable, and he sounds as though he’s losing patience.

I’m fast learning that this Tom doesn’t like to have to repeat himself. And he doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean. He
will
make me do this. Even as the protest starts to form in my head I know there’s no point. None at all. Best to just do it.

I edge backwards, away from him, to the bed, and sit on the edge. The vibrator is in my hand and I look at it stupidly. I comfort myself by remembering how very, very good it felt when Tom handled it, when he used it to torment and stimulate me. Maybe I can manage—something.

“Are you starting to get wet?” That cold, formal tone is mesmerizing.

How did he know? For reasons I haven’t yet fathomed I find Tom’s Dom voice totally erotic, and the question alone is enough to deliver the answer. The wetness is already gathering between my legs, the moist warmth evidence of my growing readiness.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“That’s yes,
Sir
, Ashley. Try to remember. I’ve told you this twice now. That should be enough. From now on, every time I have to correct you, you will earn a spanking. Do you want a sore bottom tonight, or do you prefer to spread your legs for me and get on with this?”

Assuming the question to be rhetorical I don’t answer. Big mistake.

“Ashley, I asked you a question. Are you paying attention?”