Sure Thing (23 page)

Tom rallies first and, still buried deep within me, reaches up to release my wrists. He sinks to his knees, continuing to hold me cradled against his hard, firm chest, my anchor in this dark, alien world. I cling to him, and he makes no attempt to dislodge me as I bury my face in his shoulder. I realize he is fully dressed even now, and I clutch the fabric of his black cotton T-shirt between my fingers, determined never, ever, to let him go. I blink when the light hits my eyes, the blindfold falling away the moment Tom loosens it. I murmur my protest, my eyes screwed up tight.

Gently he lifts me from him, disengages. He quickly slides his hand between us to remove the condom, and I look at him in puzzlement. We’ve not used condoms since my trip to the surgery to get a prescription for the pill.

He smiles at me. “House rules.”

The words are enough to remind me of where we are. And in mortification I register what we’ve just done there. In public.
Good God!
I don’t dare to look up, over my shoulder.

Instead, I hiss into Tom’s ear, “Did anyone see?”

His low chuckle is all the answer I need really, but be decides to elaborate anyway. “Oh yes, love. We drew quite a crowd. Indeed, if either of us was up for changing partners, I reckon there’d be a queue.” Then, “Christ, baby, you were good. A natural.” And still seated on the floor, he shifts us around so he is leaning on the wall and pulls me onto his lap, my back against his chest. I’m facing the room, and I chance a quick peep upwards to see how much of an audience we seem to have. Not too many now, but I catch sight of several couples drifting away.

“Hold still, love.” Tom’s voice is matter-of-fact as he leans over my shoulder to remove the nipple clamps, completely forgotten in the last few minutes, the pain from their vicious bite overwhelmed in the rush of other sensations and mindless urgency of our frantic coupling.

I glance down, expecting to see something fierce and metallic gripping my nipples, and I’m amazed to see…pretty little yellow bows. Ribbons! He’s tied bloody ribbons around my nipples and pulled the loop tight. I watch his fingers tinkering deftly with the narrow satiny fabric, gently easing the knots open and releasing the pressure before he massages and rolls the distended hard tips to restore normal circulation. So careful, so solicitous, I’m struck by the outrageous absurdity of this, of all of this as an old song from way before I was born drifts into my head.
Tie a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree
… I lay my head on his shoulder and start to laugh, and in moments I’m dissolving in a fit of uncontrollable giggling. For Christ’s sake, ribbons!

My nipples finally free, Tom’s arms are around me, and he’s laughing too. I turn in his arms, hang on to him and we both let it go, give vent to our sheer bloody joy in this moment and in each other. I guess laughter is the flip side of darkness, as well as putting all this madness back into perspective. We’re here to have fun, it’s as simple as that.

Eventually, “I’m guessing you enjoyed that as much as I did?” Tom’s tone is light, no trace now of the formidable Dom.

I nod vigorously, my face still buried in his neck, my still slightly sore nipples scraping the fabric of his T-shirt and feeling so good to me.

“Ready for something a bit more relaxing then? I think we both need to cool off.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“There’s a spa suite here. I fancy a sauna, maybe a swim, or a massage. Sound good to you?”

“Yes, but we didn’t bring any swimwear. Or a towel.”

He’s laughing again. “Bloody hell, Ashley, you won’t need a swimming costume.”

And of course, I don’t. Once in the spa, and no longer in the least embarrassed, I peel off my corset and shorts, dumping these on a plastic chair beside the glistening pool in the leisure suite. I start to unclasp the leather collar but Tom shakes his head.

“Leave that, please.”

His tone was low, but I recognize the command for what it was and drop my hands. Tom’s brief smile and nod are all the acknowledgment he provides, but still I feel warmed, bathed in his approval. I want to please him, now more than ever.

Tom’s T-shirt, jeans and shorts are already neatly folded with my clothes and my gorgeous fuck-me heels are safely stowed under the chair next to his trainers. I saunter over to the edge of the pool at the deep end where Tom’s already in the water waiting for me, obviously expecting me to carefully descend into the pool using the ladder. No way. I can do a whole lot better than that. I check the depth quickly, then arch gracefully over his head in a pretty decent if out-of-regular-practice racing dive. I surface and immediately launch into a fast, efficient front crawl, eating up the lengths of the pool effortlessly. It’s been a few years since I swam, properly swam, but you never forget, and the sensation of freedom, of energy expended and endorphins coursing through my naked body is electric after the events of the previous hour. Tom’s soon alongside me, matching me more or less stroke for stroke, though if I’m honest I could have gone up another gear or two and left him behind. But I like having him with me, it seems.

We swim hard for twenty minutes or so, an efficient, smooth freestyle. There are a couple of others in the pool but they ignore us and we stay away from them—for a private pool it’s surprisingly large. Eventually, by mutual but unspoken consent, we glide to a halt in the shallow end and crouch in the water, our shoulders submerged, and our gazes lock, as if we’re only now seeing each other for the first time.

“I never had you down for a swimmer, beautiful Ashley. You never stop surprising me.” Tom’s amused observation is delivered just before he grabs me, turns me around and pulls me backwards against his chest. His hands are on my breasts as he pushes off into a powerful backstroke, towing me effortlessly.

I sink into him, let him lead again, be the Dominant. For me it’s enough that I’m enjoying the sense of weightlessness, of being carried along, and the sweetness of his gentle caress on my still aching nipples. I must have winced because he nuzzles my ear.

“Still sore?”

“A little. It’s okay.”

“Maybe a little less tight next time then…”

“No.” I’m quite definite. “It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Chapter Sixteen

I wake up alone, in the huge bed, back at Nathan Darke’s apartment. We arrived there at some time after three in the morning, exhausted after our adventures at The Hermitage. Well I was. Tom seemed remarkably fresh, although I suppose he’s used to being up all night, chasing lambs or whatever. In view of his perky condition I gave in and let Tom drive us back while I curled up and went to sleep in the passenger seat. Ever the gentleman—as long as I’m not too picky about his apparent fondness for whipping and public fucking—Tom even offered to carry me up from the car but I politely declined, teetering across the underground car park in my towering heels and my light overcoat. We decided to head for home straight after our swim so I didn’t see any point in strapping myself into the corset again. Instead, Tom obligingly fetched my coat from the car while I snuggled up in a large fluffy towel to wait for him.

I nipped to the loo while he was gone and was idly smoothing moisturizer into my hands when another sub came into the luxurious ladies’ suite, joining me at the row of sinks and mirrors. No longer even faintly uncomfortable at her nudity I was nevertheless startled when she spoke to me.

“Is that your usual Dom? Are you and him an item?”

I stared at her for a moment, not sure of the protocols governing sub-to-sub exchanges of confidence. Were we supposed to compare notes? Then, throwing caution to the wind, I answered her. “Yes, yes he is. I mean, we are.”

She gazed at me for a few moments, silent, assessing, then, “You lucky cow.” And she was gone.

Pondering the nameless submissive’s assessment of the state of my world I wrapped myself in my coat for the journey home. At the very least it’d save us getting funny looks from other drivers at traffic lights. Lucky? Yes, I am lucky. Now. More or less. Definitely luckier than I have been. And I deserve some luck, I reckon. I’ll take that.

Back in the apartment I flopped straight into bed and was out like a light, probably before my head really hit the pillow. I have no recollection of Tom coming to bed, or of him getting up to go back to the agricultural college to impart further wisdom to young and eager minds. But now it’s mid-morning by the look of the light pouring in through the huge windows, and I’m starving. Time to avail myself of Nathan’s trusty toaster once more. I grab Tom’s black T-shirt from last night, discarded on the bedroom floor, pulling it over my head and poking my arms through before heading for the kitchen. I rustle up a cup of instant coffee and ram two slices of brown bread into the toaster, then detach my phone from the charger on the worktop and turn it on while I wait for my breakfast to ping.

There’s a text from Tom. I smile to myself as I open it.

Morning gorgeous. Sleep well?

I hit reply.
Yes. You?

His response comes after a few moments.
Yeah. Leeds Utd at home tonight? Got season ticket, Director’s Box. Please?

I smile to myself again as I type my response. Now it’s going to be his turn to beg.

Pretty please? Sir?

A few seconds later my phone pings again.
Pretty please. With bells on.

He is keen to go to the match. I can’t help teasing though.
My reply is just one word.
Ouch!

That a yes?

I put him out of his misery.
Yes :)

Then I have a thought of my own and grab my phone back, start texting again
.

Will we still be here tmrrow?

Can be. Why?

Les Mis tmrrow night? Pretty please.

God! It’s 3 hours!

Pretty pretty please?????

Bloody hell, ok. You owe me a bloody good fuck for this.

Had that. Last night.

Fair enough

Thanks. PS, I love football

I hate musicals. But that’s the nature of sacrifice I suppose.

We don’t have to go :(

Baby, greater love hath no Dom than this, that a Dom lay down 3 hours of his life for his sexy sub

What?

The Bible. John 15.13. Look it up

ND not likely to have Bible under bed!

Try 2nd drawer on left. Under silk scarves.

LOL!!!

Have a look

Intrigued, I go back into the bedroom and open the second drawer in the cabinet on Tom’s side of the bed. I do indeed find an impressive selection of scarves, obviously kept there to be nice and handy for tying up subs and maybe coming in useful as blindfolds at a pinch. Should be fun for later on. I rifle under these, and sure enough, there it is, a fairly well-thumbed leather bound copy of the Bible. Not especially familiar with the Good Book myself I open it, flick casually through the pages searching for some sort of clue. I notice a fairly ornate inner front cover and take a closer look. It’s an inscription,
Awarded to Louisa Davenport for 100% attendance, 1989-90, Park Hill Gospel Hall, Sheffield
. I wonder where Louisa Davenport is now, and how come Nathan Darke has her Bible stuffed in his bedside drawer?

It takes me a while to find the Gospel according to John, then to work out that the numbers refer to chapter fifteen, verse thirteen. But when I finally do arrive at the correct page, there’s Tom’s ‘greater love’ quote. Or something very like it.

Who’d have thought it, Tom Shore can quote from the Bible and Nathan Darke seems to actually own one. I’m hooked up with a pair of bloody choirboys.

* * * *

The football is brilliant. Leeds manage to beat Blackpool two-nil, and I wear Nathan’s Leeds United supporter’s scarf which I found hanging on the bedroom door, and cheer like an idiot for the home team. Tom’s solicitous suggestion that I might like to save my voice for screaming later on only serves to heighten my general enjoyment of the proceedings. Anticipation is half the fun, I find.

* * * *

Back at the apartment, Tom wastes no time in starting the next part of the proceedings.

“Strip, and go wait for me in the bedroom.” Tom’s instructions are delivered deadpan, as if a spot of BDSM play is an everyday matter to round off a perfect day. And of course, to us, it sort of is.

Still, I’m always a bit skittish around anything new, and, assuming he’s not changed his mind, the prospect of having my clitoris clamped is unnerving. Exciting, but scary. Nevertheless, turning down his kind offer is out of the question, and Tom is generally fairly irritated by delaying tactics when he’s playing the Dom. No point looking for trouble so I finish my cup of tea, place the mug carefully beside the sink in the kitchen, and make my way into the bedroom.

I know the drill—strip naked, tie my hair up, and stand in the middle of the room until he comes in to issue his further directions. I expect I’m going to be on the bed, but not entirely sure. He could use the St Andrew’s cross…

Tom keeps me waiting for twenty minutes, the bastard. By the time he saunters in I’m absolutely terrified, having let my vivid imagination loose conjuring up a whole range of possible excruciating positions and possibilities. I trust him, and he knows I do, but he can still bring out this response in me just by making me anticipate what’s to come, letting my imagination do his work for him.

Trying hard not to tremble—and failing—I keep my eyes firmly fixed on his feet, bare I notice, as he approaches me. He stands still, a yard or so in front of me, his height somehow enhanced by my inability to look up, to look him in the eye. And I can feel his eyes on my body, examining, assessing. I’m acutely aware of my nakedness since he shaved my pubic hair yesterday—it really does make a massive difference. I feel exposed, vulnerable, and very small suddenly compared to his solid build. He waits, deliberately I know, as I fail entirely to control my shivering.

“Look at me, Ashley.” His voice is quiet but firm, and I obey.