Hard Choices (26 page)

I know I will get there eventually, but I want it to be now. Or soon. It’s just so hard, and I fucking hate this ginger root. Even though he’s finished paddling me, I’m still gasping from the pain inside my delicate arse, and I know the root stays there until either it finally spends itself, or he completes delivering my entire punishment. I glance at the clock, and see that it’s only been half an hour, though it seems like a lifetime since he inserted the vicious finger of ginger into me. It could be another hour yet before it starts to fade, maybe more.

Ten strokes. That could be done within seconds if he gets on with it. And if I manage not to signal stop, or pass out or anything stupid like that. Ten seconds, twenty at most. I can bear that. Surely. Then it’ll be done, ginger gone, and I’ll be able to have that hot, scented bath. And better still, I’ll have my Master back. A no-brainer really, which is probably just as well because I seem to have left whatever grey matter I may have once possessed outside the dungeon.

I signal okay, knowing my messages are ambiguous, but also confident that he’ll check.

Sure enough, “Okay what? Okay to continue, or okay, we’ll come back tomorrow? Or the day after? Yellow for now, Freya, and red for another day.”

I lift my right hand, the one with the yellow wristband. Now.

He nods briefly, but doesn’t pick up the cane immediately. Instead he goes over to the chest of drawers where he keeps creams and ointments, and returns with a tub of body butter.

“Your gorgeous arse has had enough. You’re glowing like a Christmas tree. The caning is going to be across the backs of your legs, which I’ve been careful to avoid until now. This cream will help protect your skin, but even so you won’t be able to sit down, probably for a few days.” He smears a generous quantity of the scented cream across the backs of my legs, rubbing it into the skin. He then applies the cream to my buttocks, but his touch there is much lighter as he spreads the soothing balm across my smarting skin and leaves it to be absorbed naturally. Even then, he doesn’t pick up the cane. Instead, he slips his fingers between my legs and trails them across my pussy. I clench without thinking, and flinch as the root does its worst. He chuckles, then, “Sorry, darling. You just look so fucking tempting. Still, first things first.”

And at last he picks up the cane.

“Right, I’m going to be watching you carefully, and at the first sign of real distress I’ll stop, reassess. Or if you give me a signal, we stop immediately. Otherwise, though, I’m just going to get on with it. It’ll hurt like fuck, like nothing before. But ten quick strokes, then we’re out of here. Is that okay with you, girl?”

I nod, start to brace myself, but don’t even have time for that before the first blow bites across my upper right thigh. Christ, he was right. The spanking was tough, the paddling worse. But this is off the scale. Blinding. The pain sears the back of my thigh but seems to be everywhere else too, so intense I can almost taste it, smell it. I sag forward onto the bench, and I know I would have crumpled to the floor but for the restraints holding me in place. I hear Nick counting the strokes, but his voice sounds to be a long way away, in a tunnel somewhere. The next blow falls on my left thigh. The agony explodes once more and without doubt I would safe word now if this were any other scene. If I knew I wouldn’t have to come back to it again. And again. Until it’s finished.

My lower body feels to be on fire and I’m gasping for breath. The third stroke lands on the right again but a little lower than the first. Despite the agony that now seems to fill every corner of my body, each separate blow is felt to the full, searing in its perfection. Nick knows what he is about. The fourth stroke is a mirror image of the second, and I realise he’s placing the strokes with absolute precision, making sure he never hits the same spot twice. Very considerate, but it’s still total agony, utterly excruciating.

I grip the leather padding, and grind my jaw viciously. I’ll be lucky not to wear my teeth to stumps. Never again, I promise myself, never, ever again will I bring anything like this down on myself. And caning definitely goes on the hard limits list the moment my hands are free and I’m able to sign again.

Five, six, seven. My body is jerking involuntarily under each stroke of the cane. I could almost imagine that it feels less awful now, but not quite. Maybe my body is adjusting, or simply shutting down. Shutting it out. I feel dizzy, and I can no longer hear him counting. I think he must be farther away in that tunnel, or maybe I am. Then I realise it’s because he’s stopped counting. The water bottle nudges my lips and I sip obediently.
Have we finished?

As if in answer to my silent question, “Three to go, but we’re taking a five minute break.”

I start to shake my head, but he’s having none of it. “Not your call. Five minutes. I’m going to untie you now, though. You can stand up, take a stretch if you like.”

He deftly unfastens the restraints, and I flex my hands first before pushing myself up to stand, leaning forward against the bench. The water bottle is on top of the leather padding in front of me, and I help myself this time. I finish the bottle, and another is placed in my hands before I even have the chance to ask for it. I take a long drink then lift my gaze to Nick’s. He’s leaning on the other end of the bench, and reaches across to cup my chin in his palm. He smiles, his gaze affectionate. “You’re amazing, do you know that?”

My answering smile is tremulous, but genuine. I sign that he’s pretty amazing too. And that I love him. And that I’m sorry.

He continues to hold my face in his palm as he studies me, then, “I know. That you’re sorry, I mean. And I’m ready to accept your apology. You’re beautiful, and you’re brave, and I really think you’ve been punished enough now. He leans across, and I know he intends to kiss me. I place my hand, palm out, on his chest. He hesitates, and I take my opportunity, signing quickly, “I am sorry, and I’m glad you accept my apology, but you still owe me three more. Please. We need to finish. I need to finish.” I drop my hands again, and wait for his response.

“I understand. So, are you ready?”

I don’t bother to nod this time. Instead I just assume the position across the bench. I grip the leather cover hard between my fingers, deliberately raising my bottom to make the backs of my legs vulnerable, offering myself to him. Despite the pain, and I am seriously hurting, my pussy is dripping. There’s something intensely sensual about this scene now. This is beyond discipline and has become very intimate, a deep connection forging between us, made even more profound as I’m unrestrained, placing myself willingly beneath his cane.

I’m hardly aware of the final three strikes. My body is glowing, inside and out, but this feeling is more emotional, spiritual even, than it is physical. The cane clatters to the polished wood floor, and I almost weep with relief as he parts my buttocks with the fingers of his left hand and quickly removes the ginger root. He tosses that in the waste bin before simply scooping me up and carrying me from the dungeon. Moments later I’m face down on our huge bed, and I can hear Nick in the adjacent bathroom. I hear the running water, and know that the long soak he promised me is not far off now. I’d totter to the bathroom and throw myself in, but I’m just too sore. And completely exhausted.

No need to bother, though, because Nick is back after just a few minutes. He says nothing, just lifts me again and carries me into the bathroom. His chest is bare. I suspect so is the rest of him but I can’t see from my position cradled in his arms. My eyes were shut as he came back across the bedroom so I didn’t see then either. I don’t have long to ponder that question, though, as he simply steps into the bath and sinks down, still holding me.

The water is warm, just as I like it, and scented with hints of lemon and other citrus fragrances. Nick hits a switch somewhere, and the bath bursts into life as a constant flow of refreshing bubbles swirls around us. My abused skin smarts at first, but not for long as the gentle water laps and caresses me, and the tension in my body dissipates. I swear, if I looked down at my limbs I’d see the pain, so acute and almost unbearable from only a few minutes ago, just rippling out and away, dissolving in the sensuous bubbles.

Nick says nothing, and I’m beyond coherent thought as I turn in his arms, lay my cheek against his chest and simply savour this moment. But even that’s not enough. I want him, want that total connection. I wriggle upright, facing him, and this time I straddle him. He looks up at me and smiles then mouths, “I love you.”

I could mouth my reply, but that’s never been my way. Instead I lean in and kiss his face, starting with his eyes then trailing kisses along his cheeks and jaw until I reach his mouth. My palms frame his face as I break the kiss, now just resting my nose against his. He knows what I want to do, what I’m going to do. He holds my hips as I reach down to place his cock at the entrance to my pussy before sinking slowly down onto him. I’m tight, and his erection is huge, solid and thick, and it feels absolutely wonderful as my body stretches to accept him. To welcome him. He’s buried to the hilt inside me, and I squeeze my pussy around his erection like a fist. He’s mine now, I have my Master back. I’m never letting go again.

Chapter Eighteen

“Does the esteemed Mr Furrowes have any experience with pre-nuptial agreements, do you think?”

It’s a week since my punishment was administered, and it’s been a week of intimacy and ever closer connection between us. We’ve spent every moment together, laughing, playing, sleeping, making love, scening. It’s been intense, sensual and absolutely perfect.

And today we’ve decided to venture out, lured by the promise of sticky toffee apples for Nick and a more wholesome jacket potato for me. It’s November, and time for the annual communal bonfire at Cartmel racecourse to celebrate Guy Fawkes Night. Nick wasn’t going to suggest we come—too many delicate memories perhaps—but I wanted to. I love Bonfire Night—the smells of burning wood, the fireworks, the food—well, some of it—and the sense of community as hundreds of people huddle together in the cold around a huge bonfire. In fairness, most of the people there will be tourists or holidaymakers rather than locals. Even so, I love the crowded eeriness of so many human shapes all silhouetted against the crackling firelight. Try keeping me away.

We decided to go down into Cartmel on foot, just as we did on the day we went to the race meeting. We’re hand in hand, strolling along the footpath skirting the meadow that Nick suggests might one day be home to my horse. It’s cold, the air more wintry now than autumnal, so we’re muffled up in hiking jackets, thermal hats and gloves, and waterproof boots—I had to call in at my apartment to collect my outdoor gear because Nick’s spare stuff was miles too big for me.

I’m just hopping down from a stile. Nick reaches up to help me and casually drops the question regarding Max’s prowess with pre-nuptial agreements into the conversation. Back on the ground, I take a moment to plant my booted feet in the crusty mud, just starting to harden as the night-time temperature drops. I steady myself and turn to him, nonplussed. One moment we were discussing driving back over to Kendal to pick up my sewing machine and other quilting bits and pieces so that I can take over Nick’s dining room again—this time indefinitely—and the next he’s warbling some nonsense about pre-nuptial agreements. I collect my thoughts to answer him.

“I doubt it. That’s the sort of thing Hollywood film stars go in for. Not much call for it in Cumbria. Not as a rule.”

“Mr Furrowes isn’t in Cumbria.”

“Even so…”

“We’re getting married, you do realise that, don’t you? Legally. You’ll have a ring on your finger as well as your waist chain. And I expect one, too.”

“Do they make them long enough for men’s waists? Maybe we could get one custom made…”

“A ring, Miss Stone.” His voice has hardened, the Dom never far beneath the surface, I’ve learned. “You’re being deliberately difficult, and I suspect you’re playing for time. I’ll be spanking you for that when we get home, and any more of that attitude from you now will see you bent over the nearest wall, your jeans and knickers round your ankles. It’s probably a little chilly for that sort of thing, but do you get my drift?”

I nod, but can’t help smiling. And shivering, because I know it’s probably not an entirely empty threat.

“So, a pre-nup. You have over forty million quid that needs protecting from my grubby clutches. I don’t want anyone, including you, thinking I’m marrying you for your money.”

I start to deny it, “I never—”

“Yes you did. Or you used to. Or you weren’t sure. That was part of the reason why you didn’t tell me.”

“No, I—”

He holds up his hand. “Freya, it’s done. Over. Whatever the reasons, it’s behind us and I’m not wanting to drag it all back up again. I don’t care how we got here. I’m much more interested in our future, and I’d feel better knowing your money was secured for you. I bet Mr Furrowes would, too. So I’d like you to drop him a line and ask his advice. And if you don’t, I will.”

I don’t much care for the notion and I fully intend to share anything I have with Nick, with Callum, with any other children we might have in the future, but if it makes him happy to consult Max about it I will. In any case a pre-nuptial agreement would only really matter if we were to ever separate. And I don’t intend to let that happen. Ever. I sign that I’ll e-mail Max when we get back.

“Good. After I’ve spanked you for your insolence just now, obviously. Enough about you, though, what about food? I can’t live off toffee apples and all this fresh air’s making me hungry. How about we call at The Plough on the way back? Then maybe the dungeon later on—and work up another appetite?”

I smile and slip my mittened hand back into his. Sounds good to me.

* * * *

Dear Miss Stone

Thank you for your recent correspondence. I should mention that I have also been approached by Mr Hardisty on the same matter, so will reply to him separately, copied to you as my client, naturally.