A Hard Bargain (15 page)

Like loving someone who I can’t have, for example. Someone such as Nicholas Hardisty.

* * * *

It’s been three weeks since I spent that incredible evening with Nicholas Hardisty at the Collared and Tied club, and I’ve not been back there. I fought tooth and nail, was prepared to endure just about anything he cared to dish out to me just to hang on to my membership, and I find now I’ve completely lost interest in the place. I thought it was so important, so fundamental to my happiness, my sexual fulfilment—I felt desperate, distraught when he stripped me of it. Now I couldn’t care less.

It’s because of him. It’s because he doesn’t want me, and I can’t even start to think about wanting anyone else. I have no interest in scening with any other Dom, can’t imagine allowing any other Dom to touch me, and I know if I went to the club they might. I might well be invited to join in some scene or other, and my popularity has probably increased because I spent that evening so publicly with Nicholas Hardisty. Others would have noticed, would maybe wonder if I might be worth a closer look. Doms who would never have looked twice at me before might be interested now, and I’d have to turn them down because they’re not Nicholas Hardisty. That wouldn’t go down well, not for long. Unless you’re in an exclusive arrangement, submissives are sort of expected to be available, amenable to all reasonable offers, so to speak. And these days, I’m none of those things. So I stay at home.

Summer hasn’t come back yet either, although I’ve had several texts from her assuring me she’s fine. I had an email from Nicholas Hardisty the day after our encounter at the club telling me that Daniel Praed had also vouched for her health and safety when she left him that night, so I suppose she must be okay. It would be good to see for myself though.

I’ve thrown myself into a frenzy of quilting and designing, done some of my best work in the last couple of weeks—amazing what abject misery and total solitude can do for the creative juices, it would seem. I’ve not been going out, not even turned the television on for weeks. The nearest I get to the outside world is the odd half hour on my balcony watching the river flowing below me, and only then at night usually.

Am I lonely? No. Well, it’s not only loneliness. I’m hiding. I’m licking my wounds and taking stock. And I’m trying to work out where to go from here. Apart from making lovely quilts, there’s a whole lot of nothing else I need to do. A whole world of no one needing me at all, of no one relying on me for anything. I may have money, but it doesn’t buy happiness. Or love. And it definitely can’t buy me Nicholas Hardisty.

I’ve over forty-million pounds sitting in the bank, and the one thing I would want to buy is not for sale.

Chapter Seven

I can’t be bothered getting out of bed, but I suppose I’ll have to eventually. It’s getting on for three in the afternoon, and I’m slipping into some really bad habits here. If I find myself watching Countdown in my pajamas, it’s time to get sorted. Even my precious quilting is losing its appeal. I need someone to talk to, I really do. But Summer’s still AWOL. There’s nothing else for it, I need Margaret. I can’t just ring her up, but I could Skype her. She’ll be able to put me on video and read my signing.

Or better still, maybe I could get a flight and go to see her. Yes, that’s what I want to do. Time to drag my arse out of bed and get online. Got to buy an airline ticket.

So, it’s with some semblance of a sense of purpose that I tug my laptop out from under the settee and plug it into the mains. I fire it up, waiting patiently while the little icons flash and leap about on the screen as the whole carry on lazily hauls its own arse into gear. I’m reminded of the palaver Margaret used to have to go through to get me out of bed on a school day when I was about fourteen. My laptop’s hit puberty I think. It’s become a stroppy teenager. Next thing it’ll be demanding money for hair straighteners and a new bra. Oh well…

I spot the unread email icon flashing on my task bar and open my Outlook. Might as well delete the junk mail while I’m here.

Shit!
There’s a stack of emails from Nicholas Hardisty. I skim through them, and can see that he’s been emailing me for days, and getting no response.

From: Nicholas Hardisty

To: Freya Stone

Date: 20 May 2013

Subject: Are you playing hard to get?

From: Nicholas Hardisty

To: Freya Stone

Date: 21 May 2013

Subject: Playing Hard to get

You’ve not been to the club for weeks. Frank says you used to come at least twice a week. I repeat—are you avoiding me?

From: Nicholas Hardisty

To: Freya Stone

Date:21 May 2013

Subject: FREYA—respond please

From: Nicholas Hardisty

To: Freya Stone

Date: 22 May 2013

Subject: Bloody hell, Freya!

You’re pissing me off, girl. And you know how unpleasant I can get when you piss me off. I want to know if you’re all right. And I want to know why you haven’t been to the club. And I want to know NOW.

Nick

It’s clear he’s not best pleased. I re-read his messages, and I’m puzzled. Why the concern? I mean, it’s nice, lovely in fact, but why would he care? Why would he bother talking to Frank about me? Why would he imagine I’d want to avoid him? Christ, just the opposite. I want to throw myself at him and beg him to fuck me, if he can find the time that is.

I pull up his latest email and try to think of a response.

From: Freya Stone

To: Nicholas Hardisty

Date: 23 May 2013

Subject: I’m fine, thanks

Good afternoon, Mr Hardisty

Sorry, I’ve only just turned my laptop on. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I haven’t fancied going to the club for a while. If you let me know when you’ll next be there, I’ll try to make it too.

It would be really nice to see you again.

Freya

From: Nicholas Hardisty

To: Freya Stone

Date: 23 May 2013

Subject: I don’t make dates with subs

But I’ll keep an eye out for you

Nick

Oh. Oh well. And…Nick? Not Nicholas then.
I sit on the edge of my settee staring at the screen and wondering how he got the idea I was trying to make a date with him. I need to set him straight.

From: Freya Stone

To: Nick Hardisty

Date: 23 May 2013

Subject: Dates

Good afternoon again

I didn’t mean a date. I just meant that I’ll make sure I’m there if you let me know when’s convenient for you. Otherwise though, I’ve no plans to be at the club again for a while.

Best regards

Freya

A bit formal, but I can’t help it. He really does get the wrong end of the stick a lot too easily.

From: Nicholas Hardisty

To: Freya Stone

Date: 26 may 2013

Subject: You fucking win!

All right. If your offer still stands, I’m willing to discuss it. But no fee. Absolutely no room for negotiation there.

Meet me for a coffee. We’ll talk. Or I’ll talk, you’ll listen. And write.

Nick

P.S. Email me your mobile number

I win! I fucking win! What’s that supposed to mean?

Who cares what it means. He wants to see me. Wants to talk to me. At me, whatever. I email him back my mobile number as requested. No, scratch that, as
instructed
. And I wait.

But I don’t wait for long. Within five minutes the ping from my phone tells me a text has arrived. And sure enough, it’s from him.

Meet me at Costa, in Kendal town center. Half an hour.

Half an hour! Shit! Still, no point messing about. I quickly punch in my reply.

I’ll be there.

In the event, it takes me forty minutes to throw some decent clothes on and scurry down into town to the Costa coffee shop. I know he won’t take kindly to me being late. Doms tend to get distinctly shirty about things like that, and I’m already flustered as I rush through the door. At first, I think I might have somehow managed to get here before him as I gaze frantically around and he’s not there, only to spot him lounging on an outside table in the alley next to the coffee shop. There are two cups in front of him—looks like he might have ordered for me already. I take a deep breath, hoping to steady myself a bit before facing him again, and I step back outside.

As I approach, he uses his foot to nudge the spare chair at his table out for me to sit on. I nod my thanks and take the seat, earning myself a few more moments respite by gesturing at the spare coffee then at myself, asking if that’s for me.

“Yeah. I remembered you like it white, no sugar. That right?”

I nod then take a sip. I replace the cup carefully in its saucer and meet his eyes. Slate gray, icy, piercing. And not at all amused. I’m puzzled—he invited me after all. He didn’t have to be here. I swallow nervously, and wait for him to tell me what this is all about. He bides his time, taking a sip of his coffee himself before leaning back in his chair to watch me squirming in front of him. Eventually he speaks.

“So, do you still want to be trained? In the fine and noble art of submission?”

A good question. Do I? Yes, in a manner of speaking, but my parameters have changed. I want him to train me—I want to learn from him, for him. Only him. Is that what he’s offering? A long term Dom/sub relationship? I seriously doubt that. But, ever the pragmatist, maybe I just need to take what I can get, accept the limits of what’s on offer and live for now. I’m a natural optimist, and I can’t help but hope for more later. Maybe I’ll end up being disappointed. I accept that possibility, but I have to try.

So I nod. Slowly but definitely. I’m in.

He sits up straighter, leaning in toward me, his gaze holding mine. In that moment he reminds me of my bank manager, the one I used to have to persuade when I was a hard-up student begging for an overdraft at the Nat-West, obviously. Dealing with Max Furrowes and his colleagues at Lloyds Private Bank is a whole different kettle of fish, it goes without saying. Nicholas—Nick—Hardisty is of the Nat-West variety.

“Okay. I’ll give you a month then. One month of exclusive, intensive one on one tuition. You’ll spend that month with me, at my home. It’ll be hard. Very hard. And you’ll hurt in places you never even knew you had. You’ll have no privacy, no secrets. Your body will be mine for that month, your time, your life, all mine, willingly given up to me.” His voice is curt, business-like, formal. My knickers are dampening just listening to him.

“You’ll do exactly as I say, however difficult it is, however scared or humiliated you feel. And it will be bloody hard. You’ll think I’m brutal at times. You’ll be frightened, embarrassed, tired, sore. But I’ll thrill you too, delight you. I’ll make you feel so fucking good, Freya, you’ll think you’ve gone to heaven. And there’ll be no respite, no let up. Once we start, you’re mine for the duration, or unless you decide to end it. You once asked me what I’d consider a fair price for training you. Well that’s it. That’s my price. Whatever I ask, whatever I instruct you to do, you do your level best to deliver. No excuses, no delaying. You just do it. If you decide my price is too high, you can walk away at any time, but if you do decide to walk, that’s the training program finished. Over. So, are you up for that, Freya?”

In truth, I’m his forever, if he did but know it. I hadn’t expected the one month twenty-four-seven arrangement, but I don’t object to that. In theory at least I know what’s involved, although I can only imagine how some of it could make me feel. Degraded? Powerless? Helpless? Delirious? Those emotional aspects rather than the physical pain are the issues which concern me, but they come with the territory. Don’t they? I’m turning all this over in my head, although I know already, knew from the outset, that I’d accept whatever terms he put before me.

He leans in again. “For a natural submissive—and, honey, after the evening we spent together, I do believe you are a natural—submission to a Dom you trust is intensely satisfying. Liberating.” Now his tone has become gentler. Lower, more seductive. ”You hand over control, and in exchange can expect all your sensual, emotional and physical needs to be met. I’m offering to show you that, to take you there if that’s what you want. If you’ll trust me, if you’ll let me take care of you as you explore what’s deep within you, and make your journey. So, will you trust me, little Freya?”

Put like that…

I nod. Yes, of course I’ll trust him, I always did. So, I’m still in.

He smiles, his gray eyes now softer, warming as he regards me, raking my body as he did that evening at the club, and I suspect he’s mentally stripping my clothes away. Not that I mind overly much—nudity is a big part of this deal, I do know that. And talking of which, his specific instructions grab my attention, including taking nakedness to a whole new level for me.

“Right, here’s how it’s going to happen. You’ll spend the month at my home, and during that time we’ll be together twenty-four-seven. You’ll live with me, eat with me, sleep with me and your body will be available for training at any time. Don’t worry about food, accommodation, any of that. You’ll be very well cared for, very comfortable indeed. Except for when I’m hurting you, obviously.”

I nod my understanding. Obviously.

He continues. “I already have all the equipment we’ll need, but of course if you have any favorite toys or implements please feel free to bring those too. I have to go away on business from tomorrow for a few weeks, so we won’t start our program for another six weeks, but then it’ll be full on, until the month’s up. Neither of us will have any other outside commitments, is that clear? You need to clear your diary for the entire month and I’ll do the same—no distractions, no interruptions.”