A Hard Bargain (16 page)

Wow—he does mean ‘full on’. And what diary? What commitments? I was thinking about going to Australia, but I can be back in time for this. A whole lot of nothing is what my long-term diary consists of. I just nod, no problem there as far as I can see.

“Right, I’m glad that’s clear then. And you’ll have some work to do in the six weeks between now and when we start. To start with, I like my subs naked. Properly naked. So I want you to make sure all your body hair is removed. And I mean all. I prefer you to be waxed rather than shave—lasts longer and it’s a better job. Have you ever had a full Brazilian wax?” He pauses, lifts an eyebrow as he waits for my response.

I gulp, shake my head nervously. Now this I don’t like the sound of. I just know this’ll hurt. He reads my mind, as ever.

“Coward—I have far more…excruciating treatments planned for you. And I won’t be offering pain relief. This place will though…” He shoves a business card across the table at me.

I pick it up, glance at it—
Pretty Things Beauty Parlour.

“These guys can sort you out, unless there’s somewhere else you know of and prefer to use?”

I shake my head, slipping the card into my bag for later.

“Okay. You can charge any expenses like this to me. I don’t expect you to pay.”

I shrug, least of my worries. And I’ll pay extra for the pain relief.

“I also want you to have a full medical check-up. The medic retained by the Collared and Tied club can do it, she knows what sort of information I’ll be needing. I want to know about any underlying health conditions, anything at all that might affect your fitness to endure the demands of what I intend to do to you. With you. Anything I should watch out for, or need to take into account…” I dive for my bag. There’s something I need to ask, need to tell him before the doctor does. He pauses, waits for me as I fish around in my bag. I pull out my Samsung Galaxy phone, glad I remembered to shove it in there as I was dashing out of my apartment, and note his silent nod of approval as I start to write.

Does diabetes count?

I pass the note to him. He glances at it, then at me.

“Oh yes, I’m sure it does. Are you on medication? Do you need any treatment? Are you likely to go into a diabetic coma as soon as I wave a whip at you?”

I take my notepad back, and start writing again.

No, none of that. I don’t take any medicine. Not yet. But I have to eat very carefully. Healthy food like fruit and vegetables, wholemeal bread. Pasta. Low fat, low salt. And no sugar. Absolutely no sugar—that’s very important. Will that be OK, my diet I mean?

Again he reads, and again he glances sharply back at me. “The diet’s fine. We’ll manage that no problem.” He points to my screen. “What do you mean, ‘yet’?”

More typing and I pass the phone back to him.

I’ll probably need to take medication eventually, but I can control my blood sugar fairly well so far by eating properly. I have done for years.

He nods, seemingly satisfied for now. “Make sure the medic knows about your diabetes. I’ll expect to see it mentioned in the report, and I’ll want to get the all clear. And I want you to sort out contraception too. We’ll use condoms some of the time, but I don’t want any accidents coming back to haunt either of us later.”

Again I reach for my phone.

I’m on the Pill already—is that OK?

“Yes, that’s fine. Again, I want to see it confirmed in the medical report. And I’ll be wanting blood tests for HIV, hepatitis, STD’s, the usual. The doctor will know. I’ll supply you with the same information, naturally.”

Naturally.

“There’ll be more details I’ll need you to know and I’ll let you have those in due course, exact dates, times, location, that sort of thing. And I may have more instructions for you. I’ll text you, as you seem good at ignoring my emails. If—when—you get any message from me I expect you to acknowledge it immediately, and respond as appropriate. Is that clear?”

I nod, but that’s not enough apparently.

“Just so there’s no doubt, I need you to understand that although we don’t get into it properly for another six weeks, you and I have an agreement from now on. I expect you to obey my instructions, and assume the proper attitude of respect. There will be breaches, you’re learning, and to help you to learn, I’ll correct any lapses incurred during this next six weeks at the start of our intensive month. You
will
be disciplined if required, and that discipline will be physical. The severity of any punishment will obviously depend on the nature and extent of your misdemeanors. Do you accept that? Will you accept punishment and learn from it?”

So, here it is, the nub of our relationship. This is what a Dom/sub agreement hinges on. And once I accept this, once I agree to his terms, from then on I acknowledge his authority over me, and his right to punish me. I allowed him that right once, and he delivered a punishment beating I’ll never, ever forget. Maybe I’ll never attract anything of that severity again, but I can’t be sure. But this is not about being sure. This is about trust—trusting my Dom and trusting myself. I nod, and by way of additional emphasis offer him my hand to shake. He takes it, and our deal is sealed.

He smiles at me again. “Well, Miss Stone, we’re going to have an interesting time together. I’m looking forward to it. Now, you live near here I believe…?”

I nod, wondering how he knows where I live, but I don’t have time to ask him before he continues. “If you’ve finished your coffee, we’ll go to your apartment now, because, with your agreement obviously, I intend to fuck you. And they don’t take kindly to that sort of thing here in Costa. Upsets the other customers and leaves a sticky mess on the tables. But first, there’s the matter of you being ten minutes late meeting me here. We’ll need to deal with that. Shall we go?”

He stands, as I do, and he gestures for me to precede him back onto the main pavement. I do as I’m told. Might as well start as I mean to go on.

Chapter Eight

The ten minute walk along the River Kent, back to my apartment block, passes in silence. Only to be expected I suppose, he’s said all he needs to say for now. And I have the matter of my ten minutes of tardiness to contemplate, which has without doubt earned me some form of retribution.

We reach my building, and I lead the way inside, nodding to the concierge as we pass through the lobby and over to the lift. I live on the top floor, the fifth—no really high rise stuff here in the traditional heartland of the Lake District. Tourists don’t go for that sort of thing. But even given the planning constraints of the neighborhood—which I don’t think of as detracting at all from my environment—I simply love it here. I chose to come back here when I could have stayed in Australia, or gone anywhere in the world. This is home. A spacious, modern apartment with access to a communal swimming pool and spa, and a top class cleaning and maintenance service obviously adds to the attractions. But essentially it was location that drew me. And that’s what holds me here. I love to sit on my balcony just watching the world go by. In one direction I can watch the river tumbling and meandering away toward the sea, and if I turn my head I can look upstream to the bustling town center. And if I lift my gaze over the rooftops I can see the rolling hills of the south Lakes in every direction. Superb. Breathtaking in the spring and summer, but absolutely stunning in the autumn and the winter, this easy, undulating landscape, so rich in color and so gentle on the eye.

I’ve lived here for four years now, and I suppose I’ve become accustomed to it. I don’t see the luxury any more certainly, I just see my home. And as Summer is the only visitor I tend to have here, the reactions of others are something of a novelty. And that’s why Nick Hardisty’s long, low whistle as I unlock the door leading into my hallway comes as a surprise. He follows me inside, turning through three hundred and sixty degrees as he surveys my domain.

“You didn’t buy this place with Tesco Clubcard points… Your Lottery winnings again?”

I nod as he strolls across my hallway and into my open plan living area. I’m keenly aware of the untidy clutter around the room, but my biggest concern is how to field the questions he’s sure to ask me about my lottery win. People always do. They always want to know how much I won. What I bought. What I’m planning to buy next. For many, their curiosity satisfied, it ends there. But for some this is the point when they start to make their suggestions. This is when they sound me out for possible investments in their pet projects or donations to their charities. This is the begging letter stage, and it makes me cringe. Worse still, this is sometimes the point when the acquisitive and the manipulative and the just plain greedy start to cultivate my friendship. This is where they start fawning over me, pretending to like me when really it’s the prospect of exploiting my generosity that’s the real attraction.

I have no reason to assume that’s Nick Hardisty’s motivation for being here. He’s no mercenary. If he was, he’d already be twenty-five thousand pounds richer, and I’d be thinking I’d gotten myself a decent bargain. And more importantly, I’d know exactly where I stood with him. Our relationship would be clear. Now, I’m off balance, uncertain. And totally confused by his refusal to accept my money whilst still agreeing to provide me with the service I want. And it’s that confusion, that uncertainty, coupled with my innately private nature, that drives me to want to conceal the details of my financial affairs from him now. Keeping myself to myself is the habit of a lifetime, and I won’t be changing any time soon.

Not that he seems especially interested. He glances at me, a half smile on his gorgeous lips as he strolls to the window to check out my view. Turning back to me, his hip perched on the window ledge, he gestures to the jumbled luxury surrounding us. “So, you bought this place then? And a car? You have good taste, Freya, in cars and property. This place is lovely.” He pauses as something catches his eye, and leans sideways to extract a rather beautiful silk scarf from behind a radiator, holds it out to me.

“Yours, I assume?”

I nod and take the scarf, one of my favorites, I’d been wondering where it had gotten to.

“Take care of that—I think it may come in useful soon.”

I’m happily contemplating the implications of that prospect as he continues. “Do you have a job, Freya?”

I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me anything along those lines. I shake my head slowly, and he shrugs. “So what do you do for money then? Just live off the rest? You’re only young, what did you say when we were at the club? Twenty-three?”

I nod.

“Even a few hundred thousand in the bank won’t keep you in silk scarves forever, not living in a place like this and with your taste in cars. And clothes. What’ll you do when the money runs out?”

I can’t suppress a smile. He actually thinks I’m extravagant. Me? But now’s the time to set his assumptions straight if I’m going to. Now’s the time to agree that a few hundred thousand would indeed be easy to fritter away. But at my present rate of expenditure it would actually take me well over four hundred years to exhaust my funds, and that’s only if Max Furrowes’ grasp of prudent investment were to evaporate this very instant. As it is, my capital actually increases by around half a million a year, and all I have to do for that is sign whatever papers Max puts in front of me at our half yearly meetings. There’s no immediate danger of destitution. I won’t be forced to go job-hunting any time this century. Or the next.

But I don’t say any of that. Instead I let it be, leave his assumption unchallenged. And Nick Hardisty just shrugs, dismissing my apparently woeful lack of financial planning as none of his business no doubt, as he crouches to retrieve the collected works of William Wordsworth and an upturned mug from under my coffee table.

Not normally bothered by the clutter, I find myself viewing the chaos of my living room through his eyes. And I’m embarrassed by it. I just dropped everything and rushed out as soon as I got his text. It never occurred to me he’d come back here with me, and even if it had, I’m not the tidy sort. I rarely, if ever, bother to clear up so my quilting stuff is strewn everywhere, my sewing machine still perched on the dining table at one end of the room. Scraps of fabric and cardboard cut-out templates are scattered around all adjacent surfaces. My pretty glass-headed pins are piled up on the corner of my coffee table, and he stoops to pick one up as he passes, still strolling casually around my home.

“For self defense?” His head dipped, he looks at me under his raised eyebrows.

I shrug, nervous suddenly. And self-conscious. This might be my home turf, but his approval matters to me, a lot more than I ever imagined it might. I’m wealthy—clearly much, much wealthier than he imagines, but I did nothing of note to earn it. I just bought the winning ticket and managed not to lose the bloody thing before the draw. What if he doesn’t approve of gambling? What if he thinks I’m just some spoiled rich kid? Worse still, what if he decides after all that he fancies a share of my money and that’s the only reason he’s bothering with me?

“You’ll bring none of this with you. Leave your cashcards, your fancy apartment, leave the lot behind you. You won’t need any money.”

I’m already pretty sure his interest in me is not financial given his attitude toward my offer of payment, but this remark dispels it entirely. He continues, “You’ll need to come in your car I suppose, and bring a few clothes, but that’s it. Most of the time you won’t be wearing anything in any case. It’s to be just you and me. Understood?”

Once more I nod, grateful that the gesture meaning ‘yes’ is universally understood. I suspect I’ll be using it a whole lot more as my association with Nick Hardisty develops.

He wanders across the room to my dining table, the paraphernalia of quilting scattered across the surface, seemingly aimlessly, but I know better than to imagine that. He idly picks up a small square made up of fabrics carefully cut and pieced together to form a picture of a vixen and fox cub, part of a much larger quilt I’m making, my contribution to an exhibition next year to celebrate the ten year anniversary of the ban on fox hunting. He glances back at me.