A Hard Bargain (3 page)

“I’ve reserved room nine, upstairs. Please go there and wait for me.”

My speculation is interrupted by his voice, his instructions are curt and clipped. He turns away, doesn’t see me nod briefly, the flash of relief perhaps evident as I realize I’m not to be subjected to a public humiliation after all. I make my way toward the exit. He doesn’t need to see me leave, he knows I’ll obey him. Submissives always obey Mr Hardisty.

I stop only long enough to hug Summer, tell her one last time that she really doesn’t need to hang around waiting for me, and a couple of minutes later I’m slipping through the door of room nine on the upper floor.

The ground floor at the club is where the public and communal rooms are, the bar, the various lounges and of course my personal favorite—though only ever as a spectator—the dungeon. Members who prefer their activities to be played out in a more secluded setting can make use of the private rooms on the second floor. Some of these are themed, for example one is styled to resemble a classroom and another a nursery for the age regressionists among our number. On one memorable occasion, I was invited to scene with a Dom who had a fetish for curvy little girls in gymslips and no underwear. He enjoyed himself for a while laying stripes across my bottom with a ruler, and I confess I didn’t mind that. Not really, if it was going to lead to some more sensual fun later. I was distinctly moist and eagerly anticipating the next phase of our interlude together by the time he was ready to move on. But he wanted to cane my hands as well, and I let him do that too. Then he simply thanked me, said I was a good girl after all, and left to fuck someone else—presumably a bad girl.

I talk with my hands, and he hurt them. They hurt for days. I was truly silenced as well as disappointed and frustrated. I love to sew, and I couldn’t do that either for the best part of a week. I expect—hope—Mr Hardisty will be able to demonstrate a little more sensitivity, his reputation certainly suggests that he might. I doubt any submissive ever left his company disappointed and frustrated. Not that I’m his sub exactly. I’m more in the way of an annoyance, a chore, a score to be settled.

I’m relieved to find that room nine is the ‘standard’ type, exactly like most of the other private rooms here at the Collared and Tied, simply furnished with a spanking bench, a straight backed wooden chair and a double bed in one corner. The shelves and display cases house a range of equipment and toys—whips, canes, a generous supply of spankers and floggers. The walls and ceiling sport an interesting variety of metal loops and anchor points, designed to secure a sub in whatever position is required. There are an impressive selection of vibrators, dildos and nipple clamps as well, but I know that many Doms prefer to use their own stuff. And of course, a drawer containing hundreds of condoms. I doubt somehow that we’ll be getting through many of those. Chance would indeed be a very fine thing.

In the absence of any more detailed instructions regarding any preparations I should make, I settle for perching nervously on the edge of the bed. I gaze around me, my eyes returning repeatedly to the chair in the center of the room. Will he opt to sit on that, place me across his knees? I hope so, that seems less clinical somehow. More intimate, offering more direct contact. Will he want me to strip? Doms usually like their submissives to be naked or as near as makes no difference. But Mr Hardisty is not just a Dom, he’s a Master. He has a reputation for being hard, firm, strict. He sets rules and enforces them relentlessly. I broke his rules without even knowing what they were. And now, I have no idea at all what to expect from him.

Except, I know it’s going to be painful. Very painful. And despite the club’s insistence on safe and consensual play, I have no reliable way of safe wording. Up to now I’ve relied on the dungeon master to keep an eye out for me, and he’s been very attentive. But Frank isn’t here in room nine right now, and Mr Hardisty is a stranger. He doesn’t know me, doesn’t understand me. He might not intend to harm me, but how will he be able to help it? Christ, what have I done?

He makes me wait. And wait. My panic growing, building, my fears whirling around my head as my imagination gets to work and runs riot, twisting me and tying me in knots. I’m confused, terrified and excited in equal parts. I was so keen to meet Nicholas Hardisty, to scene with him. I wanted him to train me—I still do, desperately. But he’s refused. Turned me down flat. He won’t even discuss it with me. This—whatever I’m to have this evening, is all the help I’m likely to get from him. And I know I’m on thin ice, he could easily rescind my membership again if he decides I’m unsuitable for this club. I can’t risk that, I really can’t, so I won’t be repeating my request. There must be others who could help me. But they’re not as highly recommended and for some reason I do want Nicholas Hardisty. No one else appeals.

He’s here. The door opens and he’s here, in the same room as me, alone with me. All I ever wanted. And the one man, the one Dom, I’m most afraid of. I drop my eyes immediately. My hands, my expressive speaking hands, are twisting together incoherently in my lap. Should I be standing? Kneeling? He remains motionless, watching me, leaning against the door that he clicked quietly closed behind him as he came in. I can feel his eyes on me, assessing me, waiting for me to…what? Oh, Christ, what if I’ve annoyed him again…? I start to rise, lift my hands ready to start signing an apology.

“Stay there. We need to talk.”

His voice stills me.
Talk! Yeah, right. I do a lot of that.

He comes forward and, grabbing the chair from the middle of the room, drags it toward the bed. He turns it and sits, straddling the seat, his arms folded, elbows lying along the top of the chair back. And he watches me again. He’s waiting, waiting for me to say something perhaps. I glance up at him, eye contact and expression are essential tools of communication for me, and I quickly sign an apology. He won’t understand my gestures, but it serves as a reminder that I can’t speak to him out loud.

“What is that? British Sign Language?” His tone is low, measured. He doesn’t sound angry, or irritated.

I nod my reply, and drop my hands uselessly back into my lap.

“Sorry, I don’t understand it. So, no vocal sounds at all I think you said in your email?”

I nod then shake my head, not sure how best to respond. He seems to get my meaning though.

“Right. We do need to talk though. Will this do?” He leans over, and pulls his iPhone from his back jeans pocket. He taps the screen a couple of times to bring up a notepad app then holds it out to me.

I gape at him, surprised, and he jerks his hand to remind me to reach out, accept it from him. I’m stunned, I never expected this, didn’t expect anything in the way of effort on his part to help me communicate. His face is serious, not especially encouraging, but his actions are speaking volumes to me already. I was so right to select him as my trainer. If only he’d agree.

“I have some questions for you. I require answers. Honest answers, full answers. Do you understand?”

I nod once more, not sure what he might need to ask me. I thought our business was concluded, all except this last episode which really requires no conversation at all beyond ‘get undressed and bend over’. Now, it just needs to be got over with.

“Okay. I want you to write your responses down for me. Take your time, we’re in no hurry. I want to be absolutely sure though that we understand each other before we’re done here.” He pauses, watching my reactions closely. He hasn’t instructed me to drop my gaze, indeed, I don’t think I could if he did require it. His eyes are mesmerizing, deep and dark, slate gray. Beautiful eyes, but so stern, so uncompromising, drilling into mine.

“Why are you here?”

His first question throws me completely. Why
am
I here? I’m here because he bloody well told me to come here, I’m here to be punished, disciplined, my behavior corrected.
What sort of a question’s that?
My confusion must be apparent on my face because he chuckles, the sound low and sexy.

“Yes, yes, you’re here for a spanking and you’ll get that. All in good time. But what I want to know is, why do you deserve to be spanked?”

I shake my head slightly, shrugging, bewildered.

He tilts his head, his expression firming, all trace of humor gone in an instant. “It’s not a trick question, girl, and I expect you to answer me. Now. Don’t keep me waiting, and don’t make me repeat myself. Write down for me why you deserve to be punished. What did you do that needs to be corrected?” His tone is not menacing, not yet threatening, but I know he won’t take kindly to having to ask me again.

I try to think, but to be fair my brain is turning into a sort of soggy porridge. This conversation, his question, is so left field, so totally unexpected. I stare at the small screen in my hands, my mind a blank. Obviously I use notepads a lot, electronic and the paper type, in shops that sort of thing. BSL is not widely used or understood so I have to make do. Shopping’s easier now that supermarkets have those DIY checkouts, but still…

I write down the first thing that occurs to me.

I broke the rules of being a submissive by making contact with a Dominant, before I was invited to?

I hand the phone back to Nicholas Hardisty who reads my short response rapidly before passing it straight back.

“Nice try. That would have earned you a reprimand, not a spanking. Think again, girl. And this time don’t try to evade, I think you know what your offense was. But I intend to make sure you understand what all this is about before we proceed.”

I take the phone and stare at it for a few moments. It must have been the money. Angela warned me against offering to pay, but I still did it. Idiot that I am, I should have listened. That must be it. I insulted him by offering him money. Still, it might be worth trying one more possibility.

I invited a Dominant to scene with me, when the invitation should have come from him. I should have waited until I was asked.

Again I hand him the phone, and once more he glances briefly at it before passing it back to me.

“Last chance, girl. And just in case you’re in any doubt, you’re pissing me off and wasting my time. You have five seconds to start being honest with me and then I’m going to suspend you from that ring in the ceiling above your pretty but empty little head, strip you and take a strap to your delicious little arse until I do get the truth out of you. Am I making myself clear here?”

He is, and I’m suitably terrified now, I nod. It was the money, had to be. And he’s not letting up. Unless I want my punishment to suddenly get a whole lot worse, I need to give him the honest answer he’s demanding. I take the phone again, and start to type.

I offered you money if you’d agree to be my Dom, to train me.

I hand back the phone, he glances at it, then his eyes flick back to me. This time he doesn’t fling it back at me.

“Bingo.” His softly uttered word is more intimidating than any curse, insult or threat might have been. He looks at me, long and hard, his eyes quite glacial. “Now we’re getting somewhere at last. And why, girl, was that wrong? Why do you suppose that’s gotten you into such a lot of trouble?”

I look up and shrug. His expression hardens, darkens. He thinks I’m being dismissive, defiant even, making light of this.
Christ!
I snatch the phone back from him, not especially submissive or polite, but I’m desperate now, and very, very scared. I have to make him understand. I start to tap out my message quickly, panicking, frantic.

Please, I don’t know. I really don’t. I’m not being rude or difficult. Please don’t…

Suddenly he reaches out, covers my hand with his and stops my frenetic tapping. “Look at me, girl.” His voice is soft now, he expects me to obey him, but his tone is more reassuring than intimidating.

I lift my gaze, caught in those stormy gray eyes of his again. “I was angry for a moment and I’d no right to be. I insulted you and I threatened you. I’m sorry about that. It was my fault, not yours. I’ll always give you time to explain, to ask questions, to understand. You don’t need to be worried that not being able to speak to me will earn you a punishment. Lying to me will, evading my questions will. But if you’re telling me the truth, you’ve no need to be afraid of me.”

Wide-eyed I place the phone on my lap and wait for him to explain further. He doesn’t. We sit, in silence, each of us waiting, for—what?

“If you have a question for me please write it down.” Nicholas Hardisty breaks the silence. “If you don’t have any questions, then please just write down why offering me money was such a bad idea, why it got you banned from the club at first, and then brought you here for me to spank you instead. And, girl, please hurry up. We’re making a lot of progress, but I do want to be getting on with my evening. But first I intend to teach you a lesson you will not be forgetting. Ever.”

I do have questions. Lots of questions. The problem is I’ve no idea at this precise moment just what they might be. So instead I settle for stabbing around in the dark again. I start to write.

I insulted you. By offering to pay you
.

I hand back the phone.

He glances at it, nods briefly. “Yes, that’s part of it. But I’m a big boy, I’d survive an insult from a little sub like you. That would’ve earned you a reprimand, maybe a spanking but nothing too heavy. But you’re here for a punishment beating. I’m going to really hurt you. Now why is that, do you suppose?” His voice is soft, quiet, but the core thread of determined steel is there, lacing his words.

I offered you too much money. You said it was too much.

Again he reads, nods briefly. “As you pointed out, though, how you spend your money is your choice, not mine. If you want to throw it about, that’s up to you.”

The phone is back in my hands, and now I’m genuinely at a loss, I don’t have a clue what else to say, what else to write down. I feel helpless and scared, utterly rigid with fear. Tears are pricking the backs of my eyes, but pride alone prevents them from falling…yet. I glance up at the ring in the ceiling and despite his reassurance just now, I know I can’t avoid what’s coming. I don’t even have a safe word to fall back on, to get me out of this. I’m so out of my depth, there’s something massive here and I just can’t see it, just don’t get it.