A Hard Bargain (4 page)

“If you have a question for me, please write it down and I’ll try to answer you.” Again that cool, calm, firm voice. The voice of authority, demanding obedience.

What
is
my question? God knows, but I settle for writing down the only thing in my head. It takes a couple of minutes, my hands are shaking, but he’s patient, he doesn’t hurry me or try to read my response before I hand it to him.

I don’t know. I really, really don’t know. Sir. I never meant to offend you. I wanted you to help me, so much. I was sure you could and I just didn’t think you’d do it for nothing. I’m truly sorry. Please, just punish me as you see fit now and let me go. Please. I’m sorry. I’d answer you if I could, you have to believe that.

I chew my bottom lip and twist my fingers together while he reads my frantic note. He thinks there’s more, I know he does. And he’s already told me he’s quite prepared to beat the truth out of me. Well, good luck to him. I just know that the moment he suspends me from the ceiling—if he does—I’m going to simply faint. There’ll be no ‘truth’ to be had out of me. Or maybe I’ll just die of fear. Is it possible to actually die of fear?

“I do believe you. You can relax, at least for a few minutes, while I explain.”

I look at him, startled. He actually believes me. Wow. I told him the truth and he
did
believe it.

He smiles slightly, amused at my astonishment. “Over the years I’ve gotten quite good at knowing when a sub’s lying, holding back. You were at first, but not now. I can see that. Even without words I can see how frightened you are. Your eyes are telling me that. You do have very expressive eyes, Miss Stone. And here, this evening, I want you to be scared, so scared you can taste it.
Can
you taste it, little sub?”

I nod, my tears falling freely now, well beyond any attempt at subterfuge or false bravado.

“Good, because the fear you’re experiencing now might, just might, be the last time you ever need to feel like this. If you listen to me and learn from what I’m going to tell you—and what I’m going to do to you. So, are you ready to learn, Miss Stone?” His head is cocked to one side as he regards me casually, he might as well have just asked if I take milk and sugar for all the impact this conversation is having on him.

I’m shaking so hard I’m no longer able to hold the precious phone. It falls to the floor with a clatter. Nicholas Hardisty leans down and picks it up, places it beside me on the bed. Then he turns back to me, catches my gaze and, without words, I know I’m not to look away.

“You offered me money. A lot of money. You offered twenty-five thousand pounds to a perfect stranger. You’d no way of knowing I wouldn’t just take your cash, maybe knock you around a bit, then run.”

At my start of protest, he holds up one finger, instantly stilling me.

“I know, I came recommended. By Angela. Did you know Ange is my sister?” He shakes his head wryly. “No, by your expression I guess you didn’t. We could have been in it together, maybe we planned to share your money. You were just plain gullible, Miss Stone, a poor little rich kid with more money than sense. Christ, you’re not fit to be let out, girl.”

I stare at him, my heart sinking, despairing, utterly crushed. He’s right. Of course he’s right. What a fool, what a stupid, naïve little fool. And the worst of it is, I really did trust Mistress Angela. She’s been kind to me, always. Firm, but fair and caring. And now he’s telling me she was just using me, cheating me. I can’t believe it, was I really so stupid, so easily taken in? Surely I couldn’t have been so completely fooled, I’ve known her for months now, she knows me, understands how hard it is for me sometimes… The disappointment, the sense of betrayal is more painful than anything else.

He smiles, takes pity perhaps on my stricken expression. “Don’t look so distraught, your instincts about Angela were right. She’s on your side and was never out for anything but your best interests. And I gather she did advise you against offering to pay me?”

I nod, at least that bit of logic makes sense and I can hang onto some shred of sanity in all this. Mistress Angela can’t have been after my money if she didn’t want me to put any on the table. She did advise me not to offer to pay, just to ask nicely. It was my idea, only mine, to put a price tag on Nicholas Hardisty. And look where it got me.

“And what did you think you’d be buying with your twenty-five thousand pounds? A trip to Alton Towers?”

He picks up the phone and pulls up his emails, finds mine from all those weeks ago. He starts to read from it
, “‘…work with me, train me in order that I can become accustomed to submission and the BDSM lifestyle. I am interested in exploring the various forms of submission, the usual and most common practices, and so on’.”
He stops, looks up at me, disdain and dismissal all over his face. “A D/s relationship is not a trip to a bloody theme park, and a trainer is a lot more than a fucking tour guide. What did you think I’d do, take you around, show you the sights, give you a pack of sandwiches and make sure you were back on your bus well in time for your evening meal?”

He’s glaring at me now, contempt etched firmly across his handsome face, his slate eyes glittering. If I could feel any smaller I’d probably disappear down a crack in the floorboards. I’m sobbing now, really sobbing, but it’s my own brand of silent weeping. Unable to bear his intense, accusing, disgusted gaze any longer, I cover my face with my hands, my shoulders heaving as I continue to sob, just desperate now to be done with this and allowed to crawl away somewhere, anywhere. To hide, to hate myself as much as he seems to. To try to forget I ever imagined I could do any of this. I hear the chair creak as he gets up.

“Well, if that’s all the sense I’m going to get out of you, we might as well finish this now. Stand up and get undressed.” His tone is clipped, distant, he just wants to be done with me and get away, back to much more interesting and worthwhile companions.

And miserable though I am, humiliated and cowed under the weight of his distaste, I gather together some residual shreds of self-worth, enough to make my last protest, my last appeal for some sort of bloody justice in all this. I grab the phone, now lying beside me on the bed once more. He said he’d always give me time if I’ve something to say—well now I have, and he can bloody well wait.

I know I need help. I know I need to learn. I want to learn. I asked you to help me. I was wrong about the money and I’m sorry. I messed up. Badly. And I know you won’t help me now. But I still need to be trained. Please, is there anyone else I can ask?

I thrust the iPhone back at him. While he’s reading I do as he’s instructed me to do. I stand and remove my cropped top. I’m braless underneath, naturally, and in a show of defiance—dwindling but still flickering faintly—I turn my back on him as I start to unfasten the zip at the side of my miniskirt. Under that I have a thong. He might make me remove that too—just because he can—even though it offers me no protection apart from to my modesty. But he’ll have to bloody well tell me.

“Sit down again, Miss Stone. It seems we’re not through talking yet.” His tone is less formal, slightly warmer.

I hesitate, reach for my discarded top intending to pull it back on.

“No, leave that. And turn around—I want to look at you.” His tone brooks no argument as he puts a stop to any notion of modesty, meager though it would be.

I turn, and with some not inconsiderable effort manage to tilt my chin up and meet his gaze as I once more sit on the edge of the bed. Nicholas Hardisty is no longer straddling the chair, he’s leaning casually against the spanking bench, his arms folded, his iPhone in his right hand. He taps it against his left elbow, watching me thoughtfully. His eyes drop to my breasts and I resist the urge to cover myself. I draw some comfort from the fact that I have nice boobs. Well I think so. I only wear a size thirty-four bra, but I’m a curvy C cup. Nipples a little on the small side maybe, to the ungenerous eye, but with some careful attention… The look of appreciation in Nicholas Hardisty’s eyes suggests he’s not about to quarrel with my self-assessment. But still, he makes me wait.

At last, he speaks to me again. “A D/s relationship is a contract, sure enough, but it’s not a financial one. And it’s not a series of experiences, something for thrill-seekers to spice up their sex lives with. Nothing wrong with that, of course, the occasional bit of kink to keep things interesting, but a BDSM lifestyle, a Dom/sub relationship, now that’s a whole lot more.” He strolls toward me, stops in front of me, then, amazingly, he crouches before me, looking up at me now. Our relative positions reversed, he goes on, his tone low and soft and incredibly gentle, “Submission, Miss Stone, is a state of mind. You give a Dom your submission because he’s earned it. You give it freely and willingly, it’s not a commodity to be bought or sold.”

I make to reach for the phone, but he stills me again, just by raising a finger. Christ, the power in that raised finger—I can see his Dominant qualities plainly in that gesture. It doesn’t matter that he’s placed himself lower than me, that he’s looking up at me, there’s no doubt whatsoever who’s in charge here. And he hasn’t finished yet.

“I know you were trying to buy, not sell, but the principle’s the same. Do you see that?”

He waits, and I nod, hesitant, but I am beginning to see what he’s getting at.

He continues with his explanation. “And I’m not for sale either. If I ever do decide to put my time into training a submissive, it’ll be because I like her, respect her, see potential in her and want to help bring it out. Not because she paid me a fucking great pile of money to show her the sights. And believe me, Miss Stone, any Dom who’d take your money is not one you want to learn from.”

He stops, his eyes on mine, his gaze intent. He reaches up, takes my chin in his palm, holds my face still, connecting with me. He waits for a few moments, lets his words sink in. Then, “Is that all perfectly clear, Miss Stone? Do you understand now why your proposition would never work? It’s not a matter of telling you who else to approach. You need to give this up. Give it up now. Not everyone’s cut out for this lifestyle of ours. Submission needs to be in you, a good Dom can train you, develop your nature, hone your innate talents. But I think you’re a fairground rider, Miss Stone, a thrill seeker. My advice to you is to just have fun from time to time, but leave the serious stuff to others better suited to it.”

He’s wrong. Wrong about me, I know it. I frown, shake my head, but he’s said all he’s going to say, given me all the free tuition I’m going to get it seems. He stands, towering over me as I continue to sit on the edge of the bed, drowning in bitter frustration that he can’t—won’t—see beyond my clumsy inexperience to discover the potential beneath. The deep commitment, a yearning I can never remember not feeling. I won’t be giving up. I’ll never give up. I clench my fists, draw in a deep breath. I’ve lost this battle, I can see that. So now, time to end it.

I stand, return to unzipping my skirt and drop it on the floor. I make no move to remove my thong, and he lets that be, just a slight quirk of his lips to show he’s registered my defiance. Oddly enough, I feel much less afraid of his anger now. I know he’ll control it. Somehow. Despite my lack of any safe words, he’ll still manage not to go too far. Instinctively, I’m feeling safe. Well, almost safe.

“I have a present for you, Miss Stone.”

He slips his hand into his jeans pocket and pulls out two silicon wristbands, the sort you buy to give money to charities or to show support for a cause. I still have my white
Make Poverty History
wristbands in a drawer at home. These ones are plain though, no snappy slogans, and one is a vivid crimson red color, the other yellow. He holds them out to me, in his palm.

“Give me your left hand.”

Puzzled, I hold out my hand and he slips the red wristband onto it.

“Now your right.”

I hold out my other hand, and he slips the yellow band onto that.

“You’re left-handed, yes?”

I nod. He must have noticed which hand I used to type my notes on his phone.

“Okay. Red means ‘stop’, ‘enough’, ‘no more’. That’s your safe word for this. Or safe signal, I suppose. You’ve only to raise your left hand, the one with the red wristband, and that stops everything, immediately, no questions. The yellow band means ‘slow down’, ‘not sure’, ‘need to talk’. Does that sound okay to you? It’s crude, I know, but can we manage with that?”

I’m stunned. Yet again he’s astounded me just by thinking ahead and having a plan in place to help me communicate. First the phone, now this. Bemused, I nod, then suddenly think of something, a problem. I place my hands behind my back, as they would be if I was tied, and I shrug. Nicholas Hardisty smiles, shakes his head. “Ah, but I won’t be tying you up, Miss Stone. And you’ll be on the bench where I can easily see your hands. If you signal, if you need me to stop, I
will
see you. And I
will
stop.” He pauses, then, his voice soft, he continues, “Look at me, Miss Stone, and understand this. I would never, ever lay a hand on a sub—let alone lay her across a spanking bench and take a paddle to her arse—hard—unless I was absolutely certain I knew her safe word, and that she was free and able to use it. You
will
be safe with me. So, now you know exactly what’s in store for you, are you ready to start?”

No alternative now, no further discussion, nothing else for it. So I just dip my head. Nicholas Hardisty moves aside, gestures toward the spanking bench. “Lean across the top, stretch your upper body along the bench and reach your hands out as far in front of you as you can.”

I walk over to the bench, slowly, but not so slowly that he could take issue and maybe find a reason to force the pace a little. I’d really prefer to take my time over this. Then I remember my yellow wristband, my ‘slow down’ signal. I can ask for more time if I need it. And suddenly I realize how totally liberating that simple fact now is. I can even put a stop to this whole thing, just by raising my left hand, exerting the power of the red band. I’m not helpless, I have an escape route. If I take this beating from Mr Hardisty, it’s because I’ve decided to allow it, to accept it from him, not because I had no choice. Now, here with Nicholas Hardisty, I can choose to submit.