Once her body and her emotions have been laid bare, what other secrets is she keeping?
Freya’s chosen Master has agreed to train her, but only on his terms. He demands that she spend one month alone with him, at his home, her body his to control. He demands total obedience and absolute honesty from her. He is hard, demanding and committed to training Freya in every aspect of submission.
Nick is a tough and uncompromising Dom, but he’s also a master of his craft. From the very beginning he is able to get beyond Freya’s inability to speak to him, to release her innermost submissive instincts. She feels safe with Nick, she trusts him to take care of her, and as she willingly submits to his hard lessons, and slowly unfurls in his hands, he is more and more captivated by his silent pupil. But although her body and her emotions are an open book, Freya has not revealed to him the full extent of her wealth. And as their relationship deepens it becomes more and more difficult for her to confess her deception. How will Nick react to the news that his exquisite submissive is rich enough to buy anything she wants? Except him.
And will just a month with Nick be enough? Freya knows the Dom she wants. Can she convince the Master she adores to claim her?
Reader Advisory: This book contains anal play, both male and female.
Publisher's Note: This book is best read in sequence as part of a serial. Some of the characters in this book also appear in Ashe Barker’s other serials. These serials can all standalone, but are best enjoyed in order: The Dark Side, Sure Mastery, The Hardest Word, A Richness of Swallows.
General Release Date: 2nd May 2014
The lock clicks smoothly as I twist the key. I turn the handle and push the door ajar, but I don’t go any farther. He wasn’t specific about just where I should undress, but as he made it clear that my clothes should be left outside I assume he means me to enter the room naked. I want to please him so I take a few moments to unbutton my blouse and loosen the waistband of my skirt. I slide both from my body, before folding the garments tidily and leaving them on the thickly carpeted floor of the hallway. That just leaves my bra and briefs, a pretty matching set in black and green lace, and they are soon laid neatly on top of my blouse and skirt. I place my low-heeled leather sandals carefully alongside, and I’m ready to enter the dungeon.
Nick hasn’t mentioned it yet, perhaps he won’t, but I’m privately relieved that I decided to take the issue of my inconveniently timed period into my own hands. It was a simple enough matter of just carrying on with my pills, straight from one pack to the next with no break. Just one time won’t cause any problems. Nick seemed very understanding about the whole business, and I have no illusions about my privacy while I’m here, but some things are just personal and that’s one of them. So it’s done.
I draw in a deep breath, then another, as I push the door fully open and step inside.
Despite my instructions regarding the waist chain, prominently positioned in the centre of the windowless room, the mat a bright splash of yellow against the smooth wooden floor, I can’t help glancing sharply around me. As I slowly cross the room towards the coloured rectangle of foam in the middle I take in the main items of equipment and apparatus displayed in Nick’s private dungeon. He is certainly well equipped. I recognise the St Andrew’s cross instantly and of course the requisite spanking bench. Various metal bars and leather straps are affixed to the mirrored walls, and the floor in one corner is heavily cushioned and padded. In the opposite corner there’s a white enamelled sink and a tiled area with a shower head in the ceiling but no screen or curtains, a sort of open plan wet room. There is at least a private cubicle housing the loo.
Of course there’s more, much more, in the form of the impressive collection of paddles, whips, canes and floggers that are arranged on racks around the room and on three sides of a column in the centre, close to the foam rug. It’s here that I stop, my eyes fixed on the length of silver chain coiled on the mat. It’s light in weight, quite thin, delicate. There’s an adjustable clasp that can be fastened into any of the links to make it the right length. It looks to be brand new, and I’m curiously gratified to know that no previous submissive, no earlier trainee has worn this before me. Maybe he bought it with me in mind. Or even had it made especially for me. I know that many Doms do commission symbols of possession for favoured subs. I dismiss that fanciful notion.
I kneel beside the mat and take the length of chain in both my hands, opening it out to measure its length. It will easily circle my waist, would probably go around twice. I try it, and find it loops comfortably around me, loose enough to sit on my hips. I loop it round again and there’s still a spare length of the chain to dangle at my side. I wonder if he’ll want to shorten it to an exact fit. It feels strange to be, in effect, wearing a belt directly against my skin, but not uncomfortable.
I gulp, and stand up quickly. Nick Hardisty could be entering the room at any time, and I have to be ready, positioned on the mat as instructed. Anything else is simply not an option. Purposeful now I approach an uncluttered area of the wall to watch myself in the mirrored surface as I carefully arrange the chain to lay just below my navel.
Despite my sense of urgency, I can’t resist letting my eyes slide down over my nude body, freshly waxed and prepared according to Nick Hardisty’s precise instructions and requirements. My smooth mound seems vaguely childlike, but that slightly disquieting image is sharply contradicted by the curves and gentle slopes of my hips and breasts. My waist is narrow, but my hips flare invitingly, and I know Nick appreciates my bottom. I quite like it myself—it’s round and firm, and turns a pretty shade of pink when spanked. I suspect it will obligingly be changing colour quite soon, but whether I’m going to like the new shade or not remains to be seen. My breasts are full and round, high and firm also, my nipples perky and a deep shade of raspberry. I know from experience now how very sensitive they are, and how responsive to both pain and pleasure. Idly I lift my hand, twirl my left forefinger around my left nipple, watching it swell and harden instantly under my caress.
A faint footfall on the corridor outside breaks my reverie and I scoot quickly back across to the mat, only just managing to position myself on my knees, as the door opens. Nick Hardisty steps inside and I glance up at him. He closes the door behind him with a deliberate click. I left the key in the keyhole on the inside when I came in, and I half expect him to turn it in the lock. But he doesn’t. I suppose he knows I’ve no intention of going anywhere. And in any case, I’m free to leave whenever I want to. That’s clearly understood. Instead he strolls casually over towards the mat, and positions himself in a nonchalant lean against the one unadorned side of the central column. This places him about three feet to my left, towering over me as I kneel on the floor.
Remembering his instructions about eye contact I’m straining my neck to keep him in sight. He watches, lets me struggle for a few moments before relenting and stepping around, bending to crouch in front of me. He reaches out, slips two fingers experimentally under the chain. Seemingly satisfied that it’s not too tight, he withdraws his hand with a curt nod. My hands are laid loosely on my thighs, my palms facing upwards, and I concentrate on remaining still as he continues to explore and test. He slowly trails the backs of his knuckles down my jaw and across my shoulder before dropping them to my left breast. His eyes follow the progress of his fingers as he continues his journey south, but snap back up to meet mine as he feels the tautness in my nipple. He knows. I know he knows, and I shiver involuntarily as I wonder if this too will have consequences for me. I chew my lip nervously, silently berating myself for not simply obeying his instructions to the letter.
He shakes his head sadly, but his murmured, “Not this time, girl, you’re already in enough trouble, but watch that in future,” comes as welcome relief.
I let out my breath, only now realising I’d been holding it. He takes my nipple, rolls it between his fingers as he tugs sharply. I gasp as he uses his other hand to deliver the same harsh treatment to my right nipple. The pain is approaching unbearable when he leans in, whispers in my ear, “Where are your wristbands, girl?”
He straightens, releasing my nipples in order to allow me to sign my answer. “In my bag. I forgot to put them on. I’m sorry, Sir. Shall I go fetch them?”
“No. You’ll stay in this room until I tell you it’s time to leave. Do you remember the clicking safe signal?”
I nod.
Until 2010, Ashe was a director of a regeneration company before deciding there had to be more to life and leaving to pursue a lifetime goal of self-employment.
Ashe has been an avid reader of women's fiction for many years—erotic, historical, contemporary, fantasy, romance—you name it, as long as it's written by women, for women. Now, at last in control of her own time and working from her home in rural West Yorkshire, she has been able to realise her dream of writing erotic romance herself.
She draws on settings and anecdotes from her previous and current experience to lend colour, detail and realism to her plots and characters, but her stories of love, challenge, resilience and compassion are the conjurings of her own imagination. She loves to craft strong, enigmatic men and bright, sassy women to give them a hard time—in every sense of the word.
When she's not writing, Ashe's time is divided between her role as resident taxi driver for her teenage daughter, and caring for a menagerie of dogs, cats, rabbits, tortoises and a hamster.
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