Moving On Read online

  MOVING ON

  Fabian Black

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2010 Fabian Black

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  More D/s romance fiction by Fabian Black

  http://www.fabianblackromance.com

  Part One

  The Dolls House

  The dreams returned the night following the visit to the car boot sale.

  I awoke with a start, my sweat dampened t-shirt clinging to my body, chilling me. I could still hear the voice from my dream, a whisper that seemed to rush from my mind and reverberate around the room. I lay still for a moment fighting back a sense of panic and then got up and headed downstairs, much to Bob’s delight. He didn’t often get company at this inauspicious hour. Rising arthritically from his basket he tottered towards me to be petted. Leaning down I scratched him gently behind the ear and was rewarded with a rusty purr of appreciation.

  Scooping him up I rubbed my cheek against his craggy face for a moment. “How about you and I have a little nightcap together, Bob, huh, how does that sound?” His cloudy orange eyes gazed at me approvingly and I gave a small laugh and set him back down on the floor.

  Going to the fridge I got out the milk and poured some into a bowl, reasoning that at his age he was entitled to have a treat once in a while, and for that matter so was I. He greedily fell on the forbidden fruit while I just as greedily helped myself to a large measure of cooking brandy, the only available alcohol in the house, downing it in one. It was rough and really better suited to lighting a barbecue than quaffing neat, but still, needs must and all that. Just as I refilled the glass Bob let out a small mew of pleasure, alerting me to the fact our little party had been gate crashed by his favourite human being in the entire world. I didn’t echo the sentiment, especially not when said human smartly removed the glass from my hand and tossed the contents down the sink. I gave a mew of my own, one of indignation and protest.

  “Thomas, I hadn’t finished with that!”

  “I beg to differ.”

  Oh how I hated it when he said that.

  Re-corking the bottle with firm efficiency he put it back in the cupboard. “If you’re having trouble sleeping,” he tapped my rump, “the last thing you need is alcohol, it’s a stimulant.”

  “Not if you drink enough it isn’t.” I glowered at him resentfully. “What are you doing up anyway, you usually sleep like the dead. Has Halloween come early this year?”

  Ignoring both the comments and the dirty look he grasped my upper arm and escorted me out of the kitchen, switching off the light and saying calmly, “if that cat is sick because of the milk you gave him, you’re cleaning it up.”

  He slipped a hand under my t-shirt smoothing it over my chest and belly as we lay in bed. “What’s on your mind, love? You were full of the joys of spring this morning, persuading me to go to that wretched car boot thing at the racecourse, and ever since you’ve been snapping and snarling like a dog with a tick in its tail. What’s bothering you?”

  I rolled away from him, lying on my side. “Nothing, well,” I glanced back over my shoulder, “apart from the fact I fancied a little drink to help me sleep and you act like an outraged Salvationist.”

  He let out a psychoanalytical sigh, “listen, when you get out of bed at two in the morning to drink cooking brandy, then clearly something is bothering you. Either you voluntarily come clean and tell me what it is or I don my Dom’s cap and make it a point of discipline until you do. I might start suggesting you go to bed straight after dinner each evening. How does that sound?”

  “Huh,” I gave a contradictory grunt, “you can suggest all you like, but I won’t bloody go.”

  He kissed my cheek, “oh, believe me, Andrew my honey, you’ll go, and if I catch you near that brandy bottle again, you’ll regret it. You know perfectly well that alcohol isn’t a problem solver.”

  No, I thought sourly, but it’s a bloody good listener and it doesn’t nag. I kept my opinion internalised. Thomas was apt to be crabby if disagreed with on that particular point.

  I graciously permitted his hand to slip inside my shorts and employ an altogether less alcoholic but still persuasive means of inducing sleepiness in me, and one at least guaranteed not to leave me with a hangover. The subsequent release of tension brought pleasure, but sadly it was transient and tension soon returned, and not in a good way. Cuddling into Thomas’s comforting arms I made a determined effort to block all anxious thoughts and make myself believe that everything was the same as it had been before the visit to the car boot sale.

  Almost a week later, while turning the car in to the road on my way home from work, a ray of spring sunshine hit the chrome bumper of a passing motor, momentarily dazzling me. I closed my eyes for a split second against the glare and when I opened them, there she was. She was standing by the side of the road. I’d been expecting her. All the same it was a shock. My stomach gave a sickening lurch and I hunched over the wheel, fearful lest she see me. I managed to park the car on the drive without mishap, though my hands were shaking and my heart pounding so hard I thought I was going to pass out.

  Thomas came into the hall, his homely features shaping themselves into a frown of disapproval as I slammed the front door hard behind me and hurled my bag aside.

  “I take it you’ve had a bad day at work, Andrew, but is that really any reason...”

  I didn’t give him chance to finish his sermon on the morality of door slamming and bag hurling. “I help pay the fucking bills, so I reckon I’m entitled to slam a door when I feel like it. In fact,” I opened the door and childishly slammed it shut again. “I’m entitled to slam it as many damn times as I like.”

  “I can’t say I care for your attitude, how about you go out and come back in again, preferably in a more civil manner.”

  “Look, Tom, I’ve had a shit day and I just want to go for a bath.” Evading his attempt to take hold of my arm I headed swiftly up the stairs and locked myself in the bathroom.

  Turning the taps on I sat on the loo seat bunching my lower lip between a thumb and forefinger and chewing at the skin as the bath filled, ignoring the index tapping on the door.

  “Andrew, open this door please,” the index tapping turned to a four-knuckle knock. “I want to talk to you.”

  Turning off the taps I stood up, leaning my hot forehead against the door’s cool grained wood. “I’m sorry for snapping your balls off, Thomas. I didn’t mean to take my mood out on you.”

  “Unlock this door at once.”

  Taking a deep breath I unlocked the door and opened it. He looked stern and I made haste to apologise again. “Sorry, Tom, I’ve got a headache. I’ve had a pig of a day at work. Alex has been on my back over bloody paperwork, I’m sick of her nagging. I just want to have a quiet soak in the bath and de-stress.”

  His demeanour softened and he rubbed my arm, “take a couple of paracetamol, sweetheart, there’s some in the bathroom cabinet. I’ll make a start on dinner, don’t stay in there too long, okay?”

  “Okay,” I managed to prevent my threatening tears from sounding an echo in my voice.

  Closing the door I locked it again, leaning my back against it. The tears overflowed and I slid down to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. Closing my eyes, I began rocking slowly back and forth as a scene insistently unfolded in my mind.

  Mile upon mile they stretch
ed out ahead of us, a great carpet of flowers, blue flowers reflecting the colour of the sky. It was breathtaking, like a painting. The whole scene was like a painting with the vivid blue wash of the sky, the brown barked trees with their fresh green leaves, the cast of gold shed by the shimmering sun, and then beneath the trees the bluebells. An Impressionist painting, that’s what she said. We’re inside an Impressionist painting. She enjoyed art and someone had given her a lush book about painters and their works for the Christmas that had just passed. She’d been enchanted with it, especially the section on Cubism, which for some reason fascinated her. She spent hours trying to draw and paint pictures and patterns in the same style, patiently explaining to mum and gran what they were meant to represent and getting cross when gran totally failed to ‘get’ the concept of drawing something from a different perspective. If you want to draw a vase then draw a vase, she would say, why try to make it into something else.

  “Andrew!”

  I jumped as Thomas knocked sharply on the door. From the tone of his voice it wasn’t the first time he’d called me.

  “Coming.” Scrambling to my feet I pulled the plug in the bath, watching the unused water flow away, a small, absurdly sensible thought about waste of energy and resource inserting itself into my mind. Changing quickly out of my clothes I then splashed my face with cold water and pulled on my bathrobe before opening the door.

  His verdant eyes surveyed me. “About time, I was beginning to fear you’d fallen asleep in the bath again and drowned in there. You’ve been told not to lock the bathroom door, do it again and I’ll punish you.” He followed me into the bedroom. “Dinner’s ready, so don’t bother getting changed. You can eat like that. The pasta will spoil if you dawdle much longer.”

  I felt a flash of irritation. “Actually I’m not hungry, Thomas. I’m going to get dressed and go out for a walk.”

  “If by walk you mean a walk to the pub to get plastered like you did the other evening then you can forget it. You’re staying in and you’re having dinner. I don’t expect for a moment you had anything at lunchtime. Hunger always makes you snappy and bad tempered, as the saying goes, a hungry man is an angry man, but not as angry as the cook whose offering is rejected. Resign yourself. I’ve made it now and it would be a crime to waste it.”

  Slipping the robe off I walked across to the chest of drawers to get out fresh underwear and socks. My hands were trembling slightly as I fumbled among the chaotic mess looking for a pair of matching socks. As I fumbled my fingers brushed a small object, which was usually taped to the very back of the drawer. It had come loose. I stared at it, my stomach tightening.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  Whirling round I snarled, “of course I heard what you said. I’m not deaf. It seems to me you’re the one with the hearing problem. I told you I’m not fucking hungry and I’m going out for a walk.” Turning back I savagely rammed the drawer home, dislodging a book that was resting on top of the chest.

  “Would you like to tell me what this paddy is in aid of?” Thomas picked the book up from the floor, smoothed its pages and replaced it on the chest.

  “No.” After tucking my attributes into clean briefs I sat on the bed to pull on a pair of odd socks.

  Striding across to the window Thomas began to pull the heavy curtains closed, blocking out the evening light.

  “What are you doing?” I halted sock pulling in order to scowl at him. I had a fair inkling of what he was doing, but still felt compelled to ask. I was masochistic like that.

  “Drawing the curtains,” he said, stating the obvious in that infuriatingly calm way of his.

  “Why?”

  “Because, Andrew, in lieu of you being forthcoming about exactly why you’re behaving like a fractious toddler I can only draw the conclusion it’s because you haven’t been sleeping well lately and act accordingly. It seems to me you’d benefit more from an early night than a walk and if you don’t, then at least I will, because I won’t get mauled every time I open my mouth. I’m tired of being snapped at. I’ll bring you something to eat and then you can settle down.”

  He briefly ruffled my hair as if I were indeed a tired toddler and then walked out of the room, leaving me seething. As soon as his footsteps began to descend the stairs, I defiantly flung the curtains back open and dragged on jeans and a heavy knit jumper. It might well be spring according to the calendar, but as yet there was still a hint of winter’s breath in the air.

  We met on the stairs. He was halfway up carrying a tray while I was halfway down carrying nothing. He played the Grand old Duke Of York to my man at arms, marching me straight back up to the top of the hill. Well, not so much marching me back up as forcing me to retreat, as he had no intention of halting his intended journey and I couldn’t get past him on the narrow staircase. Like the staircase the upper landing was narrow and he positioned himself dead centre, elbows out, so I couldn’t squeeze past him, not without upsetting the contents of the tray.

  To my annoyance I was pushed back faster than the British Expeditionary Force to Dunkirk though unlike those brave souls I had no opportunity to turn defeat into a glorious triumph of the human spirit over adversity. Using his right heel he closed the bedroom door behind him and swiftly set the tray down on a chair. I was, metaphorically speaking, stranded with the enemy to the fore and the unfriendly sea to the rear and not a rescue craft in sight. Oh how I hated being outmanoeuvred.

  “Get ready for bed, Andrew.”

  I shook my head. I wasn’t surrendering without a fight.

  Forcing back a pout and an urge to leap up and down on the spot, I tried to make my voice sound reasonable and steady, like the adult I was and not the child I was beginning to feel like. “I’m not going to bed, Thomas. I know you mean well, but I’m not tired and I’m not hungry. I simply want some fresh air, is that asking too much?”

  “No,” he gave an eloquent shrug. “Fresh air is no problem at all, my darling. Open the window and you can have all the fresh air you need. Close the curtains while you’re over there, a dim light is more conducive to rest.”

  “I’m not budging on this, Tom, I mean it.” Folding my arms I stared at him stubbornly. We faced each other off for a few moments, and then he gave a small shrug suggestive of regret and moved across to his bedside cabinet. Pulling open the drawer he brought forth a certain beastly little bat and laid it on the bed, making plain we were now in an official discipline situation and he had his Dominant’s hat on.

  “As you know, Andrew, I’m a fair man,” he gave a cool smile. “I’ll give you a choice. Bed without further ado or a bare backside paddling and then bed.”

  “In other words, no choice at all.”

  “Exactly, so do as you’re told please and do it quickly or you’ll find yourself over my knee.”

  I angrily dragged my jumper over my head. “You always get your way don’t you? You’re a bully and a damn dictator.” Really, I had no grounds for such accusations. I knew the rules of the game well enough and I knew they applied whether or not I was in the mood for playing.

  “Sticks and stones, my boy, sticks and stones.” He set about picking up my clothes from the four corners of the room where I’d flung them in juvenile pique, neatly folding them and putting them on top of the chest of drawers. “The end justifies the means. You’ve displayed nothing but ill temper for days now. I warned you the other evening I wouldn’t put up with much more of it. Rest. You can call me as many names as you like, as long as you wake up in a better mood tomorrow. Eat your pasta before it goes completely cold. I’ll be up presently to get the tray.”

  He placed the paddle on top of his bedside cabinet where I could clearly see it. “Just to remind you that the sting is in the tail,” he wagged his index finger, “or at least it will be in yours if you attempt to defy the limitations just set.”

  I pulled a face and stuck a hearty two fingers up as Mr Proverb man exited the room. “Bossy, bloody impossible, arrogant, overbearing...” I gave up mu
ttering and opened the drawer of my own bedside table tipping the tagliatelle inside and closing it again. My copy of The Da Vinci Code would never be the same again, but then maybe that was a plus. It was a tedious read. I couldn’t understand why it was so popular.

  Shoving the empty plate on the tray I leaned my aching head against the pine headboard and brooded. How had it gotten here I wondered, bringing her with it. What if he’d brought it? The thought I might see him as well as her made me feel sick and the vice around my head tightened further still.

  “See, you were hungry.” Thomas smiled when he came back up for the tray and saw the empty plate. I felt a spasm of guilt at deceiving him. He cared about me and I really didn’t deserve him to. He compounded the guilty feeling by balancing the tray on his left hip in order to free his right hand to tenderly caress my face. “You’ll feel so much better after a rest, love.” He struggled heroically for a second his untidy brows bristling slightly with the effort, but gave into temptation, quoting another of his beloved proverbs. “One hour’s sleep before midnight is worth two after.”

  “The darkest hour is before the dawn.” I countered sarcastically, “and there will be sleeping enough in the grave.”

  “Much more mockery from you and we’ll be putting that last one into practice.” He sternly peered at me over the top of his half moon glasses though the effect was endearing rather than intimidating, “the trouble with you, Andrew, is you always have to try and have the last word and as you know, in this house, the last word belongs exclusively to me, so heed it and sleep.”

  “I’m not a baby to be fussed over. I’m fine, I don’t need a rest.”