High Point

Saturday, and September's first wild winds had slammed into the coast, bringing with them a washout of a weekend. The couple's outside plans had withered and died as the storm loomed on the weather maps. The crash of waves were swapped for rain hammering against window panes, picnic blankets for fleece ones, cuddles on the beach for snuggles on the sofa. They'd even drifted off together that afternoon, the talkshow radio soporific to him, the rise and fall of his chest to her.

That evening the fast dying autumn light became obvious to them both, heavy dark grey skies accentuating that inevitable change of the seasons. They'd closed their curtains at a sensible hour for the first time in months; six o'clock in summer was always suspiciously early, and she'd dither and worry each time that a neighbour would draw salacious - if accurate - conclusions. But that day the subdued outside light meant she had no such wrinkle of concern for him to smooth over, and the mess of blankets and pillows and soft candlelight in the living room gave them the perfect excuse to live up to expectation after dinner, the film rerun quickly forgotten. She'd made pancakes in only her apron as a second dessert. He'd taken his third from her over the kitchen table.

Perhaps that's what gave him the idea.

Sunday, though the wind still threatened to tear the roof clean off, sometime that afternoon the drumming of the rain came to an abrupt, eerie silence.

She twitched the curtain nets back. Fluffy white clouds raced towards them, crisp, blue skies lay beyond and yellow light broke through and spilt across the sea to the horizon. The worst was over, then.

He stood behind her with one strong arm around her waist, and voiced much the same sentiment. He suggested a walk to stretch their legs, to test their newfound freedom from the deluge.

"But I want to show you something first." he said as they left, him in the driver's seat, slinging the car out the drive in one fluid motion. "It's not far." She agreed. And other than him playfully insisting that one coat would suffice rather than layering with fleece and scarf ("it's not that cold out"), nothing was amiss.

Storefronts turned to townhouses turned to detached new builds. As they hit the country road to the nearby village tucked in the valley over she knew exactly where "not far" was. His little smirk when she ask confirmed it. The brow of the pass - High Point.

High Point was a hidden beauty spot, popular with locals and more adventurous tourists alike. Not for the spot itself, mind - it only a nondescript clump of trees all gnarled and bent in submission to the relentless sea winds - but for the breathtaking views the copse offered. To the north lay farmland sprawled to the horizon, to the south the winding river and the picturesque cliffs tourists loved, the east a blanket of forest, and on a clear day to the west the nearest city formed a grey smudge against the sunset. This time of year the low Sun made shadows stretch across the valley to paint a saturated drama, swallows swooping and screaming through the sunbeams, catching their last meal before committing south for the winter. And on the edge of the copse stood a three-seater park bench, their bench, on which they'd watch it all.

He pulled off the country road to the car park, gravel crunching under tyre and for the first visit in memory they were alone. It wasn't hard to feel why - despite clear skies the wind still rocked the car as they came to a full stop.

"I see, you want me to beat you at blackberry picking again?" She scanned the tree-line, assessing how much of the wild fruit was left. But when she was met with stony silence instead of a playful rise to the challenge she turned back to find him glaring, his lips a thin line.

The wind whistled a warning across the car bonnet.

"Get out the car," he said.

It was a command. His switch in attitude dizzied her and she took a moment too long to extrapolate out.

"What?! Here?!"

"Get. Out. The car."

Her heart caught in her throat. "But... I..."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Why am I repeating myself? Do you want me to make this worse for you?"

Shit.

She scrambled out the car, wind catching the door and manhandling her upright. It was conspiring with her partner - relentless, whipping her loose auburn hair against her face and stealing her breath, unsteadying her with every forceful gust. He stepped out and lightly bracing himself against the car, cool and composed.

The piercing blue skies were above them both now, September colours vivid in the light, the day's rain leaving the air earthy and tinged salty from the sea spray picked up two miles south. By looks she was as calm as the view, standing to attention as best she could in her windbreaker jacket and jeans. But at ground level, inside and between them, like the wind a heady maelstrom began to swirl.

Outside? She thought. But where, exactly?

As if reading her mind that mischievous smirk flashed again, before fading back to his painted scowl.

She watched on helpless as he locked the car, the mechanism's clunk the clink of chains. He slipped the keys deep into his pocket.

"Come here!" Another bark from him, loud over the storm's dregs. She made sure to move quickly, head up but eyes lowered in deference.

Taking her by the wrist he pulled her towards a muddy path starting one end of the copse of trees. A faded and tone-deaf sign cheerily welcomed them both to the High Point Trail. She heard the distant swallows screaming, echoing the one voice in her head.

The trail itself looped through the copse and down a steep track to join the river walk, the route she'd naively assumed they'd be taking today. Their bench lay at the end of the dense tunnel of trees, just before the hill. She could picture the warm wood in the distance, barely touched by the shallow afternoon sunlight but still under the open sky.

She headed towards that bench in vain hope more than anything. He took a hidden right instead, gravel path turning to mud and grass, near jarring her shoulder as passive punishment for her assumption.

She cursed her misjudgement.

"Not there." he said, thankfully without anger. "You don't deserve that yet. Here first. This is what I wanted to show you."

She followed him through the narrow gap between blackberry bushes, their thorns snagging on her jacket and jeans. The bushes only got taller as they shimmied through. She winced and raised an arm to protect her face and in moments she'd near-stumbled into freedom. He released her wrist and gestured for her to explore.

The overgrown path had given way to a dim clearing walled by sycamore, their leaves just beginning to curl in the autumnal weather and making a dry, clapping racket as the canopy bowed to the wind. At ground level, the protection offered by the trees tempered the winds to a barely a breath for which she was grateful; the respite allowed her time to tidy her hair back into its proper place.

The fresh, earthy smell from a weekend of rain clung here, ground slipping to mud in places underfoot. Clumps of stubborn dandelions shone in the low light and dragonflies flitted about high in the protected air to complete the tiny glade's Fae look. She would have felt transported - if it wasn't for the ominous, dank bench.

A lone picnic bench sat soggy and slimy in the centre of the ring of trees, its dark wood more rugged and split than the sycamore around them, moss growing between the slats. In high summer sunlight would have reached down through the gap in the trees and dried the clearing, but it was obvious the bench hadn't see the Sun in quite some time. In fact, given how deep the hollow of beaten-down earth around the bench was, it was possible it had been in situ since the dawn of time, the trees growing up around the thing.

He joined her as she ran her fingers along the wood.

"Do you like it?"

Her stomach churned, this time not at the bench.

It was an easy enough question for him to ask, but she knew better than to treat it lightly. On the surface it was perfectly innocent. Did she like the glade? But like the tempered breeze here his gentle earnestness had a dangerous force behind it, one only the most observant folk would be able to tease from her sudden stiffness. Higher, above the protection of social niceties and the trees the pressure of that maelstrom built. In truth his words were a command - to express not liking his idea would lead to punishment, she was sure of that. Like the canopy, she'd have no choice but to yield.

But at the very highest level - so distant in the tempered blue skies she could only trust it was there - all was calm again, their unwavering bond painted solid like the blue above all the ephemeral drama of storms and heavy clouds. In truth his command was request for permission; he was asking her to take the first step. The vertigo from holding all these conflicting thoughts in place nudged her towards that giddy excitement, towards her falling into submission, but she was unable to let go just yet.

She tore her eyes from the wooden monstrosity before her to check where they'd come from. A tiny window through the trees on the far side of the main path gave only a peek to the valley below so they were safe in that respect, but anyone walking past who thought to turn their head would find the secluded bench. And them.

This really wasn't safe.

The breeze picked up again and despite her jacket and jeans she shivered.

"What if someone comes?"

He glared down his nose. Another look of displeasure to add to the growing tally. "You saw. No one's here."

"But people walk up—"

SLAM.

She flinched. His fist sailed past her ear and hit the bench behind her. It brought him to eye level, his shoulder hunched, him taking on a new strength and breadth.

"This is part of your training. If I can't have you outside the house, why should I take you outside the house?" She couldn't suppress a whimper as his hand cupped her face, stroking her cheek. His voice softened. "Would be a shame not to show you off..."

She could red-light this. Perhaps he was expecting her to and had a tamer 'punishment' in mind for making him relent; public sex was a rational boundary after all. Yet they'd never have a better chance here as the trees clattered in the wind all around them, driving walkers away, drowning out those noises a good girl would make... She recalled the fantasy they'd idly shared months ago when spent, tangled in sheets, the imagined forest and shadowy voyeurs working their magic and readying them for a second round back then. Now the earthen reality was close enough to taste - but she couldn't quite let herself fall. He'd have to push her.

She stood thin-lipped in defiance. "No."

"No?"

"I won't. And you can't make me."

"Fine." he said. "What are you going to do, then? Run? And exactly how far do you plan to get?" He stepped into her, drawn to his full height again, his grip on her chin tightening and tilting her head upwards, sardonic amusement creeping across his face. "If I can't have you here I'll have you wherever I catch you. On the hillside, or the road. Would you prefer that? Getting fucked in front of traffic?"

"Get away from me!"

She shoved him aside and rolled her face out of his grip. Unperturbed, he found her wrist and yanked her back into place, his lips to her ear, his words teasing out a shiver.

"Ah, ah, ah. Fuck toys don't get to argue..."

She jumped half a step backwards and reeled at a firm prod on her upper thighs. The bench. She was caught, trapped between his advances and that monstrosity she was sure to be bent over.

She swallowed, but found her throat dry.

"At least you got into position. Take off your jacket."

She felt no compulsion to obey and so made no move to do so.

Quick as a flash he threaded his other hand through her hair, sliding his fingers against her head. He balled his hand and the sharp, sweet pain haloed across her scalp. She hissed through clenched teeth, tilting her head back to relieve the tension, baring her neck further as he pulled.

"Take off your jacket." The command reverberated and she could do no more than lift her free hand to her zip, tugging it down. The cold flooded in and around to her back, teasing out goosebumps along every slip of exposed skin. He released her wrist - they both knew she couldn't escape with her hair held so firmly - and she slipped one arm out the garment, then the other, dropping the jacket onto the picnic bench seat. This time she gave a real shiver, arms from the shoulders down bare. She dared not move to rub them warm.

He grunted, appeased. That's the best she could have hoped for; forced obedience never led to praise.

"Undo mine."

She did so, and the two halves of his jacket parted. He did not remove it.

"Now turn around." He preempted her reluctance by leading her with her hair. When he had her restrained around the waist, the pressure of his forearm blunt under her ribcage, he finally released her scalp. She gasped as the pain fled and in a moment of weakness she let herself lull backwards against him. Unable to step away, she couldn't resist his hand trailing up her side and to her breast, squeezing the handful, his touch firm enough to stimulate her nipple through blouse and moulded bra. It tingled as it hardened. He kissed her neck.

"Please don't..." She failed to summon the same firm tone as before. Being held so possessively was helping her let go, but awareness of that very vulnerability kept her tethered. Directly before them was that gap in the bushes - with her jacket off and her eyelids becoming heavy there'd be barely time for them to part without raising questions.

"Please don't..." he mocked. "It's too late for that."

Ignoring her weak protestations his other hand left her waist and snaked its way to her groin. Two fingers brushed the gap between her legs and nudged her clit. With the pressure she felt confirmation of her growing wetness, cool against her labia, and despite herself she wriggled. Her attempts to tug at his arms were half-hearted at best.

"What? You think we're playing? That this is about you?"

He squeezed her breast. Hard. She lurched forward with the pain. Taking the opening she had stupidly afforded him he shoved her between the shoulders and kicked out each ankle to spread her legs, lowering her towards the bench.

"I told you, I'm going to fuck you here."

She struggled against him, pressing her forearms into the bench to keep her head up above water, but he coolly dragged each of her arms out until her temple finally sank onto that soggy wood. The slow decay filled her nose and mouth with every breath, suffocating her on the shore of hazy submission. It would be so easy to float away... She could cry out in pleasure, let them both be found, let the finders watch...

"No!" She resurfaced with new-found vigor, trying to wriggle and jerk out of his grip - but with her back held down, even pushing up against the bench only served to raise her head a little before it thudded back down. Again and again she tried, him smoothly stepping out of reach of kicks in a precise waltz, his toes saved from her desperate stamps by steel-toed boots. Her shoulders ached - really ached - with the strain against him. As she grunted and cursed him he laughed, a cruel edge to it that cut her deep, draining her more than a lifetime of struggling ever could.

It was futile. She really would be taken here.

As he continued to roughly reposition her to his liking, spread though ready to be racked, she breathed in the earthen smells of the bench and glade with a smoker's drag. It was the last empowered choice she would make, knowing full well that the next time she went under her mind would be lost to his whims completely. He pressed her between her shoulder blades as though finally fixing her to the wood. She let her eyelids flutter shut, and on her exhale she fell limp.

She became someone else, someone far away and wrapped in cotton wool clouds watching the scene from that place of trust on high, and the unworried body that was left behind felt sickeningly better for submitting so completely to him. She would be used, and she would enjoy it as he demanded. She was ready.

Without urgency now, his will having worked its magic, he reached around with his free hand and resumed rubbing her clit in slow circles. Her undies were now slick, sliding freely against her, his fingers a tantalising pressure through her jeans, enough to warm her but not enough to take her to the precipice. She needed more.

Leaning into him had the opposite effect. He withdrew and a jolt crossed her, a parting of clarity in the fog, though her disappointment turned into anticipation when he tapped on the button on her jeans. Fingers and thumb teased down her zip, the button popped open. His cold hand dove between the flaps of her jeans, she more than eager to warm them with her arousal, but he recoiled.

"What's this?" He pinged the weak elastic across her hipbones - the band of her simple black and cotton underwear. Fear prickled up her neck again. Not knowing his intentions this morning she'd dressed practically, not for his hungry gaze. "I thought I told you to always be ready for me?"

A quiet voice reminded her he hadn't said anything of the sort, but the newer voice spoke over the first, chastising her for not wearing a g-string, reminding her that pleasing him should be all that mattered. How could she have forgotten that this danger loomed?

"You're supposed to feel like this." He sharply tugged the back, cutting the fabric into the crease of her thighs.

It burned.

She yelled out above the roar off the wind, her clit and labia caught tight in the bundle and throbbing. Despite reacting much too late to stifle it she clapped a hand to her mouth. She shouldn't have moved.

"Shh. You don't want someone to come running, do you?" He jarred her absconded arm back until her fingers hooked into her underwear. "Hold it. Show me you're sorry."

Frantic to please and undo her transgression she did as told, coiling her fingers tighter to make sure the fabric wouldn't loosen, the rest of her body flat to the table, waiting.

He wrestled her underwear to one side, exposing her smooth vulva. The cool air brushed across her, the sensation heightened by her wet arousal. Cool fingers teased their way to her inner thigh and she twitched, but she gritted her teeth knowing any further movement would bring punishment upon her.

He slid his fingers between her inner labia and dragged the wetness onto her clit and started those small circles again, this time teasing back the hood, his touch electric - so gentle in contrast to the press on her back. His touch quickly became too much, her feet warming and toes curling, the heels of her walking boots leaving the ground.

"No squirming."

She gave a whine of frustration. He knew she couldn't take such direct stimulation; it was like he wanted her to fail. She tried to suck through her teeth and clench her toes enough to relieve some pressure but it wasn't enough of an outlet - the heat kept growing and the knot kept tightening.

"Stop..."

He ignored her to spread more of her wet warmth onto her clit, and continued his light strokes, her yearning spreading and fluttering through her pelvis, heart hammering away, breath coming in short, sharp pants. She risked rebuke to bring in her outstretched arm to bury her head in the crook of it, to bite down, to endure. Her fingers curled, pulling her underwear even tighter. Too sensitive. She was too hot, too charged, she'd have to move. She bucked again with a mewl.