by Jaye Peaches
After her bath, she descended to the main deck, took a deep breath and entered the beauty treatment room. No Maria. Only Jason sitting in the solitary chair. She walked past the massage table, stood before him with hands clasped behind her back.
Jason raised his eyebrows. “Should you be dressed?”
Slipping out of her clothes, she nearly rolled her eyes at him when he patted his lap. She wanted to resist a little, show him some sass, but daren’t. Something about his pose, the stern expression, and the finger drumming on the armrest stopped her. Her pussy clenched instantly as she lowered her hips over him. He adjusted her position, trailed a finger down the crack of her buttock cheeks, and gave her bud a tickle. Gemma wriggled appreciatively. The gentle prelude ended with the first smack of his hand on her bottom.
The spanking remained erotically charged throughout. His fingers teased her sensitive parts between firm slaps of his hand. A tickle of anus, a pinched of her labia, or a grab of her fleshy buttocks. After a warm-up over his lap, she stretched out on the massage table with a pillow under her hips.
Jason took advantage of various items lying around the room. Opening cupboard doors and drawers, he rummaged about while she propped her head on an elbow, filled with a sense of trepidation at what he might find. A plastic spatula and a wooden hairbrush. He alternated, whacking for a few smacks with one before switching to another. She squirmed, baulking at the stinging spatula. He rested a hand on her lower back, holding her steady. Burying her head in her arms, she absorbed the firm strikes of the hairbrush and relished the kinder strokes of his hand, which moved across her burning cheeks, tempering the pain.
Returning from a trip to the bathroom, she halted on her tiptoes. Another woman had arrived with Maria, who was speaking softly to Jason.
I’m naked with a red bottom! Gemma took a step backwards, trying to retreat into the bathroom. Jason wandered to her and draped a bathrobe around her shoulders.
“You could have warned me we had a guest!” she hissed.
The other woman addressed Maria in rapid Spanish as they moved to the worktop in the corner of the room that housed the cupboards and storage. Jason led Gemma to meet the newcomer.
“Gemma, this is Margarita. A local who has come on board to help Maria.”
“Señora Lucas, hello,” said Maria’s companion in a thick Spanish accent.
The woman stirred a bowl of thick amber paste.
“Henna,” explained Jason. “Margarita is going to help Maria paint your skin with the dye. The pair of them will work quicker than Maria on her own. They’re going to paint the back of your hands, your feet, your breasts.” Jason grinned. “And here,” he rubbed her lower back, the point of her coccyx.
Gemma stared at him in disbelief. Jason generally frowned upon tattoos. Permanent tattoos. Henna would be temporary, something he tolerated. She couldn’t think of a suitable defensive argument, and his triumphant bearing of his teeth told her he knew she couldn’t. He owned her body for the duration and could do as he wished, as long as he didn’t permanently mark her.
“I’ll leave you to it. I look forward to seeing you painted for me. I’ll be in my study.” Jason strolled out of the room.
Gemma huffed for a few minutes, fingering the backs of her hands, wondering if he would embarrass her with something artistically ghastly or worse still, vulgar terms like she’d seen on some subs. Then she sighed. Her worries were unnecessary. Jason, vain and self-conscious about his appearance, wouldn’t embarrass her by adorning her with slutty words. “What design?”
Maria wagged a finger. “You will see. Señor Lucas chose.”
“Great.” She scowled. Why all the secrets? He had kept the route of cruise from her, the name of the yacht, and now her secretive Dom had designed some motif for her tattoo. She’d learnt not to complain. Jason wouldn’t change his nature, not fundamentally. He liked keeping secrets so he could surprise her. “Where do you want me?”
“Lie down and relax, señora. I’ll put music on for you. We do your feet and hands first.” Maria patted the massage table and Gemma climbed up, resigned to her situation.
The women jabbered away in Spanish, laughing one minute and serious the next. Gemma felt sidelined. She missed gossiping with her female friends. Hearing their laughter made her envious. She turned her face away from them.
Maria briefly put a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. How ungracious of us to speak in Spanish.”
“Teach me a few words since I’m lying here bored.” Gemma turned her head back.
For the rest of the morning, two applicator tips drew patterns on her skin while she learnt a little Spanish to the merriment of the other women. She blushed and squeezed her eyes shut when they drew back the robe to do her breasts, ashamed at the intimacy of the stranger.
“How long will this stain remain on my skin?” Gemma asked.
“Oh, not long. The dye has not penetrated for long enough to last more than a few weeks. Probably by the end of your cruise, it will start to disappear. But the suntan will linger.”
“Suntan?”
“Yes. The pattern will show up in your suntan. Pretty, yes?”
Maria led her to the mirror, and Gemma admired their work, the delicate details on the backs of her hands and on her breasts. Twisting, she tried to see the tattoo on her back. Maria held a hand mirror to one side, enabling Gemma to catch sight of the small loops. She recognised the motif they had drawn over her skin. Jason would be pleased.
But with the clock showing noon, no time remained for her massage. Jason wanted to take her to lunch. She went to find him. Sitting at his desk, typing away, he looked up and gleefully slapped his hand on the table. “Show me.” He signalled her to come closer.
Pulling the bathrobe off her shoulders, he examined her breasts. “Brilliant!” He flicked a nipple with his finger.
“I confess I had my doubts, but, Sir, these are lovely tattoos.” Hidden in the design, obvious only to Jason and Gemma, were his initials, his stamp on her flesh. A swirl of interlinked Js and Ls ringed her nipples. The same linked letters adorned her feet, hands, and back. He had effectively given her a temporary branding.
“I love the effect, gorgeous girl.” He bent to kiss each nipple in turn.
She flushed. “I think it’s amazing. I feel ornate, like living jewellery. Thank you.” She knelt in appreciation.
“Jeez, you are so fuckable at the moment. But we should leave for lunch.” He pinched her chin. “Later, I will enjoy this body, my painted slave.”
Dressed casually in pale linen, covering their arms and legs, their expensive jewellery and watches left behind, Gemma and Jason strolled down the streets of Ceuta towards the market, accompanied by Lubinsky and Dufour. The men’s attire didn’t look too formal, no dark suits or blazers, they wore light blue jackets and faded jeans. Gemma couldn’t tell if the bulges in their jackets were due to guns. Perhaps, it was best not to know.
They dined on another ethnic African meal. Delicate flavours, unusual ingredients, and a huge variety of fish. Jason made adventurous choices, trying out several small dishes. He pointed to one.
“This you should like, Miss Meat and Three Veg,” he teased.
“What is that?”
“Fish tagine. Made with fruit and spices.”
Jason poked another plate with his fork. “Kefta. Meatballs, like yesterday. Lamb over couscous.”
Gemma frowned and kept to the salads, recognisable dishes. She prodded another dish with trepidation.
“This?”
“Pastilla. Like a meat pie. Except this one is fish filled.”
She screwed up her face, like a small, disgruntled child.
“Gemma, don’t judge by appearance. Put something in your mouth,” he berated. “You must be hungry. I want you to eat.”
“It’s just.... I know what I like, you know, pasta and rice dishes.”
“Shut your eyes. Go on, shut them,” he murmured, leaning towards her.
She did.
>
“Open your mouth. I’m going to feed you. You’re going to judge this food using your nose and tongue. Nothing else. Open!” he insisted.
With resignation, she parted her lips. She barely chewed the mouthful before swallowing quickly.
“No. Not like that, savour it.” He put the fork to her mouth again. “Well?”
The dish tasted fine. Flavours of ginger, honey, and citrus fruits. The fish, light and flaky. “Okay. I like that one.”
“It was tagine. Let’s try another.”
The meal progressed, and she tried each dish. She didn’t especially enjoy the pastilla but acknowledged the rest as quite nice.
“Mmmm nice. I provide you with new and exciting cuisine, and I get the ubiquitous nice,” he growled.
“All right. Delicious. There, happy?” She opened her eyes.
She thought his face showed delight, his white teeth visible, blue eyes sparkling, pleasing her greatly.
Food was a major feature of the bustling, crowded central market, along with fish and spices. Gemma strolled amongst stalls selling clothing, spices, and handicrafts, hunting for a souvenir that would give her the sense of being in Africa.
Jason prodded her arm. “Stay close. Remember to barter if you want to buy something.”
For a brief while, they walked hand in hand, but when she started to touch the goods, hold them to her nose, and rummage through baskets of trinkets, they separated. She wandered deeper into the market. The smell of food and fragrant spices called her to explore. Loud voices shouted in Spanish and Arabic. Cigarette smoke drifted by, and the dust kicked up about her heels.
Weaving in and out, she headed towards a display of colourful pots and pans. At long last, something artistic and ethnic. The crowd swarmed around, knocking against her arms, and the discord of noisy indiscriminate sounds grew. Her head throbbed, and she wanted out of the market with its narrow passageways and confusing layout. The stall she sought vanished, plucked out of sight. The alien market quickly lost its charm and appeal. Turning around to re-join Jason, she stared wildly.
Where is he? Lubinsky and Dufour?
The sensible, rational part of her mind told her to stay put and wait to be found.
But she was drowning in a sea of human bodies, suffocated by the crowd, fear of abandonment consuming her. The panicking element of her brain, the adrenaline-soaked nervousness, said run.
Anywhere.
There had to be space somewhere nearby, quiet and dust free. She elbowed her way through the morass of people. She weaved about women and children huddled together. A gesticulating man grabbed her arm, pointing at a stall until she wrenched free. Everywhere, old people with sticks to trip over and bags of goods knocking into her legs. She almost stumbled over at one point, her shoes not the best for walking briskly.
Heart pounding in her ears, she put her hands to her head and suppressed the need to scream.
Stay put! She froze like a statue. Somewhere, hunting her down, would be Jason. She sensed his presence, his control over her—his command.
***
Jason couldn’t believe how quickly the crowd had swallowed his wife. One minute there and the next gone. Not a tall woman, she was dressed inconspicuously in a long cream dress and a scarf about her neck and head. Tracking forward, Jason swivelled around.
Nothing!
Where the fuck is she?
Minutes passed quickly as he searched over the tops of heads, his height advantageous. Lubinsky, who had been nearby, called out and bolted down a passageway. Jason dodged through the crowd, shoving one vendor out of his path. That memory lurked in his head—the one of his wife being escorted out of a ballroom at the point of a knife. Lubinsky stopped and pointed to a familiar figure, several metres away, facing the opposite direction. Jason took off again, passing the guard. Unperturbed by obstacles, he knocked a walking stick out of his way with a kick.
Breathing hard, Jason grabbed her hard above the elbow and spun her about sharply.
“Jason!” Gemma gasped and threw herself at him. His arms encased her trembling body.
“Shhh, baby. You’re safe now,” he soothed. “Let’s get out of here.”
With an arm tight about her waist, he steered her to where they had entered the maelstrom, the edge of the market. Lubinsky hailed a cab, and they bundled her into the back and rode, shoulder-to-shoulder, to the docks.
Jason said nothing to anyone. He didn’t alleviate his wife’s nerves with a cuddle, instead he folded his arms across his chest and stared out of the window. She remained quivering against his shoulder. His opinion of Lubinsky and Dufour, he kept to himself, suppressing the temptation to rail at the them in the confines of the car.
In general, Jason had no criticism of the two men. However, he’d noticed they didn’t talk to each other much. Did they dislike each other? The specialist marine security firm who employed the men had assured him they were of the highest standard.
The professionals could wait. His immediate priority was his wife.
***
Jason didn’t let go of Gemma until they entered the stateroom and stood by the window bay. Releasing his grip, he flicked the switch to close the blinds. The room descended into a dim light. She shut her eyes and sank to her knees. His face, in the low light, was the one she hated to see. A grim scowl with lips tightly pressed together, cheeks unusually red.
For a few minutes, he paced up and down before flinging off his shoes and jacket. His sweat-dampened shirt clung to his chest and armpits.
“I don’t believe it. You were told to keep us in view at all times. I let go of your hand on the basis that you would not stray. What the fuck got into your head?”
Gemma buried her face in her hands. How could she have been disorientated so quickly and easily? She tried hard to think where she had gone wrong. At what point had she lost sight of Jason and his guards. All she could remember was blind panic and the terror at being alone in a strange place. The suffocating presence of so many people, the heat, the dust, and the smell.
“I’m sorry. Sir,” she squeaked. She couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“What did I tell you I would do to you if you broke a rule? A vow of obedience you made to me. A vow you would take your safety and well-being seriously. Well?”
“You would punish me severely, Sir.”
“Cane you. Thrash your sorry arse to hell.”
***
Jason stood over her pathetic body, her shoulders quaking and head bowed. She wasn’t arguing with him, no back chat, defensive or mitigating statements pleading an alternative perspective. She appeared contrite and resigned to her fate, having knelt without prompting. Was this behaviour authentic? He was taken aback by her meekness. It wasn’t what he expected from her. In the past, she had used her lack of liberty as a means to rebel against him, to make her mark and push his buttons. Either for some underhanded purpose or simply because she couldn’t tolerate his rules. Her submissive side would lose out to her dormant disobedient nature.
“Go wash your face. Take a few minutes to collect yourself. Go!”
Jason leant back in his chair, sipping a glass of water as he analysed the catastrophic walk in the market. His fear of losing her filled him with dread. With his wife out of sight, he pressed a hand to his sweaty forehead, dragging the palm down his face, and drew in a slow breath of relief. Dealing with her disappearance had opened him up to lack of control. He rarely felt panic or fear. He had that afternoon, as he had many moons ago when he’d thought a lunatic had attacked his then girlfriend, or when he had been told his wife had been strangled The unwanted sentiment reminded him how important Gemma had become to him. Not only as his sexual submissive but as his lover, spouse, and friend. She encompassed all the elements he needed in his female companion. She was irreplaceable.
When he opened his eyes, she had returned and knelt nearby. Her breathing had calmed although her cheeks remained pale and her eyes darted about.
“Do I need a reas
on to punish you?” he asked.
“No. I accept that you are punishing me, and I’m grateful,” she intoned. Her resignation was complete. He had brought her on vacation to have a relaxing, sensual, and sexy holiday. “For the rest of the cruise, I will try harder, to please you, show my gratitude and my love.”
Her gaze flickered for a second. The cane hanging from his hand, tapping the calf of his leg in a mesmerising swing. Shutting her eyes, she waited for her punishment. The silence continued, and she remained unmoving, breathing deeply, meditative. Jason made his decision.
He laid the cane on the table at the foot of the bed and rested his hands on its surface. “I’m not going to punish you. For one thing, you have punished yourself. Your fear and terror at being lost in the market must have been unbearable. Fear is a powerful deterrent. I don’t think you will be quite so silly next time we are in a crowded location. Will you?” he asked softly.
“No, Sir.” Her voice broke.
“You were reckless, forgetting your vulnerabilities. Your fear of crowds. Your tendency to suffer with panic attacks and to run when you’re afraid. That’s a hard instinct to suppress.” He took a deep breath. “I should have been keeping better track of you. I can’t judge you without judging myself. I’m sorry. We took too long to find you. You did well to hold your ground. We found you because you stayed still. Now, take your clothes off and lie on the bed.”
She rose unsteadily, holding onto a nearby chair. With a few fumbles, she managed to undress. She crawled over the bed, resting her head on her pillow, and lay on her belly, legs together. Jason came and lay next to her. He ran his hand down her back. She quivered slightly at his initial touch, and a few goose bumps formed on her buttocks.
“I’m sorry, too. I forgot to keep my eyes on you,” whispered Gemma into the sheet.
“What impresses me is your willingness to submit to a punishment you didn’t deserve. You surrendered your body without dissent or questioning my reasons. Today, you should be proud.”
She gave a small sob. Probably due to relief, not sadness. He traced his finger past her newly acquired henna tattoo and between her buttocks. She raised her bottom a fraction and parted her legs, showing him her sex. He slipped down her slit, caressing her labia, and she hugged the pillow in her arms, burying her face.
