by Jaye Peaches
***
A steward greeted the couple at the doorway of the casino. Little did the steward know that Gemma wasn’t allowed to open doors for herself, nor choose her own seat, or even move without permission. Jason would select her drinks and food and monitor her posture at all times. She was under the control of her husband in all matters, regardless of their significance. She liked the situation. He fed her submission, making her feel special and at the centre of Jason’s attention.
Gemma floated in her idyllic world of dreams. During the brief drive to the casino, she had admired the scenery. The small principality of Monaco had given the world princesses and princes, James Bond sets, and the glamorous Grand Prix. To be part of the lifestyle would have been unimaginable a few years ago, sitting in her cubicle, staring at computer screens, waiting for the evenings or weekends when she would be some man’s sex toy. An existence that had driven her to an inglorious endpoint. She pushed the unpleasant thoughts away, easy to do as she stared out of the window.
The casino, set in lush, extravagant gardens, resembled an aristocratic palace. The valet opened their door and waited patiently for Gemma’s careful negotiation of the vehicle’s doorway. Jason quickly arrived at her side and held out a steadying hand.
She took a step forward. “Oh, gosh. The ground feels odd. It’s not moving.”
“Weird isn’t it. It will pass quickly. Good job you’re not drunk,” he added with a smirk.
She didn’t frown at him—she had learnt her lesson.
Jason left her in the bar, with strict instructions to stick to fruit juices and not to move an inch until he returned. He went to arrange for the gambling chips to be ready for them once they had dined.
***
Gemma struggled to take in the casino experience. The opulent building with its painted frescos adorning the walls and very high ceilings, overarching the gaming room, projected a scale similar to an opera house.
“Try not to gape,” said Jason, tapping her chin. “You look like you’re at the dentist.”
He steered her towards the Blackjack table. No one else was there besides the croupier—a smart man in a decorative waistcoat with an expressionless face, who could outdo Jason’s own impassive features. Their chips already lay on the table, and Gemma settled down into a chair facing the dealer. She picked up one of the chips.
“These are hundred euro chips. The minimum bet is ten euros,” she hissed over her shoulder at him.
“It’s what you win that matters. Enjoy yourself, babe.”
He stood back with his arms folded across his chest. Remy was discreetly placed a few paces behind her husband, eyeballing the room. Once people knew she was laying big bets, there would be a crowd.
“Madame.”
The croupier offered her a cutting card, and Gemma cut the deck. He waited, glancing at the chips on the table.
“Gemma, you need to place bet before you can start, remember?” Jason leant forward to whisper in her ear.
“Whoops.” She laid a hundred euro chip, and the game began.
She lost several games in a row. The excitement at being in a grand exotic location had distracted her. She kept glancing around the room, at the other gaming tables and the clientele of the casino. The constant background babble of conversation, the occasion shriek of delight or collective groan of disappointment from the roulette table robbed her of concentration.
Focus. That would be Jason’s command in her ear. Taking a deep breath, she blocked out her surroundings and gave the table her complete attention. The croupier dealt her a fresh hand. An ace. She tried to remember how many aces had passed out of the shoe already.
Count them. Count the cards.
Gemma started to win. Her mind went into her analytical mode. She saw cards imprinted on her mind, and a mental counter ticked over. She didn’t expect accuracy; she simply wanted to increase the odds of her winning. The chips were returning to her side of the table, and she stacked them into neat piles. Nervously, she sneaked a peak over her shoulder to the stationary Jason. His features remained impassive. He and the croupier could hold a competition for poker faces, she thought sardonically.
A small crowd had gathered about them, staring at her painted hands and decorative nails. She absentmindedly twirled the chips through her tattooed fingers. While sipping on her glass of water, she tapped another chip on the table, mimicking her own rapid pulse. Jason had sent back the free alcoholic drinks offered to her.
She had a good memory. A memory for holding reams of poetry in her head and for viewing spreadsheets of numbers and figures with their calculations swirling around her head. She used her artistic brain to help her remember things, including numbers. She visualised decorative, colourful playing cards and linked them with the numbers. The specific images remained implanted in her head and, through them, the numbers came back to her.
A full bladder distracted Gemma. She told the croupier she was taking a comfort break and would return. With stiff legs, she rose, Jason supporting her arm.
“I’ll wait here for you.”
Returning, she resumed her seat. The croupier dealt a new hand.
“Card.”
“Vingt-deux.”
Bust, and the house won.
That hand marked the beginning of her slippery decline in fortune. The bathroom break had disrupted her concentration and thrown her memory out of kilter.
Gemma watched all her hard earnings slip away, like water through her fingers. Despite the rapidly vanishing chips, she couldn’t stop playing. She was convinced concentration and luck would return to her side of the table.
She became reckless with her bets. Placing bigger ones on high-risk hands. She could hear the gasps about her, and she lost her composure further. Her hands trembled and feet shuffled under the table.
When she had been on a roll—the chips piling up—she had heard the mutters and whispers about the room. “Go watch the painted girl on the Blackjack table.”
The idea of her beauty capturing the men and bringing them to her side didn’t help her concentration. She sensed them about her, admiring the man who stood behind her, probably thinking he was extremely lucky to have such a woman. Jason, however, hadn’t said a word and barely acknowledged her winnings. He waited, content to leave her to the game, until the chips slipped out of her hands.
The house won again. Then again.
Jason rested his hand on her shoulder. “Time to go, Gemma. It’s getting late.”
The excuse given, Jason halted the game. There was a groan from the audience when she handed the croupier a chip for his efforts. The young man gave a grateful, “thank you”. Gemma picked up her clutch purse and took Jason’s proffered arm.
“Shall we?” He indicated the exit.
She waited for him as he returned the remaining chips to the cashier. He would be totting up his losses.
“Well?” she asked, scurrying alongside him as they headed towards the main entrance.
“I’m nearly twenty-five thousand euros a poorer man, my darling,” he said with a raised eyebrow.
Gemma wanted the floor to swallow her up. “Seriously. I...all that money!” Her ineptitude stunned her. “I was winning well at one point.” She tugged on his arm.
“Yes, you were. Close to thirty thousand euros up on the day. Then you went to the ladies, and God knows, you detached your brain and went silly with the bets.” He removed her hand from his arm and gave it a squeeze.
“I...don’t recall.... You’re not winding me up, Jason?” She couldn’t comprehend the amount she had lost.
“I don’t joke about money.”
They paused in the foyer while waiting for the car. The cool breeze from the outside whipped across her flushed face.
“Why you didn’t cash in when you stopped for a pee, I don’t know. Got greedy, didn’t you?” He sighed. “No self-control.”
Gemma stood straight in front of him, arms crossed. “Why didn’t you stop me then?”
S
he caught sight of the mocking glint in his eyes. “You were having fun, and that is what gambling is all about. Risk-taking entertainment. I wouldn’t have given you a substantial quantity of chips if I wasn’t prepared for you to fritter a considerable amount away.” Bending down, he kissed her trembling lips.
“Next time you gamble with our money, you will have the sense to go out on top, won’t you?” He drew back from the kerb as the Mercedes approached.
She fretted as the driver drove them back to Sublime. Over and over, she played the last few hands in her head. Yes, she had picked up piles of chips and tossed them on her cards. Perhaps they had been five-hundred-valued chips, not a hundred. She blamed the audience, the chattering hushed voices, and the constant references to her hands.
Jason composed a message on his mobile. “Remember I said there would be either a reward for you or you would reimburse me? I’m letting Enrique know which way the evening fell for you.”
He hit send, and Gemma shut her eyes, resigned to her fate. She could do nothing to halt the progress of events. It didn’t matter if she was in the mood for play or not. Jason was.
When they boarded the yacht, the crew, upon hearing of their adventure, offered their commiserations. Jason didn’t reveal the amount lost, but he made a jovial comment about Gemma bankrupting him and that he’d had to drag her out before he was unable to pay their wages. They laughed at his humour and sarcasm.
Gemma draped her wrap over the armchair in the salon and slipped off her sandals. Jason spoke to Enrique in low tones by the door to their stateroom.
“Go and prepare yourself. Ten minutes,” he instructed her as if she was an actress given her curtain call.
Maria appeared and accompanied her towards the bathroom.
“Do you want me to undress myself, or would you like to, Sir?” asked Gemma as she passed by Jason.
“Nice thought. I will do it. That dress is divine.” He gave her bottom a smack.
By the time she entered the stateroom, he had divested himself of his jacket, shirt, tie, and socks. She didn’t think it would be long before his trousers and pants went, too. What really caught her attention was the rearrangement of the furniture. The glass-top table had been shifted to one side and the pulley system revealed. Below, the carpet had been covered with a thin rug. The blinds were drawn, and the room softly lit, giving it ambiance. Jason had created a mini dungeon, and the sight of it triggered the usual symptoms. Her pussy clenched, her heart thumping hard against her breast, and her scalp prickled.
Gemma sank to her knees at his feet, and he touched her braided hair.
“Remember your safe-words. You have limited experience at suspension. I don’t want you subspace or forget your weaknesses. Focus on me, my voice, and what I tell you do. Stand up.”
***
His nose lingered in her hair. Jason loved her smell—it was an elixir for his passions. He had watched her all evening. The rise and fall of her bust as she experienced moments of exhilarated excitement, seeing her chips pile up. The hands stroking the circular pieces of plastic. The nape of her neck and the narrowness of her waist. The way her hips swayed when she walked in the high heels. He wanted to drink her, devour her, and he’d had to wait while she played her game of Blackjack. Now it was his turn to play.
He laid his hands on her shoulder straps and stripped her naked, taking his time to savour her smooth skin, the tight fit of the dress, and her lacy lingerie. Pushed down, she lay on the floor as Enrique and Jason systematically bound her body.
Enrique had prepared ropes for him. Not all of the same length, they fulfilled different purposes. Some would bind her arms to her torso, others to bend and splay her legs, and the longest ones to lift and hold her up off the ground. Jason opted to provide plenty of support for her body. In his opinion, she was a novice at suspension, and he didn’t want to put too much strain on her flesh.
He touched her as he encased her in rope. Sometimes a caress then a pinch and, when he had the opportunity, a hard smack to her bottom. If she complained, he warned her and she abated. He licked his tongue over her belly, from her mons to her cleavage, tasting her succulent skin. A feast for the senses.
They had begun with playful words, but as he prepared to hoist her up, he turned to vulgar ones. Her chest rose and fell, listening to what he said to her. She pleaded—her, “please be gentle, Sir” made him chuckle. He would never harm her, but gentleness wasn’t at the forefront of his mind.
As she rose off the ground, she tensed.
“Don’t. Relax or else it will hurt more than you like.”
He would flog her first, to help her give and surrender to him. Once naked, he fisted his hand about his cock, ensuring it extended to its maximum, and smeared some lubricant on it for extra comfort. Gagged, she held a small bell in one hand. If she dropped it, she would be telling him to stop. Enrique, with the benefit of his experience, would watch her carefully, too. Jason rarely suspended any submissive without the presence of another. Fucking a bound woman, hung from the ceiling, brought him to a place of Domspace. Somewhere he would take his pleasure, and rather like subspace, he could stay there in a blissful paradise forever.
***
Gemma’s previous experiences of full suspension were limited to a few occasions with Jason and a number of times with a former Dominant mentor who had plenty of skills in the art of ropework. The helplessness of bondage took her to a new level of submission. She physically floated off, in tune with her mental drifting. To be used for sex while so vulnerable gave her a sublime sense of fulfilment. The ropes would form a pattern about her skin. A different kind of temporary marking to the ones of the impact implements. Being bound, with no freedom to move, she put her faith in Jason completely. She felt both liberated and a binding connection to him—facets no other play could replicate.
Lying on the floor, she watched her husband and his assistant go about their task with minimal communication. Although it had been some years since the two men had last practised their ropework collectively, it appeared as if it had been only yesterday. Whatever Jason required, Enrique passed without a word. While Jason looped his intricate knots, all based on Japanese bondage styles, Enrique supported her body in different positions.
There was nothing tedious or boring about the process of being prepared. It took time, but her husband took little moments to keep her on edge. He flicked her erect nipples like a doctor with a syringe full of liquid. She winced each time his finger landed on her tender flesh with force. When he ran the palm of his hand over her skin, she swooned. When he wished, Jason could impart such a delicate touch and his smooth skin felt almost ticklish.
He flipped her over and bestowed several hard smacks to her bottom.
“Meanie!” she yelped.
“Twenty-five thousand,” he whispered in her ear, and she gulped back another complaint. She had no ground to stand on—just like in her suspension. He could take what he wanted from her as recompense.
“Master,” she muttered, “I’m sorry.”
Jason finished binding her and bringing his hand down to her most delicate part, he cupped it.
“Was is this?” he hissed.
“Your pussy, Sir,” she said quickly.
He slapped it hard, and she bit back a cry. “What is this?” he repeated.
“Your fuckhole,” she answered. Fingers probed, juices flowed about them, and she shivered—the only movement she could achieve with her constraints.
“My hole, yes, to fuck. Mine.”
The moment came for her to be lifted up, and the pulley creaked slightly. Gemma experienced a moment of panic, the sensation she would come crashing down. An unnecessary worry. The ropes were of good quality, soft, but strong. He told her to relax and let go of her fears.
While she hung, he used her as he had promised. She lost most of his actions in a haze of bliss. Both of them had orgasms; however, for Gemma, there were moments of pain, which she absorbed and secretly delighted enduring. He didn�
�t take her too far. The toys he’d threatened her with were cursory interludes. What she craved, he delivered, and he penetrated, rocking her on and off him. Hearing him grunt, growl, and call her his slut simply added to the thrill. She spluttered nonsense into her gag, sometimes a delightful moan, occasionally a plea for mercy, words she didn’t mean—she clung to the bell tightly.
With her back on the floor, divested of her bindings, he whispered. “Easily worth twenty-five thousand, babe. I would have paid double to do that to you. Good job you’re my sex slave and not a paid whore.” He went to fetch a towel.
“Are my debts repaid, then?” she murmured into the rug when he returned.
“Definitely. How did you find the suspension?” He stroked a stray strand of hair out of her face. Her mascara stained his fingers.
“Are there casinos in London?” she replied. “I might squander more of your money. I liked paying off your debts.”
“You should have a chat with Lubinsky,” he suggested sternly and wiped the perspiration off her face with the towel.
Next to him, Maria discreetly bathed Gemma’s ravished private parts.
“Your orgasm was so strong, Enrique had to hold your head to stop you whiplashing yourself.” He knelt over her with a glowing face, a bead of sweat slipping down his temple.
“I’ve had enough whip lashing for a while, thank you, Sir. That’s what my skin is telling me.” She raised her body up on her elbows. “That vacuum pump thing. You know, it was the first time for me?”
“Yes. A hard or soft limit?”
“Oh soft, probably. I don’t know. I’m tired.” Her mental acuity vacated her brain, and she released a deep yawn.
He patted her head sympathetically. “Come on off the floor.”
