by Jaye Peaches
“Does she need a glass of water?”
Gemma put a hand to her face. It would be pale. Her heart palpitated under her ribs, and her vision blurred. A halo of light from the ceiling appeared first then the untidy desk, and finally she was back in the room with the sensation she had been wandering somewhere else.
“I’m fine. Sorry,” murmured Gemma, her clammy hand locked amongst Jason’s slender fingers. He crouched down by her chair, his sharp eyes assessing her. She must have drifted away; she hadn’t even seen him move from his seat. Tears welled as disappointment replaced fear.
“Sure?” he whispered.
She massaged her forehead, sniffed, and gave a small but energetic nod. “Yes.” She reached over to the desk and picked up the leaflets. “I’ll read these through carefully.”
Jason sat back down, watching her like a hawk. “Did you tell Mrs Henderson about your assault—”
“Yes,” she interjected.
Maggie, her new friend and confidante, put the conversation into context, and her mouth formed a circle. “Ah. If there is a problem with blood, we can deal with that nearer the time. Don’t trouble yourself about it now. We’ll book you for a dating scan. Three weeks’ time. In the meantime, there is nothing much to do. Perhaps avoiding lapsong souchong would be a good idea.” She smiled. A nervous attempt with twitchy lips and a glance at Jason. His focus of attention remained on Gemma.
“I probably should take my own tea bags in to work. Labelled for use by pregnant neurotic women only.” Gemma laughed half-heartedly. Another, more exciting thought buzzed through her head. They could start to tell people now. She could wallow in the congratulations and hugs.
Jason stood up. “Come. We both have to get back to work. You can enjoy the adulation when you let everyone know why you’re running to the toilets every time they give you a cup of tea.”
Gemma waved a small farewell to Maggie over her shoulder as she slipped out of the door. She would e-mail her obstetrician with an explanation of her anxieties about the birth sooner rather than later. She didn’t want to dwell on the issue throughout her pregnancy, determined to enjoy the tiny thing inside her, to feel it grow and thrive in her belly.
***
Jason dropped Gemma back at work after their appointment. He hadn’t been happy with her state of mind, at first, but she perked up in the car, clutching the ultrasound picture. She couldn’t stop staring at the little tadpole. Was it a boy or a girl? Did she mind which?
“You’re all right?” he asked one more time, pulling up outside her office, a nondescript building off a side street.
She fingered the stitching of the leather seat. “Yes.” She glanced at him and gave him a small smile. “I’m sorry I tried to humiliate you. It kind of backfired, though, didn’t it?”
Jason trapped a loose lock of her hair between his fingers and tucked it behind her ear. “You were up against a master, my dear. Bound to fail.” He drew her head nearer.
She puckered her lips and he leant forward to kiss them.
“Go to work, babe, and glow for me.”
She did bloom for a while when she went into Daniel’s office and told him her news. The word quickly spread around and there were lots of congratulations and jokes about bumps, nappies, and baby sick. She didn’t mind, happy to revel in the attention.
Jason and Gemma spent the evening on the phone talking to their respective parents and siblings.
Gemma’s mum and dad couldn’t hide their ecstatic delight. “I’m going to be a granny,” her mother exclaimed.
“Or nanna. You might have to compete for the title with Jason’s mum.”
“I don’t mind. I’m so pleased for you both.”
Her brother, John, was next in line for the news.
“Well done, sis. Going to be a mum, eh? So, was it Sublime that created this one?” He chuckled .
“Possibly, more likely on land in Venice, I think. You’ll be pleased to know the baby was probably conceived vanilla style. So I can avoid mentioning bondage when the poor child asks later on in life.”
Her brother laughed even louder at the comment. After many misunderstandings and burying his head in the sand, John had come to terms with his sister’s preferred lifestyle.
By bedtime, her mood had deflated again. The moment the lights went out, her wretched disappointment in having had a panic attack brought out the sobs. Jason, stuck at his study desk, couldn’t comment on her despondency. Tears had dampened her pillowcase by the time he came into the darkened bedroom. He slipped into bed and dragged her over to his side for a cuddle.
“Don’t cry. I know you’re upset. There is no miracle cure. Little steps, some forward, some backwards. I’ll be with you for each one, babe. Right here next to you.”
Chapter 6. Rules
Jason picked up the blister pack of folic acid tablets. Gemma had unpacked them from her handbag when she arrived at Blythewood House earlier in the day, Friday morning, excited to tell Mrs Harris the news. The housekeeper had thrown her arms about her, smacking a hefty kiss on her cheek. The woman had no children and hadn’t ever given a reason why.
“I going to be taking special care of you,” she had announced, releasing Gemma from her clutches.
Jason flipped the blister pack over. The days of the week were printed on the back. “You’ve missed one.”
His comment didn’t surprise her. “Just one. I’m nine weeks pregnant, and that’s all I’ve missed.” She didn’t have the courage to tell him it was her second strip and she had forgotten two on the previous one. Keeping her head down, she managed to avoid his gaze. He tossed the pills back on the bedside stand.
“I’m hungry. I’m going to have a snack,” she said and hurried off to the kitchen, leaving him in the bedroom.
She’d spent the afternoon reading leaflets and skimming through her pregnancy books. She wished she hadn’t. One book gave a blow-by-blow weekly guide to being pregnant, and she didn’t seem to fit any of the descriptions. Yes, her boobs resembled melons in size, and she had been sick, but she didn’t feel especially tired, her mouth didn’t taste metallic, and neither was she dashing to the toilet frequently. She fretted she wasn’t feeling pregnant enough.
By the time Jason got home, a sea of facts, FAQs, and advice had amassed in her head, drowning out her rational thoughts. Not a clear list of do this or don’t do that, just advice or worse—speak to your health-care team—a comment at the bottom of each sheet. Gemma liked structure and unequivocal guidelines. When she worked, she applied her methodologies and rules, knowing them to be efficacious. She hadn’t suspected being pregnant would create a stream of ambivalence about her own natural status. She’d assumed it would be clear-cut and laid out like a road map.
Inside the fridge, on the middle shelf, pate: a no-no. Goat’s cheese meant listeria, and eggs would have to be well cooked. Gemma hated hard-boiled eggs, and just imaging the solid pale yolk nauseated her already-anxious belly. Slamming the fridge door, the food issue was the final straw, and she screamed expletives at the refrigerator as if it was to blame.
“What fucking good am I going to be as a bloody mother when I can’t even feed my fucking self.”
“Gemma!”
She spun around. He stood in the doorway. The intensity of his stare projecting across the room like the beam of a laser pointer. Gemma hid her face behind her hands. Jason wrenched them away and held her face between his slender fingers.
“What’s with the crazy shouting? Don’t tell me this is just hormones, because I don’t buy it.”
“I can’t find anything to eat. All those bloody leaflets and books telling me what I can and can’t do. They’re not even consistent. I’m not finding pregnancy easy.”
“Why did you think it would be easy? Your body is changing daily, and here you stand, stressed out and screaming the place down.”
He drew her towards him, and she rested against his chest. Gemma listened to his beautiful calming heartbeat radiating out while he s
troked her back in a parallel rhythm.
She snivelled. A childish sound even by her own standards. “I feel like rubbish. The fridge just seemed full of things I can’t eat.”
“I find that hard to believe.” He let go of her, opened the fridge, and rummaged through it. “Cheddar cheese, mature. Carrots from your own garden. Chicken soup, homemade by Mrs Harris. I don’t see what the problem is, Gemma. If you go looking for stuff you shouldn’t touch, you’re going to see it, aren’t you?” He took the cheese out and found a packet of crackers in a lower cupboard.
She slid onto a stool by the breakfast bar, and while he sliced pieces of the cheddar, she buttered the crackers.
“Better?”
Pausing, she rocked her head from side to side, uncertain whether to give an affirmation. “Yes.”
He sighed, spotting her lack of conviction. “When are you at your calmest, Gem, most settled and confident in yourself?”
She wiped butter off her lip with the tip of a finger. “You know the answer. When I’m with you. At your feet, waiting for you to tell me what to do. I’m at peace then. Assuming you’re not going to ask me to do something I detest!” she said with a half-hearted grin.
She rested her head on her arm. His finger traced the outline of her cheekbone. The crackers lay on the plate, her appetite gone.
“Be my submissive, Gemma. Not for the sex, but because then you will be my pregnant wife to control and you will not have to sink into this state of uncertainty and rambling thoughts. I will give you protocols, specific rules to follow to help you cope. Instead of seeing the information or advice given to you as obstructive and frightening, I would make it acceptable to you.” He leaned on his elbows, levelling his face with her hers.
She blinked several times, tilting her head up. His request came out of the blue. He’d never brought up such a full-time arrangement before, not since their engagement, when they’d swept away their previous failed attempt at Domination and submission. Back then, she’d resisted high levels of control in her life, being micro-managed, but, as he pointed out, he hadn’t framed his current request in the context of sex. “What would you get out of it? If this isn’t about sex?”
His eyes twinkled at her. The overhead halogens accentuated their blueness. “You. A pregnant submissive who trusts me and abides by my rules. I would be involved—a connection to the baby. That would please me. The sex would be there, but our existing arrangements would remain unchanged. This would simply be about dominating you, me as the traditional head of household, maybe practise at being Daddy?” Gemma couldn’t picture Jason as a Daddy Dom, but there again, he called her babe all the time, and a mainstay of his dominance had always been his protective nature. His expression grew sterner. He tapped the breakfast bar. “Do as I ask without questioning me. Unburden your overactive mind and imagination. It would please me to have your obedience.” He stood up. “Think about it.”
Flummoxed by his request, she could do little but think about his idea. As he was about to leave the room, a thought popped up. She swivelled about on the barstool. “Could you write something down for me, you know, some kind of protocols or rules. Something concrete for me to consider and discuss with you.”
Jason shrugged, holding the door handle. “Sure. If it helps.”
Gemma went to bed early, not to sleep, but to snuggle up under the duvet and watch the flat-screen television tucked away in the corner of the room. The pictures didn’t entertain her. She wandered mentally, recollecting the afternoon’s gardening stint. A disappointing summer with plenty of foul weather and cool air. She’d done some weeding and planting in her vegetable patch, and over the telephone discussed with her brother, John, a fellow gardening enthusiast, her plans to have a fruit orchard.
She never had any difficulties planning her hobbies or interests. Nor at her work desk, where she was well-grounded in the necessary methodologies and processes. So why was she turning into a hopeless pregnant woman? Didn’t other women breeze through pregnancy without fraying at the seams?
She hadn’t always been indecisive or lacking in self-belief. The younger Gemma Marshall had attended kinky parties and events, mixing and socialising with confidence. With hindsight, she pictured a cocksure graduate, almost arrogant about her capabilities. Walking into a crowded room, she would quickly greet fellow players. Meeting new people, she hadn’t been shy or withdrawn, and if she encountered a nervous newcomer, she tried hard to set him or her at ease.
Having chosen to be a willing sexual submissive, she’d never felt the need to be controlled as a necessity to help her cope with life in general—to sink into submission and let go of decisions. To hand total power over to another.
Jason had taken that power, when it mattered most. Her self-belief had plummeted after her rape. Not only had her trust and libido vaporised, she’d lost confidence in her abilities. She ring-fenced work, family, and vanilla friends in a protected area of her mind, refusing to let what happened to her affect all areas of her life. Then Jason had stepped in to rescue the submissive Gemma. After other violent or manipulative attacks on her, he had often taken more control over her life to help re-establish her confidence. Now, he offered to do the same again.
Entering the bedroom, he joined her on the bed, and she switched the TV off. Passing her a couple of sheets of paper, she leaned back against the headboard and examined the printed text.
“You haven’t written these protocols in legal mumbo jumbo have you?” Trained as a lawyer, her husband knew how to write lengthy contracts.
He glowered, snatching the sheets back off her. “If I had, it would be ten times longer and full of impenetrable caveats. No. Simple language and written from your perspective, since you asked for these rules. There will be your views to take into account, so it’s not cast in concrete yet, more of a slurry.” He held them out a second time.
Gemma smiled at his analogy. She read the first few lines and immediately opened her mouth to make a comment. Questions popped into her head about the first rule.
Jason put a finger to her lips. “At least have the courtesy to read the whole thing before you start your critique. The rules denoted by asterisks are existing ones, primarily about your safety. Some I have modified.”
She sucked in a long breath. Though Jason had written the rules, she could have done the deed herself. The important part would be the discussion and coming to a mutual agreement; they were her rules as much as his, and she needed to be happy with them. She finished reading the document and went back to the first page.
“Number one basically says what I always wanted, that medical decisions relating to my pregnancy are mine. So, if I want an epidural, water baths, or a choir singing in the background, then I get it. Yes?”
“Absolutely. Though I don’t think a choir would fit into a delivery room.” He settled back and shut his eyes. “Go on.”
“Clause three. Submitting to your will, letting you control my body, takes into account clause one?”
“If you want me to make it that explicit, I can.”
“Four: I will obey my dominant as he assists me through my pregnancy. Doesn’t that imply you can do what the hell you like with me?” Jason opened his eyes as she pointed out the rule with a manicured fingertip.
“No. It means that I have flexibility. Pregnancy lasts a few months. I can’t anticipate what other issues may arise based on how you are now. In any case, you vowed to obey me when you married me, so I could argue that the rule about obedience exists already.”
True, she thought. She didn’t regret making the vow, but it had landed her in hot water from time to time when he invoked it. The extra ceremony they’d performed in their honeymoon suite still made her tingle. It had been almost like one of those Master/slave ceremonies she’d attended on a couple of occasions, when a sub was collared or made a declaration of commitment to their Dom. Gemma had knelt, still in her wedding gown, promised to obey him, and kissed his wedding ring. He, in return, had promised to p
rotect and take care of her. After that poignant moment, he’d been very keen to undress her.
“What is clause five all about? Daily inspections! Greeting you when you come home. I greet you already, don’t I?” She felt a tad annoyed at what seemed like a trivial request.
“Greet me?” His arms folded across his chest. “Some days, yes, but you don’t exactly welcome me into the house. A good sub should be there, waiting and eager.”
She had to admit she’d become negligent in kneeling and presenting to him, but then she wasn’t his submissive all day long—they had prescribed times.
“I do when we do the scenes. You really want me to go down on my knees every time you walk into a room?”
“Not on your knees, subbie. Eye contact would be a good start. Recently, you just grunt.”
“I do?” Today, he had turned up in the hallway, and she had to concede she had yelled a belated, “Hi, yah,” from the kitchen. She could see his point.
“I’ll try harder. Inspection?”
He flicked a finger at the paper, eyebrows raised. “Go stand in the middle of the room,” he said unexpectedly.
“Now?”
“Gemma, clause four. Obedience?” He pointed at the rug.
She huffed but got out of bed and stood where he indicated.
“Take off your nightgown. Bra, too.”
She’d taken to wearing a bra in bed to help with the discomfort. After she had tossed the clothes onto the bed, he strolled over to stand next to her.
“I can’t wait to watch your body change. See and feel that baby move inside of you,” he whispered in her ear.
He ran a hand down her back, and she quivered. The other began a journey from her neck down. He skimmed over her breasts, pausing to squeeze each nipple gently then his fingers went over her abdomen. So far, nothing outwardly had changed down there. He cupped her sex, and she shut her eyes, relaxing against his chest. If this was what he meant by inspection, he could do it several times a day, she decided.
