Sublime Trust

by Jaye Peaches

  The instruction was for her to play with herself: front and back, finger up each. After squirting lubricant on her fingers—she always came prepared with a bottle—she lifted her bum, and pressed her middle finger into her anus. She slid her other hand down her wet slit and easily accommodated two fingers inside her pussy. She rocked back and forth, increasing the pace and agitation.

  “Please, Sir, may I come?” she moaned. Having avoided looking at the monitor, she snuck a peak at him. He lay on the bed, unmoving. “Nope.”

  Repeatedly, she asked, beseeching him with a sweet voice. He wouldn’t budge.

  She stuck her tongue out at him. He chuckled softly.

  Infuriating her further, he took a phone call from somebody on his mobile while she continued her humiliating performance. Her jiggling hands ached, and she leaked onto the towel she’d laid out underneath. The phone conversation continued in the background, and she listened to Jason’s tone, the rise and fall of his voice. Abruptly, the call ended, and she jolted when he addressed her directly.

  “Gemma, remember who owns your orgasms. Who owns them?” He insisted.

  “You do, Master,” she murmured.

  His eyelids started to close. “That’ll be all for now. I’m tired. Don’t touch yourself. Hands off.” He disconnected the call. Her fingers froze. Two stuffed in her sensitive pussy, the other rammed to the knuckle in her anus. So damn close to completion! She fumed.

  Withdrawing her fingers, she could sense the juices leaking out of her pussy, the wetness a reminder of her ruined orgasm. She had to finish what she’d started. The evening had ended pathetically. Gemma contemplated lying on her bed, rubbing herself frantically. Except, she didn’t reach the bedroom. She decided, in order not to defy his instructions, she wouldn’t touch herself, at least not with her hands. Standing by his desk, an expensive antique made by some renowned artisan, and also the perfect height for stimulation, she perched on the corner. Separating her legs, she nudged the rounded edge against her clitoris and ground her hips. She achieved a rather spectacular climax heaving up and down Jason’s prized desk.

  As soon as the orgasm washed out of her system, horrendous guilt set in. Stumbling away from the furniture, she rushed out of the room. In the bathroom, she washed her hands as if they were diseased, scrubbing them with a nail brush. Pacing about the bedroom, she attempted to calm down. It was one orgasm, and he didn’t know, hardly the end of the world.

  In bed she blinked in the darkness, sleeping on and off in an agitated state. Normally, when Jason was away on business, she would lie on his side of the bed and wear one of his T-shirts. Not this time. A woollen vest of penitence would have been more appropriate.

  Her restless nature continued into the next day. She fidgeted, fiddled with the kitchen utensils, in particular the spatula, which she slapped on her palm and lost track of time. Her silly orgasm had blown up into a major occupation of her thoughts. Why had she done it?

  Clara arrived, swept into the kitchen, and surveyed the mess, especially Joshua’s grubby face. She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. Gemma didn’t take the bait but looked away.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Clara.

  “Nothing.” Gemma hesitated, wondering whether she could confide in her nanny, and promptly shut her mouth. It would be helpful to talk to somebody about her recalcitrance. However, Clara might be aware of their lifestyle choice, but she didn’t ask questions or delve into the details. Quite the contrary, she remained steadfastly uninterested. As the nanny had told them at her interview, their marriage was their business. Joshua was her sole responsibility.

  From the moment Jason walked into the house a little after six o’clock, she couldn’t relax. She fussed about in the kitchen while he played with Joshua in the sitting room until the baby’s bedtime.

  They ate dinner in silence. She avoided Jason’s eyes. Never a good plan, as it was the equivalent of setting off a flare gun. Her hands trembled, and she dropped a knife on her plate with a clatter then nearly knocked over her glass of orange juice. She cursed under her breath. No alcohol tonight—she needed to keep her wits about her.

  Jason leant back in his chair. “Cat got your tongue? No chattering girl this evening?”

  She shook her head and picked at her teeth with a finger.

  “Toothache?”

  Another useless shake of her head and more avoiding eye contact. She picked up her fork and stabbed at the cold vegetables on her plate.

  “I…damn.” A pea flew across the table and with it her appetite.

  He pushed his plate to one side and for a second his head lolled forward, as if it was going to hit the table. She could sense his growing frustration with her. With a sigh, he raised his chin and surveyed the ceiling.

  His fingers thrummed on the pine surface. An irritating noise, which added to the tension in the room. “When do you want to tell me?” he asked. “I have a conference call at nine o’clock. I’d rather get this over with and move on. It’s been a long day, and I don’t know why I should be bothered with your stupidity. I assume you’ve done something stupid?”

  Gemma nodded. A tiny movement of her head. He pushed his chair back and tossed the napkin on the table. “Ten minutes.” He left her collecting the dirty dishes.

  After she had cleaned up the kitchen, she went to his study. He ignored her as she lingered in the middle of the room, her throat tight and heart pounding. She rocked on her bare toes, feeling small and inconsequential. Finished with his typing, Jason slammed his laptop shut and tilted his chair.

  “Well?”

  She crept closer to the walnut desk. “After your call yesterday....” What to say? How to explain? Gemma traced a finger along the edge of the desk, before deciding it wasn’t appropriate. For a few seconds, she stared past him to the picture hanging on the wall behind him. One of her own. Not typical of her style—an abstract arrangement of colours. Strident sweeps of the paintbrush matched by sharp angled shapes. She’d never quite understood why he liked it. The day he put it up—he rarely troubled with such tasks himself—she’d asked what he saw in the random array of shades.

  “You,” he’d said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Bright, energetic, strong. All things that draw me to you. They remind me of your submission. My feisty girl who gives so willingly. I’m a lucky man.” At the time, his explanation had stunned her. His perspective of her often seemed at odds with her own. Fidgeting with her hair, she couldn’t help wonder if he wanted her to be sassy sometimes. Fight him a little. Perhaps, he wanted her to break his rules. On the other hand, he didn’t look happy sitting with his arms crossed.

  His patience fizzled. “Oh, I can guess. Let me see, you couldn’t contain your greedy hands and you touched yourself when I told you not to.” He summed up the situation with near accuracy.

  She grimaced. “Yes,” she squeaked. “Except…I didn’t use my hands.”

  He craned forward to hear her speak. “A vibrator?” His frown grew deeper.

  “No. I....”

  “Spit it out. I haven’t got all bloody evening.”

  “Your desk. I apologise, Sir. I used the corner.” Blood rushed to her cheeks. Instinctively she took a step backwards. His face ignited with indignation.

  “You humped this!” He slammed a fist on the surface. “My own desk! You’ve surpassed yourself.”

  She gave him a small nod of acknowledgement. “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “I…. Oh, for goodness sake, go stand in the corner.” He pointed to the other side of the room. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  The cream-coloured wall filled her vision. Behind her, she heard him stab the keyboard.

  “Is that nose touching the wall?” he barked.

  She shuffled forward, and stuck out her nose, until her face was wedged into the corner. She hated corner time, and she was grateful he rarely used the humiliating reprimand.

  The floorboards creaked. A barely perceivable sound, and his footfalls cre
pt closer. Hot breath erupted onto the back of her neck. She bristled with the ticklish sensation. He looped an arm around her front, sought out the button at her waistband and unfastened i, then the zipper came down. With a yank, he lowered the tight-fitting jeans down past her hips. With another tug, her bottom was exposed. He nudged her legs apart with a foot and, grabbing her waist, shifted her pelvis backwards.

  The tip of her nose caressing the wall, arms folded behind her back and naked bottom sticking out, forcing her to bend slightly, triggered Gemma’s internal warning signal to go on high alert. Was he going to fuck her? She felt a waft of cool air on her bare skin. She shivered, a tiny quiver of expectation.

  His hands still gripped her waist, holding her steady. A stress position, one she struggled to hold. When he let go, she lost her balance and knocked her head against the wall.

  “Nose. Only the nose touches this wall. Keep that butt on display and shoulders off.”

  She complied, balancing herself and concentrating on the precarious position. How much more preposterous could things get? Her jeans slithered down her legs and came to rest by her ankles. She had her answer, and she gritted her teeth in annoyance at her loss of dignity.

  “Stay there.” He left the room.

  She risked leaning her head on the wall for respite. Pressing her cheek to one side, she could easily see the door and his return. He’d always said he didn’t like to punish and that it gave him no satisfaction or pleasure. Had she felt an erection when he touched her, brushed against her back? Was he in two minds about how to deal with her transgression? The door started to open, and she moved back into the correction position, swaying slightly as she lifted her shoulder away from the wall.

  Out of her sight, something landed with a thud on the Chesterfield couch, which was situated along one wall of his study, opposite where she stood. He’d also fetched something else from his stash in the bedroom.

  Rope. “Stand up and box your arms.”

  She complied without comment.

  Jason bound her arms tight behind her back, wrists and upper arms taut and uncomfortable. A rapid coiling of rope to keep her rigid. Her head bowed as he led her to the Chesterfield. She shuffled, her jeans impeded her movements. She kicked them off, leaving them in the middle of the room in a heap.

  Now, she could see what he had dropped on the couch. She gulped. She detested it. Bound, naked from the waist down, and about to be spanked, unshed tears hovered in the corners of her eyes.

  Sitting down, he pulled her over his lap, and she lay waiting for his chosen implement—the wooden paddle—she especially hated it when over his lap. He’d the knack of applying it painfully without much of a swing.

  “Fifty strokes.”

  Fifty!

  “It was just a teeny orgasm,” she protested sheepishly. “Itsy.” She peered over her shoulder. He didn’t look the slightest bit merciful.

  “Oh, don’t lie. I bet it rocked,” he said, poking her in the back. Her body slumped. “You know what really bothers me? Not the orgasm, or even using my desk. It was that you could have asked. A simple text. Instead, you circumvented my request by not using your hands. A deliberate manipulation of my words. I have to give you credit; you know how to find the loopholes. As a lawyer, I’m impressed.”

  She perked up a little at his compliment.

  “Doesn’t get you off.” He raised a leg and lowered it across her thighs, squeezing her legs together.

  She deflated again. Her arms ached terribly, tied behind her back and, with her legs pinned, he’d impeded her ability to wriggle.

  “Count for me, please.” He picked up the paddle. “Oh, if Joshua wakes, we postpone.”

  The paddle came down with a hard thud. The pain shot through her buttocks and she juddered underneath his arm and leg. It was apparent he didn’t think she deserved a warm-up as a precursor to her punishment. Toasted on a high setting, her poor bum didn’t have a chance to relax.

  “One, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” she blurted, then took a sharp intake of breath.

  The rest followed relentlessly. Unfortunately, Joshua didn’t wake up throughout her punishment, and Jason offered her no respite, until he reached forty. She had used all her mental distraction techniques: poems, pictures, and song recitals to help her cope. The paddle, one of those with holes drilled into it, might as well have been a cricket bat swinging to hit a six. The noise it made shocked her. A truly awful thwack, and she wondered if Brooks, in his apartment above, could hear it. The bones in her pelvis jarred; she wished she had more fleshy padding. The occasional rub down of her inflamed cheeks hardly made an impression.

  Hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She cried because it alleviated the fiery pain raging in her bottom. Counting took effort. She didn’t want to lose count, fearful he would repeat the numbers she’d missed. Numbers. She focused on them, the way they floated before her eyes and took shape. Each one brightly coloured. It helped. Somehow, numbers always did.

  “Yellow, thank you, Sir,” she muttered with a sniff.

  Jason stopped. He rested the paddle on her bottom. “Gem?”

  “Sir?”

  “You said yellow, what’s going on?”

  Her mercy word. Why had she said it? He didn’t forbid safe-words during punishments, how could he? He’d sworn to protect her, and that included painful memories. Far more painful than his paddling. But that hadn’t been why she used the word. She recalled her thoughts, moments before saying it. She sniggered.

  “Babe?” His voice had a touch of edginess about it.

  “Sorry. I saw a three. Forty-three. Three always makes me think of yellow.”

  “Jeez, you and your bloody numbers.” He lifted the paddle and thumped it down on her bottom.

  “Ow. Forty-four, thank you, Sir,” she howled.

  Then the burning reached the threshold where her brain switched into a level of acceptance. A flood of endorphin had arrived.

  The fifty came, and the spanking ended. She writhed on his lap, sobbing and wondering if he would apply some soothing lotion. However, he merely heaved her off and deposited her back in the corner, although he did untie her bindings and made no mention of noses and walls. Standing there, she tried to assimilate the pain. The red-hot fire emanating from her backside. She’d had worse, much worse, but during a scene, after a suitable warm-up and accompanied by slutty words of desire or probing fingers between her legs. Punishments were nothing like sexy spankings.

  He’d returned to his laptop. The telltale tapping filled the air between them. Ten minutes later, he joined his conference call with her still facing the corner.

  Tiredness took its toll and, while Jason finished off his call to his number two in the States, with him proudly talking about his son, Gemma nodded off on her feet.

  “Which corner?” His voice made her jump.

  “Sir?”

  “The desk. Show me.”

  Gemma went and stood by the offending corner.

  “Take off your top.” She slid out of her T-shirt, tossing it over her shoulder with a flick of the wrist. He touched the small of her back and pushed her over the desk. As she bent over, he spoke, and she noted his tone had lightened.

  “Seriously, Gem, my desk! Well, now, you can enjoy the opportunity to test your favourite corner out. My turn for a fuck.”

  The mood slowly changed. Jason always moved on swiftly after a punishment, no lingering animosity or hard feelings. She might have a sore bottom, but another sensation started to take precedence. Her clitoris sprang to life. A bolt of electricity emanated out of it, igniting the rest of her body into a flurry of nervous anticipation.

  Bending low, he kissed between the shoulder blades, pecking on each exposed vertebrae one at a time, slowly descending. She lay still, heart thumping against the wood. It was going to be a hard fuck. He would want her ready and able. She exhaled hot breath on to the table, watching it mist up the smooth surface before vaporising.

  “Oh hell,” she murmured.

>   Each indulgent kiss of his moist lips sent her one step closer to losing herself. Do it! She chanted in her head.

  He sniffed, pausing between kisses. “You’re oily,” his palm slid down her back and over her raw bottom. He gave it a squeeze. She gasped, toes curling inward and knees close to buckling. He bent over her, cocooning her underneath him, and put his lips to her ear. “You smell divine. Have you had a massage today?”

  A cooling rush of blood shot across her blazing skin. “Yes. I had to move my appointment.” She normally went on a Thursday, not Wednesday. Was she in trouble? The tension held as his weight flattened her. Trapped, she grappled with breathing.

  Jason’s fingers roved, drifted around her front, squeezing between the polished wood and her breasts. He cupped them through her bra cups, not harshly, but enough to make her clench her pussy. “I like the way you smell.”

  Nothing else. No criticism of her change in plans. It reminded her he might enjoy controlling her orgasms, but he’d no inclination to interfere with her day-to-day life, as long as it didn’t stray too far from the norms of routine. She relaxed and he rose, freeing her from his clutches, letting her suck in a lungful of air.

  He spoke softly. “You know I can’t resist you. Seeing you over the Webcam is just as hard for me. I deny you because then I have this connection to you, knowing when I see you again, you’ll be desperate for relief. I love watching you come, seeing you burst into life.”

  His touch went. She heard the sounds of fabric being disassembled. He stripped quickly, and it added to her enthusiasm. He would see her glistening sex and the puffed lips lining her slit, inviting him in.

  “Oh my God!” Her legs jellified. He’d placed his sizable erection between her buttocks. Nestled it there for her to feel its girth and stiffness. He rocked slightly, letting his cock drive her crazy as he dipped it close to her pussy.