by Jaye Peaches
She sighed, dug a tissue out from her pocket and shoved it into the boy’s hand. “Come with me, Benjamin. Let’s see if we can’t clean them up for you.”
They stood in the utility room, and she washed the trainers down. Applying all her skills in footwear care, which she had acquired from looking after various gentlemen’s shoe collections, she managed to spruce them up. She told him to let them dry out and beat the dried mud off before wearing them again. He stopped sniffling and wiped his snotty nose.
Coming outside again, Aaron sidled over. “Thanks, Mrs Lucas. He’s not a bad boy, not like his dad.”
Aaron’s loyalty to his friends impressed Gemma and, gazing at the teenager for a few seconds, she noted he was a splitting of his father, both in appearance and personality. Once he grew up and reached manhood, he would turn into a prize for the ladies, one to watch and fight over. She hoped he was as devoted to his future friends and family as his father was to his.
~
In a stronger voice, Chris Martinson repeated he was in good shape. Gemma ended the call murmuring a thank you.
She waited for her injured husband to return home. She sat hunched on the bottom step of the stairs, opposite the front door, feet jiggling on the floor, and at last heard a car pull up outside. The door swung open, and she lunged forward, stopping just short when she noticed his stiff left side and how he held his arm, as if to protect it.
She held up her arms then dropped them. “I don’t know where to touch you.”
His groggy expression appeared un-Jason like. “Then don’t, for now.” He grinned. She noted the slurred voice. He seemed to be in reasonable shape, and her pounding heart ceased to thump against her breastbone. Behind Jason, Johnson deposited the laptop case by the hallway table and gave Gemma a small smile of reassurance.
“Have a good night, sir.” Johnson backed out of the door.
She surveyed her husband with his ruffled hair and crooked pose. His suit jacket had been bundled across his right arm, and his left hand stuffed in his trouser pocket, as if to support its weight.
“You are okay?” She stretched out again, but he flinched before she could reach him.
“Sure, babe. Bruised and battered. Nothing broken. Exploding airbag caused most of the damage. I’ll be fine in a few days.”
She took his jacket and, kneeling down, undid his laces, and slipped off his shoes. It set the scene for how the next few days would play out: Gemma being her husband’s nurse.
The rest of the day, Jason drowsed in an armchair and dined on her devotion to his needs.
“I think the painkillers they gave me in the hospital have made me dopey.” He smiled, dreamlike, and she gently placed his arm on a cushion.
He looked chilled and carefree with his slouched posture and half-open eyes. She rang Carla and updated the PA on his status.
“We’re not expecting him back in until he’s recovered,” pronounced Carla.
When Jason’s number two, Philip, called, Jason briefed him with a few immediate outstanding issues. Gemma listened in from the sidelines, her observational post on a nearby chair. Jason’s words were inarticulate and hesitant. Philip must have noticed the lack of clarity in his boss’s voice because he didn’t ring again.
At bedtime, she undressed Jason. His injuries shocked her, and she suppressed an exclamation. Gingerly, she eased the shirt off his swollen shoulder, her fingers dancing around the bruising. From his shoulder down to wrist was already black and blue and reddish purple in places. There were bruises on his waist and across his ribs, too. She stared at the collection, her mouth quivering.
“Seat belt,” he informed.
“The doctors said you were all right to come home?”
“Babe, I’ve been poked, prodded, x-rayed, ultrasound, the works. Nothing leaking inside or broken. I’ll work at home tomorrow.” He yawned.
She found her confidence, seeing him weaken. “No you bloody won’t. No work. Rest,” she snapped.
She smeared arnica cream into his arm and other marks. A somewhat strange scenario to find the tables turned and she giving him aftercare. She ensured there were painkillers and a glass of water on his bedside table, and a pillow under his arm. In her submissive world of kink, she offered to drink his pee if he couldn’t get out of bed in the night.
At her suggestion, Jason laughed. “Babe, you don’t have to break a hard limit for me. I’ll manage.”
“I’m just devoted to you, Sir,” she murmured, covering him with a duvet. She never really expected him to accept the offer, but she would help him get up in the night if he needed it.
The next day, he didn’t move from bed for most of the morning. He complained, in a distracted voice, of stiffness and the ache worsening. He didn’t mention work, laptops, or phone calls, and she brought him breakfast in bed. Later, when he awoke and refrained from taking his painkillers, Jason let Joshua sit on the bed with him, and the two talked. It meant Jason describing how drunken drivers need stringing up and disembowelling—all in a pleasant, calm tone of voice—and Joshua shrieking nonsensical agreement back at his father.
Flowers arrived from his PA team, and Gemma arranged them in a vase on top of the tallboy opposite the bed. By then, Jason was up and about, although his arm still hung unnaturally. She tried hard not to fuss about him too much. Instead, offered him food and drink, a book to read, or his own rarely-listened-to iPod. He came downstairs and watched Blu-rays in front of the TV for several hours. Very unlike her husband, but she accepted it helped him recover. Over the course of the day, he weaned himself off the painkillers and came back to life.
At the weekend, they went to Blythewood, as usual. Every now and again, Jason, with gritted teeth and a determined expression, flexed his arm up and down. The bruising had transformed from a rainbow of painful colours to yellow-tinged ones. The swelling about the elbow and shoulder diminished, too. She chopped up the food on his plate when he discovered he couldn’t move his arm up to table height.
“Fucking frozen solid,” he grimaced, in frustration, and ate with one hand.
“Patience, grasshopper.” She smothered a grin with a hand, trying hard not to make a disrespectful remark about his incompetence.
“Master, that should be Master,” he snapped, waving a fork at her. Pain made him bad tempered, and she ignored his mood swings.
For the duration of his recovery, Gemma endeavoured to be a perfect service slave. She waited on him, helped him dress, bathe, and shave. She brought Joshua to sit upon his knee or the telephone when one of his family rang to hear how he was doing.
The news of his crash had made it into the papers and, at first, it was all doom and gloom. The local newspaper’s banner reported inaccurately, City mogul rushed to hospital after major accident. None of the exaggerated bulletins helped keep friends and family at bay. The phone seemed to be constantly ringing. Gemma sent out an e-mail to as many as possible to allay their fears.
Contrary to the news, Jason is not critically injured, and certainly has both arms intact (where do people get their information from?). He is grumpy—some sympathy for me, please! Not working—that should be the shocking part to you all—and enjoying some quality father-son time. Much as we appreciate the thought, no more flowers. We’re both sneezing with pollen and, regardless of my opinion, he insists he will be at his desk on Monday morning.
“Why were you seated in the front of the car?” she asked him on Sunday morning as they lounged in bed with a playful Joshua rolling between them.
“Getting to be a habit on short trips. I’m so used to you being in the back with Joshua and me up front, I supposed I did it without thinking.” He shrugged then winced at his absent-minded physical reaction. “Jeez, fucking shoulder.”
“Master, if I whinged this much about my bruises, you wouldn’t tolerate that language, not in front of the baby.”
“You’re the masochist, Gem, not me. In any case, your son doesn’t understand a word.”
“Yes, I’m a
masochist, but I don’t get a thrill out of all types of pain, as you well know. And our son understands the tone of your voice, not the words.” Gemma couldn’t resist making an aside. “I always suspected you’re a wimp.”
His eyes sprung open. “What was that?” He leant over Joshua and pinched her chin. “A wimp? I can’t recollect ramming a Land Rover into your side in the recent past, can you?”
“A Land Rover?”
“Doing fifty. It shoved the car several metres sideways, good job nobody was on the other side of the road.”
“Oh, crikey. Martinson didn’t tell me that!”
Jason had given his security chief a few days off also. “He may be accustomed to tanks and armoured vehicles, but it shook him up.”
Gemma didn’t tease her husband any further about his pain levels. When Joshua slept in the afternoon, she went to find Jason. He was back at his desk in the study, stabbing the keyboard with one finger.
She hovered by the door, frowning. “Are you sure you’re ready for work tomorrow?”
“I’m fine. Don’t fuss. I’m off the serious painkillers, my arm is starting to move again, and I’m bored at home.”
She rolled her eyes. “Bored with me!”
The realisation came upon her: she needed him to wake her up and return things to normalcy. As much as she’d enjoyed being his service slave over the last few days, the kinky submissive was desperate for attention. He obliged her.
“Over here, now.”
She scampered towards him as he swung his chair backwards. Since he was right handed, there was no issue being spanked by him over his lap. She kept as still as possible so not to tempt him to hold her down with his other arm.
“Uh!” she muttered with each smack. She didn’t care how hard he spanked her; the pain came as a relief. Each jarring blow drove the stress of the past few days out of her body. Her toes anchored her to the floor, and she pressed her palms into the carpet pile. Perched up high, on his lap, with her skirt yanked back and knickers around her knees, she wriggled her bare bottom at him. A classic pose, and one she adored. The smacks rained down in rapid succession. He built up a rhythm, increased the pace and distance, until the sound of the slaps echoed about the room.
“Let me know when I hit your masochist button, subbie, because then I’m going to take you further, and you can join me in the world of black and blue.”
“Yes, Master,” she moaned.
He did as he said he would and took her bum out of the red zone and into the bruised one, courtesy of a wooden ruler. She couldn’t remember the last time he spanked her so harshly. Blissful! A rapid state of subspace descended over her. The pain lifted. Her mind floated away. She forgot about images of smashed cars, which had been giving her nightmares, and concentrated on the hand caressing her bottom between spanks. The perfect re-boot for both of them, and he went rock hard under her belly.
Abruptly, he pushed her off his lap and dragged her head there. Gemma fumbled with his zipper, befuddled by her mental state. She eagerly took him deep in her throat.
He tilted back in his chair. “Best fucking medicine, beating the shit out of you and a blow job,” he groaned.
Her body shook with anticipation as she bobbed up and down. The tip of his penis had found some G-spot at the back of her throat; it had never existed before. A shot of electricity charged across her body, straight to her tingling bud.
“Please. Sir. Please,” she spluttered.
He chuckled. “You whore. Want it that bad, don’t you. Go on, then. You’ve been a good nurse to me.”
Gemma came then Jason did, and she licked him clean in a stupor of ecstasy.
There they remained, with her curled up for him to rest his feet on while he dozed, content and uninterested in his laptop.
The next day, she sent out another update.
News Flash. Jason is back at work today. Normal service has resumed. His lordship went happily in the car, so he isn’t commuting by helicopter as a substitute. His arm, shoulder in particular, will take a few more weeks to be completely normal, but this will mainly effective his golf swing. His levels of patience, tolerance, and bossiness are all back in full working order. Suggest you now send gifts to me. I would welcome chocolates and a bottle of gin.
Gemma smiled as she hit the send button. She received a few humorous replies from various friends, and one from his American friend and fellow Dominant, Damien, who commented on Jason’s whip swing being impeded as well as his golf one. She e-mailed him an individual reply.
No respite for me, Damien. He’s got a lot of drunken-driver fury to work out, and I’m the whipping girl! Of course, I don’t mind, as long as it’s not the single tail.
Chapter 18. Growing Up
Joshua loved his new beaker, tipping it up and down, shaking it, and throwing it around the kitchen. Gemma had become superfluous to requirements. At eight months of age, he’d lost interest in breast milk. She had to accept the fact Joshua didn’t need or want what she had to offer. He was growing up fast, too fast for Gemma.
Brushing away a tear, she told Jason, “I wanted to keep going longer.”
“You can’t make him, Gem. You’ve done well. Feel proud of yourself and let me reclaim those gorgeous breasts.” He dipped his head down and pressed a nose to her exposed cleavage. He inhaled through his nostrils, and she giggled at his playful gesture.
With her breasts back in action, Jason’s repertoire of play, whether for scenes or discipline, could be extended. The first opportunity arrived the week after her milk dried up.
Such was Jason’s keenness to have her back in the lair that Friday evening, he risked Joshua waking and disturbing them. He’d arranged, months previously, the installation of a sophisticated baby monitor, incorporated into a wall mounting, with a screen linked to a camera in Joshua’s bedroom. To doubly ensure nothing could happen to Gemma if Jason had to dash out, he never bound her hogtied or in a stress position.
He held up a pair of medical scissors. “I’ll keep these within reach. If Joshua hollers, and I’ve roped you, I’ll loosen your bindings, but if you have to, you can cut yourself free. Agreed?”
She gave her agreement with a lingering kiss on his lips. Her Master, the ever-vigilant Dominant, always kept her safe.
He walked her over to the St. Andrews’ cross. The lips remained locked together. An amble from one side of the room to the other. Her heart palpitated with each backward step as he guided her towards his target. She flicked her tongue inside his mouth, and he pinched her bottom in reply. A dancer, she easily followed his lead and avoided stumbling. Her own hands, she kept to her sides, resisting the temptation to loop them around his neck. Access to his body required permission. It drove her crazy to be in close proximity and unable to respond.
She bumped into the wooden structure. She’d arrived at her destination and she risked rubbing a foot up and down his bare leg. He slapped it away and released her mouth, lips curving upwards with a smile.
“Babe, don’t be silly.”
She cocked her head to one side and licked her lips. “Master. I’m yours.”
Jason grabbed her wrists and pinned them up high, one on each of the upper struts. His warm mouth returned to consuming her lips, nipping her with his teeth. His naked body, sculptured and smooth, lunged forward. Coming to rest on her belly, his hard cock felt like a giant stone phallus. She wished he would let her sink down and envelope it, gorge herself on his taste and velvety texture.
She uttered a nonsensical sound into his mouth, a feverish noise of excitement and trepidation.
He broke off his oral exploration to tie her wrists to the cuffs on the cross. She wriggled her hips. A blatant statement of invitation, and he cuffed a thigh.
“Ow!”
The game continued. This time, she pressed her thighs together, denying him access. He clucked, shaking his head in mock dissatisfaction. Squatting down, he shoved her legs apart and strapped her ankles to the lower struts. He’d spread her wide, o
pened her up and completed her descent into total vulnerability. Her mouth went suddenly dry, palms clammy, and she felt cool air waft over her pussy lips.
She watched him hover. He stroked his cock, brazenly presenting his manhood to her. Being bound always made his cock look exceptionally large and her own mentality slipped into servitude. An easier act to accomplish since their cruise. The days when she fought her submission diminished in number, not that she thought of herself as more submissive in nature, simply consistent. She’d Jason to thank.
Her eyelids drooped and she rested her temple on her arm. In the lights, his bright hair shone. Broad shouldered and narrow about the waist, she admired the outcome of his daily workout regime.
He moved and she jolted out of her revelry. He started with his fingers, using nothing more than the tips, he caressed and tickled until she yelped. A tiny sadistic smile crept across his face and he switched to using his tongue. Again, he delighted in using the pointed end, like a serpent’s tongue, slithering down her belly, dipping into her navel, and edging closer to her swollen bud and wet pussy.
A whimper left her mouth. Please, please! She daren’t say the words out loud, he’d drag the torturous journey out longer.
Jason kissed her mound. “Babe, too slow for you?”
She rocked her hips from side to side as if to say no. She’d lied and she couldn’t hide it. Jason stood up, walked to the sideboard, and opened a drawer. A feather duster appeared and she groaned, not in pleasure, but disappointment. She detested it. An article purely for teasing and driving her to the edge. Tickled while restrained rated as painful in her books. She gave him an imploring look, her best puppy-eyed expression of supplication.
Jason chuckled. She’d once christened the expression “evil Dom laugh”. It didn’t help that when she’d told Jason, he considered it a worthy accolade.
“Shall I make you come with this?” He waved the duster across her flat stomach, kissing her skin.
