by Jaye Peaches
“I take it Joshua had you up most of the night.” He gestured at the Calpol on the bedside table.
“On and off. Hence, the catch up this morning for the both of us. I think he is over the worst now. His temperature has come down this morning.” Gemma had rotated around, lying belly down, her feet on the pillow and her head at the foot of the bed. She propped her chin on her arms and continued to admire her husband as he chose his clothes.
“Did you enjoy your meal with Mina at the Presario yesterday?” Jason pulled a pair of faded jeans over his fine gluteal muscles. She ran a tongue over lips. He would call her insatiable for wanting more from him. His nimble fingers started to do up his buttons.
“Yes.” Her mouth formed a slight grimace. “Except, I might have caused a little bit of a rumpus.”
“A rumpus?” His fingers stopped moving, and he straightened up.
Chapter 20. A Rumpus
Self-depreciating Mina lived with her parents on a council estate and worked in a large department store. It was a far cry from Gemma’s own existence. Their friendship formed at her Zumba class—an unlikely, yet essential alliance for Gemma—it anchored part of her life in normalcy, away from kink and isolating wealth.
Mina had broken the mould of expectations. From a lowly shop assistant to manager of a whole floor in less than two years, she’d proved what Gemma always knew to be the case—she was bright, enthusiastic, and more than capable of holding down a challenging job.
Gemma had arranged to meet Mina outside the French restaurant. As she arrived by car, she spotted Mina waiting outside with her feet stamping on the paving, trying to keep out the cold winter air. Gemma’s friend had dressed up into what must be for her an expensive outfit and probably bought with her staff discount card. Gemma complimented her on her appearance. She looked sassy in her snug dress, curvy, too. Quite the catch for an eligible bachelor.
“My God, Gemma.” Mina’s eyes darted up and down the impressive stone frontage. “You could have warned me.”
“You look quite the part. Don’t worry. You’ll fit straight in.” She looped her arm around Mina’s and propelled her through the revolving doors. Mina halted suddenly, causing Gemma to lose her hold.
With its marble, gilt mirrors, and elaborate finishing, the interior of the Presario reminded Gemma of the yacht, Sublime. Their heels clicked on the polished floor, and Mina’s jaw dropped when she saw the crystal chandeliers.
“You shouldn’t spoil me like this,” hissed Mina into her ear. “I don’t deserve this.”
“Stuff and nonsense. It would be insulting to both of us if we went to McDonald’s when you know I dine out in places like this.” Gemma took her arm again.
The Presario was typical of the venues Jason and Gemma preferred to dine in. However, she’d only been to the Presario with Jason in the evening, and not at lunchtime, nor without him present. The staff on duty were different and the usual maître-d’, Marco, wasn’t present.
The headwaiter who greeted them checked the reservation, but didn’t appear to register the Lucas surname as special. He led them to a table down a middle aisle. Usually Gemma would expect to be seated in a corner and away from other diners. Not that there were many diners; she’d gone for an early lunch slot. Later, the place would fill out. Bookings were essential for those times. Not that it would make any difference to Gemma. She’d always get a table.
“Madame and mademoiselle.” Chairs slid underneath their bottoms, and napkins were laid on their laps with aplomb. All what she expected.
Mina stared at the menu and she mouthed the alien words. Furrows formed on her forehead as she frowned. Gemma ran her finger down the list. French cuisine, and each dish written like an essay: lush, descriptive words with an embellished vocabulary.
She leant forward and whispered, “Would you like steak with chips and salad?”
“Yes, please,” Mina giggled in a hushed tone.
“Then allow me.” Gemma ordered the dish, and Mina gave her preferred grilling requirement for the steak. Those few words would turn out to be contentious.
They chatted about life in general. Gemma’s loneliness with Jason absent, omitting the tale of the blackmail note. Mina worried about her father, a road sweeper, who struggled with ill health and his working hours.
Gemma couldn’t resist changing the topic to talk about their mutual friends in their Zumba class. There was nothing like a good gossip to put aside anxieties. “Do you really think Glory’s husband is going to leave her? He’d never eat. I mean, he’s useless at looking after himself.”
“Oh, he’s threatened before—when you were off with Josh. Came to nothing, but you’re right, she’d turn up every day with a sandwich for him.” Mina’s plate arrived, and she sliced into the steak. Her fork hovered midway to her open mouth. Something dripped from the piece of steak.
“What’s the matter?” asked Gemma.
“I asked for well done. This is pretty much rare.” Mina frowned and lowered the fork.
Peering forward, Gemma could see bloody juice running on to the plate from the steak. Her own choice of dish was a mushroom risotto—the dish Jason usually ordered for her and one she loved.
“Let me sort this for you, Mina.”
She signalled to a waiter as Mina offered up her reply, “Don’t bother. I’m sure I can manage.”
“It’s not what you asked for.” Gemma tapped her finger on the table as she spoke each word.
The waiter who took their order came over and thought that they wanted more wine. He picked up the bottle from the ice bucket.
“No wine, thank you.” She waved the bottle away. “My friend ordered her steak well done. This is medium rare at best.” She pointed at the offending steak and pool of redness around it.
“I’m sure that was what was ordered,” said the waiter in a heavily laced French accent.
His attitude riled Gemma. In her opinion, in a restaurant where lunch cost over a hundred pounds each, the customer was unassailable. Mina remained tight-lipped. Her retail training would have instilled the same attitude. Don’t argue. Resolve.
Gemma couldn’t hold her annoyance in check. “I wasn’t aware the words medium rare and well done sounded so similar. I do believe they were articulated very clearly.”
He shifted his gaze from her face to Mina’s and there it was—a slight subtle scowl of distaste. Gemma’s fingers fisted around her knife handle. She shook with hidden rage, aghast at the near blatant display of discrimination. Mina had the rich colour that showed her Caribbean origins; her voice had the wonderful lilt, too. Third generation, she couldn’t be more British, was more of a Londoner than Gemma, who was a suburban interloper.
“Is Victor in?” The name caught the waiter’s attention, the fact she knew the manager’s first name. He nodded, lips twitching.
Gemma gave him her sternest expression, her eyebrows knotted together. “Please fetch him immediately.”
The waiter scurried away, weaving between the tables.
The general hubbub of the restaurant masked Mina’s soft pleading. “Please, Gemma. I don’t want to make a fuss.”
“Mina. I do.” Gemma folded her arms across her chest.
Five years with Jason had changed her attitude to service and quality. She was assertive and critical, her natural temerity whittled away watching Jason’s tendency to shred apart with his pitiless style of reprimand any example of poor service or bad attitudes. The standards of respect and good manners he expected in his wife extended to all those around him.
The manager appeared and gesticulated at the waiter, his arms waving back and forth. The other man went pale while Victor turned red about the cheeks. Victor came over to their table.
“Mrs Lucas, I had no idea you were with us today.” He offered Gemma his hand, which she shook in a cursory fashion.
“I know. Lunch is not our usual time, but Mr Lucas is abroad and I wanted to treat my friend here.” She pointed at Mina and smiled.
Vict
or bowed his head. “Of course. I understand there has been a…misunderstanding,” he murmured.
“The young waiter over there seemed to have spent too much time looking and not listening to our order. My friend asked for well-done steak. The plate is bloody, Victor. Not the standard of service we would expect.”
Victor blushed once again. The redness rose up from his neck, and his veins stood out. “Naturally. This will be rectified immediately. I apologise to the mademoiselle.” He picked the plate up. “Marcel has only been with us for a month.” He seemed to think Marcel’s inexperience was a sufficient explanation. Gemma did not.
A fresh plate appeared promptly, and Mina, carving into the dark brown meat, had to admit the steak was perfect the second time around. She wiped her lips with her napkin. “How do you know the manager’s name?”
“Oh. Well…you see, Jason owns this restaurant.” Gemma gave a small, apologetic shrug. She hadn’t intended to tell Mina. She preferred to keep her privileges secret. “I should say he doesn’t have anything to do with running it. He has a whole big hospitality division to do that. Hotels, golf courses, other leisure facilities, here in the UK and abroad. Handy, sometimes, for getting a table at short notice and keeping the staff on their toes.” She grinned, and Mina added her own beautiful smile.
***
Leaning on the wall by the closet, Jason listened to Gemma’s retelling of her luncheon tale. He didn’t move. He reacted slightly when she mentioned the waiter’s attitude towards Mina. He knew the colour of Mina’s skin without Gemma having to draw attention to it.
“I’m glad you had a good time.” A brief comment, which she suspected, underplayed his true reaction.
“Show me the photo,” requested Jason, moving the conversation on to the unpleasant topic of the blackmail note. She’d placed the photo in an envelope in the bottom drawer of the tallboy. Kneeling, she took it out from where she’d buried it under her socks and handed it to Jason without rising from her position on the carpet.
Taking it out of the envelope, he held it up to the light. “You don’t recognise the man?”
“Ashamed to say, no. No one I would have gone off with alone. Just a party acquaintance. I served anyone who asked. Except intercourse. Me, being inhibited in the presence of others, you know, my humiliation issue. In any case, such parties would be platonic. No sex.”
“Not inhibited enough not to be thoroughly paddled. You’re spaced out.” Jason turned the photo over and held it up for her to see.
“I assume that was the reason I can’t remember any details. Not something I could explain to Gibson. Is that what I look like?” The picture showed her mouth ajar, eyes shut, and her limp body wilting across a lap.
“Yep. Pretty much what you appear like.” Jason grinned for a second before examining the back of the print. “It has been scanned from the original I think. A grainy quality. Reprinted on photographic paper.” He popped it back in the envelope, which he placed on top of the tallboy. A clear indication he’d taken possession of it.
She twirled a lock of hair between her fingers. “Are you going to work…the office I mean?”
He shook his head. “Martinson will be calling by this afternoon. He has some questions for you.”
Another interrogation. The horrible blackmail noted filled her with foreboding. She didn’t want to think about it. She wanted something quite different.
Jason shifted and stood over her. The room fell silent, except for her breathing. She concentrated hard on appearing meek, not wanting to reveal her restlessness. He wasn’t going back to work. Ridiculous erotic images chased about her head, weaving together into a familiar montage of lust. The hub of them, her passionate need to be in his arms. Following three days of separation, she’d developed a bottomless appetite for sex.
Gemma kept her eyes down, and he went back into the closet, fetching something. He tapped it against his leg, catching her attention.
“Middle of the room. Bend over, please.” He used a smooth, stern voice that oozed out of his mouth and melted into her, making her insides do somersaults.
He pointed at a spot with the cane. She crawled over to it, stood up, and bent over, grasping the backs of her knees. For a minute, she couldn’t work out what she was being punished for, what serious transgression she had committed. He rested his hand on her back before tracking down to caress her bottom. The palm slipped between her legs, travelled along her slit, and she shivered, knowing his fingers would find the evidence of her weakness. He smeared the wetness over the raised buttocks and then, without warning, flicked the cane against her bottom. Once. Twice. Then more. Teasing swipes, which made the cane bounce on and off her with a ping.
Not a punishment. The force of his swishing arm fell short of what she’d expect from a disciplinary caning. Her body relaxed, as much as she could without falling over. The photograph of her marks - made by another’s hand—had spurred Jason to create his own. The cane moved about her bottom, thighs, and farther down, reaching her slender calves. A constant stream of tapping. She gasped at the harder ones, wriggling her toes in the carpet fibres and her body swayed back and forth, as she tried to maintain balance.
Most of snaps of the cane stung or bit. He’d chosen a slim cane, the kind that whipped through the air, rather than a heavier one, which would land with a painful, jaw-clenching thud. Every few blows, he rubbed her down, spreading the heat. He roved between her legs, touching her supersensitive sex, still swollen from her earlier orgasms. She floated in a fog of pain. Daydreaming, she concocted fantasies—the naughty schoolgirl bent over remained her favourite. Each crack of the cane supplanted anxious thoughts. Pure escapism, and it was exactly what she needed from him. The delicious lust that had filled her since his return grew and overcame the discomfort, blurring the boundaries between pain and pleasure.
The caning continued, unabated. The inevitable climax hovered expectantly. It would need assistance to finish.
Her arms shook, struggling to keep their grip. “Please, I would like to come. Please, Sir. For you, Sir. Please.”
“Hush. Stand up.” Calm instructions. So unlike her rambling words.
She wobbled as the blood rushed out of her head. Jason clasped the back of her neck, pinching lightly, easing her back. She rested against his naked chest and felt it rise and fall as he breathed rapidly.
“Legs spread.”
She parted her legs wide. An arm looped around her front, holding her underneath her breasts, and the other appeared lower, still holding the cane. Sliding it along his palm, he came near to the tip, and the realisation dawned on her what he planned to do. She pushed backwards, as if to escape.
“Babe, don’t move,” he whispered. An agreeable, pleasant command, which always tricked her into obeying. Damn.
She panted, watching his hand creep closer. The tip, the tiniest of possible dildos, nudged her clitoris. She’d made herself come with a pen cap once, years ago, at work, in the toilet when she’d been addicted to masturbating. Having another work over her nub with the hard end of the cane filled her with shame. It thrilled her, too. She hated how the parallel elements fought over her sexual being.
She shrieked, not so much in pain, the excruciating sensation of pleasure won through. The tiniest agitation of his cane made her dance on tiptoes, squirming in his clutches.
“Come for me!” He accompanied his command with a frenzied flutter of the cane tip. She knocked her knees together, and he practically lifted her off the ground.
“No, no—” Now she feared coming. Too much! God damn him!
Breathe. Stop fighting him.
“Good girl.”
Her feet touched the carpet again. Her legs spread, and the cane tip circled the edge of her clitoris, slipping up and down her wet slit.
“Argh!”
He held her upright as she bucked. The explosive orgasm swept about her body in waves of spasms.
She had little time to compose herself. Jason released his grip about her w
aist and undid his buttons.
“Kneel.”
She scrambled down onto her knees, keen to please him. She held out her tongue and licked upwards, tasting his clean skin. He dipped in then lunged, taking her deep. With her nose pressed against his belly, she sucked hard, drawing in her cheeks and creating a vacuum about his erection. She ignored the painful glow of her bottom and her tender clitoris. Her attention focused on his pleasure. He placed a hand on her head, fingers tangled in her hair, the other held the cane. The tip continued to torment her skin as he trailed it over her back.
Jason shuddered. Her scalp stung as his grip intensified. He let out a cry and pumped into her throat. She gulped his cum down into her belly. Sometimes, Jason went beyond masterful. Naked, vulnerable, and kneeling at his feet, she came close to the edge of what she could tolerate. His controlling nature had the potential to suffocate her spirit and remove all her willpower. It would never happen, but she knew they walked a tightrope. It didn’t matter, that day. She faced a threat to her safety, her person, and Jason was back, in charge and directing her once again. He was exactly where she wanted him to be.
***
Martinson appeared shortly after 2:00 p.m. She, Jason, and Martinson sat around the kitchen table with Joshua pinned down in his high chair, happy to nibble on breadsticks and squish cheese between his fingers. The room smelt of a rich coffee aroma as the bean grinder whirred in the background. Gemma inhaled the strong scent, hoping it would refresh her memory both of Tuesday’s dance class and whoever knew her eight years ago. The conversation started with Martinson asking similar questions to Gibson’s. The routine, the timescales, how long was she in the changing room? Could she describe the members of the dance class? She ruled out a number of them for being too young.
“Unless they were given the photos by an older person, they would have been school kids when the photo was taken.”
“Tuesday was your third visit?” asked Martinson.
