by Jaye Peaches
Under the duvet, they cuddled and kissed. Gentle caresses and nibbles from him and, in reply, she rubbed her hand up and down his flaccid penis. It twitched slightly.
“You were crying again when I was up with Joshua. Why?”
She ceased roving about his loins. “Hearing you sing, that’s all. You were so gentle and sweet with him. Yet, a few minutes earlier, you weren’t with me. An incredible contrast. I don’t know how you do it. Flipping between sadist and father. My submissive nature is there for whoever, whether it is Josh or you. I want to please and be of use, be needed.” She chewed her lip.
“I’m a Dominant, and self-control is the most important trait I carry. Controlling you extends from that self-control. I put my emotions in compartments and draw on what is needed when I need it. I don’t work like a computer program, shutting down one emotion and opening up another one. More like, I allow different ones to hold sway over me. From my perspective, I don’t understand how you process pain. I don’t have the mechanism to deal with it in the way you do. Emotional pain, I can cope with better than you. Yes, I’m a sadist. You allow me to be that person. A gift, remember, babe. I give you my power, control over you. My self-control. You give me your body and the pleasure it gives me.”
He admired his own abilities, a touch of vanity, perhaps, but she wondered if he really understood her concerns. “I wouldn’t be a good mother if I didn’t worry that your sadistic traits weren’t fully under control.”
Jason sat up and stared down at her. His lower jaw had dropped at her statement. “You think I would hurt Josh? No, Gemma. I wouldn’t hurt or harm him. Do I beat people for annoying me at work? I don’t touch or lay a finger on anyone. I confess, I was a bit of a bully at school. Then, I realised I didn’t make friends, or at least the right kind of friends. I learnt not to use my fists. Strange as it may seem, I’m not a strong advocate of violent retaliation, am I? My need for sadism is about the sense of power it brings me, as well as control over you. Plus there is a kick out of pushing you, taking your pain limits and hearing those enticing erotic squeals. Don’t over analyse. It does you no favours. Take pride in your abilities, how you process pain and focus on giving me pleasure with your masochistic tendencies.”
She reached out and ran a finger down between his firm pectorals, feeling the abdominal muscles flex as he lay back down. “You pushed me hard this evening. I was over my pain limit with those weights.”
“Over? You didn’t safe-word. Why not? You know I would have stopped.”
Why? The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. In fact, she tried to remember the last time she had used her mercy word. The last occasion—their holiday aboard the luxury-yacht Sublime and during sex when she was pregnant, but that had been expected.
“Does that mean I want to push my limits, or I’m pushing them for you?” Why hadn’t she given her safe-word. The thought troubled her. “Disappointment. I don’t want to fail. I suppose it is the dilemma.” She bit on her lip.
“If I’m pushing your limits, and you want to safe-word, you should, my little subbie. What you’re capable of doing one day may not be the case for another. I’m seeking a tangible change in your tolerances.”
Changing her. He’d denied it in the past, and now he implied he wanted more from her. “You are pushing me, though. Pain wise.”
“You’re pretty obedient, most of the time, given your independent streak. I think you can do more in other areas, including addressing some of your hard limits. Eventually, we will hit a plateau. By then, kids will occupy all of our energies and time. Play will be a luxury.” He chortled half-heartedly. He’d want to keep going forever, if he could.
Hard limits. Her ears picked up on the phrase. The things she said she would never do with him. He wanted to push her that far? Her previously sleepiness vanished. The conversation took them into territory that made her uncomfortable. She perched on her elbow, determined to unravel his words. “After that week in New York, you said you were happy with me, my submission and limits. Now you’re giving me the impression you’ve changed your mind.”
She expected a frown, but instead he smiled. “You changed your mind. Not me. I would be happy to continue as we were. Time limits, scenes only, nothing 24/7. You wanted this, asked me, brought in rules. I can go with either scenario, if that is what keeps us happy as Dom and sub.”
Go back! She couldn’t contemplate it after she had tried so hard to be his full-time submissive.
“No. I don’t want that. I like that I can please you whenever. Even when you wake me to fuck me in the night, I love it. I find the obedience hard and, with it, your demands. I know it’s not about my choices any longer, and that’s tough sometimes, and I will screw up on that somewhat. You punish hard, too. My tits are still throbbing. It’s an incentive to not stray from the rules, but then I have this need within me to be your masochist.” She paused, collecting her rambling thoughts. “You’re right. I don’t want it any different,” she blurted.
“There you are. Stop bloody analysing and give without thinking.” He took her lips in his mouth and kissed her hard and passionately. An electric bolt shot through her. His kiss marked the end of their conversation.
He made love to her. Intense vanilla love, with her body aching for him, and not from the pain of bondage and submission. By the end, the bed was a battlefield of sex. Duvet and pillows scattered everywhere, semen spewed across her body in a sticky gloop. Exhaustion couldn’t be dissuaded the second time.
“Babe, you’re so gorgeous. I can’t take my eyes off you,” he murmured as she dozed off.
Chapter 22. The Drop
The property viewing went brilliantly. Gemma hopped about with excitement. She ticked off all her checkboxes for the first round of viewing. She spent most of the rest of Monday compiling lists of questions to fire at her solicitor for the legal issues, the surveyor and her chosen architect to make the necessary alterations to the interior. The origin layout had been designed for office use with a small kitchenette and toilet facilities. For Gemma’s purposes, the ground-floor expanse needed to be versatile, with movable interior walls and eye-catching décor. But also minimalist. Not common requirements for a commercial property.
Gemma rattled off her findings that evening to Jason. He smiled across the dining table at her enthusiasm and complimented her on the systematic approach she used to find the property: no wild ideas or indecisiveness. At long last, she reacquainted herself with her lost work ethic. The person who made good judgement calls in the world of asset valuation had returned from an extended vacation. She’d felt wide awake and vibrant again.
The day of the money drop arrived. Tuesday. The morning dragged oppressively for Gemma. Thankfully, Joshua did a good job of keeping his mother occupied with his numerous failed attempts at walking. She hoped Jason would be there to witness his first steps.
Johnson reminded her of the plans as he drove her to the dance class. Gibson sat alongside her in tight black leggings and sweatshirt. Not her typical attire.
He adjusted his rearview mirror, and his eyes flitted between her and the road ahead. “I’ll drop you off. Go straight to the changing room with Gibson. Dump the kit bag in the same spot as last week. Gibson will stay and watch, make a big thing of brushing her hair or something girlie. Don’t hang about after the class.”
His attempt to inject humour into the proceedings did nothing for her nerves. Her hands shook.
The lesson was abysmal. The dance instructor’s star pupil wasn’t the same person as the previous weeks. Gemma danced without elegance and borderline clumsiness. All sense of rhythm flew out the window. She kept glancing around the class at the other pupils. Did she recognise any of them? After an hour of eyeballing her fellow dancers, she was convinced none of them were forgotten acquaintances from her distant past. They didn’t pay any attention to her. No furtive stares or sniggers.
Returning to the changing room, she entered with a pounding heart. Gibson had gone, which meant the b
lackmailer had made the drop and the disguised bodyguard was following the culprit. She grabbed her kit bag without changing and scurried down the corridor to the main entrance.
Gemma stood on the pavement, looking up and down the row of parked cars that filled the kerbside alongside the parking meters. She was anxious to be out of sight. Martinson stepped onto the pavement about thirty metres down the road, and she saw the Jaguar, almost hidden behind a monstrous SUV. She dashed down the road and slipped into the back seat. She sighed with relief. Jason was there, just as he’d said he would be. She handed him the bag and slumped in the seat. As much as she liked the thrill of being involved in some kind of covert spy-film scenario, she was glad her part was finished.
“Well done, babe.” Jason gave her a warm kiss on the mouth, steadying her thrumming pulse.
He unzipped the bag and rummaged about amongst her clothing.
“Did the money go?” She assumed the envelope containing the £1000 in twenty-pound notes had been taken. Jason nodded an affirmation. He plucked out another envelope. She glared at it with distain; not a thank-you note, she guessed. Jason had been right. Once you paid, they would come again. How many times? While Jason read the new note, she questioned Martinson in the driver’s seat. She’d spotted the listening device inserted into his ear.
“Did Gibson see who took the money?”
“Yes, ma’am. A woman. About your own age. She took the envelope and joined an older woman in the cafe. They’re still there.” Martinson returned to listening to the quiet commentary humming in the background.
“Okay, Emma. You stay with her. Dave can cover the other woman.” He turned to speak again. “The target has left the woman and is heading towards the exit.”
“Both women? Well, that’s a turn up for the books,” mused Jason. A look of mild shock was evident on his face, as she digested the idea of a female gang intimidating her. Why had they assumed it would be a man? Did it matter about gender when it came to criminal activities?
Gemma peered out of the window. Torn between peering over Jason’s shoulder and reading the note or keeping an eye out of the window for the mysterious blackmailer, Gemma decided not to miss the opportunity of seeing the suspect in the flesh, especially as the privacy glass hid their faces. She rotated in her seat and peered out the back window. The pavement bustled with pedestrians. As if on cue, a space opened up, and she had a clear view of the dance academy’s frontage.
Gibson appeared, trotting down the front step, which meant the woman a little ahead of her had to be the money-snatching blackmailer. Gemma waited, wondering if she would turn to the left or right. From her vantage point, it was difficult to see the features of the woman’s face. She turned and headed straight for the Jaguar, with Gibson a few metres behind, tailing her.
Gemma now had a good view of the woman as she walked towards them. Light-brown hair and pale skin, which was almost unhealthily pasty. A slender build. She tottered on high heels, swinging a leather handbag over her shoulders. She wore white leggings and a black-leather overcoat—or was it fake? Gemma couldn’t tell from the distance. Several beaded necklaces hung about her neck, bouncing up and down on her chest as she strode along the pavement. Her face portrayed a look of quiet determination.
Gemma snapshotted the features and ran in through her mental list of faces, trying to match the features. Bingo!
“Emily,” she exclaimed. “I remember her. I haven’t seen her in years.”
Jason patted her thigh. “Good. Do you remember her surname?” His hand remained on her lap. She noted it lacked trembles, so unlike her own.
Blank. She racked her mind, but nothing came back. “Oh God knows. I didn’t bother with surnames back then. But that is Emily. Thinner, and, well, older, I suppose.”
Emily looked terrible, a ghostly figure with little substance and mangled hair, or perhaps Gemma remembered her looking happier, fatter, and certainly laughing. Emily walked past the car at a brisk pace and then crossed the road. Gibson kept following at a discreet distant.
Jason squeezed her leg. “Would she have photos of you?”
Gemma closed her eyes and re-created long forgotten parties, trying to imagine what Emily did. Hesitantly, she stated, piece by piece, what she remembered. “She is, or was, a photographer. Very talented and artistic. Everyone liked her. Quiet and polite in attitude with an eye for detail. For a while, she would take pictures at events and the like, always with permission, and sell them. Nothing too intrusive or revealing. You know, people in their fetish poses or dressed up with whips and the like. She made memorabilia for people. I can’t image she took them for blackmail. I just don’t see her as a blackmailer, but we didn’t speak that much.”
“A sub or Domme?” asked Jason.
“Oh, neither.” She settled in her seat, her nerves abating. Emily was no threat to her; she felt sure of that. She held her husband’s full attention. “Emily was interested in fetish stuff, you know the thing, latex, leathers, and bondage poses. Came one time with somebody and got hooked. But she didn’t do overtly sexual or physical things. It was an artistic hobby for her. She didn’t scene or go off with anyone. Once she realised, at certain events, she could make a little money from selling photos then she did. I think the photography was what she really loved.”
“Eight years ago.” Martinson frowned. “What sort of camera? Do you remember, Mrs Lucas?”
“Digital. Her granddad bought her one when they were still expensive, plus a small printer. Emily was very proud of her kit and her granddad’s generosity. She would bring them and print the photos straight off. Of course, this was before cameras on phones became common.”
“Why does she still have photos of you, after all these years?” ruminated Jason.
Good question. Why did Emily have those photographs?
“I don’t know. I never bought them off her. I didn’t consider myself photogenic. I didn’t even look at them. I assumed she destroyed them.” A wrong assumption on her part. Then an important memory re-emerged from the depths of her mind. “She’s a lesbian.”
Jason sat up straighter. “Sure?”
“Yes, I mean, she claimed she was, though, to be honest, she was pretty reticent about sharing her feelings.”
“Interesting,” said Jason with brevity, directing his comment at Martinson, who said nothing.
“Is there another photo with that letter?” Gemma nodded towards the contents of the envelope and held out her hand.
“Yes.” Jason didn’t pass her the photo. Instead, he put it back in the envelope and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Was it so bad he couldn’t show it to her? She dropped her arm. “Note?”
“The letter asks for another thousand, next week. To be left in a bin by a park bench.”
Another thousand! What if she’d been Gemma Marshall? What would she do now?
Martinson laughed. “Somebody has been watching too many TV shows. This is all very unprofessional. Amateurish blackmailing.”
His laidback response didn’t reassure her. Somebody keenly sought her money, and she couldn’t believe it was Emily. “The woman in the cafe?” she pondered aloud.
“Possibly her lover,” suggested Jason. “This other woman must have quite a hold on Emily to make her do illegal activities, or maybe they’re both working for somebody else.”
Martinson touched his earpiece. “Stay with them, Dave.” He twisted around in his seat, catching Gemma’s eye. “The older woman has been joined by a teenage girl. The girl’s been in a dance class, and they’re on the way out.”
A child. Her stomach knotted with tension. “A mother, then. That’s why she is here. Teenager? It can’t be Emily’s daughter. She definitely didn’t have a young child eight years ago. This is getting unpleasant, don’t you think—”
Martinson cursed under his breath. “Sorry, sir. Emma reports the female Mrs Lucas identified as Emily has hailed a cab and gone off. She couldn’t pursue.”
Jason sighed with frustration, fl
icking a piece of lint off his trousers. “Keep tabs on the other.”
“They’re exiting the building,” reported Martinson.
She swivelled around for a second time and watched as Johnson walked down the steps. Not far in front of him walked a couple. An elegantly dressed woman with short black hair, possibly taller than Gemma, with voluptuous hips and a plump waist. Dressed in a trouser suit, the style of clothing implied the raven-haired woman had come straight from the workplace to collect the schoolgirl. The teenager, equally dark haired, chatted animatedly to the woman, clutching a school bag as she walked. They looked a happy pairing, and Gemma assumed the woman was the girl’s mother.
“Do you recognise her?” Jason tapped her shoulder.
Nothing. Not one feature registered in her store of memories. “No. Definitely not. I’ve never seen her before.”
The couple crossed the road and headed down a side street. Johnson followed. Just as the woman disappeared, she patted her pocket as if to check something was still there: the extortion money, safely deposited in her pocket? She swung her hips as she walked—a cheerful gait. Gemma watched as her husband’s face hardened into an obvious glower of discontent.
Chapter 23. Birthday Present
Shortly after Raven—the name they’d subsequently adopted for the mysterious woman—disappeared from view, Martinson drove Jason and Gemma home. While she fed Joshua his tea, Jason and Martinson discussed tactics, ensconced in Jason’s study. She found out later Johnson had seen the schoolgirl collected by a man, probably her father. The pair drove off while Raven set off at a brisk pace to an Underground station, from where she hailed a cab. She vanished into the morass of London traffic with no indication where she might live.
Jason refused to show her the second blackmail note. He told her the language was similar to the first, the same amount of money demanded, and the maiden name remained. Her marital status hadn’t been discovered, which gave her some comfort. The photograph he did show her later in the evening, after Martinson and Clara had both gone home and she curled up next to Jason on the sitting-room sofa. In the second image, Gemma was playing at furniture—kneeling on all fours, wearing a frilly maid’s costume, and with a wine glass precariously balanced on her back. Gemma covered her mouth with a hand. How embarrassing! She’d forgotten how gregarious she’d once been at parties. The image showed her laughing. She’d been happy, and it helped her go back in time.
