by Jaye Peaches
“I wasn’t afraid of you. I was afraid of being afraid. That awful feeling of dread. The next thing I know is I’m thinking of him. I’ve managed to deal with the blood, the cane, and spanking benches. I haven’t found a means of processing fear without panicking.” She squeezed the cloth, feeling the water trickle between her trembling fingers.
“Will you be afraid tomorrow?”
She shook her head. “No. You’re going to be with me.”
His hand snaked around her body and lay on top of her own. “You’re shaking. What are you feeling now? Because I can see you’re troubled by something else.”
Jason’s antennae, his emotion-seeking tentacles, pierced her and sought out her weaknesses. She knew exactly what haunted her: guilt. She’d shown a lack of trust in him, and he’d lost faith in her, too. All because she contacted Rothesay behind his back. Upstairs, on the bed, he’d said he had forgiven her. Gemma didn’t feel forgiven or relieved of guilt. There had been no liberating expunging of her culpability. Damn guilt. It gnawed at her.
“Guilt,” she confessed. “I feel bad that you can’t trust me, Master. That I went behind your back and gave you a reason to doubt. I disobeyed your authority. I want to show you my penitence in some way.” The cloth slipped out of her hand.
“That can be dealt with. What will you give me?”
Gemma had broken a primary rule of her submission, her unswerving obedience. She expected he could spank or torment her in a painful fashion. He’d done it all before, with a level of dispassion that intimidated her, and yet, knowing this, she had still disobeyed him, flaunted his authority and let herself be exposed to unnecessary risk.
Jason’s hands drifted down, heading towards the hemline of her skirt. He lifted the skirt up and found her sex. Pulling down her knickers, he sought out what he desired and cupped it in his palm. She tensed, feeling his warmth against her hairless sex. His finger tapped her clitoris repeatedly. She understood. Her sensual body belonged to him. He wanted to mark her. He coveted the idea of having a permanent record of his ownership. An embodiment of permanence, which only he could see and enjoy. However, not a tattoo or a brand. Scarring her skin would be unimaginable to both of them. She already carried one set of permanent scars. She rested against him, steadying her wobbly legs. His fluttering finger continued to excite her. Behind her bottom, she felt the bulge in his pants. It excited him, too.
“Pierce me. Down there, wherever you desire. So, I can feel it always. Your mark of ownership on me. For your pleasure, Master.” She shut her eyes. He lifted her clitoral hood and tickled her. She gasped, writhed against his body, grinding against his erection.
“Very well, subbie. It shall be done, when I am ready. You’ll be pierced. It will be done properly and safely. But, no anaesthetics. I want you to feel it.” He withdrew his hands. The skirt tumbled down, but her knickers remained trapped between her clenching thighs. He walked over to a kitchen drawer. “You’re all tensed up with guilt. So let us purge you of remorse at your stupidity.”
From the drawer he took a flat wooden spatula. “Go and strip. Bend over the kitchen table.”
She stumbled towards the table, her knickers now around her ankles. Fumbling, she stripped off her clothes. She heard the sound of the spatula thumping on the palm of his hand. A hypnotic rhythm.
Don’t look at him, just bend. Her breasts squished against the pine, and her fingers hunted for the edge of the table. Something to grip.
Catharsis. The purging of wrongdoing. She didn’t want it. She needed it. Resting her head to one side, she shut her eyes.
“Push your bottom out. Show me,” he commanded. She dipped her back, shuffled her feet forward and presented her behind.
The smacks of the spatula rang out across the room. Echoing, reverberating. Bouncing off the tiles, the cupboard doors, the glazed doors to the breakfast room, and the high ceiling. Her grunts and suppressed cries joined the sounds of her chastisement.
No let up. No warm-up. All things that made the spanking hard to endure. He smacked each buttock in turn, back and forth, over and over, in the same spot. Each thud made her jolt against the woodwork. The spatula stung at first then it heated her bottom into a fiery pain, burning into her flesh.
After several minutes of unrelenting blows, she released her tears. A sob accompanied the sound of the spatula hitting her bottom. He pressed down on her back and reminded her not to kick or he would tie her to the table legs. She almost longed for the restraints. However, he swung with a rhythm, and she didn’t want to break its pattern.
She went to where she had to go. His censure had a purpose. The spanking went beyond an act of discipline—it reminded them both of their roles. She was his, and in their world of power exchange, she was at her most content when she acknowledged her submission. Her body did so, as she let the spatula beat out her bitter regrets. Her mind followed as she emptied worries and thoughts, and finally her endorphins sent her to a place where she held no sense of time or awareness. Unlike the panic attack, she remained sentient, cast adrift, and at peace.
The pace slowed. He rubbed and caressed her cheeks between sets of smacks. A smooth glide of his palm across rounded lobes. It helped, a little, and she snivelled into the table as he resumed with another dozen.
By the finish of his punishment, she had a scorching bottom of pain. She thanked him, in a haze of hiccupping mumbles, and she meant it. The guilt seeped out of her bones, slithered away, and she banished it. She had his verbal forgiveness, now she had his physical one.
He tossed the spatula onto the table. “Stand up.”
She rose cautiously, tucking her hair behind her ears and avoiding the temptation to wipe her snotty nose with the back of her hand.
“Turn and face me.”
She turned on the balls of her feet. Bowed her head and tucked her hands behind her back. A submissive’s pose. He tilted her chin up with a finger and she looked up at his face. A sombre one. He gave his head a tiny shake and from a pocket, he fished out his handkerchief. Wrapping it around a finger, he dabbed at her cheeks and eyes. She’d worn mascara, and she saw the black makeup cover his clean hankie.
“There, better,” he murmured. “Now I can see those beautiful green eyes of yours.” With one unexpected swift movement, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her out of the kitchen. She clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder.
Once upstairs on the bed, Jason rubbed the usual coating of arnica cream on her inflamed bottom. Her eyes didn’t leave him as she watched him undress and return to stand by the bed. She admired his physique, unchanged over the years by stress or fatigue. His muscles amply defined and proportional to his tall frame. Each sinew kept him strong and upright in posture. The pinnacle of her appreciation—his erect cock proclaiming him to be her perfectly formed god.
He held a bundle of rope. His intention clear—she was to be bound for his pleasure.
The sight of rope didn’t scare her. She held out her wrists for him, offering up her body. Her crowning joy was to have the spanking wiped away by her favourite kink. His, too. He adored her bound body and told her many times it satiated his dominance more than any other form of play.
In a matter of minutes, he completed the task. Wrists coiled with rope and tied to the corner bedposts. Legs positioned as if she were a frog—ankles tied to thighs—splayed apart for his view. He walked away from the bed backwards, a small grin forming on his face. The waiting game. Seated on an armchair on the other side of the room, he observed her, and a finger traced around his lips. Sexy man. She hummed like a small motor, and it took time for her breathing to moderate, for her eyes to settle on a spot on the ceiling, and her contorted muscles to relax.
Jason sauntered over to her, stroking his erection. The splendid cock seemed far too large for her to accommodate—the bulbous tip bulged with engorged blood. She squirmed.
The bed dipped. He crawled up from the bottom and came to kneel between her spread legs. His fingers touched her puss
y, gliding around its entrance with rotation of his wrist. She squealed.
“Tsk,” he murmured. He let one finger inside her elastic innards. She flushed with embarrassment as his finger squelched. Two fingers. Three fingers. Whatever her anxieties over being ready for him, her body had betrayed her inner desires. She thrashed her head from side to side, postponing her orgasm. She needed permission.
He leant over her. “Babe, you are so wanton sometimes,” he said quietly. “What am I to do with you? Eh? Pound you? Perhaps find my largest dildo and use that. Stretch you wide enough to fist that cunt of mine.” He chuckled. She couldn’t help it. Her eyes widened, betraying her. The usual mix of emotions ran through her mind: nervous zeal. She’d have to ask. He wanted her to beg.
“Please, Master, I would have you, not an ugly dildo. Please put your huge cock in me and fuck me,” she pleaded.
“Oh. I will, babe, I will.” He loomed closer, his hungry cock poised to take her.
She expected rough sex. The kind that put a strain on her bindings and stimulated the endorphins.
She misinterpreted his intentions. She cried, tears trickling down her cheeks. No pounding thrusts nor jarring of her belly with the stiff end of his cock greeted her. He fucked sweetly. He put to work his ever-skilful fingers and lips. He delved into her, lingering with each dip of hips. His mouth sought out and found a nipple. Sucking it into his mouth, he slowly stretched it out, elongating the apex and letting go just as she couldn’t bear it. To his cocktail of sensual teasing, he added the occasional nibble of his teeth, or flick of his tongue. She whimpered in ecstasy.
“Shhh, babe. I love you. Come for me,” he said as he eased in and out, methodically massaging her vagina.
“Oh, Master, make me yours,” she groaned. “Please.” She gave him the signal and summoned forth her Dominant, who waited in the wings to strike.
He coiled his hands loosely about her neck. A light squeeze, and her brain received the transmitted message. Her jaws clenched, suppressing a scream. The orgasm ricocheted throughout her body, spiralling out from her contracting pussy, her buttocks clenched and her toes curled. She held her breath and basked in the climax. As she came, Jason continued to fuck. He fucked through her orgasm, grinding, banging, maintaining his pace and not letting her rest. He exploded, delivering his liquid gift with appreciable grunt then panting he heaved himself off her splayed form, spraying tiny droplets of perspiration over her breasts.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She meant more than the sex. He’d reclaimed her.
“My pleasure, babe.”
Later, after she’d been unbound, cleansed, and treated to a muscle-relaxing massage, she lay on his chest. No hairs to twirl in her fingers, she absent-mindedly fingered one of his dainty nipples while he stroked her hair.
“I’m proud of you, babe. The piercing. You know what it means to me to have your consent.”
“It doesn’t change my hard limit. This is a one-off.”
“I know.” He kissed her head.
The details of the piercing were put to one side. It was in his hands, now, and she would wait until he was ready. A gift offered, and he wouldn’t forget. Gemma snuggled down, her eyelids drooping, and she fell into a peaceful sleep.
Chapter 26. An Essay
Gemma struggled to sit down the next day for two reasons. The after effects of the spanking, which during the sex she’d absorbed, re-stated itself in the form of a sore bottom. The second reason—she was to face her blackmailer, and the nervous excitement created much agitation. Clara had been giving her strange looks all day. She could see Gemma flitting about and avoiding chairs, but said nothing.
Gemma, due to her peculiar style of logic, remained blissfully happy about the punishment. Negative emotions had been purged and the incident filed away as:
One of those stupid debacles that Gemma instigates when she doesn’t have her head screwed on right.
Stupidity became the subject of the essay she wrote during that day. An instruction from Jason when he got out of bed in the morning, after receiving his wake-up blow job.
“Keep you occupied, won’t it? A piece on why you need rules,” he said as he straightened his tie in the mirror. “Handwritten.”
She smiled at his request. He was doing her a favour, and she knew it. A busy mind kept her from sinking into bad mental places. Sitting at her own desk at the White House, she laced the essay with wit and humour, while keeping the reasons behind her needing rules clear and expressive.
***
I’m impulsive and indecisive: a terrible combination because my judgement is rubbish as a result. I rush in and beat my head at it rather than apply my brain cells. When I know what I’m doing, I sink in a puddle of contentment. If I can’t work out what to do, somebody, you, Master, telling me what to do is the best thing.
I love sex. Being fucked hard in every hole is my paradise, and I could be lost there forever. I’m insatiable. I know it, you know it. Thinking of you all day makes me wet. Just like a dog waiting for its master to come home and take it for a walk. I’m looking at my lead all day, hoping it will be attached to my little collar and take me somewhere thrilling. Without rules or protocols, I would be an uncaring, selfish whore and a disaster for any man who came my way.
When I’m a subbie, I want only you. Your leash, your command, and my obedience. You have that voice that cuts through my addled neurosis and pulls out the person who only wishes to please and delight you. The rest is scythed away.
I don’t like being punished. I’ve tried to avoid being a subbie who attracts attention by being disobedient. That has never been at the forefront of my mind. I know you don’t enjoy punishing me, so what’s the point? I want to make you happy, not pissed off. Please don’t think I break your rules for attention—once, maybe, but no more.
I can no longer deny the fact that we, in the world of BDSM, are sadist and masochist. Even when you punish me, I think I’m fighting to keep the pain slut inside me at bay. The rest of the time, I think I’m proud of her. That horny slut in me. She goes walkabout and up in the air when you make me super subbie at the same time – hint! (Not that I’m telling you what to do!). I’m not sure where I want to take her yet. My pain slut. I need your guidance. Your advice, because I think you know where you want to take that sadist inside you. Your self-control gives me the confidence to follow you there. With your rules, you also guide me.
I struggle with humiliation, doing something I don’t like or not in the mood to do. I don’t get off on humiliation alone. I do if you’re being super Dom at the same time. I would do anything for my super Dominant. I get a kick out of doing silly things just because you tell me to do them, and I’m making your freaky control genes explode with the power it gives you.
I want to be positive about my life. My creative abilities, being a mum and a wife. I worry that I’m not good enough. I know I’m strong and determined, but I don’t use those skills to the best of my ability. I let myself become rudderless and inarticulate. I give up too easily when things get tough. Then I act up. Brainless. I become impatient and petulant hoping to resolve them quickly. I want to help Emily. I like helping people. I want to have an art gallery now. I want Josh to say he loves me now. I want my parents to be always happy with me and above all else, I want to please you, Master. Now!
Not surprising that I need rules, because my dreams are impossible and ridiculous. If I can’t bend and ply myself to achieve them, you can. You make me like clay, useful and pliable. Not just for the sex, but in so many other ways. Please keep training me, giving me rules, even new ones, I don’t mind. I want to improve, better myself for you. And me. I still have those selfish bones tucked away.
I’ve learnt to please with my body. I’ve learnt to give you my pain. I’ve learnt to give you my obedience. One thing I have not learnt, because I’ve never had to, is to give you my love. That comes naturally. I am most definitely your submissive. No one else will tame me, take me, or own me EVER. That love is stre
ngthened when I’m guided and controlled by your love. Your domination. Your wonderful rules.
I will always underachieve compared to you. I’m not putting myself down. It’s the truth. You’re demanding. A perfectionist. Unwavering in your opinions. I don’t mind. Because you’re also patient, caring, and beyond excellent in your sexual prowess. You also make a fantastic daddy.
***
Gemma wrote the essay in chunks between feeding Joshua, changing his nappy, cooking lunch, speaking to her mum on the phone, harassing the property agent, and wiping away Joshua’s tears when he fell over trying to walk. As a result, it the lacked finesse or fluidity she sought. More a collection of bite-size text strung together. She stapled the pieces of paper together, put them in an envelope, and stuffed it under Jason’s pillow.
Jason returned home shortly after six o’clock. They didn’t discuss the night’s rendezvous, rather they focused on Joshua and his bedtime routine. Jason changed into black cargo pants, black shirt, and jacket. He transformed into a younger and more militant version of himself. Gemma selected jeans and a pullover. She layered antiperspirant under her armpits, convinced she was going to sweat buckets.
Gibson collected them in a large SUV. Rothesay’s house was in East London, south of the river, and the location explained their use of cabs and buses. The Underground hadn’t been extended in that direction. A semi-detached house typical of many streets in London, built in the 1930s and robust, indistinct, and unassuming.
Gemma had a chance to question Jason about Rothesay during the drive to his house. “What did Martinson find out about Delia Rothesay?”
Jason relayed the information about the blackmailer, enabling Gemma to paint her own portrait of the raven-haired woman. Divorced four years ago—an acrimonious divorce because, not only had she been unfaithful, but she’d dragged her husband to court over custody of their daughter, an only child. Rothesay lost custody, her former husband implying there were major issues over her ability to take care of her daughter. However, privacy laws protected the girl. The next-door neighbour, who seemed happy to spill the beans, recounted Rothesay’s bitterness and hatred of her husband and his legal team.
