by Jaye Peaches
She sprang up on his lap. “I didn’t think micromanagement was your style. Sir. Too much hassle for a busy man like yourself.”
He grinned. “Oh, a few extras won’t dent my working practices.”
“What were you thinking of, Sir?” Her pussy clenched. His subtle directing of the conversation electrified her.
“The supposedly rudderless you, who fears to venture into something new, needs a poke. I will see that art gallery, Gem, and you will fill it with your creativity. Whatever support you need, I will give you unconditionally. My dominance will not drive you forward, your own special abilities will do it. Never doubt your abilities. However, other areas, more specific to us, that is a different matter.”
She clutched her hands in her lap. The bulge in his pants obvious. Her nipples stuck out under her T-shirt. “They are, Sir. Erm. What areas?”
“Guidance. You wanted me to guide your masochistic tendencies.”
She’d written those words. “I will always take your advice, Sir,” she murmured, eyes cast down.
“Good. Because we both know what happens when things get out of control. When limits are ignored. Safe-words forgotten. Reaching beyond what we can sensibly achieve in our lives. You want boundaries to protect you, and I want to push your limits because that is a reflection of how I control you. Together, the two aspects of what we do will keep you and me on our safe and sane journey. Pain and pleasure will be mine to give to you, subbie. What will be in your rules will simply state that it is my discretion, my choice, and my wishes that determine what you should endure for me. Not yours. So, let us make explicit asking or requesting clear from now on. It is forbidden, whether for pain or pleasure.”
“Thank you for the clarification, Master.” Gemma wanted to whimper. His little lecture had come out of the blue. No asking!
She shot a glance at him. Damn impassive face! “I can’t seduce you at all. Even romantically?” She fluttered her eyelashes.
“You can offer or ask permission to approach me or provide a service. Such as ‘please may I pleasure you in any way’. Not the same as ‘get your cock inside me now’. Is it? Much politer. If I decline, you don’t get to ask or beg a second time. No more whining to have your lusty fantasies filled. Try it out.”
He tugged her ponytail, the handle that connected him to her submissive brain. The scalp burst alive with tingles. They rushed down her spine like waves of cold shivers.
Now her breath picked up a pace. “May I ask permission to have you fuck me, Sir,” she gasped messily.
He admonished her with a slap on the thigh. “No, no. Such unpleasant language. I’ll give you a second chance.” He folded his arms across his chest.
She got it. She understood what he wanted. After all, she’d told him in her essay. The clues were all there. She’d asked for his rules, the protocols to drive their relationship forward into new territory. A year had passed since the birth of their son and the beginning of their journey into a continuous stream of domination and submission. Now, far from wishing the agreement to end, she desired more from him, and Jason was about to raise his expectations to a new height. What happened next was not down to her. It was in the hands of her Dominant.
Gemma moved off his lap, knelt at his feet, and spoke again. “Sir. This submissive would be very grateful if her Master would consider having sex with her for his pleasure.”
She kissed his feet in turn. An uninhibited response to the indulgent gaze of his astonishing blue eyes, the brilliant white teeth bared in a broad smile, and the golden hair, framed about his face, shining brightly in the lamplight.
Gemma was so in love with her husband. Her beloved Master.
Cherished by Him
Volume Three of Sublime Trust
Gemma is seeking to fulfil her dream career—to own an art gallery. Aiding her in her endeavours is her Dominant, Jason, who continues to control her with his rules, shaping both her submission and their mutual desire for erotic kink.
While she struggles to accept her extraordinary marriage, her billionaire husband must deal with troublesome siblings and problems at work.
Just as she achieves her ambitions, a forgotten man reappears. Gemma is about to discover the truth behind the memories haunting her.
Chapter 1. Amending the Rules
By the middle of March, my baby son, Joshua, was walking, almost running, such was his eagerness to be independent. He charged about with splayed legs as if he straddled a horse. His nanny, Clara, and I spent many hours trotting behind him as he scampered from room to room practising his newfound skill to exhaustion. He kicked and screamed when we put him down for naps and continued his resistance to captivity by stumbling up and down his cot with tears on his hot cheeks.
His father, my beloved husband and Master, Jason, didn’t see Joshua take those first steps. Clara and I had witnessed the glorious event when Joshua let go of a coffee table and tottered two paces to a nearby chair. The smile on his face said it all—he had been chuffed to bits. For two days, he hadn’t repeated his achievement, until the weekend, when, in Blythewood House’s safe snug, he decided to master the technique. He’d paced a step at a time between Jason and me, as we knelt on the floor giving him words of encouragement. As we’d moved further apart, his confidence grew and he was there—walking. My eyes had pricked with maternal tears as he chuckled to himself, staring at his little feet in amazement.
After Clara and I had spent a day chasing after him, I could see my son had no sense of danger, so I bought baby reins, which amused Jason.
“His first experience of bondage,” remarked Jason, lifting the child off the ground with the reins. “Suspension, too!”
I shot forward, reaching out. “Jason, put him down!”
Jason clucked and lowered Joshua to the floor, handing me the straps. “Keep a tight grip on him.” I didn’t need the instruction. I could never imagine the day when I would let go of Joshua.
As spring blossomed, the buds came out on the saplings in the orchard at Blythewood Estate and the grass grew long, swaying in the wind. Joshua explored every metre of the garden with observant eyes and curious hands, touching and burying his fingers in the moist soil. My heart swelled as he rambled around the garden, trying to kick footballs, chasing the pigeons off the lawn, or digging with a plastic spade.
As Joshua developed, so did I. A never-ending road of learning as I lived my life in a continuous state of submission to my Dominant lover and husband. We were no longer confined to the bedroom or our dungeon lair at Blythewood House, which served as our weekend country retreat from London. After years of marriage, the power exchange dynamic had stretched to wherever we co-habited, at any time of day and regardless of changing circumstances, such as the birth of our son.
Was Jason still developing as my Dominant? Always, except he absorbed his lessons without revealing his thoughts. He continued to file his findings for future use, communicating with other Dominants at his club—the Nightshade—or via emails. I was never party to any of his discussions, but assumed Jason maintained his friendship with fellow Dominants, in particular Damien and Garrick, his long-term mentors. I could only guess, but perhaps he needed a sounding board for dealing with my occasional emotional outburst.
A few weeks into spring, not long after Joshua’s first walk in the garden, Jason dropped the new protocols into my lap. He had written over the existing printed ones in his meticulous penmanship.
“Read. Remember their purpose is a tool for us to use when we are unsure of what each of us expects from this relationship and to help us remember what is important. If you have comments, add them, and I will decide whether to incorporate anything you have said.”
Jason left me to peruse the words while he worked in his study. I clutched the paper in my hand, admiring the neat handwriting, the rows of text—my list of Jason’s expectations and what guided me in our relationship. A year had transpired since he had first given me my rules, now, as promised, it was time for our first an
nual review.
***
Rules. When I first met Jason, we had stated limits for play and a basic set of protocols for my submission to him. Those protocols, which were mainly behavioural ones for me to follow, had been designed for his dungeon lair, where we practised our kinky ways.
Nearly five years on, Jason had revised those rubrics. I noted they had increased in number and complexity, although I didn’t think Jason considered them complicated compared to his legal workplace jargon. Seeing those extra layers of convolution kicked in my adrenaline, making me doubt my abilities.
He’d clarified some rules and, in other places, tightened up the wording to prevent misinterpretation. A few were new and one in particular gave me cause for concern. I scribbled my questions alongside Jason’s—not quite as neatly. Putting down my pen, I gathered up the papers and went in search of my husband.
I peered into Jason’s study. He was sat his desk, his fingers thrumming on the laptop keys. I waited by the desk, rotating the papers in my hands. I’d learnt to be silently patient. After a few minutes, he stopped typing, closed the lid, and signalled for me to approach. I handed him the pieces of paper then knelt by his feet.
“I have some…thoughts.” I gazed at my thighs: blotches of baby food with grubby finger marks on the jeggings and two of my nails chipped from the afternoon’s gardening. So much for clause nine—I had failed already with regard to deportment. Seeing him all regal and boss-like, I tucked my hands out of sight. He managed to appear quite magnificent. Was I about to trivialise his efforts?
“Let’s discuss those now,” said Jason, laying the sheets out on his desk.
Here goes. I blurted, “We’re not drifting to a ‘128 Rules for Slaves to Follow’ in a fantasy world where neither of us has a job, friends, or baby to interfere and I have to ask permission to pee? Because it isn’t happening. And are these verbatim? I mean, do I have to memorise what you’ve written?”
He leaned back in his leather swivel chair.
“Do we argue over semantics? Some are more literal than others. For instance, I consider it quite straightforward you don’t masturbate or go off on your own or travel without permission. Others about communication, respect, and obedience concern behaviours, not just yours, but mine, too. It’s no point my telling you to express your concerns if I’m not prepared to take the time to listen. So, no, they’re not verbatim or rituals of our lives. They’re a tool to help guide us in our relationship and ensure you understand what I consider is a punishable action and what is really about developing our own particular relationship.”
“You’re precise with your words, Jason. Don’t deny it,” I pointed out. Oh, the times his precision had caught me out. Those moments raced through my mind, and I stuck my chin out, demonstrating I meant business.
“All right, let’s go through your concerns. First up,” began Jason, “I may not ask for any form of sexual activity with my Dominant or offer my sexual assets for the purposes of achieving my own gratification unless I approach my Dominant and ask permission to do so first. The sexual needs of my Dominant take precedence over my own. Well?” He raised his eyebrows.
“See? It is very…wordy, and what about special occasions, birthdays? Can’t I surprise you with something?” I clutched my clammy hands together on my lap. Why was this so damn hard to do—speaking to my husband, expressing my needs?
He smiled, one of his more warming, inviting ones, which helped unclench my fingers and alleviated the nervous flurry of butterflies in my belly.
He stroked his chin with the tips of his fingers. “That’s showing love, not asking for sex. Doing it for the purpose of having me would be the wrong motivation. I don’t want you to manipulate or control me. Instead, think about what motivates you to do something.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes to the ceiling. I knew Jason well enough to understand his train of thought. “Okay, you want me to be romantic but not the demanding, clingy sub who wears a fuck me T-shirt all day. Have to see how that one works out.” I shrugged. I’d a flirty habit, which Jason had steered into a more attractive version. “Sexually appealing clothing. May I buy more sexy lingerie? Also, isn’t this in contradiction of asking with my ‘assets’? Do you want me to look sexy or not?” I narrowed my eyes, despatching him a, “make up your darn mind” expression. At least that was what I hoped I conveyed.
He sighed. My man hated being interrogated—that was his job, not mine, but he answered, adding a small smirk. “New clothes have to fit in the existing wardrobes and drawers. I’m not giving you any more storage space. There is a difference between looking adorably sexy and asking for a fuck. I like you to look desirable and elegant, not hanging your tits out for every Tom, Dick, and Harry.” Again, his reply satisfied the lingering doubt in my head he intentionally made life difficult for me.
“Quote: I may not ask for permission but wait to be told I may come and do so for your pleasure as quickly as I can. I like begging!” I exclaimed with a mock pout.
“Ask permission to beg, then. I will either say yes or no! Don’t make it a habit. I want to teach you to come on demand. This helps you to learn to wait for my command.” Jason’s clarification brought a jaw drop from me.
“Come on demand! Without stimulation?” I gaped at the clause covering my orgasms. I wasn’t a machine. I needed the tactile extras to bring me to completion.
“Your orgasms are mine, remember. You have them for my pleasure and at my control. You’ll improve in your ability to come when you hear my voice or some other trigger. I haven’t attached timescales. Don’t feel pressured by this one, babe. It’s achievable if you work hard on it. As for stimulation, I’m not expecting you to behave like a light switch. There will be sensory stimulation given to you. What form it takes will be mine to decide.” The soft smile reassured me he wasn’t expecting magic from my ability to control my orgasms.
I moved on. “You want to control my hairstyle?” I referred to the clause about permission for changing my appearance. “I thought micromanaging me was out of your remit?”
He wagged a finger. “Let’s say if I can’t tie it back into a ponytail you’re in trouble.” The relaxed features remained present—the warning looks absent.
I remembered the next rule and smiled. “Aftercare. Will cherish this one.”
“Me, too, babe,” said Jason softly then his smile disappeared, along with my own. He’d picked up the paper and read my query to my least favourite rule: restrictions on social media usage.
I gave it my best—head tilted to one side, eyes downcast, lips pouting. “Can’t I have a Facebook page for vanilla friends and family? Post up Josh’s piccies?”
He slapped the arm of his chair. “No!” I jerked, snapping my head back and wiping the pout off my face. “You can use text, email, and instant messaging with friends. You may comment anonymously where possible as long as you reveal nothing to identify you. That is it, nothing else.” Jason’s tone held rigid finality, and I wanted it gone.
“Okay. I’m disappointed about Facebook. My friends don’t understand why I don’t have one. But I won’t ask again.” I moved on to the next key point—pleasing the sadist in Jason, learning to be the masochist for him. My constant training. “I’m nervous about where you’re taking me with pain, but I trust you, and I know I will see it as a positive development. You won’t spring things on me? I don’t mean warm-up flogging or sensual spankies, you know, the full on…you. I don’t think I could do masochism without warning.”
“Babe, I have no plans to creep up behind you with a cattle prod. If I’m trying something new or pushing limits, you will always be told.”
I ignored the reference to the cattle prod. Electricity remained a hard limit, something I wouldn’t consider doing, at least for the near future.
I took a deep breath. “Punishments and safe-words.” My lower lip trembled because I didn’t want to dig down and think about why this made me nervous. He patted his knee, letting me sit on his lap a
nd snuggle up. “Removing safe-words is a hard limit,” I reminded him. “Does this clause mean I can’t safe-word during a punishment? You’ve never...I can’t….” I lost the words from my head.
He squeezed, drawing me closer until his mouth settled in my hair. “I wouldn’t remove your red safe-word under any conditions. If you freak out and have to stop, then I understand. You have a history I have to cater to, and I wouldn’t put the fear in you. You need to understand why you want me to ease up or stop. Simply due to pain, or are you emotionally going to freak out? The first is defeating the purpose of punishments. They’re meant to be unpleasant and painful. The second one is a better reason. This caveat about safe-wording doesn’t cover impact play during scenes.” He kissed my hair. “Be honest, Gem. I don’t punish you very often, and it’s preferable to use something not based on corporal punishment. Revoking privileges would be more suitable these days. Now you’re my little subbie all day every day, I have this control over you, don’t I?”
I rested against his chest, and the piece of paper slipped onto the table. The discussion about rules had brought out deeper desires, and they focused my thoughts on one area of my anatomy. A tingle, a tiny jangle of nerve endings fired up below, and Jason responded, nudging my bottom with his stiffening cock. I jiggled on his lap, casting aside my doubts, remembering nothing else mattered if we had each other.
“Let’s practise now, shall we?” He jabbed my arm with his thumb.
We headed straight to the dungeon lair, the room we kept locked and to which only Jason had the key. I waited behind him while he unlocked the door, my delight showing in my fidgeting shuffle. Jason’s new rules came to life the moment he had me in the windowless room surrounded by all his kinky equipment.
If there was a manual to my libido, then Jason had opened it at my favourite page. The softest flogger to warm me up and the binding of my wrists to the bedposts rendering me helpless. The exquisite use of his mouth on my pussy lips leading him to lick me out with his tongue. The voyage of the pinwheel over my ticklish flesh until I thought he might score a line on me. To all these, he added his most sensual voice, whispering in my ears. He called me his girl, wanton, and other explicit dirty words of intent.
