by Jaye Peaches
My response was evident between my legs, and it eased his efforts in fucking my bound body. His teeth nibbled, fingers plucked, and he pinched in accompaniment to his thrusts. With each swing of his hips, I stretched and clenched about his enlarging cock. Waiting for permission drove me wild. Several times, I opened my mouth to speak, to plead, then remembered he had instructed me to wait for his command.
Command. The word made me drip for him. As he teased me with his body, he tormented me with his words.
“You’re ready, babe?”
I nodded, more with my quivering chin than my head, prompting his mouth to descend on mine, smothering my lips.
He rocketed inside me, grinding deeper. The friction of his cock felt exquisite, delivering an intense fullness, and I could do nothing with my hips to respond. No arching back to meet his thrusts or wrapping my legs around his waist to hold him in my own embrace—those limbs he had dealt with in one of his preferred styles of bondage. “So close, aren’t you, my little subbie. I can feel the tightness. The desperate pulse in your wet cunt.”
“Oh fuck!” I hollered.
“Don’t,” he warned, dipping down, touching his nose on my forehead. “I decide. You’re all mine, remember. This fuck hole of yours will answer to me. Hold it!”
I was accustomed to waiting, having him lead me to my climax and letting him give it to me. I lacked the ability to tell him how desperate, how impossible it was to hold off my orgasm, words escaped unable to form in my mouth. Instead, I panted. Jason rocked in and out of me, breaching all of my natural defences. Depth achieved, he picked up his pace and force.
“Oh!” I screamed. “No, no!”
I didn’t mean stop. I had other words to bring Jason to a halt. My words of power and protection. It was my own orgasm I shouted out to and, gritting my teeth, I pulled hard on my restraints. Arms spread-eagled to the bedposts, legs tucked up with knees bound to elbows. My exposed position served to make me vulnerable and gave Jason full access to all he needed.
“Perhaps I might delve into your arsehole,” he threatened with a smile. “So unbearably close, aren’t you? Me, too.”
Suddenly, he withdrew, and I expected him to plunder my other fuck hole, but instead he leaned back and stared at me for a few seconds. His face became stern, and his eyes shot down with their intense blueness, drilling into my skull. I teetered on a brink, a precipice of an amazing orgasm, but he had taken away all tactile stimulation and left the thing I found most tantalising and alluring—his voice.
He kissed my forehead then spoke, “Come,” and I did with a long, drawn-out howl of accomplishment, driven crazy by my spasms and cramping swirls emanating from my clitoris.
As I shrieked, he covered me with his body and continued his remorseless pummelling until he achieved climax, spurting over my belly and breasts and squeezing out every last drop of his nectar.
“Well done, babe,” he said, skimming my sweaty brow with a kiss. “See, this is just the beginning. By the time I’ve trained you, the sound of my voice alone will do it for you.”
For some bizarre reason, I believed him.
Afterwards, as I lay curled up in a blanket, spooned by his warm body, I asked him about a different what-if scenario.
“What happens if I’m stuck and you say come? I’m not going get there like that, and I can’t see it happening. Will you punish or discipline me?”
“Punish you? No! A chastisement, like I’ve always given you. I want to train you, not put you off orgasms. Not coming at all would be unusual for you.”
“Hey, I’m not a machine!” I jabbed my heel back into his shin.
He pinned me tighter to his chest, tucking my wrist against my belly. “I would want to know why you weren’t in the mood. Whether you were harbouring issues and not telling me about something bothering you. When I don’t want you to come at all, I will warn you in advance. Haven’t I always done so?”
True, he always declared an outright denial up front, unlike when he kept me on the edge. That was part of the play, to leave me hungry and needy while he took his own pleasure. It reminded me of my purpose—a submissive to be controlled.
“Yes,” I murmured, eyelids drooping. All the same, he had raised the bar very high.
Chapter 2. Interruptions
On the first Wednesday evening after our chat about rules, I waited for Jason to come home from work to our townhouse in West London—named the White House after its colourless rendering.
My mood had been foul all day.
If I’d made the effort to contact a fellow sub, he or she would have reminded me not to hold a grudge against my Dominant. However, my bad mood had blossomed, and I’d failed to find a suitable activity to rid my mind of his stubbornness. I remained in a state of rebellion—one of those occasions when I struggled to remember my role in his life.
I’d spent most of the day sulking about an earlier exchange of texts.
It had been a lovely Wednesday morning, clear blue sky and unusually warm air for spring. I had wanted to take Joshua to Brighton for a day trip with Clara, to see the sea, buy an ice cream, and let him feel the sand between his fingers and toes.
: Can I take Josh and Clara to Brighton to see the seaside? Please, Sir.
: You may not.
: MAY I take Josh to the beach please, SIR.
: No
: WHY?
: Don’t shout your texts. The matter is closed. Take him to a park. I haven’t the time for this.
I had ignored the obvious warning in this missive and thrown at him a lengthy whining text ending with…
: Parks are boring. I want him to see real open spaces, not a patch of grass in a middle of a busy city.
: Take him to Blythewood for the day. As long as you’re back by his teatime.
I retired from the text battle. My persuasive techniques had no impact on Jason. Blythewood was a reasonable alternative. Mrs Harris, the housekeeper, enjoyed seeing Joshua. She and Clara got on like a house of fire. They took him out in the garden for a run around while I printed off emails from my property agent and solicitor.
I’d identified my chosen property a few weeks earlier. Empty and ideally situated, it was to be the site of my art gallery. A dream I had harboured since before Joshua was born. Perhaps it had always been in the back of my mind as an ambition, which, prior to meeting my millionaire husband, would have been impossible to fulfil. I hadn’t the capital, nor drive, and always doubted my own abilities as an artist. My artistic skills had been appreciated at an amateur level by friends and family, but I’d never put them to the test in the professional market.
Jason gave me the encouragement to bring my dreams to reality. First he’d let me display my pictures at private parties then supported me in the conversion of an old stable block at Blythewood into my own atelier and, when I decided not to continue working as an asset analyst, Jason had inspired me to find a suitable location for my own gallery.
Progress dragged and, reviewing the situation on Wednesday morning, I’d hit an impasse. Hindrance came in the form of tedious small print, legal arguments and quibbles on what seemed like insignificant details by the leaseholder. I wasn’t cut out for business wrangles, and the delays didn’t help my mood. I was having a seriously bad day.
Things didn’t improve when, back at the White House, Joshua refused to eat his tea and tipped the contents of a whole plate onto the floor. His snotty nose dribbled continuously, and he arched his back as he tried to climb out of the high chair. The day maintained its downhill descent into the realms of dismal failure.
By the time Jason arrived home from his City headquarters, I had asked Mr Brooks, the resident butler, to come down from his attic flat and cook a meal for us because Joshua had taken so long to settle down to sleep. Brooks made his appearances in the morning after Jason had left to work. He would check with me what provisions were needed to stock the kitchen shelves and enquire whether he needed to cook for us. Sometimes I liked to do it myself.
<
br /> Jason said very little to me as Brooks served up the bowls of spaghetti bolognese then, with a warm good night, headed back up to his own flat.
After a very mute meal, I washed up, and Jason disappeared to work in his study. I assumed it was the end of the evening for both of us and resigned myself to having another go at viewing boring documents while sitting in the kitchen.
My supposition proved wrong. Fifteen minutes later, Jason returned and stood behind me, leaning over to look at the documents. My stiff shoulders illustrated the tension I battled to contain. Jason said nothing for the few minutes, massaging the tautness, pressing his fingertips into my shoulder blades while reading the closest letter. I made appreciative noises as his strong fingers dug into my sinews, easing the muscles. I shut my eyes, blocking out the annoying sheets of paper.
“I want you,” he announced, pulling back the chair.
I scrambled to tidy the papers into a neat pile. His wanting me was the best distraction I’d had all day. I stood up, and he drew me into an embrace. Immediately, I went up a notch on my orgasm scale. He trailed kisses over my exposed neckline, nibbled my earlobes, and delved under my T-shirt, heading straight for my bra.
“You’ve been sulking all day, haven’t you?” he whispered into my ear. Two of his fingers found his target, and he pinched a nipple. It stiffened, responding with a sharp twinge, as he twisted it back and forth like an erotic switch.
I took a deep inhalation of breath. I had to tell him what was bothering me before I lost all control of my senses.
“Brighton. I wanted a day out,” I muttered as Jason peppered me with his kisses, continuing to harass my poor nipple. “Felt trapped.” I winced, grabbing at the back of the chair to steady myself.
“You went to Blythewood instead, though, so why the glum features?” He tipped my head up, and his stern blue eyes dazzled from on high.
“Just fancied a change.” I shrugged, instantly regretting the gesture. Another stab of discomfort shot across my assaulted nipple. “What’s wrong with that?” I whined.
He ceased screwing my beleaguered nipple and cupped my breast instead, bouncing it up and down. “Did it ever cross your mind I might like to take Joshua to the seaside, watch him take his first sniff of salt air, wriggle his toes in the sand? Well?”
It hadn’t, and I closed my eyes while I digested his words. I wasn’t behaving submissively, and he’d every right to call me sulky.
I snorted. “He wouldn’t have smelt much,” I said, deflecting his comment. “His nose is stuffed up, and he didn’t eat his tea. So it was probably for the best.”
He took my wrists and pinned them behind my back, crossing them together and holding them in place with his lengthy span. I winced, not from pain, but the realisation he was ramping things up a level. “Gemma. What do you think it means to me when I have to put up with your silly texts in the middle of my working day. Time-wasting, stroppy words from my wife who should know better. Think a little clearer next time.”
He pulled my arms back away from me, causing a sharp, stabbing pain in my shoulders, and I grimaced. Pain was a good way of catching anyone’s attention.
“I apologise. Sir.”
“Hopefully by the time I finished fucking your sorry arse, you will be in a better frame of mind.” I noted the lack of menace in his voice. Something else lurked behind his words. The Dominant who had come home from work was in need of my compliant nature and good behaviour.
A better frame of mind—guaranteed. I rarely ended up feeling worse after his fucks, even if he dressed them up as a disciplinary matter, but his frame of mind needed to revert from executive mode into relaxed husband. I needed it to be a mutually beneficial fuck.
He let go of my wrists and returned to exploring. I shivered, tilting my head back and preparing myself for letting go. Then the front doorbell rang.
Jason’s protection team maintained a list of names, people given access to our properties without an interrogation at the gate: family members and close friends of Jason or mine. Others had to explain to the on-call security officer why they wanted to bother the personages of Mr or Mrs Lucas.
Jason scowled, sprang me free of his roving hands, and went to open the door. I could hear voices in the hallway and recognised the sound of my father-in-law’s droning baritone. Jason’s father was one of those who’d instant access to the property, enabling him to walk through the outer security gate, up the path to the front door, and ring the bell. Clive Lucas must be calling in on the way back from the law courts where he worked as barrister. Rearranging my dishevelled top, I went to switch the kettle on.
Jason came back to the kitchen with an order for two coffees. “We’re in the drawing room. You don’t need to join us. Go back to your plans.”
The way he spoke felt more like a dismissal than a suggestion. I tensed up, unhappy at my banishment. However, I delivered the cups of coffee to the drawing room and took the opportunity to exchange greetings with Clive before retreating to the paper pile on the kitchen table.
Half an hour later, Clive left, his fly-by visit complete without even a good-bye to his daughter-in-law. Jason put the empty cups in the dishwasher. Then he seized my documents and dumped them in a stack, and I took his actions to be a signal to return to what we had been doing before interrupted.
“Your father, what did he want?” I ventured, stuffing a letter back in its envelope. The paper tore, and I cursed.
Jason grabbed the envelope from my hand and added it to the pile. “Family matter. It need not concern you.”
I opened my mouth then snapped it shut with an audible clash of teeth. I fumed, annoyed at being shut out of his family issues. I came close to venting, but being in a bad mood wasn’t going to help me reach an appropriate state of sexiness for his interrupted scene. Instead of grumbling, I focused my efforts on demonstrating my acceptance of his decision. I clasped my hands behind my back and bowed my head.
Without speaking a word, he returned to his groping and progressed to removing my top and bra, sucking on a nipple while holding it between his teeth. I moaned, unable to stop the rising arousal in my loins. How quickly I shifted from futile irritation to lusty bliss. Such wicked hands he had when he conjured up my passions. His tongue circled my nipple, and I twisted in his arms, sensing my wetness below.
Joshua bawled, his cries emanating from the baby monitor.
Jason and I both paused and stared at the flashing lights. I silently hoped he was resettling; however, it became apparent our son was distressed. Jason disengaged for a second time with a gritted-teeth smile.
I shrugged. “Perils of parenthood. I’ll try to settle him.”
I slipped the top back on and went to investigate. As soon as I adjusted the light dimmer, I could tell it was going to be a long night. Joshua was red faced, and when I picked him up, heat radiated from his little body. I rocked him in my arms. I pressed a cup to his lips, and he took a few sips of water before coughing and spluttering. With a sudden hiccup, he vomited the liquid over his clothes.
My stomach churned. “Oh, Joshie! You are a poorly boy.”
Jason appeared and helped me strip the soiled clothes from our son. I took Joshua’s temperature.
“It’s nearly 40 degrees, Jason. He’s burning up.”
“Keep him in nothing but a nappy; bring him to our room. I’ll put a towel down on our bed,” instructed Jason.
Rope lay coiled on the bed. Jason’s planned scene was abandoned by the necessity of caring for a sickly child. He moved the rope out of my sight. With us lying on either side of Joshua, we tried to placate and soothe him. It cut through me, seeing him stare at me with a fix-me-Mum expression. Tears seemed to dry instantly on his hot skin, and he didn’t want to be held or touched.
Jason picked up the phone. “I’ll ring the doctor.”
Within an hour, a doctor was at our door. She set her bag down on the bed and smiled at our little boy. Her calm voice and gentle hands alleviated his fractious distress.
She examined his ears, throat, and lungs as he lay slumped in my arms. When she had finished, Joshua crawled over to his father, who’d remained perched on the bed throughout. The child snuggled against his dad as if women were nasty people armed with cold instruments.
The doctor gave her verdict. “Tonsillitis.”
“Oh my poor little man,” I said with a mock frown. “Mummy knows all about tonsillitis. Why wonder he threw his tea on the floor. That’s what Mummy feels like doing, too, when her throat is sore.”
The doctor wrote out a prescription. “I’m afraid you’re in for a few sleepless nights, though.” Her medical bag repacked, the out-of-hours doctor left for her next appointment.
Jason sent Brooks out to fulfil the script. After Brooks returned, Jason reappeared in our bedroom with syringes. I didn’t enquire where he kept them. In the past, when I’d suffered a serious panic attack, he’d injected me with sedatives. With the needle detached, Jason grasped Joshua in his arms while I squirted the liquid down his throat. Following the forced administration, Joshua clambered away from us and, grizzling, he flopped down on a pillow, and lay there.
Joshua disrupted the next three nights with his irritability and restless nature. Jason’s planned scene wasn’t just postponed, it was cancelled. We were lucky to grab a few hours of continuous sleep, snatching them throughout the night between placating visits to Joshua’s nursery. Relocating to Blythewood House for the weekend settled him, and Jason rose early on Sunday morning and went to check on Joshua in his cot.
“Out for the count still,” he said, upon returning. “Nice and cool. I think he is catching up on sleep.”
