by Jaye Peaches
“Thank goodness. Let’s go and have a breakfast without a screaming child, shall we?” I reached for the baby monitor. Jason went ahead to turn the coffee machine on while I slipped on a dressing gown.
I scanned the Sunday paper, sipping my steaming coffee. The monitor activated once when Joshua had stirred then went back to sleep. We sighed collectively. I hummed to myself, planning a leisurely morning, perhaps a bath. My period had started on Friday. However, Jason had other ideas. Sex had been off the agenda for four nights, and as he eyed me, I dismissed my cosy-bath idea. Jason was about to shift into action.
He removed the empty mug from my hands and, unlike Wednesday evening, he skipped foreplay. I rose, a little perturbed because certain areas of my body were off limits. Which meant…? A whoosh of adrenaline flared in my stomach. Had I told him about my period and my omission? As I pondered my dilemma, Jason discarded my dressing gown to unveil my nudity and, with a hand about the back of my neck, bent me over the kitchen table.
“Sir. My period—”
“Yes. I know. I’m going to use this.” He put a finger against my puckered anus and I tensed, clenching my cheeks, squeezing his digit. Jason tutted.
I bent my knees, lowering my bottom. Another indication of my reticence to engage. The reason would have to be given. “I haven’t prepared myself for you.” Which meant I hadn’t used the cleansing douche.
“You’re not ready? When did you last do it?” He leaned over me as I squished my face into the pine surface, avoiding his looming figure.
“Umm, Tuesday,” I mumbled.
He heard. “Tuesday!”
“With Josh being ill, I didn’t think—”
“Did I stop shaving when Josh was ill, Gemma? Did I decide not to brush my teeth? Preparations, hygiene. They’re in the rules you agreed to. Be ready for me. I can understand if you’d not done it since yesterday, but five days!” He sounded more annoyed than I’d anticipated. I mean, it’s a ritual, not a laborious cleansing. Did it matter so much?
“We were tired. I didn’t think you would care…”
Wrong words! As soon as they slipped out of my disgruntled mouth, I’d stepped into a new area of disobedience.
“You get to decide, do you?”
No. No! I didn’t mean that.
I kept my mouth shut. I had dug a hole, and words were not going to be sufficient to clamber out of it.
Stupid, stupid!
“Go and do it now. You’d better show me your apologies.” Jason gave my departing bottom a hard slap as I scampered towards the door, leaving my dressing gown behind.
Stomping up the stairs, I blamed my hormones, lack of sleep, the weather, anything but my neglect. The man was impossible to please sometimes. Slamming the bedroom door, I inhaled from the bottom of my lungs. The truth was, I’d fucked up, because I could have asked permission to forgo the cleansing ritual for the duration of Joshua’s illness, and Jason would probably have consented to my proposal. For two nights, he’d looked exhausted and, other than a kiss good-night, he’d showed no interested in me sexually.
I dithered, circling the bedroom for a few seconds before accepting my fate. I went into the bathroom and did what I should have done days earlier.
He walked into the master bedroom ten minutes later to find me lying on the floor in the classic, I’m-really-sorry slave position—arms and legs outstretched, head tucked down, hands pressed together as if in prayer.
Lying at his feet, I heard a familiar swoosh and braced myself for the chastising suede flogger.
The knotted tips swept across my bottom, leaving a trail of stings. “Pigs roll around in their own muck, Gemma. That’s what you are, a dirty piggy. So let’s make you pink, shall we?”
I cursed, muttering under my breath. Unfair. Turning me into a pet pig lay right at the bottom of my kinky list of fun things. The flogging would be nothing compared to the humiliation. For once, I wanted Joshua to interrupt our impromptu scene. However, I uttered the appropriate response, “Yes, Sir. I’m a pig,” and embraced the stinging tails of his flogger.
He swung back and forth, working across my bottom and back in a figure-eight pattern. I jerked with each swish and thud, scrunching my hands in the carpet pile, trying hard not to cry out or release unshed tears. Disappointment raged inside me as I tried to understand why I had pushed my daily routine aside and hidden my carelessness from Jason.
He turned me over so he could target my breasts, tummy, and inner thighs. By the time he’d finished, I’d turned pink, and my skin prickled with soreness and unwanted heat. Instructed by Jason to kneel and rest on my forearms, I waited.
Cold lubricant trickled down my crack, and he smeared it about my puckered hole. Flinching, I buried my head in my arms. He poked a finger inside, testing my readiness. I gasped at the intrusion then, with a pop, he extracted his digit.
I risked a peek over my shoulder and shrivelled with mortification. He been to the lair and fetched the damn butt plug with a pig’s curly tail stuck on the end of it.
“Eyes front,” he snapped, sergeant-major style.
I squirmed. The plug was on the large side, and he slipped it in with a firm shove. Each second that passed, I stretched and grew around the incursion, finding its dimensions bearable and shamefully desirable. Heat rushed up my body, into my neck and face, no doubt adding extra pinkness to my flesh tone.
“What noises do piggies make, Gemma?” He wiggled the tail and corresponding movement inside me excited my clitoris.
“Oink, oink,” I replied through gritted teeth.
Jason slapped a buttock. “No, that’s what you say to children. I want you to grunt. Deep grunts.”
Hell! I buried my face in my hands.
Jason coaxed, cajoled, but avoided sweet-talking me into compliance. Instead, he pushed the humiliation aspect of his small, contrived scene. I grunted, not convincingly, and he threatened to flog me until I had the right sound effects spewing out of my mouth. One hand rested on my lower back—the calming weight—while the other, the crueller one, twisted and rotated the silly plug in my butt hole.
I arched my back, rocking back and forth, then caught my reflection in the full-length mirror attached to the walk-in closet door. A vision of me, us. Bum up, head down, with Jason kneeling behind me, playing with my butt. As I grunted, he grinned and thrust the plug in then back out again. My reflection managed to appear both ludicrous and erotic.
The plug suddenly went, eased out of me. We hadn’t finished, though.
“Keep grunting, little piggy, while I fuck you,” growled Jason.
His erection was hard as a scaffold pole, and I struggled to accommodate his thick cock. Then it happened. I thought of what he’d called me, what I’d become—his little piggy. An animal with an unfortunate reputation because they were quite sweet and cute when piglets. I had read countless farmyard stories to Joshua and the pink, stylised pigs illustrated on the cardboard pages were the images I used to visualise my submission. I was a pristine, pretty pink pig—a beautiful creature being fucked for the pleasure of one man.
I grunted enthusiastically. I discovered my way past the humiliation aspect. I had to be submissive and think of him fucking his cute little porcine. I pushed back, meeting his slapping thighs, and sucked him in deeper. When done right, anal sex was a winner for my libido. The ache in my hips, the pain in my kneecaps, all forgotten, substituted by sheer, unadulterated sexual pleasure. Even without direct contact, my clit raged, clambering to reach a fiery resolution.
“Oh, Gemma, my little piggy,” he groaned. He let go of my waist, thrust hard, and I fell flat on my belly, squashing my breasts. Master didn’t seem to mind the piggy had lost her footing. He pinned my shoulders into the carpet, rose up then hurtled down, knocking the air out of me.
I whimpered, not through pain, but the electricity pulsating around my pussy. I wanted to slip my hand underneath, touch my clit. The frustration of being edged by my Dom grew, and I wanted to beg. I head butted the carpe
t.
My energy levels shattered, disintegrated in my desperate need to have completion. Jason’s enthusiasm remained unperturbed by sleepless nights and his boundless energy kept him hard, and able to hold off his orgasm, ensuring he drove me crazy with impatience.
“Thank you, Sir. Please....” I could not work out what to say to him. He’d forbidden me to beg, to plead.
“Wait.”
I can’t hold it. The more he denied me, the stronger the ache to come, and I teetered on the brink, falling….
“Come.”
One word, and I dissolved about him, hollering, clawing at the carpet threads. My orgasm a pulsating bedlam that rippled on for a delicious eternity and, in the midst of it, he spurted his load.
We’d achieved the perfect simultaneous climax because he had controlled me, rather than having me beg until I told him I was coming. He’d demonstrated his authority over my lust. Held hostage to his needs, from this time on, he truly owned my sexual being, I’d nothing left to give him. My orgasms were his to command, and I would endeavour to deliver them on cue or accept his denial.
I lay on the sticky towel while he filled the bath. We slipped in together, and he guided me down.
“Well done, babe. You almost asked.”
I leant against his chest. “It was a challenge, not being about to beg, not even being able to drop a hint.”
He chuckled, wringing out a cloth over my breasts. The water formed rivulets down my cleavage. “I can read your body. You tense up when you’re close to coming.”
“Oh.” Of course, he’d predicated my orgasm many times in the past.
Jason handed me the cloth. “We need to be quick; his lordship will wake up soon. Remember, every day you make those preparations. Don’t make the mistake again. It’s a ritual. It helps you maintain your submission, you know this, and unless you ask permission, you keep doing it regardless of circumstances. Don’t make it something I’m required to watch.”
I nodded. No way did I want him to observe me. “Yes, Sir. I will not forget again.”
“You didn’t forget. You chose not to; that is different.”
Chose not to, forgot, or ignored—those discrete nuances blurred into one for Jason. I ate my humble pie and avoided eye contact as I wiped the soap off his chest. “Yes, Master. I will swill myself out daily during my period. I only wish to please you.” I offered a twitchy smile. I wanted him to move on from lecturing me.
I meant it, too. Unlike Wednesday, when my submissiveness took a grumpy holiday, on Sunday she was back in residence, making both of us happy.
***
Jason lost his golf game.
His Sunday golfing sessions had become infrequent and irregular, causing his putting technique and golf swing to suffer from lack of practice. I offered Jason commiserations before he headed up to have his shower. Before Joshua’s arrival, if he won his game, he took me into the lair and celebrated by using my body for an extended period of kinky play. If he lost, he’d ignore me, as if mutual misery made him feel better. That Sunday, while Jason showered, I lounged in the snug with Joshua.
The snug was an ideal room for Joshua. The smallest reception room in the house opened directly into the conservatory through double doors. The extra space would be useful in the warmer months. It was easy to contain Joshua in the room with his toys. Having mastered walking, he showed off his new skill by picking toys up and depositing them in my lap. I had accumulated a collection of random toys between my legs: cars, building blocks, and cuddly bears. He bought me another one, waddling over with a big grin.
“Da!” he said, dropping a Duplo block onto the pile.
“Thank you, Joshie. Good boy,” I answered, without taking my eyes off the pages of the novel I attempted to read.
His speech was developing, too. Changing from babbling sounds to the distinct sounds of words. I could not wait to hear him say Mummy for the first time.
Jason joined us, and the dynamics of the room changed. I vacated the armchair, and he took up residence in it, with me sitting between his legs on a cushion. Joshua had a new victim for his game and brought over a toy to put in Jason’s lap.
“Da!” he said, looking wide eyed at his father.
“Thank you, Joshua.”
Jason used his full name while I often shortened it to Josh or Joshie, especially if he was sad. Jason gave his son a beaming smile then Joshua tottered off in search of something else.
Jason stroked my hair. “He likes approval.”
I tilted my head back, enjoying the tingling sensation in my scalp. “That’ll be me in him. Wanting to know what he is doing is being appreciated.”
“I wonder if he will have an inclination to be a Dom or sub,” pondered Jason.
“Oh, a Dom, hopefully,” I divulged with a snort.
The tingling became a sting as he tugged on my locks. “Why? What’s wrong with being a submissive?”
I hadn’t intended it to sound as if I thought it right or wrong, but the words had slipped out of my mouth without much forethought.
I shrugged. “Nothing. You’ve achieved so much being a Dominant.” I could not hide a pang of envy.
Jason produced an exasperated kind of sigh. “And you haven’t? I make money, lots of money, but have you achieved less in your life?” He tapped my head with his finger. “Submissives often work in all kinds of professions: worthy careers. I know many teachers or doctors who make difficult decisions in the day and then hand over control after work to another. They serve without the stress of managing other people’s lives. I don’t think a doctor is worth less than I am. They save lives. I don’t.”
Had I been stereotyping my son? “Perhaps it’s because he’s a boy, then.”
“Now you’re implying only boys make good Dominants or only women should be submissive? You know that isn’t the case.”
Was I prejudiced against my own status as a submissive, my gender? My ambitions were not in the same league as Jason’s, but I worked hard for them and wanted the same sense of achievement as him. Whether we were Dom or sub, those careers or ideals were reached through hard work and perseverance.
“I know,” I murmured. It hadn’t been my intention to discriminate.
Jason took another toy from Joshua’s hand. “Most people don’t demonstrate strong dominant or submissive traits. The desire to control is after all one facet of a personality. He could be balanced and have no strong inclination to be either. He is himself.”
Jason was right. It didn’t matter. I would love my son whatever he became in life—gay, bisexual, Dominant, submissive, punk rocker, or ballet dancer. Anything was possible.
Joshua lost interest in the fetching game and concentrated his efforts on chewing as many different toys as possible, picking them up, gobbing his drooling mouth all over them then tossing them away.
My thoughts drifted back to the morning’s play. My little disciplinary scene. “Did I please you? Being Miss Piggy?”
Jason chuckled, returning to caressing my hair, reassuring me. “Yes, of course. You make a cute piggy.”
For a few minutes, we ignored our son, and Jason gave me one of his brilliant, lengthy kisses, the kind that sucked the air out of my lungs and made me tingle all over.
Chapter 3. His Play Thing
I led a predictable life.
My statement didn’t include Jason springing scenes or sex on me. I was always his sexual being and while sometimes I waited, desperate for my Dominant to strike, other times I preferred the seduction of the attentive husband. Sex remained the unpredictable aspect of my life since I never knew what he had planned. I coped with his surprises. His yearning for me when he took me broke any resistance in an instance. Without the ability to ask him directly or guide him in any way to my sexual needs, I had nothing to do but trust him to interpret my manners and subtle words. Generally, he read me like a book, and I never had to wait long. It was rare for him to leave me needy and in a constant state of denial.
He e
xpected me to meet his requests and demands without question, necessitating me to flit, rather badly on occasion, from his sexual plaything to his chore slave. The requirement to serve was in my rules, and he’d never specified sex as the only form of service. However, that element of our agreement often caught me by surprise, as it wasn’t an aspect of my submission he seemed fussed about. For my part, I didn’t see my lack of attention as deliberate, merely unfortunate.
I scheduled a large proportion of my time around fixed events in the day. Baby group on Mondays plus Zumba in the evening and my dance class Tuesday afternoon. Wednesday I would appear at Pilates on an ad hoc basis and my weekly trip to my beauty salon continued unabated on Thursdays. In between, I concentrated more and more on my art gallery plans. The property purchase proceeded, and my daytime interactions with my son decreased as I transitioned into a part-time working mum. Clara became his primary carer during the day.
At least I saw Joshua as I flitted about between tasks, phone calls, and meeting somebody in person. Jason concentrated his time with Joshua in the mornings and at the weekends. Consequently, Jason and my sexual activities were pushed to the side.
The morning act of intercourse diminished to the point of being a token offer on my part. The ever-changing wake-up schedule squeezed out our routine blow job. Joshua was like his father, an earlier riser, and Jason preferred taking him down for breakfast in order to discuss important things with him—the cricket score from the winter Test series or golfing legends. I imagined Jason explaining to Joshua the intricacies of the stock market while spooning mashed up milky Weetabix into his gaping mouth. It all meant nothing to Joshua who, like me, probably enjoyed hearing his father’s voice.
The halcyon days of our daily high sex drive had peaked during our Mediterranean cruise on the Sublime. Jason’s libido remained high when he was in the mood, although, instead of penetrative sex, he increasing preferred the delights of teasing or tormenting me. My body presented a wonderful playground for stimulating orgasms, what with his new favourite game of having me come on demand.
