by Jaye Peaches
His little box of tricks—as he called it—a selection of sensory toys including feathers, clamps, pegs, and small vibrators. Tying me down, he trained my orgasm control around his voice command rather than through intercourse. There was no rush, as I gradually learnt to wait for him and focus my self-control around his words or actions.
Middle-of-the-night sex became commonplace. If Joshua woke with teething problems, then Jason took advantage of me once the boy had settled back to sleep. After a busy working day, reinvigorated with a few hours’ sleep, sex in the middle of the night grew easier and became his latest fetish, requiring it to be mine, too. Rarely vigorous to the point of rough, I wouldn’t describe our night-time trysts of sex as gentle, either.
The lair at Blythewood House was used on Friday and Saturday nights, and we managed our time around visits by family, Joshua’s wakeful spells, and our energy levels. Jason had the final decision on what we did there, as I could neither request nor refuse him. I dutifully went with him to the lair in whatever mood and tried hard to please him regardless.
Very occasionally, I grumbled or criticised. On one level, the behaviour wouldn’t be respectful, however, he did frequently seek out my feedback and feelings to ensure he kept me safe, happy, and coping with his more demanding persona.
After one scene, when I struggled to accept my need to ask for pain, Jason recalled an event from our past.
“That spanking I gave you in my office years ago, do you remember?”
“How could I forget? It was a bloody painful punishment.”
The event remained imprinted in my memory as a series of permanent images. The day he’d summoned me to his penthouse office, admonished me for being embroiled in office gossip, told me to take off my knickers, bend over his lap, and then spanked me hard, both with his hand followed by a ruler. Throughout it, I’d wrestled with the pain and humiliation, and yet, at the end, he’d fucked me, too. Something I hadn’t expected I would desire from him or find satisfying.
Jason deconstructed my lingering memory. “You were aroused, and that was when you first denied your masochistic desires. You baulked when I suggested you got off on pain.”
I recollected the conversation. He had known back then what I was capable of doing, even if my trauma-corrupted mind had dismissed the idea as impossible. Given my sexual history, I had almost feared the idea of sexual gratification through pain alone.
He had known for years and held back from pushing me. Little attempts now and again to nudge me towards trying out new scenes, but, ultimately, he had left me to discover my true masochistic nature myself. I got off on pain. Sadistically administered pain for no other reason than he controlled it, and I endured it because he took such pleasure from me, and that was what I had to cling to when he was being my sadist—to suffer pain for him was my hardest challenge.
We continued to chat, teasing apart my doubts and worries, and, throughout, Jason caressed and soothed me until I calmed my anxieties and once again accepted when it came to my submission, Jason understood me perfectly. He cherished me and shaped me to be what he wished.
All these changes to our sexual life were gradual but perceivable to the pair of us. A slow development squeezed out of our busy schedules, grabbing the kinky opportunities when they arose and making the most of them.
Sex itself may have been whittled down in scope, but my submission in other forms remained prevalent and strong. I grew to enjoy the little rituals reminding me I was Jason’s in other ways than for sex. Greeting him in the morning, welcoming him home after work, or taking the chance to sit or kneel at his feet while he worked or read the paper. Calling him Master when we were alone, massaging his feet in the evenings, or bathing him in the shower.
He would set me small training tasks, recapturing my early days of submission. Laying out a full dinner service on the dining room table with nothing on and the place settings to millimetre precision, waxing the leather floggers and whips with beeswax, or practising moving between all those erotic slave positions with grace.
When Jason was away on business, we had face-to-face chats over the webcam—either a quick meet up in the morning with Joshua staring at his father on the monitor screen or the pair of us in the evening. We often did one small scene over the webcam, usually when he was out of the country for more than one night. I had grown to love these little playful events in our online interactions.
“Two clothes pegs, one on each nipple.”
Jason rested on his side on a hotel bed, convincing me he was reading something on the window next to the webcam window view. I knelt on the floor of his study with the laptop placed in front of me. The tight pegs crippled my tender nipples as I tried to stay patient, waiting for his next command.
Minutes ticked by. Interminably long minutes while I cursed him in my head.
“Take them off, cross your arms, and put each peg on the other nipple.”
I swapped the pegs over and endured the shooting pain as the blood returned before I put them back on again.
Waiting again.
“Same again, off and back on.”
He barely glanced at me. I glared at the screen, the tension in my body rising. If we’d been on the phone, I’d have been ignorant of his lack of attention. However, the webcam revealed him reading, not gawping at my breasts.
Minutes felt like hours as my nipples throbbed. Then he told me to do it again—take them off and put them back on.
“Too slow,” he reprimanded. “No hesitating.” How could he tell without looking at me? Somehow, out of the corner of his eye, he had spotted my delay in reattaching the fiendish things.
I bit down on my lip and stifled an ouch. He kept asking me do the same thing. I had gone down the pleasure-pain route and returned to just the goddamn pain. The usual mental mantra playing in my head—I am doing this because I want to please him—failed, especially without his looking at me. The next stage—why the fuck am I doing this—arrived on cue with the watery eyes. How did I stop him giving me the same instructions? Cry uncontrollably? Safe-word?
“Again, Gemma,” he droned.
The pain was immense. My hands shook and trembled as I targeted a part of my squished nipple not red, sore, and sweet agony.
“Do I have to wait all evening?” He stared at the screen, right into my eyes, at long bloody last.
My fingertips wavered, refusing to pinch the peg. Why do this? He didn’t look pleased with my efforts—his eyebrows knitted into almost one thin line of blond hairs. I was close to being awash with tears and wanted to cup my breasts to support them, as if it would make a great deal of difference.
“Move them, Gemma.”
“Argh!” I screamed as I took them off. “Fuck you! You’re a sadistic shit!” The untamed words fell out of my mouth as I failed to absorb the pain.
Jason laughed. That you-have-been-got kind of chuckle he used when he’d had his way with me.
“Didn’t want to safe-word?”
“Yes, but that was so much better—yelling at you.” The cursing had provided a moment of euphoric liberation, bursting all my pent-up frustration out in a mighty shout and, at the same time, negating the pain in one swoop of adrenaline.
“Keep them off. You know I don’t push you, you do. You only had to admit you’d had enough. You didn’t, why?” he asked.
I rubbed my tender breasts, dispersing the pain, waiting for it to ease off before answering. I lowered my eyes. “I think I might have been having fun, somewhere along the line.”
“Look at me.” I bobbed my head back up and he’d cocked his head to one side. “Fun?” he queried.
“I knew it would have to stop at some point, and one of us would end it. Safe-words are such an anticlimax.” My lips curled into a smile, and the laughter came from deep within me, almost a childish giggle.
He wagged a finger at me. “Don’t go thinking calling me a sadistic shit is an acceptable safe-word. That was a one off. I wanted you to reacquaint yourself with how you
r mind works, because you need to know what makes you tick as much as I do.”
“You didn’t even look at me.” I sulked.
“Didn’t have to. I could hear you, though, eh? Your little whimpering noises. So perhaps I am a sadistic shit after all.”
We both grinned, mirroring each other’s expressions and, for a moment, we were virtually together in the same room, conjoined and happy.
We finished chatting about my loneliness, and he pointed out the same applied to him, stuck in a hotel. I felt a tad self-centred, also relieved. I went to bed comforted by his words of love.
***
A substantial amount of routine and sameness governed our daily lives, and we didn’t always rely on sex to connect. There were the trips out, meals in fine restaurants, and dinner parties at other people’s houses or venues. Jason received numerous invitations, and he declined the majority. Those he did accept, which were not part of the BDSM community, he chose based on ulterior motives. The hosts’ position, status, and influence in the world of politics or business he frequented, the like-minded executives or social movers in non-competitive industries.
There were charity functions or gala balls requiring his presence, if only to raise the profile of his own charitable foundation. With Jason’s assistance, I’d completed my Pygmalion transformation into a high-society woman. Long evaporated into the past, the Gemma Marshall who’d lived in a pokey flat and cruised the nightclubs for fun. My diction sounded smart; I knew what to talk about and when to keep my mouth shut. My smutty wit didn’t receive invitations to the events to which Jason took me. If the urge to say something crass grew, I bit my tongue and behaved.
Jason wore me on his arm like an item of fine jewellery. On each occasion, before we left the house, he checked me over in the hallway. No smudged make-up, twisted straps, or ladders in the stockings. In public, I had to be prim and proper. A well-turned-out lady accompanying her wealthy husband. However, if the mood presented itself, he could not resist a little play. As time constraints and the impact of Joshua challenged our sex life, my Dom had to resort to other tactics to entertain his controlling nature.
Keeping the thrill alive in our kinky lifestyle proved tricky. As my Dominant, it was an inherent trait in Jason to find new ways to humiliate, beguile, or maintain me as his plaything. Thing was the word, sometimes, as I’d no choice in his requests and absolutely trusted my husband. He gradually redefined the concept of “public” humiliation, and if he was game for a little action when we were socialising, then I went along with him. After numerous functions, I’d almost lost my inhibitions and found the public aspect tantalising.
I’d been fine when instructed to leave the house without an item of underwear. I’d mastered the art of keeping my knees together and my legs crossed. When he blindsided me with new requests, I had to learn to think on my feet.
With the days becoming longer and the air crisp with spring energy, we attended a banquet in aid of cancer research, and it brought out a less benevolent side of my husband.
“I need to go to the ladies,” I whispered in his ear.
“No.” Jason held me close, his lips tickling my earlobe. “If you get desperate, use the gents.”
Hearing the jocular tone in his voice, I groaned and closed my eyes for a few seconds before looking at my watch. Another hour of post-dinner circulating before our scheduled departure. I’d manage.
“Let me get you another drink, darling,” he announced.
Sipping my gin and tonic, I jiggled on my tiptoes, knocking my heels together. I had drunk plenty of water during the four-course meal and regretted every glass. I tried talking to a pompous gentleman to distract my natural urges. A boring man who ogled my breasts. I made some excuse to move then spied a younger woman standing alone and caught her eye.
“Hi.” I offered a handshake. “Gemma Lucas.”
“Julianna Woodford.” She used her fingertips to shake my hand as if I was diseased.
“Did you enjoy the meal?” I pictured a fake Cheshire cat grin appearing on my face, and my lips twitched with the effort of keeping it there.
“Yes.”
Oh God! Another useless conversation.
Jason drifted past me. “Keep drinking,” he muttered, before heading away.
“My husband,” I said to my silent companion.
She watched Jason cross the room. “I recognise him. My husband studied law with him.”
“Really?” I didn’t know the name Woodford, but Jason rarely spoke about his old student friends.
“Yes. There are photographs of them together. I found them when clearing out his things.”
I knitted my eyebrows, curious to know what she meant.
“Alex and I are divorced.” She glanced at her feet then back across the room. Jason had moved out of range.
“I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say and took a step backwards.
“Oh, don’t be. The complete bastard went off with his secretary, so bloody unoriginal.” She gazed around the room until she came back to my face then smiled. “I’m spending his money on what I think is important.”
“Sounds like a good idea.” I swigged my drink, my bladder swelling with discomfort. “Sorry, I have to visit the powder room.”
As I moved towards the ladies’ bathroom, the temptation to disobey Jason grew. However, I veered away from the door. I wanted to thrill him with my obedience and see the look of approval on his face when I told him I’d done what he wished.
I wandered the building in search of an isolated male toilet. Whether Jason intended me to go so far afield didn’t matter, I had to pee. I found a toilet block towards the back of the building, probably for use of the kitchen staff. I entered the gents and decided to play the blind-drunk-got-the-wrong-door-and-failed-to-notice-the-urinals card if caught. Thankfully, the toilets were devoid of other occupants. The room was freezing and smelt dreadful. I quickly did the deed, washed my hands in the stained sink, and hurried out of the room and back to the main reception area.
“Where have you been?” He caught my arm for the second time that evening, pinching my elbow.
“The loo. The gents at the back of the building. Quite deserted. And before you accuse me of taking risks with my person, you were the one who set the criteria. I did as I was told.”
“You were meant to use the main toilets,” he chided. No look of approval adorned his features, and my shoulders slumped.
“Fat chance, given the number of old gits with weak bladders.”
“Exactly. I hoped you would show some daring. I’m disappointed.” He clucked his tongue and gave a single shake of his head. “Imagine the look on their faces when you flounce in, occupy a cubicle, wash your dainty hands, and stroll out with a smile on your face. Such fun, and you missed the opportunity to make their day. Even better if you had gone for a urinal.”
I hadn’t thought about it from their perspective. “I can’t pee standing up, and aren’t I your object of fun?”
He let go of my arm. “I’m feeling magnanimous, happy to share you. A little light entertainment in these dull proceedings.” It was a tedious evening and lacked something exciting like a dance floor or a live band.
“Make me the centre of silly gossip?” I baulked, rubbing my elbow.
“Babe, you could have played the blind-drunk-and-dipsy-woman card.”
I sniggered. I probably would have enjoyed the excitement, and my smutty side would have liked to see their shocked faces.
“Too late. You’ll get the hang of this, babe. Next time, you’re going to wear a butt plug and Ben-Wa balls. Make sure you’re super uncomfortable.” He ran his hand down my back towards my bottom and gave it a small pat.
My shoulders tensed as I conjured up the pages of my hectic diary. “What is the next time?”
“Carla’s fortieth birthday party.”
Oh crap! Jason referred to his personal assistant—a very prim and proper lady.
Jason appeared happy again,
which confused me. Shouldn’t I be contrite at vanishing? I’d once been violently accosted in a toilet. “Were you worried where I was?”
“No. You’re being watched.” He shrugged and grabbed a vol-au-vent from a passing waiter.
As always. I wanted to scowl, but daren’t. I glanced around and failed to spot any of my regular protection officers lurking in the shadows.
“By whom?” I asked.
“Somebody new. Gibson is sick, and Johnson’s wife went into labour—”
Dave Johnson had become such a fixture in my life I’d forgotten he’d his own wife to go home to at night. “She did?”
Jason bit into the pastry, and I waited on my toes for his answer. He wiped his mouth with the tip of a finger, knocking a crumb off his thin lip. “A healthy boy, I don’t know the details. So a newcomer to the team is being put to the test. She’s incognito. Ironic, she was married to someone I studied with at Oxford. Small world.”
I fought back the rise of a blush, fanning my face with a hand and attempting to spot Julianna in the crowd. “Is she ex-police?”
Jason finished his snack before answering. “No, intelligence officer in terrorist-based financial fraud. Wanted a change post-divorce. New start.”
I still couldn’t see her. “I didn’t notice her following me.”
“Good. You weren’t supposed to. Martinson is impressed so far.”
“Will she replace Gibson?”
“No. She’ll mainly do background checks, holiday cover, and help with investigative work for the internal forensic accountancy team at my HQ. She’s another one of these black belts in something. You won’t see much of her.”
The newly appointed bodyguard appeared on cue, and Jason beckoned her over and conducted the formal introductions.
Upon the second introduction, the blonde beamed, gripped my hand, and gave it a firm shake. The two of us said nothing about our previous encounter. I changed my mind. I liked her. She had an air of no nonsense, and I’d learnt from experience, my bodyguards weren’t there to be my friends but watch my back at all times.
