Sublime Trust

by Jaye Peaches

  The drive home felt extra long, and the streetlights blurred and dazzled. I rested my head on his shoulder, my eyelids drooping.

  “Will you punish me?” I murmured.

  “What?” He jerked, and I realised he’d been dozing, too. “Why?”

  “For not doing as you asked.”

  “Mmm. Technically you did. Hardly something I can correct. Unless you feel a burning need to have your arse warmed.”

  I snuggled closer and yawned. “Not tonight.”

  “Then, I will hold you to our next trip out.”

  A week later, the butt plug and Ben-Wa birthday bash was a complete success. I was hot for him the entire evening in Carla’s chosen restaurant. Jason sat next to me, running his fingers up and down my thigh and I must have looked vacuous while driven wild by my tormenting sex toys—several times he had to nudge me for a response to a question. If he had asked me to strip naked and dance on the table, I would have done it. He did not. I had to wait until we got home then he fucked me all over the bedroom floor in his favourite positions with my hands tied behind my back.

  Risking public exposure presented one set of problems, but not as risky as displaying his dominance in the presence of family members.

  Our sporadic visits to family usually resulted in a major toning down of behaviours. However, Jason’s confidence in his own family’s lack of interest must have achieved new heights. Gone were the days when his sexual predilections as a practising Dominant had been ignored, swept under the proverbial carpet of ignominy. Since my outing as Jason’s submissive on his thirty-third birthday, we’d gradually unveiled our mildest of habits, which reflected my deference towards my husband, and, subsequently, his family resumed their head-burying techniques.

  Things went up another notch during a visit to his parents, when Jason must have been in need of some thrill or excitement to alleviate the tedium and chose the conservatory as his playground for one of those unplanned scenes that made our sexual life so erotic and addictive.

  ***

  One of Jason’s delights was using a blow job to control my breathing. It would intensify the desire in me, the need to orgasm, and make me extra submissive. It was power play, and I loved the feeling it gave me.

  Breath play to the point of fainting, he didn’t do. During my rape, fainting had saved me considerable suffering. What you do not recall, you do not know. Jason avoided my losing consciousness. I wouldn’t be in his control if I was not sentient or aware. He kept me conscious at all times, whether in a state of pleasure or pain. Subspacing was the limit of my imaginary unconsciousness.

  That Sunday morning in the conservatory, his parents had volunteered to take Joshua out in the garden. While they clowned about with their grandson, Jason lounged on the cane sofa and watched through the slatted window blinds. No sunshine, but the late spring morning was warm and pleasant. The room possessed the wonderful ambient temperature conservatories rarely attained: neither too hot nor too cold.

  Just as we would in our own conservatory, I parked my butt on a big soft cushion on the wooden floor and read.

  “What are you reading?” asked Jason.

  “Poetry.”

  “Not T.S. Eliot?”

  “No. Something different. I have varied tastes.” I waved the book above my head and poked my finger at the title. “See?”

  “Read a poem to me. Your favourite.” He stroked my hair, and my scalp tingled.

  I thumbed through the paperback and found the one I liked best. “Valentine” by John Fuller. I read aloud a romantic poem with lots of rhyming couplets. The more I read the hypnotic poem, the more I appreciated its style.

  “Sweet. Memorise it for me,” he said.

  “Why?” I turned to face him.

  His head rested on the back of the seat, eyes staring up at the ceiling fan. “Babe, the next time you say it aloud, I’m going to be spanking you super hard. It’s time you had new poetry in your head.”

  Boy, did he look sexy, and I’d knots in my belly. I placed the book on the floor and laid my head on his lap. He was hard, surprisingly rigid, and it made me even more pathetically needy. My little internal motor hummed, revving up the nerves in my loins.

  Outside, our son screamed in delight at something. Jason had a good view of the garden and his parents. He pulled me up onto the sofa, and I flopped next to him, my mind a puddle of poetic erotic thoughts.

  “Ask.”

  “Please may I service your beloved cock with my mouth?” I’d devotional begging off to a fine art by now.

  “Sure,” he murmured.

  Gentle words but rough hands. He dragged my head onto his lap, using my previously caressed locks of hair, and unzipped his flies. His erection sprang up into my face, and I sank my mouth right over it, all the way down to the balls.

  “Suck.”

  Not the voice, please! In his parents’ house, too. I sucked, gagged, and tried to come off him.

  The weight of his hand crowned the back of my head. “No. Stay. Don’t lose it. Keep your mouth right there, sucking.”

  My face glued to his penis, I couldn’t see anything but the fabric of his trousers. Suddenly, it was pitch black. He’d placed a folded fleecy throw over my head and pressed it down. Underneath, hidden from view, I sucked harder.

  Enveloped by the layers of fabric, I suffocated as I attempted to bob up and down. He lifted the throw a fraction.

  “Breathe,” he whispered, reminding me not to panic. With a groan, I devoured his cock, and the throw pressed down again.

  The pattern of movements—breathe and suck—continued for several minutes. I buzzed all over with sexual excitement, a prickling sensation cruised about my skin, spiralling around my clitoris. His hand drifted down under the waistband of my jeggings, over my bare bottom, and he slid between my wet folds, fingering me while I trembled with delight.

  He came with a muted groan and a judder. I swallowed under my protective covering then cleaned him from balls to tip with my salty tongue. With his other hand, he reached under and tucked his weakening erection back in his pants.

  “Good girl.” He patted my head under the throw. “You’ll have to be quick.” He meant my orgasm. His fingers plunged inside, forcing me to squirm.

  I bit my lip and made it bleed slightly with the intensity of my orgasm. Doing the deed in his parents’ house was so erotic and on the edge of what we could do. He held me tight, forced his fingers deeper inside me, creating a protracted orgasm.

  He slipped his juicy fingers under the throw for me to lick clean. I slurped on them.

  He chuckled. “You are a glutton.”

  My covering removed, the bright light of the outside world dazzled me. I licked off the blood on my bottom lip. If he noticed, he said nothing. I curled up in a stupefied position as if I were a cat, my head still nestled in his warm lap. I could have purred with contentment, too.

  A few minutes later, Jason’s parents came in with a tearful Joshua. The little chap had fallen into a flowerbed and was crying. I sighed. Our little trance of post-sex indulgence was over, and I hoped I hadn’t made a damp patch for all to see.

  Clive and Audrey seemed oblivious to what had transpired a few metres from them on the other side of several pane-glass windows. Forcing my body out of its submissive state of nothingness was tough. I rearranged my trampled hairstyle, savoured the taste of pure Jason in my mouth, and felt the dampness between my thighs.

  I leapt up, as my in-laws glanced at each other with raised eyebrows, aware of my dishevelled state and the heat in my face. “Sorry, need the bathroom.” I abandoned the bawling Joshua to his father.

  When I returned feeling clean and respectable, my parents-in-law were in the kitchen preparing Sunday lunch, and Joshua sat on Jason’s knee playing with his shirt buttons. I hovered by the double doors, listening to him whisper to his dry-eyed son.

  “Your mummy’s gob is one amazing asset. Whatever comes out of it is just as good as what can fit in it.” His eyes flickere
d in my direction. He knew I was there. “Bottomless pit of a gob.”

  “Mumum,” babbled Joshua. “A-gain,” his little voice piped up. One of his few discernible words, usually when asking for more food.

  “I think she would if I asked her, but there is this small matter of your grandparents. She’ll have to wait until later. Then I will explore her wibbly-wobbly bits, too. Lovely Mummy.”

  I smiled and came over to kiss my two boys: the little one and the big one.

  Chapter 4. An Ordinary Day

  Jason had competition for my attention: his son. While Jason worked, I entertained my growing boy. Between his meals, which seemed frequent for such a small person, my various classes, and the preparations for the gallery, I shopped for toys and books. Joshua loved books. The brighter the pictures, the longer he would stare at them. He was so like his father. Blond, blue eyed, but with chubby cheeks, unlike his father’s sculptured ones. Somewhere there was me in him—definitely my lips.

  He didn’t play with his toys, he explored them, whether with his mouth or little fingers. I despised plastic toys and preferred wooden ones. Fabric cuddlies were cute, although Jason didn’t see the appeal.

  “Another teddy bear?” Jason announced, coming down from Joshua’s bedroom one evening. “Are we going to have a picnic with them?” He tossed the latest one over to me.

  “It was a present.” We didn’t need the luxury of gifts.

  “Hasn’t anyone got any imagination when it comes to presents? Just because we’ve two houses doesn’t mean you have to fill both of his bedrooms with things. It’s like a bloody assault course crossing his floor. I tripped on some goddamn car.” He pointed an accusing finger at me. “You’re banned from shopping until I say otherwise.”

  I hid a snigger and popped my eyes open wide in mock horror. “Nothing?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Poor Josh.” Poor me, too. I couldn’t resist the cute baby toys.

  “He doesn’t know what he’s missing, although I can’t think of anything he needs. So, nothing. Find different ways to entertain him. I can’t believe he gets bored that easily.” Jason picked up a newspaper and vanished behind it.

  “I thought he might like this garage. It comes with a slide and....” His newspaper lowered. “Okay. Nothing. Poor lad.”

  “That does it, Gemma. If you buy one thing for him without my permission, for every pound you spend, I get to spank you.” Back up went the newspaper.

  “Just a spank? I think it was only twenty or so pounds. Not much really,” I ventured.

  He curled his fingers around the paper. “Are you negotiating?”

  “No. I’m pointing out you may be too generous.”

  “Generous? It’s meant to be a disincentive, not to encourage you.”

  “It was a plastic garage, however, I spotted this wooden one for eighty pounds, but I thought that was extravagant. Maybe, it was the better choice, looked sophisticated, too,” I added. Truly, I pushed my luck.

  The newspaper shot down. “Sophisticated? How can a kid’s toy be sophisticated?”

  “Better made. Do I have your permission? It’s just a garage.” I gave him the best flutter of my eyelashes. Underneath his apparent indifference, I knew he was in a good mood, and I flirted on the edge of the dangerous line of pushing him into action.

  “No. Because next it will be extra cars then before we know it you’ll have a race track all over the floor. Eighty with the wooden paddle, the big one. You know the one I mean. Is that generous enough?”

  Damn. He’d ramped the price tag up too far. My masochist urges didn’t extend to that bloody paddle, and I gave up on the idea. The newspaper wasn’t lowered again until he had finished reading the contents. I put aside ideas for toys and sought out other ways to treat my son. Ordinary mother and baby things.

  One of Joshua’s main entertainments was the Monday toddler group based in an old church hall next to a rundown inner-city parish church. Two pounds for the privilege of hanging around in a dilapidated building with an antiquated heating system and boxes of donated toys. I sat on a plastic chair with other mums and compared tantrums, snotty noses, and ill-fitting clothes. I also heard about useless spouses, obnoxious relatives, and everything being too expensive. I kept my mouth shut on the last topic and would never consider referring to Jason as useless. Quite the contrary, I generally found him very useful.

  It wasn’t that the other mums were not friendly or approachable. They lived such different lives from me. However, if there had been a rich mums’ play group, I wouldn’t have wanted to go. I liked immersing myself amongst average people, the opportunity to experience life as the majority did, and I envied the normality of their existence. My once youthful ambitions for a married life and kids had been based on the church-hall scenario—gossiping, comparing notes, and worrying about everyday things.

  The mundane marriage had been what I’d envisaged in my teens. I’d pictured coming home to a semi-detached house, cooking tea, cuddling up next to hubby, watching TV while we chatted about our day. Sex would feature, of course, though those daydreams were my pre-kink ones and I’d foreseen sex as a function of marriage and merely an act to complete the description of husband and wife.

  After my introduction to the world of BDSM, I put aside conventional ideas of marriage and relationships. Did I want them? Not back then, fresh out of university. In my early twenties, I’d been on a hedonistic voyage of discovery about my own desires and abilities—traditional approaches to living with men hadn’t been on the agenda. As my first Master nurtured and guided my submissive practices, I’d begun to rethink what I wanted from marriage—the lifelong partnership, which my parents seemed to have excelled at and enthused about when I visited them.

  Deep down, I’d wanted it—to love and be loved without end and having kids, too. I’d aspired to fulfil the broody requests my subconscious mind made of me. I’d ogled over newborns in prams at the shops or watched the kids dash about the playgrounds while their mothers chatted. That would be me, I’d told tell myself. I had started to fantasise about having a dominant husband to nurture my fledging submission.

  I would want to please my lover, and the premise had always been part of my psyche. My new vision, back then, had been of my husband coming home from work and finding his submissive wife waiting for him with the dinner ready. She would wait on him, at his feet, while he told her what he wanted her to do. She would bring him whatever he wished. Ask him if he’d had a good day and if he had not, what she could do to make it better for him. If he wanted sex, she would give it to him in whatever fashion he desired. Perhaps she would open her mouth to take him while he watched TV or bring him an object for his pleasure: a book, a beer, or a toy to play with her.

  Throughout my meandering dreams of my “normal” marriages, whether with or without the kink, I hadn’t foretold a future that would take me on exotic holidays, see me driven in chauffeured cars, flown about in private jet planes, or living in mansions.

  If my married life was destined to be off the scales of normality, then I would have my maternal experiences grounded with ordinary people. I wanted to hear about the latest cheap deals in the supermarkets, cut-price clothes, and the best local state schools. For an hour and a half, I pretended I was one of them, those everyday mums, nodding my head in agreement and pretending to know all about where to shop for bargains.

  Joshua coped quite well, and it pleased me seeing him on the floor with other toddlers. They didn’t have a concept of sharing or borrowing. It was snatch-and-grab tactics all round, and we mums rebuked them and apologised for their behaviour. I shifted on my seat when, on one occasion, Joshua looked like he had bitten another child’s arm.

  “Josh, no!” I scolded.

  He wavered for a minute and leaned forward with his mouth open again.

  “No!” I scooped him up and plonked him on my lap. When would he learn the word no meant no?

  He wriggled and whinged, kicking his heels agains
t my shins, forcing me to release him again, and he headed off to explore another box of recycled toys. Defeated by his stubbornness, I went to make some tea for the others, and it kept me busy and away from deflecting their questions about my life.

  Casual clothing helped with my transformation. The diamond collar necklace was a no-no, as was my expensive watch and handbags. I possessed an unassuming collection of everyday clothes to wear on occasions when I wanted to disguise my wealth. Gibson waited outside somewhere, watching from the car. A mums’ group wasn’t considered a likely source of threats.

  The “mum” part of our group wasn’t a requirement. Dads were welcome, too. However, they didn’t come. Generally working or put off by the idea of long conversations about breast-feeding, nappies or puke, they were non-existent. More likely they would be surprised at the amount of chat about relationships, arguments, and “getting enough sex” or “keeping his hands off me.” Having a man present might have tempered the conversation to less personal matters. However, I had no plans to reveal my weekend spent in my parents-in-law’s conservatory, sucking my husband’s cock.

  Unfortunately, I made my assumption of normality based on a false reality, one I’d conceived in my imagination and founded on little practical experience of the world from which Jason kept me sheltered.

  The man bounded in with clenched fists. He wasn’t what we expected from a father, for one thing, there was no baby with him. Just his fists. He walked right up to a brunette with a pacifier swinging on her finger and yelled a stream of verbal abuse.

  I grabbed Joshua and parked him on my hip, ready to leave as Jason would have told me to do. However, I couldn’t. He accused her of cheating on him, having a fling with a mate or something. She denied it at first.

  The intruder gave her a shove. “Liar!” He continued to ignore the rest of us, including the crying babies.

  Standing straighter, she stared into his angry face and confessed. She’d been having an affair since the baby was born. The pair of them began a character assignation to apportion blame. In the heat of their unpleasantness, he hit her. A slap across the face. I jumped at the sound of it, and she stepped backwards, rubbing her cheek. He called her names, those names men use to denigrate a woman to her basest level.