by Jaye Peaches
I jerked, aware of another intrusion, more intimate. He’d poked the tip of the cane inside my pussy. My eyes sprang open wide. Withdrawing the tip, he held it close to my face. My juices dripped off the end. I bit down on my lip.
“Tut, tut, Gemma. A frisky thing tonight, aren’t you?”
I could not deny throughout his little sadistic play I had been gagging for a fuck. My clenching pussy and tingling clitoris ganging up on me, driving me into a state of wantonness. He could have made me cry, demanded me to sob my heart out before he stopped, but he hadn’t. Why?
As if to read my mind, he answered my question with another. “Are you trying to impress me with your pain tolerance or hide your enthusiasm for hearing your son speak to you?”
“You, Master, always you,” I hastened to answer. I’d surrendered to his sadism because of a niggling guilt lurking buried inside me and I could see he was about to unearth it.
“Oh. You weren’t ready for me when I got home, Gemma. Badly tied corset—if you’d allowed more time, then it would have been done better—a ladder in your stockings and no time to prepare dinner. It wasn’t even in the oven, was it? Let me guess you were rabbiting on the phone to somebody about Joshua’s little mummy. Couldn’t wait to tell somebody. Not me! Who?”
Oh, shit.
“My mother.”
My playful Dominant vacated and another kind of Dom took up residence. The lines on his face turned stony and hard and he fixed his intense blue eyes on my hot face. I wanted to shut my eyes but daren’t.
“It’s been a disappointing day for me. Minor issues, but you chose to tell your mother before me. Your decision smacks of disrespect, a lack of thought, and I’m not feeling pleased. Call me selfish, but I like having your attention as much as you like having mine. I expected you to focus on getting ready for me.”
“I’m sorry I have disappointed you so much, Master.”
My silly lack of foresight gutted me. I hated it when he built me up, teased me sexually until I entered an orgasmic state and then extinguished the fire inside me by listing my faults and failings. As discipline went it was very effective. I’d prefer the cane.
He cocked his head to one side and returned to massaging my feet, pressing his thumbs into my tender soles. I flinched. “Do you want to feel better? Then up and bend over. Let’s give you a thorough caning.”
I scrambled to my feet, and he flexed the cane in front my eyes. I pressed my trembling hands on to the seat of the armchair, bottom lifted high and legs parted. Behind me, Jason swished the cane through the air as if the room had been filled with unwanted flies and he was attempting to swat them individually. The noise forced my pussy to clench.
Finishing his little swatting display, he progressed to the next act in the prelude. The length of the cane rested against my lower thigh, and he trailed it upwards, following the contours of my buttocks and halting at the base of the spine. Back and forth, he see-sawed the cane, making me grunt with anticipation. How I both hated and loved his build-up.
Tapping the cane was his next little trick. Tiny little flicks of his wrists and the cane bounced repeatedly off my buttocks. It neither hurt nor gave me a sense of reassurance; it reminded me there was more to come.
The cane he had chosen to inflict on me was one of his thin, whippy ones. Two feet long and looped at the end—the classic headmaster’s implement of discipline. It would smart like crazy, as if a thin line of wasps’ stings all landed in one fell swoop. I drew air in through my nostrils and released a deep exhale out of my mouth. My signal to him.
It took all my powers of self-control not to kick my legs, not to shift my bottom forward and down, not to grab at my buttocks with a hand and rub hard. None of these acts were permitted. I extracted another necessary lungful from the room’s increasingly heated atmosphere. I uttered my count then did what he always expected me to do. I stuck my bottom up higher.
“Good girl.” He ran his hand down my cheeks. “Next one.”
It sliced over my flesh, slightly lower than the last one, and I let loose a muted shriek. My feet shuffled on the floor, and I clawed at the fabric of the chair.
“Two. Sir,” I gasped.
“Struggling a bit, aren’t we?” He gave my cheeks another rubdown. Reaching round, he removed the nipple sticks—the exquisite burst of agony lasted seconds, and I stamped my feet and hammered the seat with my fists. At least with them gone I could concentrate on processing one kind of pain.
I trusted Jason, trusted his judgement, his observational skills. Years ago, just the thought of the cane would have sent me into an immediate state of panic. Since the horrific assault with the vicious barbed cane, which resulted permanent scars, Jason had rebuilt my confidence and the reintroduction of the cane had been the hardest step in my recovery.
“Mmmm,” he murmured, as if unconvinced by my ability. He rested a calming hand on my lower back and bent over to whisper in my ear. “This isn’t a punishment. Remember your safe-words.”
I did. I always did, but sometimes wanting to use them would be overshadowed by the need for something else. As if to make the point, he traced his finger down my spine to my exposed cleft. He trailed it over my delicate bud, causing the little opening to flex. Further down he travelled, slipping between the folds of my swollen labia and delving into my open pussy. My knees nearly buckled as my legs jellified and a storm of butterflies palpitated in my belly.
“Please don’t stop,” I blurted. “I’m okay, even if I cry, don’t stop.”
He chuckled. “Tears don’t stop me, my dear, sometimes they are what we both need from you.”
The next ten lashes of his cane seemed to land differently. I didn’t think he’d changed the severity, I absorbed them and accepted them for what they were—my release and a symbol of my submission. I ached for each blow, cursed them, too. The last stung, and I tossed my head back, letting out a long moan.
“Good girl. You took those well.” His declaration made me sob with relief not pain. “Stand up and come over here.”
I lay across his lap, and he rubbed my blazing cheeks dispersing the fearsome searing, which emulated from the stripes. He purloined a blanket from nearby, hidden and waiting for the aftercare, and covered me up. I snuggled against him.
We chatted about Joshua’s speech development. I believed he would be saying Daddy soon.
I didn’t mention Gillian’s tale during the journey home, but told him she held fast to the plan of forcing Anthony to confront Jason over the misconstrued idea Jason wanted to buy him out. Anthony hadn’t arrived home when the car had dropped her off at her front door.
“Today has been a challenge,” I remarked.
“We’ve dealt with everything now. I don’t mind you being proud of Joshua’s first mummy word. I’m not jealous. Just share things with me. I don’t get to see him much at the moment, and I’d like the excitement of hearing your news first. Now it’s done, you enjoy it, babe.”
The cuddling continued until the phone rang. I curled up on the sofa while Jason took the call.
“I see, Gillian.... Thanks for the warning.... When did he leave.... How mad?” The hurried conversation caught my attention, and I sat up. “Don’t worry. Why are you crying, Gillian...Gillian?” Jason’s tone grew concerned, and he gripped the handset tighter, knuckles whitening.
There was a long pause. Jason’s face turned strangely impassive. I held my breath. Either he attempted to suppress unwanted emotions or he didn’t want me to see them. Probably both.
“Are you alone? Where are the girls? Call your mum, Gillian, you shouldn’t be alone.... Call her.... Promise? Okay. I’ll ring you back later.” He hung up and stood for a while staring at the handset in his hand.
I shifted to the edge of the seat, my nudity and pained backside forgotten. “Jason, what’s wrong?”
Chapter 8. Asking
“Go and put some proper clothes on.” Jason dropped the telephone back on its base unit then leaned on the small table with
both hands. “Anthony is on the way over. He’s not happy and neither am I.”
“Why?” I stood, keeping the throw draped about my shoulders. I dismissed the sore bottom and nipples in an instant.
He swivelled, straightened, and combed his fingers through his hair. His eyes shone unusually bright, almost fiercely. “He hit her, Gemma. And yes, I know it seems ironic considering what I’ve been doing to you. But I don’t punch you in the face.”
I slumped into a chair, horrified. “Punched her? Why?”
Jason fists clenched then sprang open. “One black eye. It would seem he didn’t take to her seeing me behind his back even though she tried to make out she was protecting his interests. I could never imagine him being violent towards her. He’s never hit her before, or anyone else, for that matter. I put her up to this….” He shook his head, his facial muscles tensing into a grimace.
“You weren’t to know he’d do this,” I soothed. I rarely saw my husband perturbed by his actions. “Shit, is he coming here?”
The idea of my rampaging brother-in-law appearing on the doorstep scared me. I didn’t take to men who couldn’t control their tempers.
Jason came over and, drawing me to my feet, gave me a hug. My heart thumped hard, echoing in my ears. At gone nine-thirty in the evening, I was coming out of a scene with raw emotions and an overwhelming sense of vulnerability.
He tipped my chin up. “Babe. Go and change. I’m going to ring security. I want somebody nearby. A precaution. Okay?”
Back in jeans and a T-shirt, I paced up and down in the kitchen, obeying Jason’s instruction to stay put and not leave the room, whatever I heard. I heard a bang on the door. Anthony didn’t bother to ring the doorbell to announce his arrival.
Alone in the kitchen, I had only my ears to describe the confrontation in the hallway.
“You fucking bastard!” Anthony let rip as the door slammed shut. “You couldn’t wait to ruin me, could you?”
I hovered on the other side of the door, somewhat tempted to disobey Jason and peek, but also alarmed by the harsh tone of Anthony’s voice.
“Shut up, Anthony. You’re talking out of your arsehole,” said Jason with equal viciousness. I fretted their raised voices would wake Joshua.
The next sound to reach me was their feet scuffing on the tiled floor and grunts of aggression. My God, they were fighting in the hallway!
“Calm the fuck down, Anthony,” Jason spoke, panting.
“You told Gillian you were going to buy me out again,” growled Anthony. “I’m not fucking letting you do that again to me. You don’t get to treat me like shit again, you bastard.”
More scuffles and an anguished cry from Anthony. I crept backwards, away from the door, cold shivers tingling down my spine.
Jason’s voice percolated through the wood. Lower in tone, but firm. “Don’t move, Anthony. I’ll let you go when you’ve stopped behaving like a dickhead. I’m not buying your bloody company. I don’t want it. I’ve never wanted to interfere in your business or your career. I told Gillian to provoke you, make you come here with a lie, and you bloody belted her. You’re the bastard. She rang here in tears, and you left her like that.”
“Fucking rich, coming from you. You beat Gemma all the time.”
No! Not true. I never thought of myself as beaten, not in the context Jason had described Gillian. Why did words have to sound so emotive? I’d experienced a beating, an unwanted, violent assault, and I knew the difference. I clamped a hand over my mouth, stifling a wave of nausea. The coldness continued to spread about my skin, infecting my limbs and making them weak. I stumbled another step back.
“You left your wife alone with your kids, nursing a black eye. Nothing, nothing I do to Gemma would leave her feeling uncared for, unwanted, or unable to face her child. You’ve done that, not me.”
“If you didn’t want the company, then why did she say that to me?” snarled Anthony.
“So you’d get off your bloody backside and come to me.” Jason’s voice rose in exasperation. The anger penetrated into the kitchen.
“I don’t want your help!”
Please, take it. I silently begged for resolution. Just concede, don’t fight. It only made things worse. I remained in earshot, but no longer tempted to spy, fearful I might witness violence between the brothers.
“I’d rather not give it, Anthony, but I will. You don’t deserve it. But you are my brother and I will help you and you will accept my help because you have a wife, kids, and employees who depend on you, and you’re not a bad businessman. You have to deal with your pride.”
“My pride. What do you get out of this, eh? My submission? Is that what you call it? Me on my knees in gratitude for what you’ve done for me. Getting me out of the shit, again!”
“You are an idiot. To submit is to give willingly what you have to somebody else for whatever purpose. I was going to give myself to you. My support, my help, and my team of contract negotiators, so they could screw your suppliers and get you a fair deal. Instead, you lash out and threaten me in my own home. When have I ever threatened you, Anthony?”
“When we were kids, you bullied me, Jason—”
Jason cut across him with an icy dismissal. “Finished. You know that. Mum ended it.”
“You bought out my company—”
“You signed the fucking papers handing it to me. You agreed. It was only afterwards you felt embarrassed because I managed to pick up the pieces and put it back together. I make a career out of disassembling and resembling companies. Yet you assume I did it to spite you. No fucking gratitude from you. Not a word of thanks. I lost money and time saving your company. I will do the same for you again. But, you have to ask me. Ask me, Anthony, and I will help you. I’m begging you to ask me, Anthony. Make this work.”
Leaning against a wall, I put my hands to my mouth and smothered a sob of anguish. To listen to this conversation was painful in a way canes or clamps could not hurt. My husband was, in his world of business, giving himself to his brother. In the same way I gave my body and let him control me, my husband wanted his brother to take what he could give Anthony, his wealth of experience and resources, although not money, at least not directly.
An eerie silence followed Jason’s appeal. I held my breath, anxious to know if it had worked.
“I’m going let you go now. Okay?” said Jason.
“Yes.” A single word with no embellishment, it gave me little comfort.
Feet shuffled on the boards and I pictured two dishevelled men facing each other, red-faced and tense.
“Shall we go into the kitchen, sit down with a drink, and talk this through sensibly?” suggested Jason.
I scampered back to the sink, the farthest point from the door. Bad-tempered men, uncontrollable men—the fear refused to abate, and I started to shake.
Jason came through the door first, his outline a hazy blur, a figure moving in the light of the kitchen, and behind him was Anthony, his hand swinging by his side. What was he doing?
I honed in on Anthony’s jeans as he fished something out of the back pocket. Something metal glinted. It shone like handcuffs. I shuddered violently, unable to focus because the terror had returned, unleashed and sucking my rational view of the world away. Sweat collected under my armpits, in the palms of my hands, and across my forehead. I wanted to scream a warning, but my lungs refused to expel their contents and I froze, mouth open. Above all else, I needed space, fresh air, and a sanctuary. Where did I run to?
My vision tunnelled. Nothing made sense any longer. I’d begun to superimpose other images clambering for release from the dark recesses where I hid them.
Dear God, no. I closed my eyes and swayed, tipping forward.
“Jeez, babe.” Jason’s voice penetrated the darkness. “Don’t, babe. You’re safe, Gem.”
Jason clung to me, and I merged into his enveloping limbs.
We were both on the kitchen floor. He’d been whispering to me. Jason’s words of comfort in my ears re
minded me my blue-jeaned nemesis was gone, dead and buried, and I was safe. No one would hurt me again. Ironic, because my bottom throbbed. I smiled.
“What’s the smile for?”
“I’m not comfortable,” I murmured.
“Oh. Perhaps if we got off the floor?”
As we rose, I spied Anthony on the other side of the kitchen, perched on a chair. With Jason and I hidden behind the breakfast bar, he’d remained out of view. He held a metal object in his lap—a small pocket comb.
Crap. What an idiot I’d been. If I had kept my eyes on reality, inside of drifting off into a world of flashbacks, I would have recognized a comb.
The tears lapping on the edge of my eyes were brought on by shame. Why couldn’t I control my traumatic past or stay rational in the face of anxieties?
“Gemma?” piped up Anthony, rising from his seat. “Are you all right? You went white as a sheet.” His hands trembled, and his cheeks tinged with paleness. He didn’t appear angry, quite the contrary, he had the air of somebody who was embarrassed as myself. His awkwardness fed my own. How to explain my sudden breakdown?
“I…I…got a bit scared, that’s all. Shouty men. It’s not my thing. I don’t cope well.”
Jason touched my arm. “Nothing to do with earlier?” No, the caning hadn’t been the image in my mind prior to the panic attack. I shook my head.
Jason led me to a chair and I sat.
“Christ, Gem. It’s bad enough having to pin your own brother to the floor without you freaking out on me. I need a drink.” He fetched three glasses and poured a generous measure of red wine into each.
“I’m driving, Jason, I can’t drink.” Anthony pushed the glass away.
Jason slid the glass towards his brother. “You’re not driving in your state of mind. Someone will take you home.”
“God, home. Gillian. Shit, I’ve behaved abominably to her.” Anthony covered his face with his hands.
“Ring her. Say you’re sorry. There’s a landline in the sitting room.”
