Sublime Trust

by Jaye Peaches

  I heard a throat clearing cough and started. Jason dropped his hands away, creating space between us. Standing by the doorway was my father-in-law, his cheeks flushed. Had he seen my little spanking?

  “Dad?” Jason raised his eyebrows.

  “I was going to say, you’ll need the second canteen out from the garage. That one—he red-faced Clive pointed at the wooden box—“only has enough cutlery for six people.”

  “Oh.” I hid my trembling hands behind my back. “Sure, thank you.”

  “I’ll help pull the leaves out. The table gets quite stiff,” he offered.

  “We’ll manage. Thanks, Dad,” said Jason. “Gemma is quite good at laying tables, her party trick, isn’t it, babe?”

  “Jason!” I glared. Not here!

  “Party trick?” Audrey entered the room, wiping her hands on her apron. “What party trick? We could do with some entertainment. Gemma, don’t tell me you dance on the table in the nude or something silly.”

  I wanted to sink into a hole in the ground. She meant it as a joke, but I must have turned pink, and her eyes widened.

  “Seriously?” She grinned.

  “Please don’t go there.” I curled my toes on the polished wooden boards, having slipped off my sandals when entering the house, preferring to keep my feet bare.

  Jason had no intention of rescuing me. Seeing the opportunity to bring a little kinkery into his parents’ life, he unleashed his dominance. He’d done it before, back at Blythewood, not long after I’d come out as his submissive—a demonstration of the pinwheel to his gobsmacked family.

  “Setting the table. Nudity isn’t a requirement, but the blindfold is.” Reaching round, he fleetingly covered my eyes. “A perfectly set table using her memory and hands only.”

  “Really?” said Audrey. “Why would you want her to be able to do that?”

  There was a pause then Jason shrugged. “Because I ask her to do it.”

  His simple statement hung in the air for a few seconds.

  Audrey took the comment in her stride while Clive wore an air of obvious confusion. “A game, then,” she said, directing her comment at her son.

  “If you like. A test would be a more appropriate word,” said Jason. I guessed he was educating his parents in the nuances of scenes and play. I waited for Audrey to ask why I did it, but she didn’t, as if she had worked out the answer for herself. She knew I was under Jason’s control. Now and again, her eyes would linger on my necklace as if to assess its significance. She focused on it now, the little padlock hanging down with the letter J prominent.

  “If Gemma fails your test—”

  “There are penalties, yes.” Jason held his mother’s gaze. “There are rewards, too.”

  The two were locked in a time warp. I could see her work it out. Jason’s childhood regime of service and reward re-enacted by her son with his wife. Except, I did it for no other reason than to please Jason.

  “Do you want to watch her do it?” Jason pointed at the canteen. “It’s quite impressive. She is well trained in the task, however, not by me. Another instigated the ritual a long time ago. I just keep her on her toes.”

  Clive shifted. “I’ll get the other canteen.”

  Audrey pursed her lips. “Very well, but no penalties, whatever they are, not in this house,” she insisted.

  “Of course,” assured Jason, sliding the two halves of the table top aside.

  Extracting the leaves from under the table, he lengthened it, while his father brought the extra canteen from the garage, and to the cutlery, Jason added the place mats and the wine glasses, placing them in the middle of the table.

  Jason laid out one setting, which I had to remember. Quite simple, by his standards. Soup spoon, main-course knife and fork, dessert set, one wine glass, and a water tumbler, all positioned around a cork board showing a picture of the River Thames, which ran close to the house.

  By the time I had calculated how much distance between each setting to accommodate ten adults, he had found a suitable blindfold. I had hoped I would only be doing this little spectacle for his parents, however, his siblings and their partners had started to drift in. Once one found out what was happening, the others bundled into the room. Lined up against the back wall, they muttered and tittered in the background. Joshua slept in his travel cot, worn out by adoring relatives.

  “What is going on?” asked Louise.

  “A game thing with Jason and Gemma,” Audrey announced.

  I had to control my nerves; shaky hands would be counterproductive.

  “Sssh!” commanded Jason from behind me. “Give her space and a chance to concentrate.”

  Armed with the blindfold, he plunged me into darkness.

  The room went quiet, and I couldn’t move. My feet locked to the floor, and my hands, gripping the chair before me, refused to let go. How foolish did I look? Blindfolded and probably about to smash my in-laws’ best glassware. Breathe. I inhaled and centred my thoughts not on the gathering, but the man next to me. He wanted me to do this, prove something to his parents, and it was my job to fulfil his wishes.

  I slid my hands down the side of the chair and blocked out the invisible audience. I could do this. I’d done it countless times, sometimes for Jason, other times at parties long before I’d met my husband. I reached out to the pile of cutlery in the centre of the table and picked up the first knife.

  Systematic, I used the span of my hand to measure the distance between the place mats, my thumb for the distance between cutlery and the place mat and finally the glassware, which proved tricky to find in the middle of the table without smashing my hand into them. I relied on the tips of my fingers to locate each one in turn. I must touch only the base of the glasses—Jason would frown upon fingerprints left on the stem.

  “Done.” I stepped back and, for a few seconds, silence greeted me, then a round of applause broke out, and I whipped off the blindfold, blinking in the evening light flooding through the window.

  “Wow, Gemma, impressive,” congratulated Rebecca. She gave me a slightly unnerving wink, too.

  Jason walked around the table, examining each setting. I handed the blindfold back to him, and he enveloped me in his embrace, kissing my neck.

  “Good girl,” he whispered, and I snuggled closer to him, pleased by his compliment. “However, eight errors.”

  “Eight!” I exclaimed. His grip tightened, reminding me to keep my voice low. I stared at the table. I’d not lined up the wine glasses very well.

  “Don’t worry. I said no penalties here, but once we’re home, I’ll be able to deal with the matter, won’t I?”

  The familiar buzz of energy erupted in my belly. I had a long wait to the next day.

  The meal was delicious, and Jason gave two small toasts after the dessert course.

  “To Dad, have a great retirement!” he announced, and we clinked our glasses together. “And not forgetting my little sister, Louise, who we should congratulate on her baby news and her recent engagement to Ben, not quite the right order of events! We wish them well.”

  After the toasts, the imbibed alcohol began to loosen everyone’s tongues, and conversations took off into taboo areas.

  “Do you do other party tricks?” asked Gillian, my dining neighbour. She held her knife poised over the cheese board.

  “Um. Well, yes, but not repeatable in polite company,” I replied.

  “Go on whisper them,” said Louise, leaning forward across the table. “Dad can’t hear. He’s busy talking to Anthony.”

  Next to me, Jason was locked in debate with Michael, seemly unaware of Gillian’s question. I racked my mind, trying to think of something suitably kinky without delving into forbidden territory: Jason was strict about what I could discuss with his vanilla family. “Fondues.”

  “Sorry? I don’t get it,” said Gillian.

  “You know. Dipping things in chocolate, fruit and things like that.” I lowered my voice and hid my mouth behind a napkin.

  “What d
o you do?” asked Louise, as she held up a piece of cheese.

  I slid the napkin down my chin, uncovering my lips. “I’m the receptacle for the chocolate.” My face ignited with heat, and the napkin shot up again.

  Louise and Gillian burst into a duet of laughter. “You get smeared in chocolate. Wow, Gemma. Doesn’t it tickle?” Gillian giggled.

  I started to regret my choice of party game. Perhaps not innocuous enough. I wiped my brow with the serviette, crushing the fabric tight in my fingers. “Yes. That’s the fun part. Keeping still. I’m not allowed to wriggle.”

  Gillian leaned over, nudging my shoulder. “Do you get rewarded for being still?”

  “Jason licks me clean,” I whispered. My imagination had sent me to a place of both embarrassment and culinary, erotic delight. Couldn’t somebody open a window? I sweltered under the gaze of my sisters-in-law.

  “I do what?” butted in Jason. Damn, he might have been listening throughout. I’d not noticed he’d stopped speaking to Michael.

  “Nothing,” I hastened to add.

  “Gemma was talking about other party games she’s played,” explained Gillian. I wanted to thump her arm and tell her to shut up. I stared at my empty cheese plate.

  Jason put his knife down and pivoted on his seat to face me. “I hope we’re talking cards or monopoly.”

  “Backgammon?” I suggested. “Not chess, though. No hope for me there.” The one-time president of the university chess club trounced me every time we played—the kind of beating I did not enjoy.

  “I should stick to playing something you can win at, Gemma.” I detected a veiled threat. In other words, watch my penalty quota.

  “With you, winning is half the fun,” I murmured. “Losing has its incentives.”

  Back at our home, I discovered the penalties involved elastic bands, which I hated and Jason loved. I had to offer him eight parts of my body for him to snap at me with the thick bands. Standing naked in the bedroom of the White House, I considered my options and held out my hand.

  “No, Gemma. Be adventurous.” He declined the proffered palm.

  I pulled a pitiful face, which he ignored, eyeing my nipples. I pinched each breast, and he smiled.

  “Better.”

  He aimed for my nipples with pinpoint accuracy, and I screeched into my gag as the band snapped at them.

  “Where else?” he asked, as if I had a choice.

  With my eyes watering, I bent over and spread my buttocks. A few painful pings later, he examined my slit with his long fingers, rubbing along until he reached my mound.

  “God, you’re wet down there. Methinks my slut likes her tender parts assaulted,” he mused. “Next?”

  The soles of my feet, and I hopped about on the spot, drooling all over my gag.

  “You took that well.” He tossed the elastic band away. “Turning into quite the party girl, aren’t you? Next week, we’ll go to the club, and you can show off your skills there. A little scening for the members. Time I put you on show again. Something different. What was that thing with wax and feathers you use to do?”

  I rubbed my sore spots and gazed at my rather sexy husband, who grinned like a Cheshire cat. I’d excelled at his parents’, providing them with a small insight into our life without scaring them into thinking Jason abused me or drove me mad with his demands. Now, my needy sex wanted payback. Whatever, Jason. Just fuck me!

  The following week, he took me to the Nightshade Club, where he bound and suspended my helpless body in the communal play area. After a short spell of whips and floggers, I drifted into a submissive state, and he dripped wax onto my exposed skin, inviting others to attach feathers to the sticky mess. Afterwards, Jason gave me a stupendous reward in a private room.

  Chapter 16. Friendships

  As well as taking sporadic trips to his club, Jason had under his wing a few younger or inexperienced Doms, helping them nurture their own distinctive style of dominance, usually via email exchanges.

  Our differing stomping grounds in our early years had shaped the way Jason and I had interacted with BDSM communities. Mine had been informal parties, demonstration events, or munches where no play happened but attendees talked the language with like-minded people. With such an open congregation, and some events publicised on websites, we had to deal with all sorts turning up.

  Jason’s social playground was very different and remained unchanged over time. Private parties required personal invitations, and private meant private with existing members vetting guests. Whereas my clubs were glorified pubs with a fetish theme, his members’ club was expensive. At one stage, Jason had attended open parties, however, he stopped after his brother, Michael, took him to one and an ex-sub had exposed Jason as a practising Dominant. Unfortunately, Michael had witnessed the unwanted adulation, and Jason’s secret had been smashed apart.

  Etiquette at my informal parties had been based around courteous requests for service, friendly banter, and nothing involving strict protocols. Jason’s gatherings were rigidly formal affairs with dress codes, rules about who could speak to whom. Scenes were conducted in special rooms or a hired dungeon where dungeon masters monitored the intense scenes, certainly more extreme than what went on with my modest get-togethers.

  After my rape, I lost contact with most of my kinky friends. Those who knew about my assault and helped me had kept in contact and up to date with my old network. My email inbox occasionally filled with tales about people with whom I’d once happily dance around naked or bent over to let them spank me. Unfortunately, people were disappearing from my visual memory, becoming forgotten faces. I mourned their passing from my life.

  It was with great relief Jason’s own network of BDSM acquaintances had brought me a new lineup of submissive friends, salvaging my gregarious nature. However, we subs, who were scattered across London, met infrequently. Instead, we relied on emailing and texts to keep our burgeoning camaraderie alive and active. With the arrival of summer and a great deal of organisation, we arranged to meet up on a Wednesday night. I left Jason to babysit, while I went to our chosen rendezvous to natter.

  A subbie girly night out with my favourite friends: Judith, Eva, and Zoe was a delicious treat. We enjoyed a mouth-watering meal followed by an essential chitchat in an establishment where background music offered accompaniment. We’d been granted permission to let our collective hair down. As long as we came home before one in the morning, and behaved ourselves, we were free agents.

  Kind of free. Dave Johnson eyeballed me from a corner table. I apologised to the others.

  “Oh good grief, it’s exciting having a bodyguard watching over us,” said Zoe, giving Johnson a small wave over her shoulder. I cuffed the back of her hand, horrified she might draw attention to me and upset Johnson.

  “Take my word for it, the novelty wears off,” I grumbled, wishing they understood the infringement on my personal space.

  I fingered my necklace. We wore a variety of public “collars,” in particular, the short, chained necklaces, which served as an emblem of our submission. Judith patted my back, and my good friend changed the topic of conversation to a more appropriate subject.

  We didn’t divulge the details of scenes, although we did compare notes on personal preferences, balancing private and public lives, jobs, and so on. We were in full flow when he came over to our table.

  Younger than me, dark hair, trim waistline, and not far off handsome in his well-ironed shirt and tie. He hooked a spare chair and parked it at our table, uninvited.

  We glared at him in silence.

  He leaned across our table and spoke softly. “Apologies, ladies. I don’t mean to be rude. I couldn’t help notice you’re a delightfully friendly-looking bunch of subs.” He tapped his neck.

  Johnson had risen and was already halfway across the room, but at the word subs I waved him down with a flick of my hand. He hesitated, and I shook my head. He had to trust my judgement, and I didn’t think this guy was a threat.

  I gave our une
xpected interloper a closer look. He settled in his chair and waited for us to assimilate his remark. His hands rested on the table, and I could see a signet ring. The emblem I recognised, a symbol of dominance.

  Judith had also spotted the heavy ring. “You’ll notice then we are not free,” she snapped.

  The man pursed his lips and nodded.

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to imply I was seeking anything from you only”—he paused and pointed at the bar—“you see the group of boring men over there. My new work colleagues. I moved here recently from Cardiff, and this is the getting-to-know-the-lads night out. So far it’s all football, the best celebrity tits, and the biggest bum in the office. Not my scene, so to speak. I don’t see myself hanging out with these guys. So then I see you ladies. I wondered if you knew any good clubs, munches? Anything kinky, before I forget what a good time is all about.”

  He leaned back in his chair, and I attempted to assess him. Genuine Dom or a horny guy with a chat-up approach bordering on unbelievable?

  Judith snorted. “You’re positive we’re subs? From our necklaces? Quite a gamble, isn’t it?” Her experience showed; the other two were less forward and fidgeted.

  “I was pretty sure,” he claimed, and I smirked at his arrogance. “But to make absolutely certain I strolled by earlier, dead slow, and cocked an ear at your chatter. I have to say, I don’t hear many ladies discussing waxing floggers—at least not in the pubs I go to.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Mark. Can I buy you a round of drinks?” He pointed at an empty glass.

  “Thank you.” Judith moved her glass out of his reach. “’We’re okay. You don’t know anybody locally?”

  “I lived in Manchester before Cardiff. This move was unexpected and quick. I feel slightly bereft, and I hate using chat rooms to find real Doms. You know how it is.”

  “You’re unattached?” asked Zoe, and I noted she’d relaxed sufficiently to stare at him with fluttering eyelashes. He was undeniably handsome. Eva swirled the wine about her glass, her attention on Johnson, as if she expected him to leap into action.