Sublime Trust

by Jaye Peaches

  Garratt placed a small white cushion in front of him. “Kneel, Gemma.” He pointed at the cushion, and I slithered down, making myself comfortable and keeping my eyes low, while I waited for Jason to speak. In his hands he held my collar necklace. He had removed it in bed last night, creating a strange absence around my neck, an unwanted emptiness.

  He tilted my chin up with the tips of his fingers, and I gazed into the searing blue eyes, flinching at the intensity of colour and brightness. Their power over me remained undiminished since the first time he’d looked at me. Before he spoke, he caressed one of my cheeks with the back of his hand. A gentle, calming stroke to help steady my nerves.

  “Gemma. From this day and all of our days together I will own you, keep you safe, cherish and love you. You have placed your trust in me, and I take that responsibility seriously. I promise to protect and care for you. Your feelings and needs will be honoured to the best of my ability. I will continue to nurture your submission. I will give you the wings you need to take flight and achieve your goals. This necklace is a symbol of my commitment to you, wearing it demonstrates your trust and faith in me.”

  I gulped back my emotions, close to a flood of tears at his tender words. It took some moments to steady my trembling hands and remember my pledge, the words I must say. I inhaled deeply, closed my eyes briefly, and then, when I refocused on Jason’s face and his warm expression, I was ready.

  “Jason. I promise to give you my best. My sexual body and soul are yours to own for your pleasure. My love is yours. My trust and faith in you is unbreakable. I promise to be honest, to accept your guidance and communicate my feelings. I will listen to your needs, and will honour your trust in me. Master, I give you my love, my being, and my life for you to keep safe. I am devoted to serving you and willingly submit to your dominance.”

  With the necklace returned to its rightful place, I took his hand, and Jason drew me up to stand before him.

  “Babe, I love you,” he murmured.

  “I love you.”

  Our kiss was greeted with applause, and my insides were crippled with an unquenchable need to show my love. I would have to wait, as he held me tight and we murmured to each other words of love nobody else should hear.

  Our little private revelry over, the others came and offered their personal congratulations. We drank champagne and opened gifts: a book on Japanese bondage from Garratt and Judith, two gold ankle chains for me from Sebastian and Zoe and, from Damien, an elaborately embroidered blindfold with soft velvet lining and suede wrist cuffs. Enrique gave me one of his pictures. I gasped in surprise, as it wasn’t one of his usual caricatures of erotica; instead, he’d created a simple portrait of Jason and me standing on the deck of our yacht in a gentle embrace.

  “From a photograph I took,” he explained, his cheeks flushed. The picture was drawn in pencils and perfectly executed. At last, we had a portrait we could hang in a public space.

  “It’s beautiful, Enrique, thank you.” I kissed his pink cheek.

  After a brief period of relaxation, the long-awaited spell in the dungeon and my piercing approached.

  I didn’t expect my memory of Jason’s planned scenes to hold fast in my mind, given my tendency to drift into subspace when he ramped up the intensity. I anticipated a fragmentation of his construct with each little scene transforming into a snapshot, rather like a mental photo album.

  I was determined not to lose myself in the whirlwind. Instead, I would log those key moments as everlasting keepsakes.

  The first came when Jason tied me to the St. Andrew’s cross, stripped of my fancy corset. He lashed my bottom and back with a steady swoop of his arm. I couldn’t fault his rhythm, which kept time like a metronome—a swish and thud—never too hard but sufficient to make me gasp for breath.

  The warm-up sent me into a state of sublime relaxation as I released my pent-up anxieties. Only when I started to drag on the restraints and my head bobbed up and down did Jason cease. He stroked my blazing bottom, commenting on the heat and colouration. His exact words failed to register.

  He moved me, laid me on the padded mat and, with the help of Damien, bound my compliant limbs. He didn’t choose a restrictive hogtie nor suspension. Rather, he covered my pale flesh in an elaborate net of knots and red rope work, my arms bound behind my back and my ankles hobbled to my upper thighs. The position exposed my sex, and after Jason blindfolded me, he gave his permission for the others to use me.

  Soft whispers and the pitter-patter of footsteps greeted his command. I clung onto my submissive state, which Jason had induced with his flogging and bondage, remembering my trust in him was unbreakable. I struggled to contain the burst of adrenaline, my muscles twitching under the ropes.

  Maria, I knew her skilled tongue so very well, took up the task of licking my clitoris. I whimpered, aware of my impending orgasm, which required permission from Jason. I grappled with the urge to come until she ceased and another took her place with a pinwheel, which etched its way around my nipples, forcing me to hold my breath.

  The scene progressed at a gentle pace as others took brief turns in teasing me, whether with feathers, tongues, fingers, or teeth. A medley of sensual delights maintained me a perpetual state of arousal. Squirming on the floor, I mewled or squealed. Sometimes I giggled, and my shameless enjoyment met with a similar response. Only Jason spoke directly to me, occasionally whispering in my ear, checking in on my mental state, asking for my consent to continue.

  I wanted him so much, and it wasn’t long before he took control. By then, my need to orgasm teetered on a fantastical cliff edge. My clit buzzed with renewed energy, and my pussy must have been sopping. I couldn’t see Jason, but he was close. When he called off my tormentors, removing the sensual stimulus, he commanded me to come.

  It wasn’t magic. I couldn’t have done it without his voice and the months of training. For a second, I hovered on the plateau, unsure if my orgasm would deluge my body with convulsions or focus on my tender clitoris, sending it into spiralling spasms. My lungs stopped, unable to suck in air as I experienced the former, an undiluted battery of contracting muscles spreading across my body.

  In the midst of my moans, Jason rolled me onto my belly and entered me. I heard the familiar slaps of his hips on my bottom. My scalp stung as he grasped my braids, unravelling them as he pulled out the loose strands. I rocked with my legs splayed to one side, bent at the knee, and my arms boxed across my back, unable to push against his thrusts.

  He grunted with each grinding penetration. In the darkness, I conjured up the image of him lying on top of me, clothed—I felt the buttons scrape along my thighs, the collar of his shirt tickling between my shoulder blades—and his arse rising and falling. I’d vanquished my fear of communal sex. The presence of my friends thrilled and energised my throbbing clitoris. The vulnerability given to me by ropes and blindfold enhanced my submission, not diminished it.

  “Come, come,” uttered Jason between pants.

  What followed was a wonderful conjoined climax, which danced back and forth between us as I clenched his pumping cock. His cries were an affirmation of his love. He needed only me.

  Released from my bondage and eyes uncovered, I lay in the dimly lit dungeon and enjoyed the pleasure of a sponge bathing away our fluids and cooling my rope and whip marks. I would savour those later, when I could focus and remain sentient.

  Calmed by soothing words, I prepared myself for the final scene—my piercing. Jason carried me to the table, laid me there on my back, and spread my legs wide. I tucked my heels next to my bottom, anchoring my wobbly legs. However, the shaking grew too pronounced, and Damien and Enrique held them still. I muttered an embarrassed thank you.

  Jason tilted my head back, cupping my chin with his palm and, in doing so, made it so I could see nothing of Garratt and his gloved hands. I flinched when the cold iodine washed over my supersensitive sex. I recollected what Jason had said when he declared his intention to pierce me. He had insisted there would be
no mercy; he desired a fleeting moment of pain to satisfy his sadism. At no other time in the day had he shown this aspect of his personality. Only now did I gift him my masochism.

  The pain was swift and sharp. I squawked, clenching my fists at my sides while my legs tensed. As quickly as the pain arrived, it left, and in its place, a tugging sensation as Garratt inserted the gold pin into the hood covering my clitoris.

  “Good girl,” whispered Jason.

  I let out a small sob, not from the discomfort, but because those words melted my heart in an instant. Now I had a mark for him to cherish every time I undressed and stood naked before him.

  We posed for photographs. Pictures quite unlike our wedding ones. I rested my back on Jason’s warm chest, his arms wrapped about my bosom, and held a small flower with petals the colour of blood. I didn’t mind. I captured those numerous fleeting pictures in my head in the hope of not losing the essence of my collaring. From that day, I would not fear or live in the past.

  Lying in bed, Jason caressed and stroked me, never straying to my touch my delicate piercing. As I drifted off into my dream world, echoing around my head were his sleepy words.

  “My gorgeous girl.”

  Chapter 23. My Accountant

  Once September arrived, the opening of the art gallery loomed on the horizon, and I crammed my weekdays with appointments, meetings, and phone calls. Clara became the custodian of Joshua for the bulk of the day. My transition from full-time mum to owner of a gallery had progressed over a period of months.

  The late summer weather helped my mood. I tried to stay positive and active, convincing myself my project would launch successfully and on time, except occasionally I floundered given the number of outstanding issues.

  All the exhibits had been delivered to the building although they remained wrapped in their protective casings. With the artwork in residence, my immediate task had been to provide security. I couldn’t claim my exhibition would be worth a fortune, but I needed to reassure artists their works were safe. My steep learning curve covered many new areas: security, insurance, and hazard management. None of them inspired enthusiasm on my part.

  Jason seconded his security chief, Martinson, to help. Jason’s critical areas of asset security were his data storage and server rooms, and they had much in common with art galleries, which meant fire-detection systems and the need for motion sensors to announce the arrival of intruders. A team came and assessed and helped identify suitable candidates to provide the monitoring equipment. Jason authorised the linking of the alarm systems for the gallery with his own company’s security hub. I agreed, although I wasn’t sure if the link-up was to protect the pictures or me.

  Next, I tackled staffing. I couldn’t be on site all the time, and I needed the right mix of employees. After a two-hour session with one of Jason’s personnel managers, I trudged out of the room armed with notes about employment laws, recruitment issues, terms and conditions of employment. Reams and reams of the damn stuff, and I threw the lot on my desk and buried my head in my hands.

  “Gemma, you’re not revising for an exam. You don’t have to memorise all of this,” said Jason, collecting my piles of paper. “You need to be aware of what is out there, when to consult an expert or what to handle yourself. Your staffing levels amount to a handful.”

  He removed the documents and suggested I devise a list of ten things I considered important when employing and managing other people. Naturally, his idea for refocusing my brain cells helped, and it proved invaluable when I had to deal with people-management issues.

  I’d decided on the job roles for my staff quite early on in the planning. I needed cover for the evenings and weekends. Opening an art gallery early in the morning I deemed pointless, nevertheless, I could use the time to work through the daily-administrative issues. The gallery would be open into the evening to cover off the peak times when customers and visitors might pass by. I hoped the riverside location would attract tourists.

  My first key employee needed to be a sales and gallery manager, someone with a strong customer service background. The choice dawned on me one day after Zumba class. I cornered my friend Mina in the café after the class.

  “Mina, do you like art galleries?”

  Jason suggested my decision to employ a friend unwise. From my perspective, I wanted someone bright and trustworthy who had the potential to manage the gallery in my absence, and Mina had all the necessary skills in abundance.

  “Manager of an art gallery? I’m not exactly up on the art world, Gemma,” fretted Mina, stirring her coffee like a spinning top.

  “You don’t have to be an art expert or critic. Just know how to display or exhibit, sell stuff, and keep people happy. You’ve got a lovely smile, too.” I flattered her terribly in the hope she would take my bait. She visited the gallery, saw the boats chugging by on the Thames, and accepted the job.

  On top of Mina’s role, I wanted somebody with a strong background in the arts to impress the customers with their knowledge. I went with a recent graduate in art history, something of a gamble. His role would focus on weekend work rather than weekday.

  The third member of my team had to be a jack-of-all-trades, somebody to unpack or deliver artworks, help arrange the exhibition space, and deal with maintenance issues. I recruited a carpenter with the right mix of skills, meaning he was good with his hands, strong, and seemed to appreciate art even if he didn’t know the words accompanying the appreciation.

  My core team was assembled and busy with a list of tasks to do before the opening. My grand plan, post-opening, would be to cut my hours and take on the mantel of proprietor rather than manage the gallery on a daily basis. I envisaged my role would be sourcing new works to display and sell, as well as adding to my own personal collection with time in the atelier. I needed precious time to paint and foster relationships with the local universities and colleges to aid publicity.

  Since I was a millionairess in my own right, the cost of setting up the gallery had come out of my own pocket. The gallery needed to continue to be a financial success and not depend on my husband for handouts if it failed. Jason’s personal PR team helped a great deal—I was a new brand, but one strongly associated with my husband.

  Jason’s connections with wealthy business people provided most of my potential opening-night visitors. Moving in his circle of influence and money benefitted enormously and without those networks, I probably would have floundered trying to find potential buyers. I had to sell pictures if the gallery was going to be self-sufficient. Seeing myself as an art dealer still seemed something of an anathema—I couldn’t equate the title with my limited experience, and I suffered with attacks of poor self-esteem.

  “I’m a suburban girl from a middle-class family with no art qualifications, and I’m suggesting people come and buy my artwork. I’m crazy!” I ranted on a September evening. With my shoulders slumped over my half-eaten dinner, I glanced over to Jason as he pushed his plate to one side. “Please don’t tell me this is all in my head and—”

  “It is all in your head because nobody else is saying it. If you think you’re going to make an ass of yourself, you will, so don’t.”

  “Easy to say. To some extent, everything has gone too smoothly. I’m waiting for the crap reviews in the press, to not sell a single picture at the opening event, and I’ll probably puke from nerves the moment anyone speaks to me.” I reached over to pick up his plate, and he snatched my wrist.

  “What do you want me to do about all these negative thoughts? Hey? I’m not going to take over for you. This is your creation, your ideas, and nest egg. I have my own business to take care of and, correct me if I’m wrong, it is slightly bigger than yours. If you do well, you will be pleased. If it goes tits up, then you will deal with it and move on to something else. You’ve plenty of talents—what you lack is the self-belief. So what do you want me to do, Gemma?” He released his grip, and I sank to the floor by his chair.

  “Master, I want to please you. I
f I fail, then what will you think of me?” I murmured, eyes downcast.

  “I will think you tried, gave it your best. What I won’t tolerate is you giving up before things have started, throwing in the towel without dealing with issues and learning anything from the experience. Frankly, I don’t see any reason your gallery would fail. I’ve given you the clientele you need on a plate. All you have to do is deliver the goods, so concentrate on that. I ask again, what do you want me to do, Gemma?”

  I rested head on his lap. “Whatever you wish.”

  I wanted nothing in my head but him. The only way I could deal with stress was vanquish it and feel his dominance.

  “Go fetch the hood,” he ordered and I scrambled to my feet to fetch it.

  The hood had become my salvation since the collaring. With my senses diminished, the tight-fitting cowl enabled me to centre my thoughts. I didn’t fear the isolation or the vulnerability, Jason always remained nearby, watching me. Somehow, I’d discovered the art of being mindful—no sight, little hearing, my mouth stoppered, and my worries ignored.

  Cast into darkness, I concentrated on my breathing. “Up,” whispered Jason. He guided me across the floor and positioned me bent over the kitchen table with my legs spread wide. My pussy sprang to life, exuding her natural juices as he probed.

  “Um,” he murmured. “You are one horny girl.”

  He slid his hand up and down my slit then replaced it with his hard cock. Nudging my wet hole, he fondled, layered kisses down my back, and squeezed my buttocks with his long fingers. A few hard smacks staccatoed, stinging my bottom—more fodder for my arousal.

  “Yes,” I grunted. My voice muffled by the hood, I didn’t know if he heard me.

  “More?” He had. His astute ears rarely failed.

  “Please.”

  The spanking continued unabated, from using his hand, to some implement in the kitchen—I guessed a spatula. And then he began to spank me with something long and hard. I had no idea what it was, other than it bit like crazy. I whimpered and squirmed, grappling with my emotions.