by Jaye Peaches
The preview session began at five o’clock with photographers and the art press lining up to interview me. Jason’s cautious PR team had arranged it all. Major publicity was very much under his control and, aside from minor stuff in niche publications, I had to work with his team. I didn’t mind—their expertise, though not in the world of art, had easily transferred. I was learning a lot.
Family members were the next to arrive, and I gave my parents a personal tour. They applauded my efforts with compliments.
“Darling, you’ve done so well with your wonderful paintings.” Mum squeezed my arm, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I want to apologise. I never took your artistic side to mean anything more than a hobby. I’m sorry I pushed you into a career you weren’t keen on.”
“Oh, Mum, please. It’s water under the bridge. Put it this way. If I’d hadn’t worked as an asset valuator, I wouldn’t have met Jason and be able to do this. I would have gotten nowhere on my own. So, it’s fine. I got here in the end, and that’s what counts.” We hugged, something becoming a regular feature between Mum and me.
Jason’s personal photographer, John—a man he trusted to do our family snaps—took a picture of us all with my paintings in the background. Again, I fought back tears of joy as I stood with my loved ones.
Later, when the main event started, Jason posed with his own parents for photographs, and I wondered if it was the first time he had acknowledged them in a public setting. They admired my efforts, and I even managed to tempt Clive into buying a painting of lawyers’ wigs dusted with powder by an unseen person. Rather poignant, as Clive had a similar wig in his possession from his days in court. I agreed with him the horsehair detail was magnificent.
What a whirlwind party! I greeted, shook numerous hands, and introduced the artists responsible for the exhibitory contributions. Art dealers and academics rubbed shoulders with students who, in turn, mixed with the elite of the business world, courtesy of Jason’s connections. I weaved and circulated, while Jason kept his own kind occupied with his particular brand of charm. When sufficient numbers had gathered, I gave a small speech.
Jason squeezed my hand and gave me last-minute advice. “Take deep breaths and talk slowly, slower than you would think.”
I thanked everyone, some individually and others by organisation. I expressed my appreciation for my husband and his support. Jason smiled back, bowing his head briefly in a gracious manner. The applause rebounded off the walls, and my cheeks burned. With the nerve-racking part completed, I rekindled with renewed energy, the knots in my stomach unwound and my hands stopped shaking.
By nine o’clock, people started to leave. The food had all but vanished, the champagne bottles stood empty, and most of the wine had gone, too.
“Art lovers are quite alcoholic, aren’t they?” commented Jason with a snort. He’d bought the wine—a gift for my opening. We stood side by side, watching the remaining visitors mingle.
“Free drink appeals to art lovers.”
“Make any sales?”
I lifted my chin, proud of my accomplishments. “Yes. We had a few offers, and some are coming back for a second look when it’s less crowded. I’m happy.”
“Any of yours?” He poked my arm.
“The Gondolier has a deposit on it.” I shrugged, knowing he wasn’t happy with my decision to sell it.
“It has.”
I rotated on the balls of my feet and faced him. He attempted to hide a smirk, but the way his lips twitched and his eyes sparkled like diamonds, told of his failure. I suppressed a curse. “You’ve bought it! Jason, that’s ridiculous. Buying a painting off your own wife.” I screwed my hands into fists. Why hadn’t he told me!
“I wanted it.”
“Where are you going to put it?”
“In my office, at work. Or maybe in my Frankfurt office.”
“Oh, so not at home?”
“You said you had two more, so keep them at home. Don’t sell them. In fact, you can’t sell anything without my permission.” My jaw dropped then snapped shut, dampening down an exclamation of disapproval. If we hadn’t been in public, I might not have held my annoyance back. Jason continued, unperturbed by my muted display of defiance. “End of the matter. I don’t want to have to buy up all of your collection. Ask me first before you exhibit anything of yours. You can give your reasons, and I will approve or veto them.”
I scowled. He was taking the rules into a new area. “Do my pictures belong to me or you?”
“I’ve thought this through since yesterday. You are mine, babe, and then there is your creativity, which is beyond my control. However, that doesn’t mean I won’t have a say in what you do with that creative output. I’m not stopping you displaying or selling. I simply want a say in what you offload.”
“That’s it? I’m to stash stuff in the attic to collect dust. Forbidden to make a name for myself. Is that what this is about, my status?” I hissed, leaning forward on tiptoes.
Jason pulled one of his sterner expressions, lowering his eyebrows. “Gemma. Listen carefully. I am not saying you can’t exhibit or sell your artwork. What I trying to say is, I don’t want to lose those pictures I’ve come to adore, that represent the best in you. The Gondolier is special to us—we were there together, in Venice, conceiving our son. When I see your lovely painting, I’m with you again. So, please, consider my needs in this.”
I blinked back the tears, ashamed of my lack of thought—how Jason might perceive my paintings. I reached up and kissed his lips, openly in front of a small crowd. “I understand, Master,” I whispered. “I will cherish your opinion, as much as you cherish me.”
A short time after nine o’clock, we locked the main door and tidied up. Jason supervised the caterers as they boxed up the glassware and plates. The empty wine bottles vanished, as did the napkins and leftovers. At last, it was time to retreat. Malcolm offered to lock up and set the alarm system.
Arriving at the White House, I kicked off my heels and, with a gracious thank you, sent Clara on her way. I checked on Joshua, rolled up in his sleeping bag, thumb in mouth and favoured cuddly in his hand. Jason stood behind me, kissing my neck.
“He’s fine, Gemma. You can make it up to him on another day. I want you now. So come.”
I trembled as I undressed, fumbling with my suspenders and garter. Jason had stretched out on the bed, his jacket and tie gone, and he watched my little strip show. Once naked, I knelt in the middle of the room and waited.
I was tired, but that didn’t matter. My feet throbbed—unimportant. My reflection in the mirror portrayed me as bedraggled with strands of hair hanging down and my shoulders slumped, however, Jason had the ability to dig out my lust and recreate my sexy persona.
“You’ve done well, Gem. You should be proud.”
“Your support has been invaluable, and I’m very grateful.”
Rising off the bed, he walked over and stood over me. With his back to the lights, his shadow covered me like a blanket.
“Look at me,” he commanded. I gazed up, wanting to see those glorious blue eyes and feast upon their intensity, but found his face hidden by shadows. “You’re so beautiful,” Jason murmured.
He crouched and removed the clips from my hair, tossing them onto the tallboy behind him.
“Thank you, Master.” I quaked, not with fear, but the anticipation of his touch had provoked unbridled trepidation. I had no need to be afraid of Jason.
I cast my mind back, kneeling there at his feet, and thought about how much had happened since Joshua started to walk in the spring. The rules, amended and tightened, had scared me at first, now they seem a part of my daily life and a joy to me. My attempt at ordinariness had been swiftly put to one side when Jason reminded me I would always be extraordinary, both in my public and private lives. Yet, he had shown how ordinary his own family was behind the façade of wealth and power. Siblings who needed each other and, even if they shied away from Jason, he would always be there for them.
I basked, literally and emotionally, in the warmth of his protective shadow, yet still I’d managed to make my mark in the outside world. My career had given me the chance to blossom, and now I could call myself a professional artist and perhaps even an art dealer. Throughout the year, my artistic ambitions had been brought to fruition and alongside that particular journey, I had accomplished much with Jason. I recalled our collaring ceremony, how I had knelt at his feet, as I was now and as always, when in a position of deference, I waited on him—his words and actions.
“I’m going to start by fucking that mouth of yours.”
I couldn’t help but grin at his command because immediately it caused a flurry of butterflies and my pussy clenched. My hand reached out to his zipper, and I gazed up at his face. Without shifting my line of sight, I tugged on his zipper and from behind it sprung his glorious erection. My fingers wrapped around his cock, feeling the velvet texture, the dryness, which soon would be moist with my saliva. I opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue, and licked him from balls to tip, running my pink, soft flesh along his stark, sculpted veins.
He smirked. Touching my head, his hand drifted into the loose strands, and he twirled them about his fingers. With his grip established, he took control. I smothered my mouth about his cock, drew in my lips, and sucked.
New memories were shaped on the floor at his feet then others on the bed, adding to my endless collection of sexual delights. Each had a special place in my heart, even if the details were forgotten.
His lips caressed my soft flesh, teeth nipped and tongue swirled about my pussy. His fingers, such precise clever fingers, teased and tormented me, pushing me to the brink of an orgasm, then dragging me back in frustration. Throughout his little games, his amazing blue eyes dazzled, sparkled and shone. My belly filled with knots and fluttering butterflies, and at times ached with undelivered orgasms. Using his many implements, he criss-crossed my arse with welts, and yet he also took the time to rub, stroke, and massage away the worst of the pain.
If I had to pick one aspect of the evening to be my favourite, it was the constraints of bondage. His nimble fingers bound my limbs and torso with rope, packaging me into a netting. There was no room for escape. Jason had placed me in a state of helplessness then pierced me with his swollen cock. I relished the predicament. Orgasm after orgasm flew out of my sex, causing a thumping, rhythmic pulse, which was as strong as my heartbeat and spread to every morsel of my body.
I remembered his cry of delight as he filled me, planting his seed high in my drenched pussy. Having untied me, he buried his head between my legs and with his tongue brought me to my final climax, as amazing as the first time he used his mouth on me, barely five years ago. Sometime after midnight, he finished with me. Perhaps two or three hours of incredible kink wrapped around amazing sex. My man had left indelible marks on me in many ways, inside and out.
He took the time to bring me out of my trance, bathing me while whispering words in my ear. “Babe, your master is pleased. I love you.” The dominating voice that had sent me into my submissive goo of sexual depravity slipped away, and my indulgent, loving husband remained behind.
The relief of his words flooded through me and I cried, uttering words of love between my sobs. Those weren’t tears of sadness but a wonderful, cathartic cry of liberation. All those weeks of stress and sleepless nights were done. Things were not going to be plain sailing, but I would survive. I’d made my future, and it was vibrant, plentiful, and alluring.
My tears dried up, sleep descended, and we knotted together in an enduring embrace.
Chapter 28. Closure
I came out of the kitchenette delighted to discover a small crowd milling about my gallery. Some I recognised from the previous day but most were first timers. The extra publicity paid off nicely. The location of the gallery had been published in numerous artsy magazines, newsletters, websites, and local newspapers.
Nicholas bounded up to me. “Somebody wants to offer more for your Gondolier picture.”
“It’s not for sale any longer.” I didn’t want to explain why, but Nicholas didn’t push for an explanation. After all, they were my paintings.
“Pity. Could have slapped a lot more onto the price tag.” He shrugged and wandered off.
I spotted a tall, burly man amongst the crowd and froze.
He’d had his back towards me, and when he turned I caught a glimpse of his face. Older, with unshaven bristles and hair longer than I remembered, he wore khaki cargo pants, which weren’t in keeping with the plain suit jacket he wore over the top. An art gallery wasn’t a place I’d ever imagined he would come to visit. He’d disappeared years ago. Why was he here?
The rush of adrenaline sent shockwaves through my body, my legs wobbled, and nausea hit my belly. Instinctively, I stepped backwards. Through bustle of people, he hadn’t seen me yet, but he wasn’t paying much attention to the exhibits. No, he hadn’t come to view the pictures. He’d come to find me.
He emerged from the thicker throng, and his eyes widened when he spied me. Halting, he removed his hands from his trouser pockets and clenched them into fists. My throat constricted, preventing me from crying out. He had to be seeking revenge. Nothing else about his sudden appearance made sense. The man must detest me for what had happened to his friend, regardless of the fact it hadn’t been my fault.
Gibson strode in front of me, forming a barricade between us.
She kept a close eye on him, but spoke to me. “Mrs Lucas, who is he? I saw him come in and heard him asking for you. He’s got a military tattoo on the side of his neck, not exactly an art lover, I assume.”
He stepped a fraction closer, and Gibson glared at him, holding up the palm of her hand. He halted. Now I could see a small scar on his cheek and the tattoos on his neck, which she’d assessed at a glance.
“His name is Dougie. I never knew his surname.” I spoke breathlessly, determined to hold my ground and not run. “I haven’t seen him in six years or so.”
“A friend?” Her eyes narrowed into slits.
“Back then, yes. Now, I don’t really know.” How to judge a man I’d not seen in years, who’d vanished at a critical time in my life.
“Gemma, please, I want to talk to you.” His hushed tone barely carried over the few metres.
I shook my head, battling my fears. He knew far too much about my past. Would he shout it out across my gallery—declare me a whore and ruin my reputation in one second?
He clenched his hands, and a strange kind of smile formed on his face, almost a genuine one, however his lips remained pressed together. I knew his smiles, and they usually were toothy grins, but this one was forced.
“Please, sweetie. I mean you no harm.” He crept another metre or so nearer.
“Don’t come closer,” warned Gibson.
He adjusted his posture again, lowering his stiff shoulders, and gave me an imploring expression. He’d started to look like Dougie always did: a charming and playful character who enjoyed a good night out. Except, standing in my gallery, he had a worn out and weary appearance, thinner, too.
My curiosity at his presence overshadowed my anxieties. I had to know why he wanted to see me. “Not here, Dougie.”
“Sure, where then? Let me say what I have to say, and I’ll go.”
His words drifted over the hubbub of voices. I felt like a statue in a playground, locked into a different world while those about me chatted and circulated.
I took a deep breath. “Okay, the café across the street. One o’clock.”
He nodded in confirmation, almost punching the air with delight with his reformed fist.
“Mrs Lucas!” Gibson turned to chastise me, and behind her, Dougie made swift his departure from the gallery.
I ignored Gibson and headed straight back to the kitchen, leaning on the worktop, struggling with dizziness.
Gibson followed me in. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Dougie is a blast from the past. A big fucking blast.” I clung to th
e cool work surface with my clammy hands while I perspired and shivered at the same time. The only parts of me radiating heat were the marks from the previous night.
“You’re not going to see him,” declared Gibson.
“I think I have to,” I countered, straightening up.
She reached into her back pocket for her mobile. “You don’t know his surname?”
“Nope, not important back then.” Surnames had meant nothing to me when I was out having fun.
“Is he an ex?”
Another violent shiver, and I shook my head. “A friend of an ex.” I wrapped my arms about me, trying to stem the trembles.
Gibson wasn’t daft, she knew my past. She took in my paleness, the shaking hands, and my rapid breathing. “His friend?” She raised her voice.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Right, you shouldn’t go,” she reiterated firmly.
“It’s not your decision. Dougie never hurt me or gave me any reason to fear him.”
“Back then. What about now?”
Gibson had a point. I didn’t know what motivated Dougie to seek me out after all these years.
“How did they know each other?”
“They were in the army together. Same platoon. Comrades in arms, more like brothers,” I explained.
Tapping a sequence of numbers on her phone, she contacted Martinson—he would quickly find out with his military police connections.
“Martinson says no, too,” she added after she ended the call. “He wants to know if you’re going to contact your husband.”
“I assume he will, if I don’t.” On the one hand, I needed my husband to calm me down. On the other, he would be furious if he knew I considered meeting with Dougie, and I’d rather not speak to him about it.
Nicholas stuck his head round the door. “Really need you out here, Gemma.”
“Shortly,” I snapped, and he shot out of the kitchenette.
I fished my phone from my handbag, and Gibson left me alone. It took several rings before he picked up the phone. I could hear Joshua squawking in the background.
