by Jaye Peaches
“Done.”
She couldn’t complain about the speed of his pencil hand. Jason came over and untied her ropes. She felt crippled and collapsed into his arms. He lifted her up and deposited her on the lounger. She lay on her side, and he draped a towel over her, offering her a glass of water. She drank the contents in one go.
“Let’s see what you’ve done, Enrique.” Jason waved him over.
Gemma stared at the picture. It was her, but not her. Certainly not her face. A caricature of a terrified slave girl. Hair bound and tied to the pole, making the skin on the face stretch taut. The rope around the breasts had made them melon-shaped and sized. He had added a dildo between the legs, protruding from the vagina.
“When I add colour, I will include whip marks across the belly. Sí?” He swiped his finger back and forth across as if he was whipping the girl in the picture.
“Definitely stylised,” remarked Jason with a nod. “I like it.”
Gemma could see the picture captured the scene with a distinctive cartoonish style and exaggeration. She handed the drawing to Enrique.
“Very kinky,” she said.
“Sexy, babe. You were incredibly sexy.” Her heart soared at her husband’s appreciative expression.
Enrique had walked over to the archway. He glanced up as if searching for something hidden or concealed.
“Do you remember, señor? How we hung her up here.” He pointed to a spot above his head.
Jason laughed, wandering over to join Enrique. “That was a long time ago, Enrique. Yes, I do remember. Suspended. We all used her that day. The sub with the suspension fetish.”
Jason glanced at her then to the archway, as if to transpose Gemma into the scene he had recalled.
She shrank into the expansive lounger. Enrique was encouraging her husband to relieve memories Jason had said he wouldn’t recount—his carefree days of his early wealth and the hedonistic pastimes of a Dominant in full experimental and exploratory mode. She didn’t seek that Master.
Her memories started to haunt her. Jason could reminisce about his past, savour it. Hers was a personal nightmare of terror.
“I’m sure we could find a way to do it again, señor.” Enrique waved a hand up at the archway.
Do it again! What again? Not here, not now. A sea of nausea hit Gemma. Panic took her pulse rate to a furious pace. She felt faint.
Terror. Don’t go back. Stay here!
“Red!”
***
Jason spun round and saw a pale façade of the woman he had seen sunbathe. Her face, horror-struck, imprinted with fear. Her body began to ripple with violent trembles.
“Go! Now!” barked Jason, pointing to the stairwell.
Enrique retreated rapidly.
Jason enveloped her in his arms. “Shhh, babe. I’m here.” He rocked her back and forth.
He had no idea what had triggered the attack. Normally, a specific event or visual cue was needed. Nothing he had done would have set her off, surely? The apparent lack of cause worried him. Stroking her hair, he waited for her to reappear from her trance-like existence. He had seen such panic attacks before, but it had been some time since her last.
Over two years had passed since her rape, and yet the memories would spring out to haunt her without warning. Something had brought them to life again, and Jason couldn’t see what had been the trigger. She rarely spoke of the details of her assault—it had taken over a year of marriage for her to describe it to him, to allow her recollections to resurface long enough for her to speak in excruciating detail. He feared his scene had awoken something else she might have kept hidden in the recesses of her mind. The beating with the barbed-wire cane she did remember, but the sexual assault had occurred when she had been unconscious—or so she had told him. He dearly hoped it was the truth.
***
His heartbeat wasn’t as calm as Gemma would like. She had alarmed him. The beat raced, faster than she expected. Not surprising—she had shocked herself.
Memories! Hateful and intrusive memories. My own and nobody else’s.
She became aware she was crying uncontrollably. Wracked sobs, gut-wrenching cries. They hurt her belly and her head throbbed.
“Gem. Darling. What’s going on?” he whispered in her ear. “Look at me. Was it the scene?”
She found his eyes, Jason’s concerned eyes with expansive whiteness shining brightly around his startling blue irises. Her display of raw emotions affected him deeply.
“I...wasn’t....” She hiccupped. “Not the scene. It made me confused. I tried to focus on you, and it was working.” She lifted her head from his shoulder. “You looked quite magnificent.” She reached out to touch his face.
“Why thank you.” He smiled at her, wiping away a tear.
“There was nothing for me, though. Nothing tactile from you. No stimulating me directly,” she tried to explain, her words stopping and starting. “I thought I was pleasing you, so it didn’t matter….”
“Babe, you gave me a great blow-job. As always.” He kissed her lips. “So, what went wrong?”
“After. You and Enrique reminisced about a happy time, and I foolishly did the same. Except I went to my bad place. Not a visual flashback. Emotional. It terrified me. When Enrique suggested stringing me up....”
“Gem. Never going to happen. I’m not going to recreate my past for you.”
“Rationally, I know that. Just, you usually share your memories with other Doms when I’m not there or when you are distracting me in some way. I was coming down from this scene, and you were talking to him....”
“Okay. I understand. I forgot you. Your needs. I promised Maria I would provide your emotional aftercare. I’ve been negligent. I’m sorry, babe.” Jason drew her onto his lap, and she winced as he touched her bottom.
“We should go below and sort you out. Tidy you up. Yes?”
Gemma nodded. With Jason’s help, she descended to their deck. Maria appeared from the pantry, but Jason waved her away.
He covered Gemma’s fiery buttocks in arnica then gave her a cool drink of orange juice and two paracetamols for her headache. Jason lay next to her on the bed as she languished on her belly.
“I want you to sleep. For an hour or so,” Jason told her, running his hand down her back. “When you wake, I will make love to you, and then we will be ready if you wish to continue. Does that sound acceptable to you?”
“Yes. I’m sure I will be fine. I don’t want this to ruin our holiday, or end our D/s play.” She yawned. He was right. She needed to sleep.
Her husband covered Gemma’s dopey body with a sheet. Through bleary eyes, she saw him slip on a white cotton shirt and take up a watchful residence in a nearby armchair. He would stay nearby while she rested. Then, like on other occasions when she had her panic attacks, he would wake her with slow, gentle sex, pressing his gorgeous body into hers, cover her with kisses, and tongue her clitoris into an orgasmic state.
Chapter 12. Black Jack
Gemma familiarised herself with intricacies of Blackjack. As promised, her erotic mood had been re-established. When she woke from her short nap, Jason had made love to her with succinctness, conscientious of her earlier anxieties. Lying satiated and having completed his orgasm, he had asked her if she was happy to be his again—his submissive pleasure slave.
She had beamed. “Yes, Master.”
Her panic attack had melted away. Relaxed, in control of her faculties, and therefore ready to let him steer and direct her as he wished.
She downloaded the rules of the game, perused the layout of the casino table, and consulted strategy tables posted online to help calculate the best approach to beating the dealer. She practised with Jason as the yacht approached the coastline of France. Sitting on the main deck dining area, they snacked on fruit and pastries, while she tried her hand at card counting. Her memory techniques impressed Jason—not surprising given her training as an analyst—and he frequently complimented her on her efforts. The nuances of placing
bets she struggled with, and she didn’t anticipate making much money if she couldn’t work it out quickly. Risk analysis was his area of expertise.
“Not a good idea. Seventeen is not worth placing a high bet on. The dealer has a chance to go higher, especially with an ace.”
Gemma slammed a card down. “I’m the one going to be playing, Jason—”
“With my hard-earned money.” He jabbed a finger at the card.
Gemma concentrated on the shape of the suits—the heart, spade, club, or diamond. The colours she ignored, as they confused her brain.
“I wish playing cards were simply uncoloured,” she blurted out after one hand.
“Why?”
“Because they are not the colours I see with these numbers,” she said enigmatically.
She always struggled to convey to Jason her strange perceptions of numbers, especially the strong associations between numbers and specific colours. Occasionally, she would stare out into space as images jumped about in front of her. He would look on, bemused, with a slight shake of his head, but without judgement.
“Ignore them, then,” he said with a shrug. A few hands later, he frowned again at her. “Split. You should split a double seven.” He sighed.
“I know. Don’t hassle me. I bet you’re wondering if letting me lose in a casino is a big mistake. Eh?” she jibed with increasing frustration at his interference. “You can’t tell me what to do when I’m at the table. You will have to trust me.” She dispatched a glimmer of her green eyes. “You’ve given me plenty of incentive to do well.”
“And if you do badly, I will be compensated, too, remember, babe.” He chuckled, sipping on his sherry.
She pouted. He had refused her the aperitif and told her to avoid alcohol at the casino.
“A tiny drink? Go on, please.” She leant across the table and murmured, “Sir.”
“No.”
“Please,” she bleated, fluttering her lashes.
A tipple wouldn’t ruin her concentration she conjectured. Another firm shake of his head.
Her parents had never had a problem with her drinking as a teenager. Wine with a meal had been acceptable and champagne on special occasions. By the time she had reached eighteen, she was capable of holding her own after several drinks. Jason drank in moderation and preferred spirits or wine. Gemma liked tall drinks, especially gin and tonic.
She imagined she would be sitting at a high-stakes casino table, elegantly posed with legs crossed, playing Black Jack with a G&T in her hand. The femme fatale with men ogling her painted hands as she lay her cards on the table.
***
Jason found her disagreeable face a combination of childish beauty and bold defiance. She simply had a tendency to forget her training, the discipline her first Master had been the most diligent in enforcing. “Meek and reverent deportment at all times, Gemma,” her first Dominant would tell her as he spanked her bare bottom. One of many scenes Gemma had told Jason about when she recounted tales of her early months as a newly-initiated submissive. He wished he had been there, in those days after she graduated, a fly on the wall of her first Dominant’s rambling house. Dickensian, Gemma had described it. She went nearly every Friday and stayed until Sunday evening. The middle-aged man had broken the day down into sessions, each with a different purpose and regime.
“My timetabled life as a submissive.” She had laughed. “Saturday morning, cleaning or doing his laundry. Friday, he would set aside for punishments. Plenty of time to recover by Monday. It meant he would tot up my weekend of misdemeanours, and I would have to wait a whole week for the appropriate penalties. He liked to keep me waiting, not knowing what he had planned for me. Other sessions, he would make me sit in various demeaning positions or postures, the obligatory poetry readings, and Sunday’s table service. Sexual training, he left for Saturday evenings, and I had to wait six months before he considered me ready for penetrative sex with him.”
Jason liked the man’s style. He wished he’d had the chance to meet him, but Gemma’s first Master had suffered a premature death. Jason’s experience of training women to be his submissive had been entirely sexual in nature. A young man with a potent sex drive to accompany his intentions, deportment and non-sexual service hadn’t been of great interest to him beyond the basics. Sexual humiliation far outweighed the sight of a woman cleaning floors with a toothbrush or scrubbing brush stuck in her mouth.
Things would change, though. As his body aged, he understood a different submissive behaviour in Gemma would be required to maintain his domination of her. He suspected, as his sex drive diminished, perfecting Gemma in the arts she had once been taught by the elderly gentleman would one day be brought back into regular play. Something, perhaps, to look forward to when she was pregnant or nursing too. Indeed, a child might not notice the nuances of such submissive behaviour. An obedient mother who took good care of their children, wishing to please her master in motherhood. Garratt and Judith maintained their D/s relationship on this basis.
Reaching under the table, Jason found the bare flesh of her soft inner thigh. He pinched a morsel between his finger and thumb and squeezed hard. She dropped the cards in her hands and juddered. She tried hard not to give away her discomfort. To add to the effect, he twisted the tissue between his fingers, like a knob on a cooker. She gasped, almost inaudibly, and pressed her lips tight together.
“Your first Master would be turning in his grave, hearing you speak so disrespectfully to me. I should have to tell you something only once and not have to listen to your pathetic whining if you have the audacity to disagree with my decision. I don’t want a drop of alcohol to pass those lips of yours. If you are offered free drinks at the casino, you will politely decline. Do I make myself clear, Gemma?” Jason spoke softly in the voice he knew she would dare not disobey.
Jason’s eyes pierced through her skull and, even though she stared at the cards on the table, she cowered.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“Good.” He released her thigh and leant back. “Now, go and prepare yourself. I want my wife to look stunning, elegant, and be the envy of all the men in the casino. Maria is waiting for you.”
With deep breath, she pushed her skirt back into place, covering the mark on her inner thigh, and left.
Jason collected the cards and handed them to the mute Esteban—Jason appreciated the man’s professionalism in remaining unperturbed by such strange sights as a husband inflicting a small act of corporal punishment on his wife. The kinky aspect of their relationship had been explained discreetly to the steward prior to the voyage. However, Jason doubted the man had any real idea what it all meant. Jason gave him a reassuring pat on the arm as he moved past the Spaniard.
The yacht slipped into its allocated dock at Hercules Port in the heart of Monaco’s La Condamine district, one of many luxury vessels.
With the gangplank in place, Jason watched from the private deck as Dufour unobtrusively departed, black luggage bag slung over his shoulder. Shortly afterwards, another man came aboard. Lubinsky introduced the newcomer to Jason as Louis Remy, a native Frenchman.
“Remy and I have worked together several times. We get on well. There will be no repeat of Ceuta,” said Lubinsky, standing to attention.
“There had better not be,” said Jason curtly.
Jason quickly briefed the Frenchman. He was to accompany them to a casino, wait while they dined, and ensure their personages and betting chips remained secure at all times.
“I understand, monsieur,” he said confidently.
Descending the stairs to the main deck, Jason could hear the hubbub of the excited crew below. They couldn’t wait to see what Gemma wore. She wore a black dress, which completed its drop around her ankles. Small straps over her shoulders and a tight corset-like waistline. Her hips were packaged within the smooth line of the dress, and the skirt had a long slit that stopped at her knees. The fabric shimmered under the halogen lights, defining her bust and curvy thighs.
On her feet, black high heels with straps wrapped about her ankles. When she rested her hands on the black dress, smoothing the fabric over her belly, the henna tattoos on her hands stood out clearly. Numerous eyes gloated at his wife. Jason wouldn’t stand for the licentious ogling for long. He placed a protective arm around her shoulders.
“Babe, I said stunning, and you’ve gone beyond stunning.”
He draped the velvet wrap over her shoulders, pausing to touch the pearl necklace. The collar chain had to be left on board. He preferred her to wear the white pearl set that complimented her dress.
Jason wore a tuxedo, with black bowtie and jacket, and his shoes shone brightly—Gaspar had been instructed to buff them up into mirrors.
The crew, in a polite row, murmured their compliments—a regal, handsome couple, they declared—and wished them luck in the casino. The Mercedes waited by the dock. Doors wide open to receive its passengers. Remy took the front passenger seat and gave the hired chauffeur a nod. The car pulled away from the kerb to drive the short distance to the casino.
***
A steward greeted the couple at the doorway of the casino. Little did the steward know that Gemma wasn’t allowed to open doors for herself, nor choose her own seat, or even move without permission. Jason would select her drinks and food and monitor her posture at all times. She was under the control of her husband in all matters, regardless of their significance. She liked the situation. He fed her submission, making her feel special and at the centre of Jason’s attention.
Gemma floated in her idyllic world of dreams. During the brief drive to the casino, she had admired the scenery. The small principality of Monaco had given the world princesses and princes, James Bond sets, and the glamorous Grand Prix. To be part of the lifestyle would have been unimaginable a few years ago, sitting in her cubicle, staring at computer screens, waiting for the evenings or weekends when she would be some man’s sex toy. An existence that had driven her to an inglorious endpoint. She pushed the unpleasant thoughts away, easy to do as she stared out of the window.