Trust Me to Know You

by Jaye Peaches

  “I have to give six months’ notice,” I told him.

  “Don’t worry I will pay the outstanding rent. I’m going to give you an allowance for clothes and you need buffing up a bit.”

  I blanched at this thought. What was wrong with me the way I was?

  “People will expect you to have a certain appearance if you are going to appear on my arm at high class functions,” he frowned because I was still pouting at him.

  “I thought you liked me as I am. You said I’m beautiful.” I looked down at my hands.

  “Oh good grief, Gemma, yes you’re beautiful, but I mean eyebrows plucked, facial, manicures, your hair needs tidying up. I want you to be elegant and beautiful,” he sounded a bit frustrated by my sulk.

  “I’m beautiful?” I repeated back at him.

  “Yes, you silly girl,” he was starting to look cross with me. I changed the topic quickly.

  “I’m moving in with you?”

  “Yes, weekdays we’ll use my townhouse, Piedmont, weekends back here. You’ll get use to the routine,” he swallowed a mouthful of wine as I sipped mine nervously. “This is what we agreed remember? You quit your job and we take the relationship to the next level, see how we cope with being in each other’s company on a daily basis.” He raised was eyebrows at me, expecting an affirmation.

  I was excited at the way the relationship was evolving. To live with him and be near him was going to be thrilling. When he suggested we lived together, as part of his proposal, I had envisaged an arrangement where we would be socialising and not ensconced in his houses.

  “I just want to clarify.... you know... when I’m your sub. To be honest I’m confused about what to expect.” I kept my head down, twisting my fingers around each other on the wine glass stem.

  “Oh for fucks sake, Gemma, just look at me. We’re having an adult conversation.”

  I matched his gaze with my flinching one.

  “You know how to behave in my lair, that’s not an issue. Out here, we’re equal but if I want sex, you will comply as a submissive. You’ve understood up to now. This afternoon, you enjoyed yourself around the house, I don’t see the issue,” he talked as a businessman, negotiating from the high ground.

  Parity outside his lair except when he wanted fun. However, confusion reared, how he initiated play was not clear to me. When I was to be his submissive felt slightly vague and inconsistent. I wanted to understand his intentions, but at the same time, I did not want to appear uncooperative.

  “When you snap your fingers... and tell me to go down on...” I stumbled over my words; I found it so difficult to read Jason’s mind.

  “You’re my submissive sexual partner and simply put that is it. My sexual being for my pleasure. The rules apply wherever, especially touching yourself, you’re mine to enjoy nobody else including yourself. However, I will only expect you to behave outwardly as a submissive when I request it and in private. Good grief I don’t expect you to go down on your knees in public,” he pondered for a minute and small smile appeared on his face. “Though the thought is tempting...”

  I turned bright red at his last comment and let the matter drop. Later, in weeks to come, I regretted not tightening up on the nature of our agreement.

  Chapter 12

  Jason had let Martinson into the house. The multi-tasking driver-come-security chief had pulled up in the car ready to take me home. However, first he had to do my thumbprint for the pool room access. I was waiting by the CCTV room.

  Martinson gave a small smile and waved me into the room while Jason hovered in the background. Martinson fired up the relevant software and held out a small infrared pad. He gave me instructions and checked the print was correctly captured. I tried to engage Martinson in some kind of friendly conversation. Jason shuffled with irritation behind him. Martinson was uncomfortable with my informality and I fell silent as he completed the process.

  “That’s all logged and ready for you to use.” He stood up straight and nodded to Jason.

  My elbow was taken by Jason and I was swiftly led out of the room, his breath was warm against my neck, like this morning when he blatantly ravished me on the bed.

  Outside Jason dropped my bag in the boot space and slammed it shut. I was standing against the door waiting for Martinson to finish up indoors. Jason stood over me trapping me with his arms on either side of the car. He suddenly felt very tall and imposing. I pressed myself further back. He bent, taking my lips in his and kissed me quite passionately. His body was tantalising close but not touching me, only his lips. I groaned fractionally the sound transmitting into his open mouth. Over his shoulder I saw Martinson waiting diplomatically in the porch way, staring down the tree lined driveway to the distance gatehouse. Jason eased back and opened the door for me. I climbed in gracefully and he bent down to look at me as I settled myself in, reaching for the safety belt. This would be the last time I would have to leave him on a Sunday.

  “Goodbye, Miss Marshall,” he said quietly.

  “Goodbye, Mr Lucas.”

  Martinson was in the driver’s seat now and starting up the engine. Jason shut my car door and turned to walk indoors. As Martinson put his foot on the accelerator, Jason turned back, pivoting on his feet and gave a small wave: Yes!

  Sunday afternoon, I composed my resignation letter to Andy. I gave no reason for my departure. I did not think I had to give a reason for leaving though I knew he was going to ask. It would have helped if I had said I had another job, but Jason had not revealed what he had up his sleeve on that one.

  First thing Monday morning, after my usual session in the gym, I headed into Andy’s office. He looked up when I tapped on his door. He seemed to be surrounded by printouts and disorganised heaps of documents, so unlike Jason’s meticulous piles of paper.

  I advised him to read my letter immediately and his face was one of surprise and disappointment. He wanted a reason. Was I unhappy or did I have another job lined up? He leant back in his chair and ran his hands through his greying hair, he was older than he looked and perhaps growing tired of his work too. He had lost his poise very quickly when Jason had walked in on our meeting.

  “No. No. Nothing like that, just, well. I have other plans in the pipeline and well, it is a necessary decision,” I fumbled through my pathetic excuse.

  “You’ve done good work on the project. You even got the attention of Mr Lucas, that’s no easy thing. He’s not known for taking an interest in a project at this level.”

  I tried not to blush at the mention of Jason’s name. “I know, well, perhaps it has inspired me to seek new pastures.” A half-truth.

  Andy asked me to finished off my work, write it all up in a report and then dismissed me. I actually felt bad. I had nothing against the guy and he had been a fair boss to me. I sighed as I sat at the desk, at least I had done the deed. I did not intend to tell the others in the office of my plans. Andy could leak the news out in his own way. That night I would start packing my apartment up ready for the weekend move. Jason had arranged a removal van and men to come to collect my personal possessions on Saturday. All of a sudden, things were happening quickly.

  ***

  Staring around my bedroom, I looked at the packing boxes and piles of stuff. I needed to be more selective, I could easily fill his houses with unnecessary crap. It was Tuesday evening and I was busy packing ready to move out at the weekend. I laughed aloud when I recollected his response to a question about what I should take where.

  “So you see, Jason,” I had said fingers running through my hair, “what will I need during the week, you know, in the townhouse, and what at the weekend at Blythewood. Should I take my watercolours and easel here or there?” I was sitting on the bed, hands on hips.

  “Well, apart from the fact I’m impressed with your artistic hobby, you do realise I’m stinking rich and you can have two easels and paint boxes, and whatever else you use? One here and the other there? Make sense?”

  I
could sense the blushing heat in my face as he threw his head back and laughed at my small worldview of my future lifestyle.

  “Oh,” was all I could think to say, “yes, I suppose I could buy another easel.”

  “I’ve given you an allowance, remember? You’ll need new clothes, good quality stuff and jewels. I’d like my girl to look good.”

  I leapt into Jason’s arms full of gratitude, and started to kiss him, ready to submit to his attentions again.

  ***

  In the end I had chucked a lot of stuff. The bin bags lined the entrance hall. My apartment was starting to look like a hoarder’s den. I settled back on my bed to relax and enjoy a small glass of white wine. I savoured its dryness in my mouth as I chilled out. My mobile started to ring, his ringtone, so I knew to answer quickly.

  “Jason?” I asked cautiously.

  “Gemma, just checking on my girl.”

  I beamed at those words.

  “How’s the sorting going?” he sounded cheerful.

  “Slowly, I’m not being very decisive,” I said honestly. “Taking a break with a glass of the old vino.”

  “Drinking while packing, um, not very wise,” he teased me.

  “I’m not pissed,” I replied indignantly.

  “I should hope not. I don’t know if you can control your urges while tipsy,” Jason’s voice had dropped and become husky with a formidable edge to it.

  “Oh, sir, I wouldn’t dream of breaking your rules.” I shot up on my bed.

  “What are you wearing?”

  My insides were starting to do their somersault thing. He wanted to torment me over the phone.

  “I’ve got a t-shirt on, that lacy pink bra you like and knickers...” My voice trailed off.

  “And?” Jason’s words were becoming softer and sensuous with each utterance.

  “Well, that’s it, sir.” I almost whispered. Nothing else, I had taken my jeans off earlier after spilling coffee on them.

  “I see, so you’re prancing around in your underwear basically.”

  “And t-shirt,” I quickly added.

  There was a noticeable pause from Jason. “Put the phone down and take them off,” his voice was delicious and I was becoming responsive to his tone.

  Putting the phone, I took off my t-shirt, bra and undies. Picking up the phone, I put it to my ear.

  “I’ve done that, sir,” I purred down the phone at him. “I’m lovely and naked, stretched out on the bed.”

  “Take a photo with your phone and send it to me.”

  Crikey, the seemingly mundane call was definitely rising in temperature. I stretched my arm up and took a shot of my body stretched out for him. Fiddling with the buttons, I worked out how to send the photo as a text message. The silence, while I waited for him to receive it, was endless.

  “Good. You look very sexy. Now, using one finger I want to you touch yourself and tell me what you’re doing,” his voice was like treacle, dripping slowly down the phone to me.

  I used my index finger and started to circle one of my nipples until it was rigid and stiff. Just having him on the end of the phone I was on fire as if he was lying right next to me in bed.

  “I’m playing with one of my nipples, sir,” I said in hushed tones. I moved my finger down to my navel. “I'm moving my finger slowly down my body, caressing very gently.”

  “Keep going, I like where you going with that finger.”

  I was lying on my back squirming. My finger reached my clitoris and I gave it a little rub, gently at first and then harder.

  “I’m rubbing clit for you now, sir.”

  Jason must be able to hear the arousal in my voice, because I was sure I heard him chuckle to himself. “Find some clothes pegs, one on each nipple. Go!”

  I dashed out to the kitchen and found two pegs as asked and lying on the bed positioned them on each nipple. I made sure the phone was by my chin so he could hear my wincing.

  “Done, sir. My nipples are pinched tight.”

  “Spread your legs wide and put your finger inside and tell me what you find.”

  Oh my! Phone sex was great, so kinky. I gently placed my index finger inside and I knew what I found. I pushed my finger in as deep as it would go and hoped he would let me worked in and out.

  “I’m very wet, sir, wet for you. I’m ready to fuck myself with my finger,” I panted at him with throbbing nipples.

  “Good. I like to know you are always ready for me.”

  I waited for his next instruction I wanted to come for him over the phone. The pause seemed like an eternity.

  “Well, Gemma, you can take your finger out now. Pegs off, put your clothes back on and get back to packing.” Jason’s tone had changed, it had gone all boss like.

  My somersaults stopped mid vault and I deflated like a punctured balloon. I let out an audible ouch as I removed the pegs.

  Oooo nooo I was so close - unbearable!

  “You’re not to come, remember my rules. I need to get back to work now, I have stuff to do,” he said matter-of-factly and hung up.

  Arggghhh, my body was wound up tight for him and he had hung up. The rejection felt wasteful and I was dejected. I lay there and dared myself - go on would he really know? I was not seeing him until the weekend, by then I would have rehearsed my lie – a little lie - and he would not suspect.

  Masturbation was my sexual weakness. To prevent my growing vicarious love life from spiralling out of control, I went the do-it-yourself route. It involved less emotional hassle and easier to master. Quick and certainly not as messy as sex, no bothering with condoms or sweaty bodies. I had a small collection of vibrators, big and small which I had kept stashed in the bottom drawer of my various bedrooms. Originally, at my parent’s home, then my student digs and finally my own little apartment. I had practised my secret vice with little to curtail my ravenous habit.

  Harmless I had told myself. No alcohol or drugs, I did not smoke or over eat especially. I exercised, walked instead of catching buses or the tube trains. As far as I was concerned, I looked after myself well. I did not see any mental dependency or an addiction. Everyone did it, didn’t they? Well, maybe not every day.

  My first master, the one who took me under his wing and nurtured my submissive nature, had a different opinion. The day he had taken me to his house for the first time as we had crossed the threshold, he had spoken with quiet determination and absolute authority.

  “Gemma, once you enter my house, you will be mine to control. You will obey me, do as I wish and learn what you need to do without questioning my motives. Things that make no sense to you to begin with, will become of use later. You have to trust me. Do you trust me, Gemma?”

  “Yes. Sir.” I had said with my heart fluttering wildly.

  The first aspect of my training he had taken on was my sexual appetite. No fucks with anyone. OK, I had thought, that was what I wanted, to be taken in hand and sorted out. No touching yourself or masturbating was the next command. That one had made me panic.

  “Not at all?” I had said eyes wide open. I had answered him back so he spanked me over his spanking stool. Screaming out, “I can’t do it, sir!” I had admitted the level of my sexual self-service: daily frigging under the sheets in the morning and at bedtime to help me to sleep. His approach had been to coach me with the carrot not the stick. There were no threats of terrible punishments if I broke the rule. I suspected he could have inflicted rather more painful techniques to create an aversion to masturbating.

  “I don’t want you to hate your body, Gemma. Quite the contrary, you need to treat it with respect. You must stop seeing your sensual side as belonging to you. It will be your master’s to control. Once you let him give you pleasure, you won’t want to touch yourself. Pleasing him will be your focus. You will please me by not masturbating and only when I ask you to.” Relying on controlling me had been his technique. He would ring me during the week, when I was back at my apartment, and order me
to masturbate over the phone for him.

  At first, he would ring two or three times a week. I had eagerly waited for those calls each evening. Pacing up and down my shabby little sitting room, the TV soaps blaring in the background to help pass the time, I would pounce on the phone the moment he rang. I would have to tell him what I done that day. My behaviour towards others and how well I was performing in my new job. Then he would tell me to strip and touch myself and come strongly for him. I did every time. I had loved that he was there back at his house listening to me lose it for him.

  The calls came less frequently. Once or twice a week, then once and eventually one complete week flew by and he did not call at all. By then I had found other ways to occupy my time. The evening classes in watercolour painting, a dance class, meeting Trudy in a pub or simply the pleasure of reading. My rampant thoughts of lust had been replaced with hobbies, sensible socialising and self-discipline. That Friday when I had arrived at his house, he had asked if I had struggled to comply with his wish for me to cease masturbating and I had said I was grateful for his methodology. It had gently removed the selfish desire and made me regain my self-respect. For the rest of the time I was with him, I did not break his masturbation rule and I was proud of my achievement. So was he and it had been fantastic boost to my morale, knowing he had been pleased with me.

  After we had parted company, I was without a full-time dominant for weeks or months on end and the self-indulgent act had crept back into my life but never to the frequency that I had sustained in my final year of studentship. However, I would always struggle with my demon fingers and the way they drifted down between my legs when I fantasied about naked men, dominating naked men. I had acquired different tastes since my silly student fantasies. I fully understood what it was to be dominated and controlled. The fearsome voices, the physical stature and the power these men had over me. It meant containing my frisky fingers was incredibly difficult sometimes.