by Jaye Peaches
“Please, Master,” she uttered between sucks. “I’d love your cock in me.”
“Present to me.”
Kneeling on the rug, she turned and raised her bottom high while resting her upper body on her forearms.
He remained clothed in his work suit—to have him in his formal attire represented his dominance, a uniform she appreciated and adored. There she remained, conforming to his directions and wishes as, over the next hour, they made love. Sometimes perfunctory in style, he fucked her, other times he massaged his body against hers as if to caress her insides. He let her come, several times. By the end, he had divested himself of clothes and she was tearfully appreciative of his skills in taking her. His own gratification came at the end. Coarse with his words, he spurted over her bosom.
Jason rose and stood above her. She lay foetal on the rug, eyes shut and heart pounding. He left her there then came back and cleansed her while she remained in a stupor.
“To bed, wife. I’m done. You’ve been a good girl,” he articulated into her ear. A smile crept across Gemma’s face. She was at peace because he was happy with her.
Chapter 4. Conversations with doctors
Doctor Blanchard congratulated Gemma with a handshake. From her filing cabinet, the general practitioner gave her a clear-plastic folder.
“New-mum-to-be kit and leaflets. Advice on what to expect and how to cope. It’s early days for you. I’m not going to book an appointment with the practice’s midwife until you’re a bit further along. You understand?”
She held the plastic folder, pensive and uncertain as to what to say next. Dr Blanchard pushed her glasses back up on to the bridge of her nose with an air of expectancy.
“Thank you for this.” She waved the folder at the doctor. “But, these aren’t what I need at the moment. You see…well, you remember, I don’t have a conventional relationship with my husband. Especially my sex life. I’ve been sent to be referred, to see a private obstetrician.” She halted, embarrassed by her request to circumvent the services of her own doctor.
Slow realisation dawned on the other woman’s face. “I see,” she murmured.
Gemma explained in a nervous fashion why she wanted to see a private obstetrician. Her doctor knew about her background, her life as a sexual submissive. “A private maternity facility. I’m sure your own practice team is excellent but my husband insists, and on this occasion, I agree with him. If we go on the NHS, I would see different people all the time, and we need consistency. Money, naturally, isn’t an issue.” Heat bloomed over her face, and she bit down on her lip. She didn’t think she had ever said this much in one go to her doctor before now.
Dr Blanchard clicked the point of her pen in and out. “You intend to continue with your….” She stumbled to find an appropriate phrase, “practices?”
“That’s the point. I need more information. I have to consent. We both have to be comfortable with going forward. As it stands, I’m not—at least not with the physical contact side of what we do. Yet, I can’t just give it up. I would be like a fish out of water.”
Silence descended. Dr Blanchard seemed lost in thought, possibly running through her mental list of referrals, and Gemma waited.
“There is a Mrs Henderson. An obstetrician and consultant surgeon. She is very good. I think you should be able to talk to her. Young, compared to others, but very experienced and capable. I think she would suit you.”
Dr Blanchard wrote the details down on a piece of paper. “She is based at a private maternity centre attached to a small private hospital, not far from where you live.”
“Thank you.” She slipped the folded paper in her handbag.
Removing her glasses, the doctor leaned across her desk. “Gemma. Please talk to me if you are unhappy about your treatment. I wouldn’t want you to keep your worries to yourself,” she said.
A week later, Gemma sat in another waiting area, on her own again. Jason had been adamant her consultation should be her personal fact-finding mission. So much so, he told her to write him an essay about everything she found out. Upon hearing his request, she’d been tempted to roll her eyes at him then thought better. He might not be taking her into the lair or physically chastising her, however, there were plenty of nonphysical methods he could use to discipline her if she disobeyed his requests.
Since her pregnancy had started, Jason remained both attentive of her needs and hands off with regard to anything that smacked of excessive kink beyond dominating her during sex, which amounted to simple scenes in their bedroom or his study.
She smiled to herself. At least the tone of his voice and the intensity of his eyes hadn’t diminished. In that respect, he remained very much her Dominant.
In the comfortable reception area, all about her sat pregnant women in various stages of advancement. The occupants flicked through the magazines or read the numerous leaflets pinned to the notice boards.
Gemma had ignored her own collection of advisory booklets for the first few days. Then, having read them, rather wished she hadn’t. They amounted to a list of things not to do and what not to eat. She didn’t mind the clarity until things drifted into advisory statements that confused her, and she missed the frank Do Not declarations. The one on what to expect to happen to her body—morning sickness, peeing all the time, insomnia and itching—had deflated her mood further. None of her own peculiar questions were addressed in any of the leaflets. Gemma felt she was going to explode with too much information and none of it useful.
A disembodied voice called out her name, and into the doctor’s room she went with her heart beating as if it had been transplanted outside of her chest wall.
Mrs Henderson was perhaps Jason’s age, in her midthirties. In profile, she had an attractive face with smile wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her baggy top failed to hide her pear-shaped figure. The cluttered desk rested against the wall and, as Gemma approached, the obstetrician swivelled around in her chair. She would have preferred the doctor to be on the other side of a desk, less intimidating than close proximity.
“Mrs Lucas, welcome.” She paused to thumb through Gemma’s referral letter. “Your GP has written to me and informed me that you want to have consultant-led antenatal care. I’m sure you will find our facility and care excellent. We pride ourselves on giving our mums-to-be the peace of mind they need. You’re quite early on in your pregnancy. We can do a scan at your next appointment to check for the foetal heartbeat. Were you having any concerns, bleeding or pains?”
Gemma drew long, slow breaths throughout the introduction, taking note of the reference to peace of mind. She was certain she could do with that as she sat twisting her fingers together, knees knocking slightly.
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. Concerns, yes, I have those. You see, Mrs Henderson, I’m not a run-of-the-mill wife.”
She stopped as the face opposite her went into the quizzical expression she had anticipated. Right there and then, she wanted to walk out of the room. What would Jason do if she did? He would express disappointment in her lack of assertiveness and obedience to him, but he wouldn’t punish her. It wasn’t the kind of order; she knew when he meant it to be carried through without deviation. Nevertheless, she’d been asked to do something and sometimes, as his wife, she had to obey him regardless of her personal preferences. She had sworn to do so on their wedding night, in private, at his feet and full of bliss.
“Mrs Lucas? Are you sure you’re all right?” Mrs Henderson put down her pen and clasped her hands on the desk.
She spoke to her feet. “I’m more than his wife. I’m his submissive. I don’t know what you know about relationships involving Dominants and submissives, but that is what we are. He is my Dominant husband and I, his submissive wife.”
She’d managed the first hurdle. The next one was the hardest, explaining the kink, the sadomasochism, and the bondage. She looked up at the doctor and saw a blank face. Perhaps the woman was too stunned or bemused to express anything disagreeable. Certainly no
t laughing or horrified, which were the two extremes she couldn’t tolerate.
“I’m not sure I follow, Mrs Lucas. How does this type of relationship impact your pregnancy?”
Gemma clutched her hands together on her lap. “Domination and submission falls under the umbrella of what many people know as BDSM. Kinky things. Though that is being a bit simplistic.” Her face flushed hot.
“I see. Handcuffs and spanking-type stuff,” said Mrs Henderson, smiling, as if she wanted to make a joke of it all.
Gemma considered it a wayward and simplistic view of what they did together. With a sense of purpose, she took the plunge. “To be honest, Mrs Henderson, what we do goes way beyond tying me to the bed with silk scarves and tickling me a feather duster. It’s very intense and affects our whole life. It’s a consensual lifestyle choice. What I need to know is about how the physical, sexual aspects of what we do can affect the baby. Neither my husband and I wish to harm our baby.”
The corner of Mrs Henderson’s lips flickered upwards at the mention of feather dusters. Then it went solemn and impenetrable again. Gemma felt lost for words.
“I…see,” said the doctor then she shrugged. “You can’t refrain?”
The sinking feeling grew inside Gemma. Perhaps she should find another obstetrician.
“We can and we have because I’ve been sent to find out more. A fact-finding mission. I need information so we can make decisions, collective decisions about what is important to us. It would be a shame and very challenging for us both to put on hold our way of life simply because of ignorance. I’m sure tickling me with a feather duster isn’t going to harm the baby; it might amuse it.”
A gynaecologist couldn’t be ignorant of the sexual nature of kink, surely? She wondered if the reticence was mutual, whether the obstetrician was just as uncomfortable talking to Gemma as she was with her.
But the doctor seemed to respond to her attempt to lighten the atmosphere with humour. “We seem to be stuck in pregnant pauses. Forgive the pun.” Mrs Henderson’s joke broke the ice, and Gemma smiled back. “You have questions and you obviously feel awkward about asking them, and I don’t want to embarrass you by suggesting what they might be. We’re educated women. I think there must be a way we can go forward. May I make a suggestion?”
“God, please do.” Gemma raised her hands in fists, as if to punch air. Some progress, at last.
“E-mail me. I can give you my private address. I’m sure you want to keep your questions private. That way, we can conduct this conversation without seeing who can turn the deepest crimson. Would this be feasible for you? Helpful?”
“Oh, yes. It would be the perfect solution. I don’t want to bombard you with my difficult personal questions. It’s not fair to either of us. Thank you.”
Gemma and the doctor exhaled a collective sigh of relief. They exchanged private e-mail addresses. Mrs Henderson would try to respond in the evenings and during her lunch breaks. Gemma booked an appointment for her first scan to check the baby’s heartbeat.
“Bring your husband along, if you can. They like seeing the first scan; keeps them involved,” suggested Mrs Henderson.
“My husband is a busy man, but I don’t recollect him mentioning being out of the country in two weeks’ time.” Gemma stood up and prepared to leave. “We’re both very private people, Mrs Henderson.”
“I understand, Mrs Lucas. I await your e-mails. I promise to try to answer them promptly.”
Gemma hoped she would, as she had an essay to write for her husband and the deadline was fast approaching.
Numerous e-mails passed back and forth on many issues that Gemma attempted to present in a subtle, though honest, fashion. After spanking, she tackled other forms of play including bondage, ice, and wax play. Her doctor appeared to take the obscure questions in her stride. In response, she was told pain wouldn’t be an issue for the baby, however, the emotions accompanying the pain would have to be considered. The hormonal rampage of pregnancy might cause Gemma to tolerate pain differently—increased skin sensitivity and emotional outbursts.
She realised most of what Maggie Henderson suggested was common sense. Bondage shouldn’t include the abdomen, shocks induced by some play, such as hot wax or ice, might be unsuitable if done abruptly. Reading over the messages, Gemma purred with excitement. She’d found out much she didn’t know. Nothing daunting, until the notes touched on the birth. Gemma’s fear of blood reared its ugly head. From there, it became necessary, in another e-mail, to mention her nightmare scene—her rape. The nightmare she’d buried deep and only spoke of to Jason.
***
“I see you used a computer to write this essay. I can’t criticise your handwriting or spelling.” Jason waved the sheets of paper in Gemma’s face.
“You didn’t specify handwritten, if I recall correctly,” she pointed out. She hadn’t wanted to fall into the trap of erroneous spelling or illegibility. In the past, it would have given him justification to spank her—not that Jason needed an overt reason—and she went along with the excuse because she enjoyed his playful spanking sessions.
“True. I don’t think I did. An oversight on my part.” He leafed through the pages. “There are no great surprises for me in what you have written. I wasn’t aware of noise being an issue during a spanking.”
“The baby has to start hearing at some stage in the pregnancy.” Gemma shrugged.
The evening sunlight shone through the window of Blythewood House’s study—Jason’s domain. Away from the brightness, he lounged in his favourite armchair and she knelt between his legs, her elbows resting on his thighs and her chin supported by her folded arms.
He scanned down the words. “You didn’t find out enough about oral sex.”
Oral? “Surely it’s not a problem as long as I’m not ill or feeling sick?” She didn’t think she had missed any salient points.
“Not fellatio, my dear, the other variety. Cunnilingus. Blowing into the vagina can create embolisms.”
Damn lawyer. So bloody typical, he should know more than her. After all the e-mails to Maggie Henderson, he’d turned out to be the fountain of knowledge. Why hadn’t he just written the bloody essay and saved her the humiliating conversations with the obstetrician! Gemma held her annoyance in check for a few seconds until it seeped out into peeved tightening of her lips.
He gave her a gentle pat. “How do you feel about going into the lair after finding all this out? Scared or willing?”
She’d anticipated his exercise was all about her reticence. He hadn’t applied his dominance every time they’d had sex. Her romantic pregnant brain craved the passion of lovemaking with its gentle seductive pace and tender words of love. Vanilla sex and keeping him in a Dominant mood during the bedtime sessions sated their desires, but nothing rough, anal, or the slightest bit kinky—no sensual toys or tying up.
Pulling together everything she’d learnt from her obstetrician, the Internet, and couple of books on pregnancy, she acknowledged that not only did she want to continue to have sex with Jason throughout, her research highlighted she missed the kinky side. He could control her, dominate with his voice and words, but she wanted the sensual play. The teasing, the arousal brought on from wearing a blindfold or having her wrists tied behind her back, and the vulnerability of being gagged.
Her biggest fear going forward: pain. Maggie Henderson’s comments about fear and hormone-driven emotional roller coasting filled Gemma’s mind with concern that she wouldn’t be able to enter the pleasure-pain arena. Whether he flogged her or tormented her, the anxiety remained she would freak out.
When they had talked about pregnancy, Jason had been the one to imply he would wait until after the baby was born. Could she wait though?
“I want to play. Do scenes.” She paused, cleared her throat. “I trust you know what you’re doing, that your research is thorough, too. I have a problem with pain: the emotional aspects of handling pain. I don’t think I can do any S&M stuff.”
Jason tos
sed her essay on to the nearby table. He cupped her face, his showing no displeasure at her concerns.
“I think the fear of pain is in your head. As long as I know how far to go, I can keep within your boundaries. Nothing shocking or harsh. A level of pleasurable pain your little masochistic brain can process for you. Communication and safe-words will be critical. Lots of yellow and mercies are fine. Reds, too. Okay?”
He palmed one of her breasts. “Jeez, your boobies are growing!”
“I’ve already gone up one cup size. Didn’t you notice my new bra collection?” she huffed.
She’d spent a fortune in a lingerie department trying out different styles only to have the assistant tell her she would be back throughout her pregnancy for ever-increasing sizes.
“Some of it. I suppose you’re going to empty my coffers on maternity clothes, too.” He grinned and she smiled back, smothering a giggle. His coffers had no bottom, from her perspective. “The lair? You haven’t answered me.”
She inhaled, imagining her naked form lying on the four-poster in the lair, her baby bump, and Jason caressing her…. “Yes. Take me in there. But if I burst into tears and go all hormonal, you’ve been warned.”
His exuberant face was all she wanted to see at that moment. He beamed, white teeth glinting. A very happy Dominant. Her pleasure was seeing his, and she reciprocated his joy by kissing his knuckles.
They returned to the lair that Friday evening. No gag. Jason wanted to keep the communication channels open.
“Tell me what’s going on in your head.”
He tied her wrists to a bedpost and she knelt on the mattress while he tickled her back with the pinwheel. His choice of toy highlighted the critical element in their play remained trust. He ran it over her bottom a few times. She gasped in delight. At each pass of the prickling pins, she held her breath. When he glided the wheel between her buttock cheeks, she froze. In the silence, her heartbeats turned into kettledrums, thumping hard in her ears.