Sublime Trust

by Jaye Peaches

  “The gallery?” asked Maggie, sipping on a glass of wine from Jason’s wine cellar, probably a hundred pounds in value.

  Gemma glanced sideways at Jason, seated at the head of table, his finger hooked around the stem of his wine glass. Today, he let her lead the conversation. He said nothing, she recalled the debate they’d had one evening, sitting in front of a blazing fire. Each day of her pregnancy, the realisation of the effort involved in kicking the project into play weighed her down. He had questioned her, probed until she confessed she intended to put the gallery to one side.

  “Hire somebody to do manage it for you.” His simple suggestion had filled her with horror.

  “It’s my dream. How can I claim it if I pay somebody else to realise it for me. Your preference, not mine.” She crossed her legs, struggling to negotiate her bump.

  He pulled a face, undermining her confidence further. “You’ll oversee it.”

  “My baby.” She couldn’t help the pun, she had two creative projects on the go. One progressing, the other stagnating. “Once the gallery is open, then it can be run by somebody—”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “—and until then I decide on everything. Hands on.” She had folded her arms across her heaving chest and watched the flames flicker around a burning log.

  “Fine. It’s your career, darling. I’m not telling you how to do it. I’m saying there are other ways to achieve it.” Crossing the room, he joined her on the sofa and put his arm around her.

  “I’m not giving up—”

  “I never said you were. I know you can do this, babe. Concentrate on this first.” He stroked her swollen tummy. “And the grants.”

  Seated at the dining table, she gave Maggie her attention. “I’m loathed to commit too early to the project. Baby coming, and I don’t know how much time I can give it. It’s on hold.”

  Jason reached over and patted her arm.

  “Sensible,” agreed Maggie. “You must be pretty excited about everything else.”

  “Yes, I am.” She rubbed her belly. The baby kicked.

  Climbing into bed with Jason that night, she felt chuffed with the evening. Hugh took her proposals seriously, liked her paintings, and no longer did her delayed gallery plans bother her. They celebrated, but it was the last time she managed to have intercourse. The next time they tried, Gemma cried in frustration at her inability to stretch about him. Instead, he held her close and cuddled her into a state of sleep, whispering his love in her ears.

  ***

  The final weeks of pregnancy, Gemma spent shopping with her mum, best friend, Trudy, or on her own, though always with Gibson. Trudy, who was already a mother, proved invaluable in pointing out necessary purchases and which appealing items were a marketing gimmick. The procurement of baby monitor systems she left to Jason. He had his own ideas of how to incorporate them into the various rooms at both houses including his lair.

  When she wasn’t shopping, she dozed, read, or watched streaming films of sentimental chick flicks, which often resulted in tears. Alone in the White House, she missed work, if only for the company. Jason was in the process of winding down his work commitments in preparation for taking a nominal amount of paternity leave. They would spend the first two weeks after the birth at Blythewood.

  Gemma took pleasure in her weekly massages, the manicures, and, while Jason denied her coffee, he permitted her cakes with her Zumba friends. Other indulgences included Jason shaving her between her legs—a ritual she enjoyed— he accompanied the flicks of the razor with many kisses and teasing licks.

  One Saturday evening in Blythewood, having retired to bed, Jason opted to masturbate over Gemma’s naked body. As she knelt at his feet, she clutched her swollen belly, noted her drooping breasts, and imagined her blotchy face then he covered her with his milky hot spurts. They dripped down her cleavage. Instead of thanking him with smiles, she burst into tears.

  “Gem. What’s with the tears?” He tilted her chin up.

  She spewed out her misery. “I’m fat, got ugly breasts. My skin has gone to pot. I hate being pregnant. I’m sick of it!”

  “Do you really think you’re ugly? As if I would come over you if you weren’t gorgeous? You’re carrying our son inside your belly. You couldn’t be anything but appealing to me. Your problem is self-image, giving me bad posture and grumpy face.” He tapped a finger on his lower lip, puffed out his cheeks then snapped his fingers.

  He instructed her to clean up her face and breasts then lie on the bed.

  Jason fetched a camera. “Be seductive. Alluring.”

  What? She was heavily pregnant, built like a hippo and he wanted attractive.

  “Smile, Gemma!”

  She produced a grimace, and he frowned in reply.

  “Stay there.”

  He left Gemma naked and idling on the bed covers. When he returned, he held numerous vines, which he must have cut from the garden. He proceeded to wrap the green foliage around her breasts and between her legs. It tickled, and she couldn’t contain her laughter. Before she knew it, they were doing an erotic photo shoot with her posing in ivy bondage.

  It became so kinky, they moved into the lair. More photographs. Against the St. Andrews cross, lying perched on the fuck table, reclining on the divan, and then on the bed on all fours. The ivy and the additional use of the sepia setting on the camera made her look transported back in time to an earlier era when women reclined on crushed-velvet chaise lounges with unsmiling faces and distant expressions. Sometimes she smiled, other times she was lost in thought or stroking her belly.

  By the end of their extended photo session, she felt sexy and cheerful. Going through the images on his computer, they picked out the best ones.

  “I’ll print them out to add to our erotica collection.” Jason switched on the printer.

  “The one in the safe.”

  The private album of intimate photos and pictures included snapshots of a degraded Gemma, taken not long after they had moved into the White House. Recent additions included prints made by the graphic artist, Enrique. Completed in inks, the series of debauched pictures was stylish and loosely based on their sexual exploits on the Sublime. Gemma had grown to like the portraits, reminders of a special voyage.

  The safe had become a secret repository of her kinky adventures.

  Part Two

  Chapter 10. The Arrival

  Gemma went into labour on a Sunday. The same week as her 28th birthday and two days after her due date. Exhausted by sleepless nights, constant indigestion, and plagued by swollen ankles, she didn’t care to celebrate her birthday. She snapped at Jason, but he remained tight lipped. Babies came when they were ready, according to Maggie.

  She forgot most of the Sunday. The recollections of early labour, pacing around the bedroom while Jason watched her progress, slipped away. The car journey to the hospital and the subsequent hours of protracted labour were gone in a haze of exhaustion. Later, snippets came back to her in daydreams or waking moments, as if an implant had burst to life.

  Jason’s attempts at humour and distraction punctuated her spell in the birthing pool. He asked if she wanted to be held under for a breath play session. She glared at him but it began a session of banter about water play for a while.

  “It’s not deep enough. Completely inadequate facilities, very disappointing. I had in mind to treat you to a little nipple suspension.” He splashed the water with his fingertips.

  “Would you like me to stick my head under water for you? A do-it-yourself version?”

  “That would be topping, I think, don’t you? You’re passive, I’m active.”

  “I think very much that at this precise moment, I’m active!” she growled, and another contraction hit her.

  The pool failed to provide comfort. Her skin fostered wrinkles like a prune, and she decided to get out. She found all fours or bending over more amenable. Jason took a more active role than earlier in the labour. He reminded her about her breathing, massa
ged the lower back or sat behind, supporting Gemma when she rested between contractions.

  As her contractions grew more frequent, painful, and longer, she ceased caring who witnessed their private moments. Jason continued to cajole her, a kind of gentle annoyance, which made her both laugh and snap at him.

  “Would this be easier if I had brought the flogger, darling? A warming glow to the skin while you stretch below. It usually works.”

  She crushed his forearm. “Don’t you dare think of fisting me!”

  He laughed. “No? We could meet in the middle. My son and I could even shake hands.”

  He tried to pull free, but she clung on, digging in her nails. “Argh! Keep your hands where I can see them, Sir.” She relaxed a fraction, as the contraction ebbed then released her grip on him.

  With an amused snort, he changed tack. “You didn’t want the stirrups? I’m disappointed. I thought they were your favourite piece of furniture. Restraints? Would a little tie-me-down help focus the mind. Alternatively, maybe up.” He peered at the ceiling, lips pursed. “The light fitting doesn’t look very strong. Shame they didn’t think to put a hook up there.”

  She visualised his scenario and snickered. “Giving birth suspended? How kinky. I quite like the sound of that. You’d have to catch the baby on the way out. All that pressure. Were you good at catching when you played cricket?”

  He looked at his hands, flexing them. “Um. Out of practice. I think you should stay on the floor.”

  That comment ended the exchange. The next contraction hit a new threshold of pain. She gave in to it. Jason’s voice called her back from somewhere. A persistent, demanding voice telling her to concentrate and not to float off. He brought out his dominant persona, stopping her from panicking and losing her way.

  She caught his eyes, gazing down between her legs. She pushed her body hard through the pain. That was how their son arrived into the world. A full head of yellow hair, squawk of annoyance at being disturbed from his happy place, and then he settled on Gemma’s hot belly.

  “Well done, Gem. He’s here.” Jason kissed her sweaty forehead.

  Maggie delivered the placenta with minimal fuss and with Gemma barely noticing—she was infatuated with her son. Jason, his emotions visible and unveiled, stroked her perspiration-soaked, knotted hair. Those rare moments when his eyes glistened, watery and affected, she cherished.

  They named him Joshua. An easy choice of name. Jason wanted the same initials as his own, and they liked Joshua best.

  A perfectly formed baby, Maggie told them. Her son rested on her belly while she dozed, exhausted.

  Later, Gemma tried to feed her son with mixed success. His small head rocked about trying to find the nipple. Then he sucked, and she couldn’t help but notice he sucked hard. She could hear his gulps.

  “That’s definitely your gob, not mine,” commented Jason standing to leave.

  She gave him a parting kiss. “You should go home. I’m all right. I want to sleep while he does. Go and spread the news. Lots of family to inform.”

  Jason groaned. “What do I have to tell them? Weight, name, and mum’s okay. Will that do?”

  She yawned, her eyelids weighed down with fatigue. “Plus, you’re a happy daddy. Don’t forget that, too. Go, I’m fine.”

  Jason returned the next day, bright and early, reporting on his endeavours to spread the news.

  “I’m quite sick of repeating the same facts over and over. I should have recorded a voice message or had Carla do it,” he said, referring to his PA.

  Maggie came by after breakfast to discharge Gemma from her care until the six-week check-up. “No sex until then, remember?” Maggie gave them both a playful look of warning.

  Over the next two weeks, a routine was created and repeated daily. Gemma spent her time either relaxing in bed or downstairs in the sitting room. Joshua moved about with her, swathed in a blanket, his head, covered with fluffy blond down, poking out. She loved to sit and stare at him. He made strange grunting noises, the occasional cry of hunger, or yawns. A midwife came out to see her, gawped at the house, and then got down to the business of reassuring Gemma everything was all right.

  She loved the mornings best. Jason would bring her breakfast in bed, and they would lay Joshua between them in bed. Gemma fed him lying down, relaxed and dopey, while Jason read the newspaper. She watched Joshua wriggle and squirm, mopped up his possets of the precious milk, and waited for him to fill his nappy.

  “Again!” Jason sniffed, tossing his paper on the bed. “In one end and out the other.”

  Climbing out of bed, she wagged a finger at him. “I don’t know why you’re complaining, I’m the one who has to make the stuff.”

  Blissful days drifted by. She suffered no baby blues or sad thoughts. Nevertheless, she battled tiredness and the broken sleep patterns confusing her body’s natural clock. Joshua didn’t seem to settle to a routine of feeds. She strived, persevered, in hopes she would look back in the coming weeks with satisfaction at her growing son and his healthy features.

  Visitors took up much time and energy. Newly created grandparents, aunts, and uncles, all put in an appearance. Jason booked them in like appointments, making sure they didn’t bombard them all at once. For a few hours each day, some relative or other pawed and cooed over Joshua. Trudy and Greg came with Tom, who walked around the house, babbling away with discovered words. Seeing how quickly babies grew up made Gemma cherish every moment with Joshua. She frequently touched his fingers and toes and ran her fingers through his downy hair.

  Returning to the White House signalled the end of the fortnight. On Monday, Jason left for work. Back in his suit after two weeks of casual dress and working from home, he pecked a kiss on her cheek.

  He gobbled a slice of toast, taking large bites and smacking his lips. Swallowing the last mouthful, he leaned over her as she sat the kitchen table. “Miss you, babe.”

  “Me, too,” she murmured as he picked up his briefcase and hurried out of the door. He wanted to return to the fray. She could see him itching to be back at work, overseeing his empire and making the big decisions. It had to be more exciting than the increasing tedium of feeding and changing.

  There had been no play of any kind since Joshua’s birth. No hint of his dominant persona. However, he did order her to bed or insist on taking over Joshua’s bath time if he thought she needed a break. The firm requests had been made as her husband and willing father, not as a measure of controlling her life. She didn’t miss sex in the slightest, not for those two weeks. A simple kiss and cuddle kept her happy, and her libido disappeared under a rock.

  Clara breezed in that first morning, took one look at Joshua, and fell in love with him. While Gemma bathed or cooked food, she walked up and down, burping him between feeds, chattering away about his handsome looks and tiny fingernails as if she hadn’t seen a baby in years.

  By the end of the week, Gemma pined for Jason. She fed Joshua sitting in Jason’s favoured armchair, listening out for his arrival home, ready to show him their son and speak of his changing habits. Jason came home earlier than usual and spent an hour or so with his son in his study, while she sat quietly and watched them together. He laid Joshua across his knee and told him about his latest project in hushed tones, as if the child could understand. His mesmerising voice placated the baby; Joshua gurgled and kicked his legs when he was with Jason. Stretched out on the Chesterfield, she listened, dozing and semi-aware of the rise and fall of his voice. It relaxed her, too.

  Jason’s approach to fatherhood surprised Gemma. It shouldn’t have. Watching him hold his son, she was reminded he was at heart a kind man: tactile, affectionate, and patient when he wanted to be. The Dominant wasn’t what Joshua encountered. Handing him back to Gemma to be fed, Jason kissed her and gave her one of his visual inspections: assessing her, the levels of tiredness or fatigue.

  He conducted other assessments, more humiliating ones. He checked her nipples, soothing them with lanolin to prevent them from
cracking. He perused the rim of her vagina, fingering it gently and testing its firmness.

  “Still doing the Kegel exercises?”

  She nodded. She had been, but not as often as Jason would like.

  “The bleeding?”

  “Nearly stopped. Not a problem.”

  He kissed her inner thigh, nuzzling with his nose. “Good,” he murmured.

  Gemma’s libido started to wake up with those inspections. His hand would linger on her bottom, stroking and caressing. Their small pecks of greeting at the beginning and end of the day turned into full-on passionate kisses. Three weeks after Joshua’s birth, she buried her mouth in his groin, sucking him into a fine orgasm. Her insides tingled, and a flurry of nervous butterflies shot about her belly as she performed the sexual act. In the absence of other forms of intercourse, she revelled in providing him with oral sex. The divine sensation of his swollen manhood in her mouth.

  The first blow-job led to another the following morning. After feeding Joshua, and as Jason stirred from his slumber, she offered her husband her open mouth.

  “What about you, babe?” He stroked her bobbing head. “I can finger you to an orgasm.”

  She paused, licking her lips, tasting his pre-cum on her tongue. “It’s okay. I don’t feel ready for it. The intensity of coming, I’m not sure….” She struggled to articulate her fears that sex might be different after having a baby, as if her clitoris had been paralysed. “I want to wait…you don’t mind?”

  His eyebrows furrowed. “Why would I? I hope you’re not hiding things from me.” His tone crisper.

  She shook her head vigorously and, before he could peer inside her mind with his all-seeing eyes, she ducked back down and captured his cock between her lips. He sighed and rested his hand on her head once more.

  If she struggled with baby blues, Gemma was unaware of it, until Joshua reached four weeks old.

  Clara noticed the change in her after one week. The nanny had to encourage her to leave the house, to take Joshua for a walk in his pram. Clara pushed the buggy, while the ubiquitous bodyguard trailed close behind. When Gemma spent longer and longer sitting in an armchair, gazing blankly at the television, Clara would suggest they go to the local café or park. Every so often, Clara would take Joshua off her and insist the she have a nap or a hot bath. Gemma didn’t notice her lacklustre approach to the routine of the day. She went about feeding, changing nappies, and bathing Joshua in a robotic fashion.