by Jaye Peaches
The antiquated exterior appearance continued into the interior with wood panelling and brown-leather-backed chairs. Gemma manoeuvred the buggy around the vintage furniture, and the place reminded her of the Dickensian bookshop she’d worked in when she left University.
She sniffed. A different smell, not book dust. The room smelt of cloth and the finishing fluids that embalmed them. A faint musky aroma, almost masculine. All of her favourite clothing boutiques smelt of lavender or roses. There was no sign of Jason.
A cough. She jumped and turned. A well-dressed man. Would she expect differently in a tailors’? Old, probably of her father’s age, with thin grey hair swept back from his balding head.
“Can I help you?” His eyes narrowed, and extra wrinkles appeared on his forehead.
“I’m supposed to meet my husband here,” explained Gemma.
He scrutinized her then stared down at the sleeping child. “Are you sure you’re in the right shop? The department store at the end of the street sells suits.”
Her hands morphed into angry fists. The effrontery! Before she could snap back at him, she caught her appearance in a full-length mirror. Stretch pants. A long T-shirt hugging her hips and thighs. About her neck, the teardrop necklace. No other jewellery, nor expensive watch or handbag. To the shopkeeper, she was a typical mum, with baby snot deposited on her shoulder and an unidentified mark of food spread down her bosom. It was all she strived to be—an ordinary mother, except now, she expected extraordinary levels of service. Her appearance shouldn’t matter. She stood firm and folded her arms over her heaving chest.
“No. This is my husband’s tailors’. Far as I’m aware, he’s been coming here for over ten years.” Gemma flicked a strand of hair out of her eye. Her platinum wedding ring glinted under the lights.
He leaned forward, dropping his voice. “Mrs Lucas?”
“Yes. My husband?”
“Apologies, of course.... He’s in the fitting room.” His facial expression switched from snooty to rueful. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
A few moments later, he returned and directed Gemma down a corridor to the back of the building. In another room furnished in yet more archaic wood and littered with haberdashery items was her husband. Not, as she envisaged, standing on a box surrounded by effeminate men fussing over him with pins in their mouths and tape measures around their necks. Instead, he stood by the window, examining cloth swatches in the daylight. By his side, a young man quietly suggesting colours and fabric finishes. She waited for a few minutes as they discussed Jason’s next choice of suit, providing her with a chance to witness his thorough approach to choosing his suits.
Jason’s clothing fell into two clear categories: work and leisure. For each, he had very different requirements and shopping tactics. For his working days, he wore tailored suits. Without ever seeing his bills, she could guess they were extremely expensive and well-made. He stuck to his chosen tailors to alter or clean them. He wore two-buttoned single-breasted jackets, or, occasionally, three-buttoned jackets. Never double-breasted. All of them fitted perfectly across his shoulders and tapered at the waist. In the winter, during the harshest weather, he dressed in matching waistcoats. For formal social events, he donned tuxedos—white or black—with immaculate poise. He wore his suits like a uniform and he exuded military sexiness, the kind of appeal that men with trim muscular figures carry off so well. She purred at the mental imagery. Regardless of his style of suit, he maintained an elegant appearance and with it came his natural vanity. Something she chose to ignore. He was her handsome husband, and so what if he flaunted it.
Then, there was his other persona. The man of leisure, and with it came a different appearance and approach to clothing. For his weekend wear, Jason was content to frequent the high streets and chain stores. Nothing bargain basement, his choices fell beyond the price range of most people—he wanted the clothing to wear well. Faded stonewashed jeans or multi-pocketed black cargo trekkers were his favourites for the lower half of his body. Above, T-shirts in the warmer months and long-sleeved polo shirts in the winter. Whatever he wore fit him flawlessly and accentuated his figure—broad shoulders and narrow hips.
Gemma would often accompany him on those shopping trips as she sought out clothes or accessories for herself. They would browse the high-end department stores or men’s clothing boutiques, and he was happy for her to make suggestions. While she held up this or that, he would nod or shake his head at her choices. The last trip out she’d found a black T-shirt with words LOVE YOUR PET emblazoned across the front in white. She waved it at him from a few metres away, and he gave her a smile. She knew he liked the subtext of the phrase; Gemma was his pet, and he owned her in a manner they both considered essential to their relationship. However, when she turned the shirt around to show him the back, Jason frowned. A great big picture of an ugly British Bulldog had been embossed on to the fabric. Gemma had shared the sentiment and put it back on the railings.
Back in the tailors’ shop, Jason stroked the fabric samples, and he seemed relaxed and at ease with his surroundings. Around the edge of the room, full-length mirror stands and mannequins exhibiting suits: some of the fabric marked with chalk or covered in pins. As a frequent customer, Jason required only one fitting for each suit he ordered. She assumed his personal cutter was now familiar with Jason’s shape and stature without needing his presence for several fittings. Jason wore one of his new suit trousers, and already it fit him to perfection.
When her feet began to fidget and her body swayed, Jason gave her a cursory nod, an acknowledgement. “Wait over there.” He indicated a long settle, and she perched on the end while pushing the buggy back and forth.
“I’ll leave you to change, sir,” said the tailor.
Heels knocking together, she chewed on the end of a lock of hair. She felt like a fifth wheel. Why was she there? He didn’t need her assistance—he knew what he wanted, and she never doubted his judgement. The man had excellent taste.
When the assistant left, Gemma had the wherewithal to stand up and face her husband. He changed out of his finished trousers, putting back on the ones he had arrived in. His nimble fingers straightened the necktie.
Then, he asked his pointed question.
“Well? What did I ask you to do?” His tone had an awful bite to it, making her heart pound. His question took her by surprise.
Feeling flustered, she ran through the previous day, a slide show of memories flashing before her eyes. Nothing! Surely it had be something worthy of his summoning.
“I’m sorry, I can’t remember.” She grimaced, sensing a simple apology wouldn’t suffice.
He frowned, picked up his jacket, and slipped it on. “Not remember? Do you know what I found in the car on the way here?”
“No, Sir.”
What is he getting at now?
He stepped closer, his fingers reached round her neck, coiling about her hair, grasping the stray locks. Her scalp stung. With his other hand, he fished something out of his jacket pocket. A flimsy piece of printed card. A postcard?
“This! Open your mouth.”
She held the card between her teeth and peered down her nose: a parcel-delivery note, informing the absent householder that a parcel was waiting to be collected. At Blythewood House, the gatehouse would deal with deliveries that needed to be signed for, but at their townhouse, if nobody was in, they went back to the depot and Brooks, their butler, arranged for the package to be collected. Then she remembered. She was supposed to have gone to the depot to sign and collect the package. Brooks had gone to visit his ailing brother.
“I could let it slip, that you forgot yesterday. Mummy brain would have been your excuse, but then I found this lying on the back seat of the car. The same car that ferried you about yesterday. I didn’t go to work in the Austin Martin, so I had the Jag today.”
“So, not only did you forget to go to the depot, you lost the delivery card. Stuffed down the back seat
, all lost and lonely. What would have happened to my package? Eh?” He snorted. “One bloody thing, Gemma.”
“I’m very sorry, Master,” she said through gritted teeth. He took the card from her mouth and thrust it into her hands. She swallowed. “I will deal with it now.”
He released the ponytail and she slotted the delivery message into her handbag. Jason snapped his fingers.
Crikey! She couldn’t remember the last time he’d used that particular signal.
“Kneel, Gemma.” His voice changed. Husky and lower. The kind that made her both self-conscious and needy.
She hesitated a fraction, glancing toward the doorway.
Not here, please!
She slipped down onto her knees. The puppet master pulled her strings, and she couldn’t resist him. Something about the musky smell, the displays of suits and ties, all masculine symbols making her flushed and hot.
“Master,” she murmured, her face close but not touching his legs.
He reached for his flies; she could hear the noise of the zipper.
No, no! Not here!
She glanced up. He’d pulled his zipper up, not down.
“Lick my shoe.” His tone, controlling, reached into her submissive being, yanking on her need to please him. She responded hypnotically. Leaning forward, she stuck her tongue out and slowly circled the tip over the polished leather. The humiliation crippled her. She trembled, convinced droplets of sweat were forming on her brow. She didn’t notice the taste of the leather as she curled her tongue over the laces, manoeuvring to the other side of the shoe. The spotless shoes, polished almost daily by Brooks, had no dirt to taint her. Each time she lifted her head, he tapped his toe on the floor. A small, impatient gesture to keep her focused on her task. She couldn’t see his face. Was he grinning at her, enjoying her mortification, or perhaps, he kept a lookout. Where was the tailor? Her pulse raced.
“The other one.” Jason nudged his left foot towards her mouth. She sucked on the toecap.
The control he had over her—his little power game—enveloped her pathetic sex. In her knickers, she sizzled, hot and needy. She wanted to cry as her confused, rational mind fought against her submissive one. Her stomach churned. It wasn’t the act itself. She’d sucked his toes countless times before and even licked his shoes a few times upon greeting him in the hallway, but the location screwed with her mind. What if somebody came? Were the tailors peeping through spy holes, sniggering on the other side of a wall?
Stop thinking. Stop thinking.
Just Jason. Only her Master.
Before their hedonistic cruise, such a scene would have been inconceivable. She’d have baulked, hesitated, and sent out waves of signals to tell him she’d gone way beyond her comfort zone into the world of untested limits. However, Gemma trusted her Dominant. Trust remained the bedrock of their relationship. He’d been to his tailors numerous times; he knew their procedures. How long did they give him to get dressed? How long before they returned to check everything was all right?
Her licks grew feverish. She buried her angst deep and focused on a small patch of innocent leather. Lick. Lick. Suck.
She heard footsteps and nearly erupted into a fit of conniptions. Instead, she froze.
“Thank you, darling, for tying my shoe lace.” Jason reached out to help her up. Catching his eyes, she noted the tiny smile lines formed in their corners. He squeezed her hand, a moment of reassurance. He wasn’t cross; something else had triggered his need to be assertive. He’d summoned her for a brief interlude. Something more than the forgotten delivery note had upset his day. Work, no doubt. He let go of her hand. The day was young. Whatever distractions he required might not finish with her visit to the tailors.
While on the phone summoning his personal bodyguard, Jason gave her a cursory good-bye. They went their separate ways, with Jason returning to his office in the City and Gemma, west, to pick up the package. The box-shaped parcel wasn’t bulky, and nothing about it identified what it might contain. It rattled slightly when she carried it into the house. She left it on the desk in his study.
Gemma was grateful for Clara’s astute wisdom; the nanny didn’t ask why she’d been to the tailors.
Just before lunch a text arrived from Jason.
Polish my shoes. All of them.
At that moment, it struck Gemma how the rest of the day would be played out. She was going to be “asked” to do tasks.
She poked her head around the door of the nursery. “Clara, you’ll have to mind Josh for most of today. I will have things I need to do.” Again, the tactful nanny didn’t enquire about the “things.”
Gemma polished his damn shoes. All “bloody eight pairs” of leather top-quality designer shoes. Standing in the utility room, with earphones plugged in, she listened to dance music to help pass the time and mask the sound of her curses.
Polish the silverware and the dining room table.
The second message came after lunch. She telephoned her regular beautician at the salon and cancelled the appointment for her waxing. She would have to find the time to shave her own legs and intimate parts.
Throughout her labours, Gemma never questioned why she was being made to do those tasks. Over the months since Joshua’s birth, she’d found the lack of employment made her empty of purpose. Jason’s rules had handed her over to him to control, and certainly for sex, she was owned by him 24/7. However, he didn’t decide how she spent her days in his absence. Her hobbies, activities, and interests were hers to choose. He demanded nothing of her time other than she be there for him when he was home.
Breaking off to give Joshua an afternoon breastfeed, Gemma rested her feet on a stool in the sitting room. Clara brought her a cup of tea. Gemma blessed her fortunes. Not only did she have a nanny, there were domestics to assist and do many of the household chores, usually at the weekends when the family escaped to the country house. The butler, Brooks, dealt with Jason’s shoes. The cleaners polished the silverware. All of her tasks that day were superfluous and unnecessary.
Polish the floor of my study.
She sighed, resisting the temptation to throw the phone across the room or hide it in a hopeless attempt at ignoring his instructions. He’d send the message via courier if she didn’t dutifully reply to each with a Yes, Sir. There was a definite theme developing—lots of polishing. She glared at the expanse of flooring. Submission wasn’t all fun and games. It sucked sometimes. Somewhere on the other side of the vast urban sprawl, was her husband, ensconced in a meeting, smiling smugly at the thought of his wife slaving away for him. She ached all over and some of that aching was for him—for respite and comfort.
Obedience gave her the faith to believe what she did had a purpose. Something unknown to her, but pleasing to him.
She knelt on a cushion and waxed the wooden floor of his study. Two of her nail tips broke off. The various polishing fluids and waxes made her hands chafed and rough. Even her iPod couldn’t relieve the fatigue. Gemma switched to a classical-music playlist and attempted to drown out her woes with choral masterpieces.
Resting on her haunches, she recalled how, four years ago, she had once polished Jason’s silverware at his previous townhouse—Piedmont. She’d just moved in with him and had been at a loss as to how to spend her days. Just like now, with no employment to occupy her waking hours, she’d polished his silver. A spontaneous act on her part. He had on that occasion pointed out he didn’t need that kind of service from her.
“Sexual submission. That’s what I want,” Jason had told her, and she’d been immensely grateful he hadn’t been seeking a service-oriented slave as his submissive.
Deep down she knew it wasn’t the type of submission she wanted to offer a Dominant. Sex was her elixir. In the past, before she met Jason, she’d weaned herself off the service Dominants, the ones who liked her to cook and clean in the nude or some other domestic fetish. Others became her preference.
Yet, here she was, polishing. It was imbued into her, and it was t
here in her rules, too: obey, please, and serve her Master. Blindly doing what Jason asked her to do because she had given him jurisdiction over her, and nothing she thought would make any difference to him. She did it all to make him happy.
Clara had gone home by the time Jason returned. Joshua was tucked up in bed. Gemma’s kneecaps had managed to cope with kneeling by his bathtub while she washed her son. She greeted Jason in the hallway. Her weary body wasn’t enthusiastic in her welcoming. She announced in a deflated tone of voice dinner was nearly ready. A Brooks’ offering, since she had been polishing the fucking day away. She didn’t add the last part to her statement.
“My package?” he asked, kicking off his shoes.
She picked up his shoes, the same ones she’d prostrated herself over in the morning. “On your desk.” Looking at the leather uppers, she wondered if he might expect her to polish them, too. However, he merely nodded and went upstairs.
He came down to eat in his casual clothes. A warm glow infused her heart. Whatever tailored suits did to him, smart casual wear was equally effective in making him sexy and younger, too. His pectorals bulged through his tight-fitting T-shirt, and the linen slacks hung low off his hips.
“I am sorry I didn’t go to the depot yesterday. I lost the delivery card and forgot all about it,” she said, placing a dish in front of him. She waited by the table.
“Sit down, Gemma. We’ll speak of this after we’ve eaten, I’m hungry.” He picked up his cutlery and attacked the fish pie.
Nothing more was said over the meal. She picked at her food, uncertain to the nature of his mood. His expressionless face gave nothing away, and he opted to read the newspaper while he ate. She avoided raising an eyebrow at his bad habit. Such behaviour in her parents’ house would have warranted a disdainful remark. She tidied the kitchen while he finished his article.
Jason rose. “Show me what you have done today.”
Gemma presented to him the shoes, lined up in the utility room. He inspected each pair carefully. Then he scrutinised the silverware in the cabinet in the dining room, followed by the oak flooring of his study, which glistened. She lifted her chin, proud of her efforts. She also noted the room reeked of beeswax.