by Jaye Peaches
“Good,” he said in a cursory fashion and moved behind her. That was it? Nothing else?
She saw what was on his desk. Her rebellious side came close to exploding into a fit of anger. He had unwrapped his parcel and inside—toner cartridges for his colour printer.
That’s it! All the fucking fuss over toner!
“Take your clothes off,” he said in her ear.
“What the—” She came close to adding an expletive then thought better of it.
She fumed as she undressed, placing her clothes on the couch in a neat pile. Normally being asked to strip would incite other emotions, ones she liked.
“I want to inspect you. Show me your hands.” His tone remained calm, almost matter-of-fact.
She held out her sullied hands. The floor might be smooth and shiny, but the brushes and cloths she had gripped had caused callouses and roughened her skin.
He turned them over. “These will need moisturising.” His skin felt super soft.
He glanced down at her knees, still red and tender. “Bend over the desk.” Another tenderly delivered request. Somehow, Jason could mellow her darkest attack of indignation. As she rested her cheek on the cool surface, for the first time since his arrival home, she took a deep breath and relaxed.
She’d served him well that day and done everything he’d asked. Did it matter they were toner cartridges? No, he had asked her to do something, and she had been negligent.
She heard a clicking sound. “Babe, you’ve got a cut,” he said as he examined her privates with a pen light.
Her eyes screwed up tight. “I cut myself shaving. Out of practice.”
“Ah. You’d cancelled your beautician’s appointment?”
“I had to finish what you asked me to do,” she said to the wooden surface of his desk. Jason remained behind her.
“Did it bleed?” He’d moved closer, his breath heated her face. She didn’t want to see Jason—her sexy husband—at his most caring.
Her heart fluttered, and she stumbled over her words. “A little…I was okay.”
“Good. Well done, babe. You’ve been very obedient since this morning’s words.”
Now, she couldn’t help sniffing. “I’ve tried very hard to do as you asked, Sir.”
“I need to work. You can rest on the floor while I finish some things off.”
Exhausted and aching, she curled up on a pile of cushions, wrapping a blanket about her naked form. She felt cosy and tranquil. Consequently, she fell asleep.
Gemma awoke with a small start. Jason’s fingers had slipped under the blanket, and he unwrapped her, manipulating her body.
“Sssh,” he murmured as he moved her.
Barely awake, somewhat unaware of his actions, she felt him penetrate her pussy. An unhurried dip, aided by lubrication. The cool gel applied as she slumbered. He knelt on one of the cushions. Gradually he unfolded her, and lifted one of her legs high up against his shoulder. Deeper and deeper, he thrust, pushing into her pelvis. As she became more sentient, he picked up his pace and force. She stretched, uncoiled underneath him, and arched her back. She met each of his thrusts with a clench of her pussy.
He grunted in time with his exertions. Sweat shimmered on his brow. He’d not bothered to undress, merely pulled his pants down and entered her. She clung to him, pulling him lower until she could reach his neck and kiss him. Her legs, now spread wide, were once again aching. She didn’t care. Some types of pain were worth it.
“Please may I come, Master,” she implored as she hovered on the brink.
“You may. A strong one, baby. Squeeze me hard,” he groaned without slowing his rhythm.
She hollered and clenched his cock hard with her spasming muscles.
“Yes. Fuck! Oh, fuck, Gem.” His cries were loud as he leant into her, depositing a large load of his cum deep inside. For a while, Jason lay next to her, his arm tucked around her shoulders, and she snuggled up against him. The blanket just about covering both of them.
Clearing his throat, he reflected on the day’s events. “I don’t need a service submissive. But if I asked you to be, you should be prepared. Today you proved you can be a good one. So, let that be a lesson to you. I don’t ask much out of you beyond the fucks, the kink, the odd ritual. Don’t disappoint me when I do.”
“I’m very grateful to you, Master. I have everything I need. I can’t bear disappointing you.” She ran her hand over his chest, feeling his heartbeats through his damp shirt.
“I know, babe. So go and have a lovely hot bath. If Joshua wakes, I’ll look after him. You can have a decent night’s sleep.”
Chapter 17. Injured
“Er, Mrs Lucas, I don’t want you to panic,” said Martinson on the other end of the phone, so of course Gemma’s heart rate shot up, “but your husband has been in a car accident.”
“What!” She rasped the word out while holding her breath.
“He’s fine,” said Martinson. “Nothing serious. They’ve taken him to hospital, a precaution,”
“What?” Hospital!
“The passenger side took the brunt of the impact. Some idiot drove out of the junction straight into us. Probably drunk.”
“Hospital?”
“Yes. Nothing appears to be broken, but they thought he should have his arm x-rayed as a precaution.”
“Arm?” My God. He’s injured!
“His left arm. Passenger side. Please don’t worry, he was walking, talking, everything normal,” explained Martinson.
Finally, she processed the information. Her lungs stopped scraping air into them, and her heartbeats ceased drowning out her hearing. Martinson had been driving, not Jason. The bodyguard sounded fine.
“Are you all right, Chris?” She addressed him by his first name. It seemed appropriate, under the circumstances.
“Okay, ma’am. Car’s built like a tank; it’s why we use them. He told me you’re to stay put. He will be home soon, and you’re not to go running to the hospital in a state—his words not mine.”
The remark at least made her smile. Gemma wanted to reject the idea and race off to be at Jason’s side.
She heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone. “Mrs Lucas?” asked Martinson.
“Okay. I’ll wait here.”
Clara hovered in the background and Gemma could see the anxious face listening to the one-sided conversation. Martinson was breathing heavily on the phone, as if he had been running. Telling her the news hadn’t been easy for him. All the security team knew she had a tendency to panic and dash off without thinking. He must have been worried she would drive herself to the hospital and ignore the safety protocols—that, in public places, she had to be escorted.
“You are okay?” she asked him again.
~
Martinson had been Jason’s security chief for such a long time and Gemma had come to appreciate his loyalty to her husband as being as devout as her own. The man worked long hours and antisocial ones, too. He was called upon a short notice to drive or attend functions with her husband. There were, behind the scenes, all the issues of protecting Jason’s business assets, his reputation, and cocooning their lives from intrusive prying media. Martinson did all this without complaining, and she admired the man’s tenacity.
He travelled with Jason as a companion, often abroad, though not to the States, where Jason employed Amando. It probably gave Martinson a much-needed break from her husband’s relentless working life.
As she spent more time in Martinson’s company, and though they conversed in a minimalist fashion, she heard stories about his children. Not his wife. She was a fixture of his life who he didn’t reveal much about. Perhaps she felt neglected or overlooked, but their marriage seemed strong, and he made sure he was there for birthdays, anniversaries, and the big issues. His son was his main concern; the younger daughter kept her mother’s company. His boy, Aaron, was a different matter, and Martinson worried about his son.
“Football, Mrs Lucas, bloody football. He�
��s convinced that he can make a career out of it. Won’t do his schoolwork, thinks it’s all unnecessary. I wish I hadn’t taken him to all those after-school clubs and weekend practices now,” confessed Martinson on one long journey.
As the child hit adolescence, the problem grew worse, and he had failed tests and missed deadlines for homework. During the summer holidays, while Joshua learnt to sit up or roll about, issues came to a head that involved Gemma directly, something she wouldn’t have anticipated.
Gemma had thought it was the birds when she came to inspect the vegetable garden on the Friday afternoon. The raspberries decimated, the strawberries had vanished, and even the tart gooseberries were missing. The netting remained in place, although untidy and unsecured in places. She tutted, wondering if Blythewood bred especially intelligent birds. Then she spotted the footprints amongst the trampled vegetables and the ruined lettuces and cabbages. Staring at the footprints, she couldn’t help noticing the shoe sizes were smaller than adults. Children!
“Thompson, why is my vegetable garden trashed? Who the hell has been stamping all over it?” she barked down the phone to the gatehouse.
There was a pause on the other end of the phone and muffled talk amongst the duty officers. “Umm. Aaron Martinson, Mrs Lucas,” came the reply.
“Aaron?”
The football-mad boy had been “borrowing” the garden and it became apparent it had been going on for several weeks. Thompson rattled off the explanation over the phone.
The Martinson family lived on the Blythewood grounds in an old estate-manager’s house, which had been modernised. A fine property, but it lacked a decent-sized garden. Confined within the perimeter fence and security system, their garden was separated from the mansion’s own by wooden fencing. Aaron had discovered, with the aid of a wooden bench, he could climb over into the palatial grounds. So he did, with two of his friends, and kicked a football about on the lawn.
Nobody had been in the house during the week, and Mrs Harris too busy indoors to notice three boys mucking about outdoors. Security did, as the daring boys explored the wooded area at the back of the property. The CCTV on the perimeter fence picked them out as they beat back the nettles with sticks. They were spied playing their footy, and the duty officer in the gatehouse, having conversed with Thompson, who was in charge of Blythewood’s security during the week, jointly decided it was harmless fun. Aaron was known to them, and he was Martinson’s boy. Nothing would come out of a little running round and letting off steam, Thompson had reasoned. Inappropriately, grumbled Gemma on the other end of the phone.
It would have remained harmless fun throughout the school holidays except they had decided to raid the orchard and vegetable plot for fruit. Immature, unripened fruit, but it was there for the picking, and they gorged themselves.
The garden belonged to Gemma—her domain, her treasure trove of life to control. Jason’s rules did not apply to her horticultural world. The gardeners employed by the estate did the hard graft—the weeding, mowing, and planting—but the master planner who designed and created the scenery, was her. She envisaged the blossom in the orchards, the variegation of the foliage, and the contours of the land. She’d dug down to create sunken rockeries, laid out formal pathways, rosebushes in colourful patterns, and selected the vegetables in her beloved home-grown plot. It was her delight to sit in the midst, with paints, easel, and brush, and capture it all on canvas.
By the time Jason appeared in the evening, Gemma was no longer fuming but she was unhappy with the situation. She wondered if Martinson knew, but suspected he did not. He wouldn’t condone the behaviour or allow his son to trespass on his boss’s property. The security team in the gatehouse had been amiss in their decision-making.
“Playing football?” queried Jason as Gemma broke the news to him.
“Yes. For weeks. But that isn’t what has pissed me off.” She told him about the wrecked vegetable plot. “I’m going to have to replant loads. I was going to make purees for Joshua from the fruit—”
Jason held up a hand. “Okay, you’re pissed off. I will speak to Martinson, and no doubt there will be words at the gatehouse.”
“They shouldn’t think they can get away with it, Jason.” Standing in the kitchen, hands on her hips, she wanted retribution.
Jason ensured she got it. Martinson, upon being informed, had been apoplectic with rage when told about his son’s audacity. He lined up a string of punishments: no football club, grounded, and pocket money docked. Gemma felt sorry for the child as Martinson stood in the kitchen apologising profusely for his son’s behaviour.
“Whoa, Martinson,” said Jason with half a smile on his face. “I have a better idea. My wife does not have the time to spend in her vegetable plot sorting out their mess. They can come and help her. The three of them. Tomorrow morning, here at nine o’clock, and they stay until she’s satisfied.”
Jason delivered his chosen punishment in a fashion that meant it was a command, not an option. Martinson went off to yell at his son and find out the names of the other two culprits. Whatever he threatened them with, the delinquents arrived on the doorstep promptly at nine o’clock.
“Go round the back, and I will join you in a minute,” Gemma told them with Joshua perched on her hip and the sternest face she could muster up. The three teenagers shuffled around, pants hanging off their hips and shoulders slouched.
Thirteen-year-old boys existed in a limbo world. Gemma remembered the stage from her own childhood. Unlike their female counterparts, the boys digging her garden had a childish, almost infantile attitude. Unfortunately, their bodies were changing quicker than their immature minds. Their legs had stretched out into skinny lankiness, their hands toughened up, their voices went up and down as the vocal cords broke, and their oily skin garnered acne. Seeing the world through their juvenile eyes, Gemma discovered the youths were obsessed with sports and revolting ideas. Girls, also, although they were too embarrassed to admit their keenness for the opposite sex. Occasionally, as they dug and turned the soil, one of them would let slip a lewd comment about a girl then snigger.
When they began to muck around and waste time, she snapped at them and reminded them they weren’t going home until she was satisfied. While Jason swam with his baby son in the indoor pool, Gemma took on the mantle of a sergeant major and barked her orders across the carrots and peas. They sneered at her at first, but, as the morning progressed, they became politer, and her ire softened. She explained to them about different nutrients in the soil, what grew when, how important worms were, and they should stop chopping the poor creatures up with their spades.
They asked what Gemma did during the weekdays and she told them little other than she was on maternity leave, a half-truth. Her art-gallery plans hadn’t progressed much. Frustratingly, still nothing from the property agents that suited her needs. Regardless how much she vented her spleen at the agents, she remembered her lesson with Jason. Wait. Don’t rush. It proved a hard stance to maintain. Instead, she painted and built up a portfolio. With Hugh’s assistance, she’d made inroads into identifying candidates for her funds. Yet, she anticipated her art gallery would remain stuck in the early stages for months to come.
As the sun came out and the breeze dropped, they began to sweat, and so did she. Time for a break and a drink indoors.
They diligently took off their muddy shoes and traipsed into the elegant kitchen to have lemonade and biscuits. A damp-haired Jason was there, coffee mug in one hand and rusk in the other. Joshua kicked his feet in the bouncy chair and held out his fingers for his snack.
“I hope you boys have been helpful to my wife and not lounging around on your arses,” Jason snarled.
Sweaty socks shuffled, and they examined the floor as Gemma poured lemonade into the cheapest glasses she could find.
“Because you’ve wasted her precious time enough. You’re banned from being on this estate without permission. No more over the fence or football on the lawn. If I catch you here again, you�
�ll be weeding nettles with your bare hands.”
“Yes, sir,” came the chorus of mumbled voices.
“You do realise, if all schoolboys across this country want to play for the Premier League then there is going to be much disappointment. Be realistic, stopping fantasising about your future, and get a decent education. Served me well,” Jason added.
Joshua, at the sight of his mother, squawked frantically—feeding time for the hungry boy. While Gemma gave him her breasts, Jason trooped the teenagers out into the garden to complete their tasks. By the time she came out with a dopey baby, they were about finished. Handing a sleeping Joshua over to Jason, she inspected their efforts and told them they had done well and could go home.
They remembered to apologise one more time for their pilfering and walked out of the vegetable patch with due care for where they were placing their feet. An improvement on their previous attitude. One of the boys, Benjamin, was close to tears as he looked down at his feet. Younger and smaller than the other two, his white trainers were covered in mud.
“Shit, me dad’s gonna kill me,” he wailed.
He had turned pale and she blinked, surprised at the sudden display of distress. “You didn’t bring Wellingtons? Would have been better.” Gemma patted his back. Was it her fault for not checking before they started?
Tears splashed on to his shoes. “I don’t have any. What I’m gonna do? I’ve only got these and me school shoes to wear. They’re ruined, look at ’em,” he fretted, kicking the mud off with his heels. They looked tatty and overused, the kind of shoes she’d have thrown out without much thought. At the present time, that was. There had been a time when she scrimped and saved every penny, and a pair of shoes had been a luxury purchase.
Aaron crept up to Gemma’s ear. “They don’t have much, Mrs Lucas,” he whispered. “Ben’s dad is a brute. He won’t understand.”