by Jaye Peaches
“I…suppose….” She vacillated, uncertain if she should ask or refuse—did it make any difference?
“I know.” He grinned. “You want it a little mixed up, don’t you?”
Sometimes Gemma found his techniques more about the psychology of fucking than the actual physical act. If she had been unbound, she might have risked a nonchalant shrug, or even added a fearless “whatever”. Both actions would be lies, she fought to control her racing heartbeats. He went to the wall, and perused his collection of implements before selecting a riding crop. Her widening eyes followed him across the room, as he stood armed.
The crop landed on her inner thigh with a smarting slap, followed swiftly by a tickle of the duster in her slit. She tracked his movements, flinching as he came closer with the crop, and at the same time, her pussy clenched.
“This or that?” he murmured in a husky voice. “You don’t know what you want. Good job I decide, isn’t it? What do you want?”
“Your cock!” she shrieked as he tapped the crop on the other thigh.
The crop slithered up her side, following the contour of her figure. She tried to writhe, unable to because of the bindings. He continued his exploration, and she felt the soft leather slide over her hip, towards the exposed sex. “I know that.” He dropped the duster and held his cock. An upright, pulsating rod of desire, purple tipped and shining with the pre-cum. “You always want this, don’t you?”
Seeing its dimensions reminded her what made it grow in size—her. She baited him with her spread-eagled body. Her chest rose and fell, lifting her erect nipples. She smiled.
“What?” His eyes narrowed.
“You want my tits so much, don’t you, Sir?” she sniggered.
Her remark ended his little teasing play. She’d invited her sadist, and he set to work. His delight in having her breasts all to himself again was evident as he teased her poor tits with clamps, pegs, and pinwheels.
He done it all before, but it felt like years ago, not months.
“I’m out of practice,” she panted.
“Don’t worry. I’m being kind, aren’t I?” He tightened the clamp on her nipple, and she glared at him.
“Remind me to look up the word in a dictionary, Sir.”
He tugged on the chain hanging from the clamp. “You really shouldn’t bother. I’m quite sure what I’m doing fits the description. Now, when I take it off…that might not be so kind.”
She had to agree. Taking the clamp off hurt like crazy. He sucked on the tender nipple.
“Please, may I come, Master!”
He released her with a flick of his tongue. “Oh, wait, my little subbie.”
His cock nudged her opening and her wet pussy welcomed him with ease as he drove upwards. He growled, knocking her breasts as he moved.
She tried to clench him, hold him in her grasp. Her predicament didn’t help. “Please, release my legs, Master.”
Jason paused, catching his breath. His damp hair trailed against her as he lowered himself. She shook each leg as he undid the cuffs.
“Thank you.” She didn’t ask about her arms. He’d given her sufficient freedom.
He clutched her buttocks, lifting her up, angling her for better access. With a deep sigh, she felt him slip back in and, as she squeezed him tight, he groaned, a satisfactory sound to her ears. She crossed her ankles behind his back and clung on. Her back banged against the edge of the cross and his pounds chafed her thighs. It hurt, but not a complaint passed her lips. The look of feverish delight in his perspiring face fed her own needs.
A whimper from her was all it took—he fired into her hidden belly.
“Come. If you wish.”
A simple decision, and she tottered on the brink of something tremendous. She feared an orgasm might overwhelm, send her spiralling beyond pleasure and into exquisite pain.
“Argh….”
Don’t come. No, let it go. Hold it, hold it. Yes, take it.
She flitted between two states. Close, but unable to finish. Bound to the cross, she remained stuck on a plateau. For how long? She didn’t know. Jason continued, with the embers of his erection, to thrust. She heard his pants, felt hot perspiration drip on to her, and his moist breaths clouded over her skin. How she loved the closeness, the intimacy of bound sex. Trapped and completely dependent on trusting her Dom, she rediscovered the nothingness, and the voices in her head began to calm.
Relax. Let it happen.
“Ah, fuck!” She exploded. Shook. Cramped. All her senses scrambled, and she went limp.
He eased out of her. She remembered little afterwards until she stirred on the bed.
Jason inspected the damage. “Peg marks will fade.”
Gemma lay unfazed, basking in a wonderful post-coital glow.
He drew onto his chest. The familiar restful heartbeat hypnotised her.
“Pleased, babe. Do I need to say anything more?”
A small shake of her head was all she could manage. If he was elated, so was she.
***
They decided to host Joshua’s first Christmas at Blythewood House with both sets of grandparents and a collection of siblings. The mansion was filled with family, young and old, and Gemma, for the preceding weeks, had been busy preparing food with Mrs Harris. Jason helped choose the menus and visited his wine merchant to top up his supplies. From Christmas Eve to the day after Boxing Day, the house buzzed with relatives, amongst them John and Andrea, whose second pregnancy bloomed inside her belly.
For Christmas, Gemma bought them baby clothes and paraphernalia.
John gave Joshua a gift of bulbs—tulips and crocuses. “Jason is convinced he’s going to be sporty or musical. Don’t forget gardening.” Joshua shook the bag of bulbs vigorously, spilling them on the carpet.
Gemma picked up the bulbs. “Thanks, John. We’ll plant them, won’t we, Joshie.”
The kitchen became the centre of life for the duration of the holiday. She migrated to the sink after each meal. Others offered to help, and she politely turned them away, but she couldn’t refuse her persistent mother.
“How’s the painting?” Her mother held out a casserole dish. “Sorry, I’ve no idea in this ridiculously huge kitchen where anything goes. Do you use a map or something?”
Gemma stared at the line of cupboards. She’d grown used to the scale of the house. Unlike her mother’s kitchen, where the cupboards nearly exploded with crockery and pans, her own could accommodate a hoard. “I almost colour-coded it when I first moved in, but it wasn’t necessary. If I put something in the wrong place, Mrs Harris re-locates it. I don’t think it is my kitchen, not really.” She crouched to put the dish away in a lower cupboard.
“Lucky girl. Housekeeper, domestics, gardeners.” Her mum paused. “You’ve not answered my question.”
“It’s good. I’m working on some landscapes, winter themes. Snow is so hard. All white….” She peered up. “What about you?”
“I squeeze a little into my schedule.”
Gemma winced. Was that a dig at her privileged life? She went back to the sink. “You’re enjoying the art classes?”
“Oh yes. Really lovely people, too. Like me, mostly. Hobby, nothing else. A little sweep of the brush from time to time.” She picked up a dishcloth and started to wipe down the worktop.
“Mum, you don’t have to do this.” She covered her mum’s hand and cleared her throat. “I’m glad you’re painting. It doesn’t matter if you call it a hobby. If it makes you happy….”
The awkward pause hung in the air. Gemma removed her hand and her mother continued to wipe.
“The art gallery?”
“Ah, well, that isn’t quite so eventful. Jason says I shouldn’t rush and I’m not.”
“Jason probably knows best, doesn’t he?” She turned. If Gemma expected a smile, there wasn’t one on her mother’s face. Instead, her eyebrows were raised in anticipation of an answer.
Gemma’s pulse quickened. Why was she panicking? Had her mother spie
d them? Those rare moments when they thought they’d been alone and Jason had swatted her bottom, tugged a lock of hair, or nipped her neck. They were careful. Always watchful of doorways and windows. Twice, in the past, Andrea had caught them in the act. It didn’t matter now. John and Andrea knew about the nature of the relationship. Her mother knowing made her weak at the knees with fear. She’d never understand. Then, there was the rape…. Gemma’s eyes wavered in their focus.
“Gemma?”
She blinked. Swallowed back the taste of bile and plastered a fake smile on her face. “Yes, Jason knows best. Can’t fault a man who made a fortune from virtually nothing.”
“Indeed. Although, I suspect he had a lot of good luck, too.”
“Yes. Economy was spot-on for him. Unfortunately, my problem is lack of available property.”
“Build something yourself.”
“Land. Slight lack of reasonably priced real estate in London.”
“Jason can buy anything, can’t he?”
Gemma guffawed. “Then it wouldn’t be mine, would it.”
A broad smile broke out on her mother’s face. “Good.”
“Eh?”
“Standing on your own two feet. I thought, when you told me you were giving up your job, there she goes, Mrs Lucas, wife at home, no ambition. I’ve always pushed you to have a career, and, darling, you do have talent. I just hope this artist venture of yours works out.”
“This is my career now, Mum,” Gemma huffed.
Her mother’s hand halted in its incessant, pointless wiping. “I’m not saying it isn’t. Perhaps, what I’m trying to say is, I’ve realised you’re not my responsibility. It’s hard, darling, letting go. Even after you married Jason, you seemed to be uncertain about who you are, what you wanted in life. I don’t see that now. I really think you can make a success of your gallery. Jason’s right. Take your time.”
Gemma brushed away a small tear and nodded. “Thanks, Mum. I am pleased you’re painting, too. My talent comes from you. I’m grateful. All those trips to galleries as a kid—”
Her mother pointed to the ceiling. “Oh, is that Joshua crying?”
Gemma couldn’t hear anything, but she understood. Emotions weren’t worn on the sleeve in the Marshall household. Her mother’s natural reserve slipped back into place.
“I’ll go and investigate.” She gave her mother the briefest of hugs before leaving the room.
At bedtime, when the house slumbered, Gemma lay next to Jason on their bed, and he played with her. He quietly dabbled with the teasing and torments he held off during the day.
“I’m so pleased with you, babe. You’re the perfect missus and little slave. Once we’ve got this house back to ourselves I’m going to take you into my lair and flog you until you float off into space.” His seductive tone melted into her mind. Across the bed, his hand journeyed, heading purposefully to a specific location. She tensed, waiting for it to arrive.
“That sounds like the perfect Christmas present, Master.”
He twizzled his finger around her clit. “You are mine, understood?”
She twisted her legs from side to side until he knocked them still with an elbow. “Yes, Sir.”
“You serve me and only me,” he said hoarsely.
She felt a sharp pinch below. His assault on her tender nub continued unabated by her shivers and rapid breathing. “Yes, Sir, only you. I am yours,” she rasped.
From deep within her, another voice spoke after Gemma the submissive: Mrs Gemma Lucas—her twin. “I love you so much, Jason.”
Part Three
Chapter 19. Extortion
YOU FUCKING PERVERTED WHORE AND COCKSUCKER.
I KNOW YOU, GEMMA MARSHALL.
I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE.
£1000 BY NEXT TUESDAY.
LEAVE MONEY IN A WHITE ENVELOPE IN YOUR BAG
IF YOU DON’T COMPLY, THIS PHOTO AND OTHERS LIKE IT WILL BE PINNED ON NOTICEBOARDS AND YOUR FACEBOOK PAGE.
IF YOU TELL ANYONE, I WILL KNOW. YOU WILL REGRET IT!
***
Gemma stared at the crisp sheet of paper for an eternity. Was it real? Some crazy joke? Nothing about it made sense. She glanced around the changing room, unobtrusively trying to catch people’s faces. Did she know anyone? Nobody looked familiar—the usual sea of unrecognisable faces. Yet someone had recognised her and had in their possession a photograph of her: an image captured years ago at a party. A long-forgotten party.
She squirreled the photo away in her handbag and put the note back in its envelope. Her husband was in Toronto for two more days on a business trip. Embarrassment flooded her emotions—she would have to explain the contents to her bodyguard, Emma Gibson, and it was going to take courage even if the woman knew about her kinky pastimes. However, the security team would take a blackmail threat seriously, even if the note contained inaccuracies. The photograph, the explicit picture it portrayed, couldn’t be ignored.
Changing back into street clothes as quickly as possible, Gemma made her way out into the main corridor. She continued to scan about, hunting for a possible predator amongst the other dancers. Did she want to know the identity of the blackmailer? Find out she’d been betrayed by a friend?
The old dance school consisted of many corridors and stairwells giving plenty of opportunity for someone to plant the note and scurry away unnoticed. Could it have been someone in the class? Gemma felt sure she would have sensed their mocking stare. She convinced herself that their face would have betrayed something implicit—the knowledge they had an embarrassing photo in their possession.
All the people in the dance class were friendly and approachable. She’d picked the class time and school carefully. With Clara occupied in the evenings with her life, Gemma had chosen a professional dance class held in the daytime.
She had to audition to attend the intermediate class. Nerves nearly undid her, but a pep talk from Jason helped. The class covered many styles of dancing beyond her preferred salsa, including jive, tap, and jazz. Every Tuesday afternoon, she mingled with part-time workers, housewives, and students, whom she suspected of having secret ambitions to hit the stage. The instructor, a woman with her greying hair in a bun and long, flowing skirt about her ankles, was a perfectionist, but managed to keep the fun alive for the enthusiastic amateurs.
During the day, the dance academy teemed with people. There were classes solely for professional dancers, ballerinas, and schoolchildren. On her arrival, Gemma witnessed ambitious parents drag their uninterested offspring along the hallways alongside the ones who keenly skipped about, showing off their abilities. Somewhere, hidden behind the decaying walls lurked somebody who was intimately acquainted with Gemma. The discovery horrified her.
In the back of car, she fiddled with the collar necklace—the symbol of her submission to Jason. Did the person who had left the envelope in the kit bag know enough about what she was that they had recognized the significance of her necklace? Then there was her wedding ring, blatantly worn on her finger. The blackmailer had called her Gemma Marshall—an old name and a different Gemma. She didn’t think of herself as that person any longer.
Gibson drove through the gates of the White House and parked the car by the front door.
Gemma leant forward in her seat. “Please, could you come into the house. I need to show you something.”
If Gibson had picked up on her anxieties, she remained expressionless as she followed Gemma into the house. Clara appeared at the top of the stairs, peering over the stair gate.
“Clara, could you keep Josh upstairs for a while. I need to discuss something with Miss Gibson,” Gemma called up to the nanny.
She invited her protection officer to sit at the table in the breakfast room. An open area adjoining the kitchen and featuring a large bay window. Centre stage was a round table, little used by Jason and Gemma, as they preferred to keep to the kitchen table for their meals. The breakfast room had become Joshua's domain, with his toys piled in the corner, a bookshelf with his favourite
, well-chewed cardboard books, and the table littered with sheets of scribblings. Gemma collected them up out of the way and lay the envelope, minus the photograph, on the table in plain view.
“I found this, in my kit bag, after my class.” She handled a tiny corner of it and slid it across the table towards the other woman.
Gibson didn’t touch the envelope. “I assume that its contents are threatening?”
“To be blunt, it’s a blackmail letter. There was a photo in it. Of me. That is now in my handbag. I don’t think my husband would wish anyone to see it. At least, I would need his permission.”
“A recent photo?” Gibson still hadn’t touched the hateful missive.
“No, that’s the bizarre thing. It’s old. So old that I can’t remember when or where it was taken. I can place the year because of my haircut. Eight years ago, thereabouts.”
“Is the photo a digital print or an original from a print shop?” More questions from the wary protection officer.
“I don’t know, to be honest. I didn’t pay that much attention. You can read the note. The contents are not divulging, insulting yes, but not revealing.”
“Could you open the envelope and put it on the table? You’ve already touched the contents.”
Gemma gingerly removed the note and lay it flat on the table. Gibson leant over and read the hateful words. Her face sank into a frown. “Your maiden name?”
“Yes.”
“Notice boards?”
“I assume the ones at the dance school.”
“Facebook?”
“Well that’s weird, too. Jason won’t let me have a Facebook page. So, if the blackmailer has found a Gemma Marshall, it’s not me. Plus, the amount, for me, is paltry. Jason wouldn’t quibble that amount going out of the account. Gemma Marshall, eight years ago, would have struggled. That would have caused her big problems.”
Gibson sat back and cocked her head to one side. “What would she have done?”
She thought back and reclaimed an older version of herself, a person she’d shut away in her mind. “Not much. Probably, not go back to that class, abandon the Facebook account with a picture of two fingers for the profile picture. Back then, being threatened with a compromising photo, I might have fobbed it off as a drunken moment of foolishness. My friends were, how shall I say, like me. A bit unshockable. My family, as always, I kept at an arm’s length. I would have called the blackmailer’s bluff and waited to see what happened next. That was the old Gemma Marshall, unperturbed and unknown. A nobody. Mrs Lucas, on the other hand, is a different matter. Publicity shy and self-conscious, worried about the perils of public life and enviable wealth.”