by Jaye Peaches
“Did it not occur to you I would draw your attention to any abnormalities? My grandmother died of breast cancer. You know that. I’m well aware of the importance of checking for your lumps and bumps.”
“My body, my health. It is why I have that clause. If you do it, you take away my decision to—”
“You would ignore an abnormality?”
“I didn’t mean that. Of course I would take it seriously,” I countered. “If I see my doctor, I want to be able to tell her I look after myself and have control over my well-being.”
He pushed me back against the tiled wall.
“Control? Do I tell you when to take a piss or watch you when you do? Do I tell you when to eat, how fat or thin you should be? Do I alter your body permanently in any way for my pleasure? Do I? I ask only to control your sexual being for my pleasure. Your sensual flesh—your tits, cunt, and arsehole are mine. Your lips, throat, and tongue, when they touch my flesh, are mine. You were not conducting a medical examination. You stood there, eyes shut, mouth gaping, and groping yourself until you practically came.”
I sank further into the wall, wishing I could slip through, ghostlike, into the next room.
“When is your period due?”
“In a few days. Sir.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong. Isn’t the week after your period when you should examine your breasts? Shall we check your leaflet?”
He’d scuppered my defences, leaving them shattered. He knew so bloody much about everything. I hiccupped, struggling to stave off the tears.
“Where is the leaflet?”
I could pretend I’d destroyed it, but my lies were failing. “My bedside drawer.”
“Do I need to fetch it, or are you going to confess how many times a month you check your breasts for that all-important act of self-control.”
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.
“Don’t turn on the taps, Gemma.”
“My intention is genuine,” I blubbered.
“For how many fucking months? It might once have been, but it isn’t now.”
I bowed my head. I loved my few minutes of titty squeezing, the way it made me hot and sexy, tingling in all those wondrous places. Since Jason had invoked his rules, I’d lost ownership of them. I hadn’t seen my little self-indulgent moments as denying or replacing Jason’s prerogative or right over me. However, Jason did, and it came as no surprise he saw what I’d done as breaking the rules.
“For the rest of the month, you will shower with clover clamps on your nipples. Understood? You will keep them on until I give you permission to remove them, and you will carry them around with you so I may choose other occasions to remind you those tits are mine.”
He went to fetch the clamps, and I waited, shocked at my audacity. Why hadn’t I confessed? I’d not gained any respect by denying the obvious.
Upon his return, I proceeded to bawl my eyes out and not due to the nature of the punishment. I could handle nipple clamps, however, the growing sense of disappointment and guilt dissolved my resistance.
He draped a large towel about me, rubbed me down, and carried me into the bedroom, laying me on the bed. Broken by him, I let him rebuild me. With the punishment complete, my errors exposed, outstanding issues dealt with, words of closure were given.
Jason declared he would perform my breast examine after my period according to my advisory leaflet so we could jointly discuss any findings or concerns. I said thank you, grateful he’d uncoupled the sexual act from the health one, giving me back my dignity and ensuring my health concerns weren’t belittled.
The tardy Joshua woke up, hollering his demands across the house, and Jason left me curled up on the bed to take our son down for breakfast. If Joshua had woken up at his usual early time, Jason would have been downstairs giving him food instead of stumbling upon my supposed breast exam. I wondered how long I’d have let my fondling go on for before he’d found out or I’d come to my senses and stopped.
The next occasion we were in the lair, Jason ordered me to stand blindfolded. He approached me from behind, took my hands in his, and used them as guides. With his direction, I went on a sensual tour of my body. I caressed my nipples, the little pebbles erect and deliciously responsive, then I felt the substance of my breasts. Sending my hands below, he directed them to stroke my belly, cupping my sex, and he let me slip my finger inside my wet pussy. Finally, I separated my buttock cheeks, leant forward, and shuffled my legs apart. As I poked my arsehole, I groaned with anticipation, breathless at the thought of him probing and using me via my own hands.
“This, baby, is how you touch yourself. Through me, my control, and my guidance,” he whispered in my ear.
“Yes, Master. Thank you for letting me touch myself.”
“Would you like me to make you come with your own hands?” His voice was mellow and soft.
“Please, Master.” My legs had already turned to jelly. Now they shook, and between them, I was atrociously wet.
“I will, then, my lovely sub. Remember I don’t wish to deny you pleasure. My will is to control it for you.”
He guided me back between my legs and rubbed my fingers up and down over my clit. I felt the nub grow, poke out, and buzz with electric sensations. I bucked my hips back and forth, riding my hand, and he gripped my waist, whilst driving my fingers up into my slit, forcing the heel of my palm to pound my clitoris.
“Come for me!”
I screamed, my hand scrunched by his and my clitoris, swollen and tender, throbbed as he trapped my fingers, refusing me relief from the pulsating contractions.
***
My silly attempt at circumventing my rules hadn’t garnered Jason’s sympathy. His opinion was clear on the matter—what was the point of rules if they were not enforced? Tinkering with the wording, re-interruptions, or negotiating remained forbidden. Major transgressions resulted in serious disappointment on Jason’s part—mine, too. With suitable lecturing, a brisk punishment, he showed me how to move on and not look back with regret.
I existed in a dichotomy. The pull of independence pushed back by the crushing desire to please. However, now and again, the independent Gemma would come out and beat back the submissive until Jason set things right again.
My tendency to disrespect Jason was tolerated, up to a point. His leniency didn’t extend to woeful disobedience. Even if it wasn’t intentional or I allowed my impulsive behaviour to take hold, he offered me little latitude. When I slipped up, there were no illusions about the nature of our dynamic. Our lifestyle wasn’t a game or quirk. We took it seriously, and Jason packed a verbal punch when he needed to return me to a state of unwavering obedience.
What did he expect from me, when my life flitted from one mental state to another? I had to build an art gallery from scratch, but, at weekends, I came home and had to make the switch to submissive. Try as I might to be obedient, my pattern of screwing up continued in July, and I risked the ramifications bouncing back at me for a long time afterwards.
On Fridays, I would arrive at Blythewood to paint in my atelier. Clara would keep Joshua occupied while I mixed, brushed, and plied my paints to a blank canvas. Some days the inspiration seeped out of me and left me as blank as my canvas. Frustrated by my lack of creativity, I would seek refuge in the indoor swimming pool located in the same old stable block. An impulsive dash into the changing room to put on a costume—I never could bring myself to swim in the nude—and a few laps later, I would be reinvigorated with pictures in my head.
On a blazing July Friday, my frustrations were worse than I realised. The week hadn’t been great, with Jason absent for a large part with work commitments and the latest building work for the art gallery delayed by incompetent contractors. I pushed myself hard and swam faster than my usual sedate pace. I’d fed my stomach a few morsels for lunch, and the inappropriate diet led to my weakness in the water—cramp.
My calf muscle felt like it had been split apart with a knife. I hollered and grabbed at my rogue limb
. Stuck in the deep end, unable to rest my other foot on the bottom, I sank underwater. My mouth filled with water, making me retch and gasp for breath. The pain became agony as I struggled to find buoyancy. Panic enveloped as the water washed over my head. Somehow, I doggy paddled my way to the edge of the pool, reaching up and groping about the tiled floor.
I found what I sought under a metallic flap: the panic button. Smacking the button hard, I clung on to the side rail and pressed my bent toes against the wall of the pool, stretching my tendons and muscles, trying hard to alleviate my suffering.
Several long minutes passed before the door burst open. Glancing up, the large hand of Dave Johnson, the duty officer in the gatehouse, waved in my face. He pulled me up out of the water, and I hopped about, jabbering about my cramp. Having received training in first aid, Johnson told me to lie down and straightened the offending leg, holding my foot at right angles. The cramp eased, ending its torturous spasms.
“Thank you,” I murmured, breathless. “I panicked. I didn’t think I could get out of the pool.”
“That’s okay, Mrs Lucas.” He went in search of a towel. After he’d helped me to my feet, I wrapped it around my shoulders before limping towards a sunbed.
I lay with leg before me, aware of Johnson standing nearby, panting, with sweat dripping down his brow. “Sorry, I made you run over. I probably would have been fine.”
He crouched down, hands clasped together. “Mrs Lucas, I wasn’t aware you were taking a swim. You should tell us before you get in the water.”
An omission on my part, and I gave a small shrug of acknowledgement. “I forgot in my eagerness to be here. You know, slipped my mind again.”
Rising, he shifted backwards on his feet. “Again? You’ve come swimming before without telling us?”
I bit my lip. Whoops. I’d let slip something I shouldn’t have done. “Maybe, a couple of times. I only spend ten minutes or so…I mean, not very long. Why do you need to know?”
“It’s a long run from the gatehouse. One of us should be in the house, while you take a swim. That way, we’re closer, if there is a problem.” He stepped backwards again, his soft stance changing, stiffening as he moved.
I shut my eyes. “His stipulation, I guess.” A rhetorical statement, and I knew the answer. I’d been reminded: Jason had insisted I ring the gatehouse before using the pool. A mandate he had made years ago when he first showed me the pool house. I had forgotten the significance of the prerequisite. My safety was paramount to Jason, not just when we were out in public or travelling. It extended to activities he construed as dangerous or risky.
“Shit,” I muttered.
I didn’t say anything further to Johnson. He would be obliged to write a report and my transgression turned into typeface, transmitted over the airways to Jason’s desktop. What I couldn’t guarantee was Jason reading it before I saw him. I had learnt that lesson the hard way. It meant I would have to confess, to pre-empt and come clean as quickly as possible.
I threw the towel across the changing room. Whatever artistic inspiration had come in the pool prior to my cramp had been lost. Edgy and unfocused in my thoughts, I couldn’t be bothered going back to the atelier. I relied on my son and chatting to Clara to distract me.
The face that greeted me in the evening was frosty. A chiselled expression of disdain. I had my answer. Jason had read Johnson’s missive. I slipped down on to my knees in the hallway and unlaced Jason’s shoes. Spontaneously, I bent to kiss each foot. A silly attempt at putting him in a good frame of mind.
“Later. After we’ve eaten,” he said, without acknowledging my foot worshipping.
There was nothing to do but concentrate on the early evening’s activities. Jason spent his time unwinding in a shower then playing with Joshua and bathing his son. Clara left, and I prepared the evening meal, read and sang to Joshua, and rocked him into a placid state of sleepiness.
Throughout our dinner, Jason read and said nothing to me other than to ask for seconds. He bolted his food down, his appetite unaffected by my mishap. He couldn’t fail to notice I limped slightly as my calf muscle ached from the cramp. Picking up the report he had been reading, he relocated to the sitting room while I cleaned up.
By the time I joined him, the report had been tossed to one side and he lounged with his eyes closed. I knelt by his feet and waited. My heartbeats mirrored my thoughts: chaotic and distracted by nerves.
“He had to run from the gatehouse.” Jason opened his eyes. “Nearly half a mile. Wondering the whole time if you were all right, whether time might be critical. Maybe you were unconscious or bleeding. Worse, Dave feared you had taken Joshua with you, and perhaps our son was hurt.”
A rush of adrenaline hit my belly. I hadn’t contemplated that scenario.
“I’m sorry…I was—” I stuttered and bit down on the back of my hand.
“Don’t. Do not mention anything to do with impulsive decisions, oversights, or simply forgetting. You know how I treasure you, your safety. There are no excuses, are there?”
“No, Sir.” I slumped. “I didn’t appreciate what happened when I tell the gatehouse my plans. I regret not telling security about my swimming sessions. My thoughtlessness—”
Jason leaned forward. “Sessions?” He gripped the armrests, his knuckles raised and white. “You’ve done this before?”
I’d blown it. In my desperation to appear apologetic, I’d assumed Johnson had spilled the beans on my other trips to the pool. He had left that confession to me. My foolish slip of the tongue had now landed me in serious trouble.
“Sorry.”
“Shut up,” he snarled.
Tears built, ready to tumble over my rims. I hated the way they came to my eyes so quickly the moment I became flooded with disappointment.
He sagged into his chair. “Oh this makes a mockery of us, doesn’t it? What is the point of having a relationship where respect for me, for my desire to protect and foster you, is ignored by you. Time and time again, in recent months, you have let me down. Self-inflicted punishments, touching yourself sexually, now you forget a simple rule I instigated. One of the first I gave you.”
With fingers trembling, I daren’t look at him. All I felt was an overwhelming need to explain my failings. “You’ve been away all week,” I spouted. “I’ve hardly seen you. It is so damn hard sometimes. I’m not perfect. I will never be perfect for you. It gnaws away at me. That I can’t be what you want me to be. When we’re apart, my submission slips away like water through a sieve. I don’t see rules, your dominance, or even you. I plough through the day and become the independent brat you don’t want.”
Tears accompanied my verbal tirade, along with the wringing of my hands and hiccups of despair.
Jason hadn’t expected me to blurt out so much in one stream. By the time I finished, I was in a state of distress. “I’m so sorry,” I pounded my fist on my thigh, gritting my teeth. “I didn’t know somebody sat up here while I used the pool on my own. I didn’t appreciate how, behind the scenes, my life is constantly watched over. What happened to me today? Do you actually care? I went for a swim, and I nearly fucking drowned!”
My last word seemed to jump Jason into action. He pulled me up and onto his lap as I broke down. I clung to him as he held me. When I calmed, feeling the warmth of his rapid breath on my neck, he spoke.
“I don’t want or expect perfection. Why do you think I would care how perfect your submission is as long as you try? What I care about is trust. I need, we both need, to trust each other absolutely. So, when you are alone, I can be at peace. I try to be consistent with you, Gemma. I can’t let you break rules, battle my dominance. You know we feed each other. I admit, I’ve been busier than usual, but you can’t expect me to be there, checking in on you. I have to believe you carry out my wishes, even when I’m not present. It’s fundamental to us.”
I laid my head on his beating chest, contemplated his words, and shuddered with shame at my recent escapade. I hadn’t even said
a proper thank you to Dave Johnson for running to my rescue.
“Shit. I screwed up.” I shook my head, despondent. “Please, punish me, Master.”
Jason sighed. “I don’t like this notion punishment will make me feel better or resolve this.”
“I have to have a sense of accountability, or how else will I learn?”
Jason swept the hair back from my damp face. “Tell me, did you go right under?”
I nodded. “I swallowed water. I panicked because I couldn’t tread water and—”
“You were afraid. I’m not going to punish you. Fear is your enemy, and it will do a far better job than me in reminding you of your foolishness. We’ve been here before, and I revoked my right to punish you on that occasion.”
He referred to when I wandered off and became lost in a market in North Africa during our cruise. I’d panicked then, too. Nevertheless, I remained accountable for my actions and needed to atone.
“Please, Master.”
“No,” ruled Jason. “You will not dictate to me. From now on, in addition to informing the gatehouse, you will not swim in the deep end on your own. For the time being, I have other ways to remind you of your place.”
He grasped the hem of my skirt and dragged it up to my waist. No knickers, I didn’t wear them at the weekends. He pressed his palm against my mound, triggering a pulse of butterflies in my stomach.
“Tonight, you’ll be fucked hard for my gratification.”
I began to slope backwards, my head falling away over his legs and my back arched across his lap. He sought out my exposed breasts and pinched a nipple, while below a finger sank into my drenched pussy. I lay across his legs, he unwrapped me, poked and prodded, leaving me both apprehensive and delighted.
“Oh God,” I groaned, as his thumb made circles around my clitoris.
“This will be tormented for my pleasure. You will not have permission to come. You will find your submission and cling to it. Sink into it. You will let go and remind yourself who controls you. My dominance will hold sway, undiluted and unabated, until I am satiated.”