by Jaye Peaches
He shut the door behind him and I hovered, uncertain and close to throwing up with nerves. What now?
“Kneel here, Gemma.” He pointed to the rug covering smooth wooden floors.
I could refuse, but I expected Jason would point out he’d given permission for me to be with Damien. I hesitated, struggling to understand why I was here with Jason’s former mentor and not my husband.
“Gemma,” Damien took my hands and squeezed them, “I’m here to help. This isn’t a scene.”
When he let go, I knelt and crushed my knees together.
Damien sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped before him. “You’re wound up tight. I expect you think you’re going to screw up and do something that will displease your Master. Yes?”
“Yes, it’s my natural ability to do stupid things when I’m overeager to please,” I said with a half-hearted smile.
“You need to centre your rambling thoughts so that in less than two hours’ time you can kneel before your beloved Master and tell him what he wants to hear. Nothing else will occupy your thoughts but him, and that mindfulness starts now.”
From his bedside drawer, he extracted what appeared to be a black leather hood.
Shit! He expected to calm me with that contraption? With my heart pounding, my stomach knotted tighter than my tattoo patterns. I couldn’t believe the audacity of the man or that Jason had agreed to this. Why would he think it would help me?
I’d worn a hood once before. A strangely suffocating experience, which imposed a form of sensory deprivation with a solitary hole by the nostrils to breathe through. Recollecting the brief hooding, which had happened before my rape, I’d not panicked, rather I’d found it relaxing once I’d accepted the lack of sensory awareness. Except, since then, I didn’t cope well with confined spaces.
He rose and reaching out, stroked my hair, collecting the ponytail. “You will remain still and think of nobody but Jason. Not yourself or friends. Not your artwork, not lovely little Joshua, not your silly worries about the ceremony or piercing. You will think how you’re going to be the most devoted submissive to your loving Dominant.”
Before I could question his approach, the heavy hood covered my head, and he’d blanketed me in blackness.
Chapter 21. The Hood
Did Damien know about my fears? I clutched my throat and grappled with the desire to rip the hood off my head. He hadn’t bound me, and I was free to remove it. The choice remained mine. I panted, desperately sucking air through my nostrils and blinking frantically in the darkness. Not one glimmer of light found its way under the hood. The blackness swathed me, trapping me, and I could only respond by shutting my eyes.
“You can breathe. Take deep breaths.” Damien’s took my trembling hand away from my neck and held it. “I’m not leaving you alone.”
The hand helped. Cool and dry, unlike my clammy one, its size and strength reminded me I was safe. Dominants, for all their bravado and love of power, valued safety above all things. If he saw me freak out, he’d be there, ready to rescue me. I listened to him, as he repeated his instruction. Breathe slowly.
The claustrophobia lifted with each slowing of my breaths. My fingers, which gripped his hand like a claw, loosened. In the silence, I heard the ticking of the clock on the wall and focused on each imaginary swing of the pendulum.
He released my hand. “Think about the first time you met Jason. Imagine you are telling me your story. Don’t speak, picture those special moments.”
Concentrating on my breath control, I absorbed the darkness and muted sounds. My tense muscles started to relax, my head emptied of unwanted feelings and images, and I replaced them with others.
I recovered the memory of the first time I had met Jason. He’d been standing by a photocopier, cursing. His overt sexiness, enhanced by his smart suit and blond hair glinting under the lights, had re-ignited my dormant passions. Who was he? I hadn’t known he was my CEO, nor had I knowingly lusted after my boss. It had been a natural attraction between man and woman.
I shifted forward in time, to when we’d made love for the first time on his super-sized bed at Blythewood House. I’d been in awe of his prowess as he reawakened my traumatised sexual being.
Months later, his eyes had glistened with tears when he’d proposed to me in Scotland. Jason had hurt my feelings and he, for those brief moments, had stripped his emotions bare, allowing me a glimpse behind the Dominant I’d come to know. I’d accepted his offer of marriage because those tears said love to me.
Under my hood, my eyes stung with my own unshed tears as I recalled his heartfelt words of love.
The necklace he intended to place about my neck during the collaring ceremony had been my everyday companion long before our visit to Switzerland. The first time I’d worn it, he’d told me I was his and only his. It had been the occasion of my birthday, not long after his proposal and during a visit to Rome. I remembered exactly what he said to this day.
“Soon, we will be married, and you will wear a wedding band, and everyone will know you are my wife. To me you are much, much more. You are my submissive. I want to give you a gift, a remembrance of the bond between us.” He’d held up the collar necklace. Given its intricate design—numerous tiny diamonds encased in a gold chain, I’d known it was ludicrously expensive.
I flashed forward, to another day of vows and promises. My handsome husband on our wedding day and his delight when I’d vowed to obey him. We’d discussed our matrimonial vows at length, and he’d warned me he wouldn’t consider the promise trivial. We’d agreed to use simple vows during the wedding ceremony itself, and I left the obedience element to a private moment in the bridal suite. Several of my relatives had joked about obedience as if the requirement was outdated and abominable to a modern marriage. I’d laughed off their perspective, thinking little did they know about my own opinions.
Jason, as my husband, couldn’t force me to do anything. Even as his submissive in those early days of our relationship, his control over me had been limited to scenes. Yet, I’d given him my obedience willingly.
Secretly, in my heart, I’d always wanted my submission to go beyond the bedroom, and my marital vow enabled Jason to enforce matters he considered significant enough to form the foundation of our marriage. The day after our wedding, he’d invoked the requirement for the first time when he instructed me to obey him in all matters regarding my personal safety and protection. I consented, and he never revoked the stipulation—my first rule.
However, we weren’t perfect. Under the black cowl, I scowled as I succumbed to negativity. Jason had a possessive nature and, on occasion, he’d treated me more as an asset than wife.
He liked me to dance for him. Often my rebellious nature came to life through my need to dance, and many times I’d done it for my personal gratification. That solitary desire had created tension between us many times. The years had changed me, and him. Now, when I danced for him, the tension lifted. He had my undivided attention, no competition or distractions. I still danced for others but he knew only my passion in my performance was given to him.
I straightened my shoulders, smiling in the darkness.
Damien cleared his throat, catching my attention.
“Keep going, Gemma,” he urged in his American accent.
Another vision, and it broadened my smile. Jason’s naked, illuminated body, covered in glow paint, fucking me in the dark. My pussy clenched as I recaptured his mastery over my vulnerability. Domination, throughout my adult years, had been a sexual desire for me. To be under Jason’s control brought peace of mind in many aspects of my life, but ultimately my lust and greedy sex craved that control. The day I’d painted his body and he’d stalked me in the lair had been a visual representation of his dominating traits: intrinsic and always there, even if not visible.
Was it always so? My husband and my Dominant neatly defined as one?
My husband buried under the surface a kind man, whose gentle words of comfort when I told him about
my rape had kindled my love for him. He had always wanted a submissive partner to share his life with and to own, so why me? Damaged me? Before we met, I’d thrown off my submissive mantel, abandoned my kinky friends, and tried to be a new person.
A conversation came to mind. A time in the past when I’d been plagued by doubts about my ability to submit and wanted to know what drove Jason to stick by me.
“I was destroyed, Jason. Why put so much effort in me when other subs would have fulfilled your needs from the outset?” I lay on him in bed with my head on his chest.
Jason coiled an arm about me. “They didn’t, though. Sexually, they were pleasing. I was tired of fucking a compliant sub without the companionship of sharing my life. I didn't want to train a novice, and I didn't want a slave. To be blunt, you were broken, and mending something broken is often the best way to create and reshape it to an enhanced form. I buy broken companies and sell them on as improved ones or keep them to make me richer. I applied the same technique to you.”
I sat up, moving my legs astride his. “I’m an acquisition?” I grinned half-heartedly. I didn’t like the implication I was a project.
“Yes, I began this in a different frame of mind. I didn’t factor in you needed me or that you would fall in love. To love another is a great gift, and your selfless act led me to reciprocate. I went from wanting to fix your submissiveness to caring how I did it. Your rape was violent and debilitating for you. Your recovery halted my unrealistic sadistic desires and refocused me on other needs. I love you, babe. Healing you was the challenge that helped me grow as a Dom. In retrospect, I chose you for selfish reasons and I’m deeply sorry if you thought of yourself as an acquisition. You’re not. You are my treasure.”
I sighed, glowing with delight at his words of love. It reminded me of Jason’s excellent aftercare. The addition of a specific clause in my rules on aftercare was to me an indication of how seriously Jason took his responsibilities.
Rarely did he omit to support me or heal my wounds or simply give me an all-important cuddle. For our first few scenes, Jason’s aftercare with me had been dutiful, practical, and the extent of it determined by my need for comfort: a brief hug or word of reassurance.
The trauma of my rape brought out a richer level of aftercare from him, and mutual love made it a necessity. I wasn’t required to ask permission to speak freely and consequently, I could encourage him to divulge his feelings. Aftercare was a two-way street. Both of us should receive its benefit was my philosophy. After one intense scene, I’d fretted I hadn’t provided him with emotional aftercare.
“Jason, do I look after you sufficiently post-scene, especially the more extreme ones?”
Jason paused before answering me, his finger rubbing his lower lip, a little quirk of his when he was deep in thought.
“I suppose as the top I’m very conscious of the potential long-term damage I could do to a bottom. I mark you temporarily with physical injuries. I bind you, spank and fuck you hard. You definitely need aftercare. I confess, a small part of me fears my sadism will become rampant and uncontrollable, and that giving you pain would be far more pleasurable than making love to you. I have to come to terms with the knowledge most vanilla people would find what I do repulsive, violent, and tantamount to domestic abuse. Knowing you are safe with me, undamaged, healthy, and mentally stable is essential to my well-being as your Dominant. So, babe, your aftercare is my aftercare. Your honesty and ability to communicate your concerns gives me self-awareness and maintains my boundaries, contains the beast lurking within me.”
“How small a part? The sadist?”
“Tiny, babe, trust me.”
I trusted him. I had to, and it meant listening to his words of encouragement when he pushed my limits beyond what I thought I could achieve. It had taken my submissiveness to places I hadn’t imagined. Scenes I would never have anticipated or dreamed of participating in. Our pre-Joshua holidays had been hedonistic adventures and though demanding and emotionally draining, I never regretted where Jason took me to on our voyage of discovery. Seeing the dungeon in the chalet, I knew the journey would continue in some form.
Jason’s level of consistency in his domination amazed me. It had its downside, his resolve and unflagging patience when I disobeyed him; he never gave up on me. Jason understood my disobedience grew from my need to resist my submissive self from time to time, even to resent her existence. I tried hard to explain my actions in various rational ways, but Jason always brought me back down to earth with a thump.
My obedience had failed me on occasion, and Jason had been unwavering in his dominance when he punished me. Disciplining to shape, mould, and train me remained an unending accomplishment, and I accepted his need to control me through disciplinary measures. Once he had punished me, he moved me on, giving me a different path to follow and allowing me a way to navigate back to my submission.
Not all his disciplinary ways involved pain. Jason liked to humiliate. Once the school bully, he had redirected his need to exert his authority in a demonstrative form of unpleasantness into a playful Dom who twisted his subs around his little finger. I couldn’t go with him at first, fearing he would embarrass me in public. His skill was stripping away my inhibitions and turning my humiliation into a seductive fantasy, providing both of us erotic pleasure.
However, Jason wasn’t perfect. He had flaws, but I adored him, and his self-confidence masked those imperfections. Unlike mine, which followed me around like an unwanted shadow. Not that he picked me apart routinely, but occasionally he’d dissect my shortcomings if I had complained or struggled with my submission.
Recently, with my gallery plans, I’d crumpled under the weight of my doubts.
I sucked in a sharp intake of breath, scrunching my hands into fists.
“Gemma,” Damien interjected into my dark meanderings. “Relax, you’ve tensed again.”
I breathed deeply, unclenching my fingers, and recalled the conversation.
“You’re too perfect, Jason. I could list my flaws endlessly.”
“And I can’t?” Jason’s eyebrows went up a notch. “You really believe I have none? You know them, Gem. My arrogance and ruthless dealings with those about me. I walk over people to achieve my goals, and those achievements for the most part have been financial. I don’t perceive success unless it makes me richer. I suffer with jealousy, which is why I struggle with your dancing or extrovert socialising. I’ve not shared you, which some Doms would have no qualms about doing. I’m vain.” He paused and pointed a finger at me. “And that includes you being an attribute of my vanity. Your beauty is part of me, and I would have others see you as mine, a possession.”
I snorted, still not convinced. “You’re gifted. Talents that made you a billionaire at a ridiculously young age. Nothing you have mentioned has worked against you. How can they be flaws?” I grumbled.
“You didn’t know me fifteen years ago. I’d no interest in personal relationships beyond sex. I pushed my family to the fringes. I still love money, empire building, and destroying my competitors and yes, my exterior persona may not have changed much to those who have a cursory relationship with me—they see me as cold, indifferent, and uncaring—but, inside, I’m a different man.”
“If you can see your flaws, why is it you get to correct mine, but yours remain unaltered? Don’t you want to improve yourself? Why is it only subs who get moulded, shaped by their Doms?”
“Babe, don’t underestimate your influence. The reality is you are reshaping me. I’ve discovered love. I would have laughed at anyone back then who proposed I should find love in my life. You reconnected me with my family, gave me Joshua, extended my generosity with those about me who matter to me. That is your influence. I’m not perfect, however, I don’t advertise my failings for others to use as weapons against me.”
If he confessed to failings, he had none when it came to taking care of his body. Watching him work out in our gym or swim in the pool, I counted my blessings that my Master was
a man who remained fit and healthy. Rippling muscles, which were strong enough to carry me as if I were a feather. Jason was amazingly ageless in his physique. It would catch up with him eventually, and I would join him: wrinkles, grey hair, and flab. Yet, in the darkness of my hood, calm and still, he remained youthful and as attractive as the day I met him.
“Yes,” I declared. “I’m ready.”
I was his, and wanted nothing more in life than to be his devoted submissive and to keep him as my sensual, caring Dominant.
Chapter 22. The Ceremony
With the hood removed, I thanked Damien and, in a calmer frame of mind, went in search of my friends. They tidied my hair into neat braids, reapplied my makeup, and ensured any bareness was smooth and unadulterated by rogue hairs.
Maria had tucked small white flowers amongst my braids to match what little attire I wore—a white lacy corset with sequins forming a heart shape across the front and white stockings.
Throughout those preparations, Jason occupied my visions—how he would adore my sensual assets, and I couldn’t wait for him to take his pleasure. Whatever he wished for, I would give him gladly.
Jason was dressed in black cotton slacks and a white shirt. Quite informal, by his standards, but smart and the loose fitting attire enhanced his natural charisma. He waited by the fireplace with the other Doms, all clothed in a similar style.
With my nerves causing pandemonium across my body, I inched my way towards Jason with small steps, keeping my eyes on him the whole time. He showed no emotion, at first, or perhaps, more accurately, he was unsure how much emotion to display because, when his face opened up with a smile, his white teeth glistened. I soared, rising up onto my tiptoes as I stepped closer. I wanted nothing more than to be at his feet and saying the words I had scored into my pounding heart.