Sublime Trust

by Jaye Peaches

  “Hood off?”

  I shook my head. I needed distance from the outside world because, perversely, it made Jason seem closer to me. Nothing else pervaded my senses but his actions. The pain drifted away, shooed off by my natural endorphins. The blows continued, interspersed by his cool hand caressing and rubbing my heated behind. He fingered my vagina, a rough frigging, and the rhythmic agitation pushed me closer to completion. No permission had been given, and I clung onto the edge of the table, my knees locked together, and he kicked them apart again.

  The tip of his cock slipped into my entrance. He held it there while he rested his hands around my waist, digging his fingers into my flesh. I shrieked under my cowl as he rammed into me, entering without hesitation. I clawed the raised whorls in the pinewood.

  After no more than a handful of pummelling thrusts, he demanded my orgasm, and I screamed into the leather as the orgasm rushed out from my clitoris, consuming me in waves.

  I floated in a place devoid of features, certainly nothing resembling an art gallery. My worth was to be his plaything, to give him pleasure and, for the duration of our little scene, nothing else mattered. Following the delicious fuck, I spent another hour nestled at his feet, under his desk. I’d quite forgotten my anxieties.

  ***

  The next day, I’d arranged to meet my new accountant. Bookkeeping was fine. I could manage spreadsheets and numbers didn’t frighten me, mathematics soothed. What scared me shitless were tax laws, financial planning, and protecting my investments. I needed a consultant.

  There was no shortage of consulting accountants to help with start-up businesses. I had a whole empire of accountancy readily available. Jason owned many accountancy companies across different countries, and each pandered to different client types. I fell under the small-business umbrella, which meant Gliech Ltd, the main provider of financial advice to the world of small to medium businesses.

  Jason sourced a suitable contact, and it came as no surprise to find out whom he’d picked: Mark Cleveland, who was busy building up his portfolio of clients and about to add a familiar name to his list.

  When Jason told me his choice, I debated if it was a favour to Mark or to me. Darker thoughts made me wonder if he wanted somebody he could trust to spend one-to-one meetings with me. Why it should be necessary troubled me, but I lacked the courage to confront Jason. I concluded he must have judged Mark on his professional merits and trusted him.

  I’d never been to Gliech’s offices. They occupied a number of floors in a tall building in the heart of the City. I gave my name to the main reception desk. Signing in, I hung the lanyard about my neck and took the lift to the fifth floor. The interior of the building was featureless. The corridors and numbered doors all looked alike. I stomped down one corridor only for a concerned passer-by to inform me that I was heading in the wrong direction.

  “Mrs Lucas?”

  I spied an open door with relief. Mark stood to one side, and I slunk past him into his little office.

  The furnishings were standard provision, but he had hung a picture on the wall of a woman’s hand holding a red rose. The thorns had cut her fingers, and the blood trickled between the knuckles. I didn’t like the blood. The familiar wave of nausea rose up in the back of my throat, and I quickly turned to shake Mark’s hand.

  “Sorry I’m late. The corridors all look alike,” I explained.

  “I had a similar problem when I started. I don’t suppose your husband is into interior design? I’m sure this place could do with a makeover.” Mark led me to a chair.

  “No,” I guffawed.

  “You don’t like my picture. Not one for your art gallery?” He frowned.

  I shrugged. “Not my style.” I kept my back to the picture and sat.

  “My ex gave it to me.” He settled in his swivel chair, tucking his hands behind his head.

  “Ex-sub, I take it?”

  “Yes. We parted company when I left Manchester.” He stopped staring at the picture behind me and picked up a folder. “I was surprised when I saw your email. Didn’t think you were impressed by our first encounter.”

  “Jason chose you, not me.” I shrugged, grabbing a notepad out of my bag.

  “And you do—”

  “What he says. Yes.” He pursed his lips. How tactless of me to preempt him. “My husband plays games, Mr Cleveland—”

  “Please call me Mark.” He dropped his hands and leaned forward on the desk.

  “Please call me Mrs Lucas,” I chided. “As I was saying, he doesn’t always tell me his motives.”

  “Nor should he, a sub’s lot.” He grinned.

  I grasped my hands together. His remark was unwelcome and reinforced his ambiguous status—a friend or associate? “My gallery is my own to manage.”

  “Yet”—he picked at the edge of the folder, but didn’t open it—“he chose your accountant. So not all yours really.”

  Was the man determined to piss me off! “He doesn’t like me with strange men, or women for that matter. I’m assuming you don’t come under the strange-men rule.”

  Mark flicked open the cover and peered down at his notes. “You have employees. Did he pick them, too?”

  I glared across the table. “No, of course not,” I snapped before lowering my voice. I couldn’t lie. “They’re vetted. I don’t have any choice in the procedure. Look, I came to talk about money matters, not my relationship with my husband, which isn’t any of your business.”

  Mark held up the palms of his hands as if to placate me. “No, sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I’m curious as to why you picked me. Now I know you didn’t.” He shrugged and extracted a piece of paper. “You said taxation was a key concern. Let’s start with that.”

  The conversation progressed into financial areas and fiscal issues. Mark proved to be knowledgeable and competent. Unlike the start of our meeting, he stayed clear of condescending remarks and neither did he rib my obvious lack of expertise. He talked through options and made suggestions. After two hours, which included working through a coffee break, we’d covered all my areas of unease.

  While I sucked up the dregs at the bottom of my plastic cup, my mobile rang: Jason’s ringtone. I closed my eyes, inhaled through my nose, and answered it.

  “Have you finished yet?” he barked.

  My spine stiffened, drawing me up. “Almost. Why?” Across the desk, Mark’s eyes widened, and he glanced at his wristwatch.

  “I’ll come and fetch you for lunch. You can tell me what you’ve found out.”

  I ducked my chin, trying to speak into my lap. “You’re coming here?”

  “I believe that is what I said.”

  I turned away from the desk, attempting to cover my face with a lock of hair. Did he have to sound so bossy! What was it with men and me that day? Everything they did or said to me put me on edge, the kind of edge where my wayward imagination might wander and break into the realms of fantasy. The more Jason interfered, the greater my annoyance, but also I’d love him to show his dominance to Mark, remind him who owned my submission. “Where do you want me to wait?” I asked.

  “Are you still with Mark?”

  “Yes,” I hissed, and I couldn’t resist teasing my husband. “If you can find his office, you could meet me here,” I suggested.

  “Find his office?”

  “It’s a rabbit warren here. I got lost.”

  Jason snorted. “Doesn’t say much for your navigating skills, does it?”

  “You know this building better than me. Mark suggested you need an interior designer here.” I glanced over to Mark. Irritatingly, he didn’t look fazed by the conversation—he reclined in his chair and smirked.

  “Did he? So you’ve been chatting about things other than work, have you?” He hung up, and I stuffed the mobile back in my handbag.

  Mark collected his paperwork. “Your husband is coming here?”

  “So it would seem.” Agitated, I tapped the edge of the desk with my finger. Nerves were getting the better
of me, and I’d the sensation they were about to get worse. “He’s definitely up to something. You Doms, do you have a manual on humiliation? How to wind your sub up in three easy steps?” I frowned.

  “Manual? I wing it myself. Far more fun.” He tossed the folder into a drawer.

  My mobile bleeped. A text message from Jason.

  : take your knickers off.

  No, not now! I rubbed my temples with the tips of fingers, willing myself to move. Mark gave me directions for the bathroom and once there, I removed the requested article of clothing and stuffed it in the zipped compartment at the front of my handbag.

  Another text arrived as I re-entered Mark’s office. I stood half in, half out.

  : Did you take them off in the toilet?

  I gave an affirmative reply.

  : I didn’t tell you to use the toilet. Do it again properly.

  “Oh fuck!” I exclaimed, grabbed my handbag, and went back to the toilet. I put my knickers back on, returned to the pokey office, slammed the door shut and stood in front of the desk like an errant schoolgirl. Thank God, I had a skirt on. I swallowed. Did Jason know I wore a skirt? What the hell would I have done if I’d been wearing trousers. Mark scratched his head; all my coming and goings must be confusing.

  I spoke through gritted teeth. “He’s doing this because of what you are. You know this don’t you? This is why he wanted you as my accountant.” I reached down, fumbled under my skirt, and hauled off my knickers, squashing them in my fingers.

  He chortled, his cheeks tinged with a pink glow. “Oh. I see. Who are you doing this for, him or me?”

  “Both, no doubt. I hope you’re enjoying the spectacle.” I leered and sat, crossing my arms and legs. I deduced that if Jason had been texting, he couldn’t be driving. I sent a text back:

  : Done. Don’t you think this is somewhat infantile?

  : Delightfully infantile. Show respect or else I will want your bra.

  “He must be having a good day.” I tilted my head to the ceiling. I couldn’t believe he’d play with me if he was in a foul mood.

  My mobile beeped again.

  : You’d better be wet and about to come by the time I’m there. No hands allowed.

  “Seriously, he has got to be kidding!” I blurted, my voice raising. How the fuck was he going to find out? I groaned. Surely not here, not in front of a subordinate?

  “Does he do this with you often?” Mark’s lips remained fixed into an upward curl of amusement, his dark eyes glistening.

  “No. However, he doesn’t usually have a willing audience. Downside of a very private life. He can’t do public humiliation. You’re the next best thing.”

  “I’m flattered. But, I take it this doesn’t do it for you? My presence?” He pulled a mock pout.

  “No. And he knows it, too, that this isn’t my kind of play.” I buried my face in my hands. “He wants me fired up. Two hours of figures and dry spreadsheets, I’m not…really there, am I? Shit, he’s going to be pissed off with me.”

  “Surprise him then.” Mark pushed his chair away from the desk. “You might enjoy it. Chill out. I won’t distract you.” He swung his chair around and offered me his back, while he looked out the window.

  How to make yourself lush and juicy in a few minutes without touching yourself? I let my imagination run wild. Perhaps Jason’s lunch-break trip would include a fuck somewhere. But where? The back of the car, I mused, liking the idea.

  It happened spontaneously. I was such a licentious girl sometimes. Aided by my rampant imagination, I drifted off into a world of fantasies. Maybe, Jason would take me over Mark’s spartan desk and…what?

  Oh, yes, it had started, the tingles, the electric pulse in my clenching pussy. I closed my eyes and pictured my erotic fantasy. Knickers already off, Jason shoves me over the table, yanks up my skirt, and orders Mark to grip my wrists, dragging me forward until my nose is pressing against Mark’s bulging pants. Jason grabs my ponytail, repeatedly smacks my bare bottom until my arse is bright red and throbbing and I’m all tears and snot then he spears me from behind. As I cry out, he smothers my mouth, stuffing his fingers down my throat. I implore him to let me come, begging him to fill my cunt. The desk rocks as he pounds my drenched pussy—

  The door opened—Jason had arrived. He’d no difficulty in finding Mark’s office and at least arrived unescorted. The three of us made the room cramped. I shot to my feet as he shut the door behind him, leaning against it. As I rose, a trickle of juice oozed down my inner thigh, and I squished my knees together. I sensed the heat in my cheeks rise a level to burning.

  “Mark.” Jason moved forward, ignored me, and offered his hand for a shake.

  “Mr Lucas.” Mark nodded, and the two men briefly shook hands.

  I stood, hot and flustered, in the middle of the room with my knickers screwed up in one hand.

  “I’ll have those.” Jason snapped his fingers.

  I handed over my underwear, and he slid them into his jacket pocket. Asking when I would get them back was a big no-no. I had learnt that from bitter experience.

  “Had a useful chat?” He smiled and, about his cornflower-blue eyes, small wrinkles appeared.

  Damn him, he’s in his element.

  “Yes. Mark has been very helpful,” I acknowledged. I couldn’t fault his business acumen.

  “Good. Mark doesn’t handle this sector, do you?”

  “Not generally,” replied Mark. “I’m more than happy to help Mrs Lucas, especially if it involves a scene.”

  What? The bastards!

  How bloody foolish I’d been. Jason would never involve another in a scene without their consent. He’d warned Mark in advance. My explicit consent hadn’t been necessary, as every waking moment of my life was within the bounds of our agreement.

  I scowled, a deep frown of mortification, but not anger. The contrary emotions of shame and arousal danced around my mind.

  “Tut-tut, Gemma, not a pleasant face,” remarked Jason, shaking his head. “Come here.”

  Barely two steps separated us, but he made me come to him. I sensed his little game hadn’t finished. I moved, keeping my back to Mark.

  “Lift your skirt above your knees,” growled Jason softly, deepening his tone.

  I pinched the fabric between my trembling fingers and thumbs and hitched the hem up. He navigated around my skirt ends and slid his smooth palm along my inner thigh, forcing my legs apart. Throughout his exploration, I’d locked my eyes on his, but when he grazed my sensitive, pierced hood, I dropped my gaze, letting out a small gasp.

  I winced as he entered my tight hole, prising open the entrance with a finger then two fingers. My slick interior aided his penetration, and I raised my heels, perching my weight on my tiptoes as his fingers reached deeper, higher and seeking out my…. Oh my God! He’d found my sex spot. I grabbed hold of his shoulders.

  With my mouth opening and shutting silently, Jason frigged me in full view of my accountant. I hooked my leg around his calf, spreading my legs and balanced precariously on one foot.

  Fuck, I’m shameless!

  He held my ponytail with his other hand, forcing my head back. I saw a determined look on his face, almost an expectation—a slight parting of his lips, quickening breaths and widening eyes. I understood. He wanted me to demonstrate to Mark who owned me, so, in the future, when I was in the company of my accountant, we both had no doubts about my place. Jason made his point with flair, driving his fingers deep inside my sopping channel and tickling my ignition point.

  “Master,” I whimpered. I didn’t care what Mark witnessed, what he heard said between Jason and I. “Please....”

  My rational thoughts cleaved themselves from my surroundings. I had the sensations of rising off the floor, while my molten core fizzed with an effervescent need to come.

  Jason nuzzled his nose next to my earlobe. “Baby, you’re doing good.” He removed his fingers, and, before my eyes, he rubbed the glistening digits together, smearing my pussy nectar t
hen he pressed the tips to my lips. “Suck.”

  I opened my mouth and sucked, drawing his slender fingers down my throat, and I responded in the same way as a blow job, pleasuring my man with my tongue and lips. I moaned, clinging onto his steely frame.

  “You’re my little whore, aren’t you?” he whispered.

  “Yes, Master.” I slurped around my words. “I’m your slut.”

  “Do you want it?” He edged his tone into seductive territory.

  “Yes. Sir,” I gasped. He’d returned his hand under my skirt and brushed against the gold pin piercing my hood, and it buzzed as if it he’d electrocuted me. While he tugged on my ponytail with one hand and stroked my slit with the other, I felt close to coming.

  “Take it then.” He removed the stroking fingers from my wet folds.

  The intensity of the orgasm caused my knees to buckle underneath me and he lowered me, using my hair as a guide and my legs folded until I knelt on the floor at his feet—a little ball of sexual fallout radiating by his Bally leather shoes. I would have licked them if he’d asked me. He dropped my ponytail, and I sat on my haunches, panting with the rippling after-effect of my orgasm.

  I had impressed him—I’d come on his command. A gold star for me. I crumpled his trousers in my fists and rested my forehead against his thigh. Jason patted my head.

  Mark leaned over his desk to look down at me. “Impressive,” he commented, drawing his lips together.

  “A newly acquired skill she’s been working on,” said Jason. “Not always this successful, I admit.” He bent down and picked up my handbag.

  “Poor thing was quite worried she wouldn’t be ready for you.”

  Poor thing! I bristled but couldn’t find the words to protest.

  “Did she? Sweet,” said Jason with a mocking edge. “She doesn’t like to disappoint me. Whatever she did, it seemed to have worked.”

  “I’ve no idea. Sat there like a statue.”

  “Knowing my little subbie, she was in her world of imaginative fucks. Probably hoping I would fuck her over this table with you watching. Tempting, but not on the menu today.” He prodded me with his toe. “Not denying it, are you?”