Sublime Trust
Page 96
Jason sighed. “Okay. I accept that only because of hindsight. Martinson remembered Mottram being a decent bloke and a good soldier.”
I relaxed slightly. Jason had received reassurances, and it made my judgement seem less foolish. “Dougie picked the wrong friend. He doesn’t see it now. One day, he might.” I sniffed, and my tummy rumbled in response to the aroma of food. Perhaps I was hungrier than I thought.
Jason moved the plate back. “For fuck’s sake, eat. Then tell me what he told you.”
While I devoured my sandwich, Jason rang to check on Joshua. When he ended the call, I wiped my mouth with the napkin and told him Dougie’s story. I skipped over his reminisces of good times and kept to the important parts. My voice quavered as I told him about Dougie feeling guilty about his running off and his perception of the consequences of his declaration of love and the aftermath it created.
Silence descended again. I didn’t look at Jason, unable to bear the intensity of his blue gaze. He reached over and captured my right hand then ran his thumb along my knuckles, his little but oh-so-familiar act of reassurance. My shoulders sagged, and I let out a sob of relief, wiping my eyes with the napkin.
“Shh, babe. I’m not cross.” He grinned fleetingly. “Not true. I was furious and probably scared Joshua when I threw the phone across the room.”
I flinched at the image of Joshua seeing scary Daddy.
He squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry, it passed quickly. Nothing like the pitiful eyes of a child to quell a temper. We kissed and made up, Joshua and I.”
“And us?” I whispered.
Punishment loomed its ugly head. I had been wilfully disobedient. Although I hadn’t dismissed Gibson from my presence, I had met a man without Jason’s consent, making myself vulnerable.
“You tell me.”
He was asking me to decide my own punishment. I’d disobeyed him and forced him to abandon our son. Did I want him to thrash the defiance out of me? Re-assessing my choices, I didn’t believe I deserved it. Jason was my Dominant, but sometimes I had to contemplate withdrawing consent. Should I refuse and deal with the consequences or submit to his intentions?
I straightened, ready to explain my reasoning. “When I saw Dougie in the gallery, I was afraid. Was he coming to seek revenge, retribution for his friend? In the past, he never gave me any indication I couldn’t trust him. So, I made a decision. You weren’t here, and I did what I believed was best. You see, I have to know, understand why it happened to me. Now, I know. I was the next available person, on hand, easy. His anger at Dougie couldn’t be resolved, and there I was, being a little sassy, awkward, nothing out of the ordinary. But his to do with as he pleased, or so he thought. He raped me to get at Dougie, in a twisted kind of way. He shouted all this abuse at me, but it wasn’t aimed at me.” I paused, holding my breath, expecting some kind of criticism.
“Go on,” he murmured.
I released my breath, my confidence growing. The answer to my dilemma became clear. I could do this. I could ask without withdrawing consent. “You’re not going to punish me for defying you. I won’t let you. However. I wouldn’t mind if you reclaimed me. Whatever you think that involves. I feel this urgent need to be part of you, Jason. But, don’t say you’re disciplining me because I won’t accept punishment. Please, that is all I ask of you.”
I ended my unusually long speech, keeping watch on his unflinching features. His stroking thumb had stilled during my last few sentences, but now it moved across my knuckles once again.
“You should get back to the gallery. You’ve been missed, and I need to collect a wild child.” He let go of my hand and stood up. “I’ll walk you back across the street.”
Was that it? His lack of reprimand continued to stun me, and if not for the kiss on the lips as we parted, I would have wondered if I had overstepped my authority, exerted too much control. Jason sped away in his Jaguar, and I threw myself into my work for the rest of the afternoon. I apologised profusely to Nicholas and Mina, and they shrugged off my absence, reminding me of their competence.
I went to Blythewood to be with Joshua. Jason had rearranged for us to return to the city the next day. Unhindered by a tight schedule, I bathed Joshua, read him extra stories, and laid him in his cot.
Jason, having acknowledged my return, didn’t interfere as I spent quality time with my son. Once he’d fallen asleep, I cooked up some leftovers from the fridge and served the evening meal to Jason.
We ate in silence. The tension between us hung in the air like a barrier. Everything felt wrong and out of place. Where had been our usual playful banter, his kisses and the odd swats of my bottom while I cooked? I was desperate for his decision because then I could be at peace and move on from this hellish insecurity.
However, I daren’t disturb his contemplations, unsure if I should push him into an answer. I’d learnt, finally, not to rush him or make uninvited expectations of what was to follow, but just go with the flow.
After the meal, as he sat drinking the last mouthfuls of his wine, I wiped down the worktops.
Would he whisk me off to the lair to remind me of the importance of obedience? To reinforce his control over me. Not a punishment, but something intense and lingering.
Or the marital bedroom to rekindle our love? Wash away the tension and smooth over the cracks.
Perhaps, an evening spent watching a movie or reading in the sitting room while we observed the dusk descend over the garden? A re-set without the intensity of emotions, and a reminder we were always happy in each other’s company.
All those scenarios were possible. With a wry smile, I squeezed out the dishcloth and hung it on the mixer tap. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t my decision. I had made my choice a long time ago. I chose to be a submissive and to offer my submission to Jason. I didn’t have to know or worry about what he wished or desired from me. The relief flooded back into me, and I held back the tears for a moment, staring at my reflection in the kitchen window. I could see him in the faint reflection, still sitting at the table, waiting patiently.
Just let go. Be his.
He rose, and I followed his progress across the room. He stood behind me and took my hand, tugging on it a fraction.
“Come.” A simple command with no hint of where, but I would follow regardless.
Gripping his hand, I felt the energy buzz between us, moving back and forth in a ceaseless exchange. A beautiful dynamic that nothing or nobody could destroy.
Epilogue
I rest my eyes for a few minutes. Computer screens will be the ruin of my eyesight. The office door is slightly ajar, and I hear Carla’s voice, not the actual words, but her tone. She is giving someone an earful. The phone call ends, and I call out, “Carla, coffee, please!”
“Coming, Mr Lucas,” she hollers.
I imagine her scraping back her chair and setting up a fresh coffee filter. I drink too much coffee. I know this, but it will keep me going until the end of the working day. This evening, I will be at Blythewood, my true home. Gemma will greet me in the hallway, and, taking my coat and shoes, she will welcome me with her kisses and sometimes, if she feels the need, she will kneel and rest against my legs. I will touch her hair and give her words of comfort.
I open my eyes and there in front of me on my desk are two photos. One is of Gemma, taken on her 30th birthday, her face turned to look back over her shoulder, her smile subtle, like the Mona Lisa, and her necklace glittering in the sunlight.
Next to her photo is another. Joshua beaming at me with his blue eyes fixed on the camera. He’s clapping his hands. Propped between his legs is another child, a tiny baby, barely a few days old—his sister, my daughter, Amelia, the image of her beautiful mother.
I am content. My business continues to survive whatever is flung at it by the economic climate, the morass of bureaucracy, and the unpredictable world of international politics. No longer do I seek to expand. I have a business to consolidate and manage. An empire for my children to inherit.
My wife is my perfect spouse. From out of her traumatic ashes, she has risen like a phoenix into an exceptionally sexual, masochistic submissive, a realisation of my dream. She is an embodiment of my passions, and she grows in strength every year as I continue to control her sensual being. Definitions and rules cease to be of consequence when she does all that I wish her to do. Her limitations are minimal, and she pleases me in many ways beyond our original agreement. She is all I need in a companion—my lover, wife and, as I smile at her photo, my little subbie to cherish.
***
I shut my eyes. A negative image of my painting forms in the darkness. A satisfying illusion, and I open my eyes to reflect on my creation. Not one for the gallery, or even a frame, it is an experiment of colour and form. Abstract in nature and the product of a medley of brush strokes, rather like one of my son’s pictures.
He is playing with Clara on the floor in the atelier. He whoops as he smashes together his favourite comic adventure characters, probably Batman or Spiderman. So like a boy, loud and boisterous. I hope he learns his father’s self-control.
Asleep in her Moses basket is Amelia. Mine to nurture and to ensure she will always have a sense of worth and independence. Whatever anyone else might think about my submission, I know I am strong and resilient, and I have my self-esteem back in force. I have Jason to thank for that. Putting my broken pieces back together, he moulded me into his perfect mate and submissive lover. I don’t mind why he chose me because he gives back in so many ways, and each one is fundamental to my survival and my love for him. My devotion to Jason and the connection we have as submissive and Dominant are unwavering and cemented to unbreakable foundations.
Today I cannot sit on my bottom. I paint standing up. Pulling down the waistband of my sweat pants, I look at my marks with a happy smile. The relics of a spanking, delivered not as a punishment—Jason rarely punishes me these days—but during an erotic scene in his lair. I wear these marks with pride. If I could have asked for them, I would have. I did not ask; he knew what I needed and gave them to me yesterday. I am infected by his eternal love, and there is no cure. I need him, and I will always give him what he needs—my love, my submission, my fidelity.
THE END
Author’s website
http://jayepeaches.wordpress.com
Includes bonus stories about key characters.
https://www.facebook.com/JayePeaches
Other books by Jaye Peaches
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