Page 105 of Judged by Him

Ruled by Him : Chapter One

On her knees, resting between his legs, her thoughts centred on her job. An increasingly unexciting job. The lingering doubts and intrusive niggles, which interrupted her daily tasks and routines, amassed and multiplied. Try as she might, she couldn’t dampen them down nor tuck them back into their recesses.

The trouble with long holidays was handling the break from work. Returning home put life into a different perspective, the cold light of day experience brought about by a freshly recuperated mind. After Gemma returned from a three-week cruise of the Mediterranean Sea on board the luxury yacht Sublime, she faced the knowledge her chosen career wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Waking late on Sunday morning, she should have been engrossed with a particular task—giving her husband his wake-up dose of pleasurable sex. Instead, with her tongue poised, she pondered on the last few days.

Saturday had been the unpack, make washing piles, and wander aimlessly about the house kind of day. She’d kept walking about restlessly because she felt a stranger in her own home. Blythewood House, the vast Victorian country mansion, seemed cast in darkness after the bright Mediterranean sunshine. There were no radiant hot rays bursting through the windows and the thick carpets dulled the sounds of her footsteps. Constantly cold, she wore a thick jumper even though outside it was a typical warm English summer’s day.

Laziness struck her down, too. The ideas of cooking, keeping the kitchen clean, and all other tedious domestic stuff were daunting and unengaging. Thankfully, the housekeeper, Mrs Harris, had planned ahead and most of Gemma’s culinary skills required re-heating or finishing off the prepared dishes, which had been left in the fridge or freezer.

Her husband, Jason, had vanished into his study. She’d known he would retreat into his den. All the same, she suffered a major drop. A depression brought on by the sense of being disowned by him as a Dominant, although certainly not as her husband. The two days post-cruise in Venice had been a married couple’s blissful escape before returning home.

The luxury hotel off Piazzo San Marco had spoilt them. An unsurprising scenario, given Jason’s millions—he expected excellent service irrespective of the calibre of the establishment. As he had promised, they visited the opera—La Traviatta. Sitting in her prime-placed box seat, Gemma cried, as she always did when she listened to the soaring arias. Jason came prepared with a spare handkerchief and surreptitiously handed it to her when the tears silently dripped down her face. He, naturally, had been unmoved by either the opera or her overt display of emotion. He listened with head bowed and eyes shut. A cas

ual observer might have concluded he detested the music and had fallen asleep. She knew differently. His mother, a music teacher, had successfully instilled a love of the classical repertoire in him. Gemma’s first date with him had been at a concert. He preferred to enjoy music in a state of quiet contemplation and little fuss.

He followed up the night at the opera with the obligatory ride in a sumptuous gondola complete with an aria-singing tenor serenading them as they serenely drifted about the canal system. While reclining in their seats, they had dined on each other’s lips. Gentle kisses and the odd flick of their tongues. She adored his unobtrusive seduction, giggled at his whispered quips, and squirmed under his roving hands. Nothing happened on the gondola that could have given away their true kinky natures. They played the part of a romantic, happily married couple to perfection.

She’d asked for culture, and Jason had delivered. Gemma saw art: modern, classical, and old. From the traditional works of the Renaissance period to Cubism, metaphysical, and the abstract. Jason spent much of the time on the gallery seats, watching her peruse the displays or scanning through his messages on his smartphone. He gradually slipped back into business mode.

By the time their vacation days had ended, they were both suitably exhausted. Sex had been very vanilla, with no trappings of kink: her submission not required and his dominance muted. It had been pleasantly unhurried, an unrushed coupling on the bed with both of them taking turns to touch and kiss. Orgasms had been sweet, nothing forced from her to please him, and his penetrations had been delicate and slow-moving. Knowing she was at the peak of her fertility, she had wanted him where he belonged, deep inside her.

No matter how much Gemma had focused on enjoying their end-of-holiday romantic break, she missed the kink, the full-on BDSM that had played such a part in their lives for the previous three weeks. If Jason missed the domination and play, he didn’t let on. He had reassured her, lying in the hotel bed after she hinted at her mental angst, that all the hormones and neurochemicals that had been buzzing around their bodies were slipping away, oozing out of their neurological systems, leaving them as simple, sensual beings once again. Plain was certainly what she felt by the time they were back at the country mansion, Blythewood House, late Friday evening.

Kinky play continued to be suspended. Her husband wanted a complete break and to concentrate on settling into domesticity. He made love perfunctory style, mindful she could still be in a state for conception. However, either work pre-occupied him or his libido had subsided. He would never declare it; she merely read between his vague lines of conversation. Her own sexual engine needed recharging. She felt drained. Their combined weekday working hours would bring a halt to their love-making. He wouldn’t be inclined if his mind settled into the frantic pace of business as usual.

Wandering the rooms, she didn’t really miss the sexy toys or kink. For Gemma, the big drop had been caused by the lack of his control over her: the voice, the intense blue eyes, and the Master persona in all its glory. No more waiting for his instructions or obeying his commands. Instead, she had to plan her own day’s activities, see and do everything without a guiding voice in her ear. She had a hole in her head. A Jason-sized hole, which wouldn’t only have controlled her, it would have calmed her, made her complete and, like an empty glass of water in the thirsty desert, refilling it remained very necessary.

She’d suffered before with submissive fallouts. When they came back from an intense week’s vacation in New York, their first trip there together, she had the blues badly. She’d been so desperate to re-engage him, she went to the lengths of defying her marital vows and enticing him into his Dominant role. The punishment had been severe and she’d learnt her lesson. This time she fired up her work laptop, sat down and with a heavy heart faced what seemed like a thousand e-mails. Not quite the same as being tied up and used.

The contents of one message had consumed her interest completely. All Saturday evening Gemma re-read the e-mail in her head until they retired to bed. The morning came and shifting her body over to his side of the bed, she lowered her mouth on him. Then she began to revisit yet again everything that had happened since they had returned home.

***

“Gem! Gemma!” His voice inched into her preoccupied brain. “You stopped sucking ages ago. Where are you?”

Jason lifted her head off his semi-erect cock. Her drooling mouth was open and in position, but obviously not active enough for him. She sighed and flopped onto her side next to his languishing form.

“Sorry. Miles away.” She rubbed her bleary eyes with her fingers, somewhat ashamed at her lack of oral skills.

“I guessed that much. Where? Still on Sublime? You need to disembark, darling: mentally and physically.”

He covered her with a sheet. She couldn’t adapt to the cooler air and her skin quickly developed a multitude of goose bumps.

“No. Not there. Work, of all things. I read e-mails all yesterday afternoon, while you did yours. Wish I hadn’t.”

She curled up on her side, staring out of the window, watching the morning light brighten up the garden. At least her beloved vegetable patch and the contents of the greenhouse had been well taken care of in her absence. Jason spooned around her, his erection diminished by her lack of decent blow-job.

“Penny for them?”

“There are loads flying around about one project I was working on before I left. Client turned out to be an awkward one. So Liz and Mick have been picking up the pieces on it and working long hours. It should’ve been me. I feel guilty I wasn’t there to run the show.” Gemma frowned. The three-week absence bothered her—far too long to stay on top of things.

“What do you want to do about it?” He kissed the nape of her neck.

“I’d thought about inviting my put-upon colleagues back to the White House after work one day. Tea and cakes or something. My way of saying thank you.” She waited to see what he thought about the unusual idea of having guests in their London townhouse during the week. Blythewood, the impressive country mansion, had always been their preferred location for entertaining.

“It’s summertime, why not a barbecue? Brooks would be happy to do the grilling. Speak to him.”

He referred to their butler, a retired soldier who lived in the attic apartment above their townhouse. She and Jason were very fond of the old gent.

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