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“We should go below and sort you out. Tidy you up. Yes?”
Gemma nodded. With Jason’s help, she descended to their deck. Maria appeared from the pantry, but Jason waved her away.
He covered Gemma’s fiery buttocks in arnica then gave her a cool drink of orange juice and two paracetamols for her headache. Jason lay next to her on the bed as she languished on her belly.
“I want you to sleep. For an hour or so,” Jason told her, running his hand down her back. “When you wake, I will make love to you, and then we will be ready if you wish to continue. Does that sound acceptable to you?”
“Yes. I’m sure I will be fine. I don’t want this to ruin our holiday, or end our D/s play.” She yawned. He was right. She needed to sleep.
Her husband covered Gemma’s dopey body with a sheet. Through bleary eyes, she saw him slip on a white cotton shirt and take up a watchful residence in a nearby armchair. He would stay nearby while she rested. Then, like on other occasions when she had her panic attacks, he would wake her with slow, gentle sex, pressing his gorgeous body into hers, cover her with kisses, and tongue her clitoris into an orgasmic state.
Chapter 12. Black Jack
Gemma familiarised herself with intricacies of Blackjack. As promised, her erotic mood had been re-established. When she woke from her short nap, Jason had made love to her with succinctness, conscientious of her earlier anxieties. Lying satiated and having completed his orgasm, he had asked her if she was happy to be his again—his submissive pleasure slave.
She had beamed. “Yes, Master.”
Her panic attack had melted away. Relaxed, in control of her faculties, and therefore ready to let him steer and direct her as he wished.
She downloaded the rules of the game, perused the layout of the casino table, and consulted strategy tables posted online to help calculate the best approach to beating the dealer. She practised with Jason as the yacht approached the coastline of France. Sitting on the main deck dining area, they snacked on fruit and pastries, while she tried her hand at card counting. Her memory techniques impressed Jason—not surprising given her training as an analyst—and he frequently complimented her on her efforts. The nuances of placing
bets she struggled with, and she didn’t anticipate making much money if she couldn’t work it out quickly. Risk analysis was his area of expertise.
“Not a good idea. Seventeen is not worth placing a high bet on. The dealer has a chance to go higher, especially with an ace.”
Gemma slammed a card down. “I’m the one going to be playing, Jason—”
“With my hard-earned money.” He jabbed a finger at the card.
Gemma concentrated on the shape of the suits—the heart, spade, club, or diamond. The colours she ignored, as they confused her brain.
“I wish playing cards were simply uncoloured,” she blurted out after one hand.
“Why?”
“Because they are not the colours I see with these numbers,” she said enigmatically.
She always struggled to convey to Jason her strange perceptions of numbers, especially the strong associations between numbers and specific colours. Occasionally, she would stare out into space as images jumped about in front of her. He would look on, bemused, with a slight shake of his head, but without judgement.
“Ignore them, then,” he said with a shrug. A few hands later, he frowned again at her. “Split. You should split a double seven.” He sighed.
“I know. Don’t hassle me. I bet you’re wondering if letting me lose in a casino is a big mistake. Eh?” she jibed with increasing frustration at his interference. “You can’t tell me what to do when I’m at the table. You will have to trust me.” She dispatched a glimmer of her green eyes. “You’ve given me plenty of incentive to do well.”
“And if you do badly, I will be compensated, too, remember, babe.” He chuckled, sipping on his sherry.
She pouted. He had refused her the aperitif and told her to avoid alcohol at the casino.
“A tiny drink? Go on, please.” She leant across the table and murmured, “Sir.”
“No.”
“Please,” she bleated, fluttering her lashes.
A tipple wouldn’t ruin her concentration she conjectured. Another firm shake of his head.
Her parents had never had a problem with her drinking as a teenager. Wine with a meal had been acceptable and champagne on special occasions. By the time she had reached eighteen, she was capable of holding her own after several drinks. Jason drank in moderation and preferred spirits or wine. Gemma liked tall drinks, especially gin and tonic.
She imagined she would be sitting at a high-stakes casino table, elegantly posed with legs crossed, playing Black Jack with a G&T in her hand. The femme fatale with men ogling her painted hands as she lay her cards on the table.
