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The first aspect of my training he had taken on was my sexual appetite. No fucks with anyone. OK, I had thought, that was what I wanted, to be taken in hand and sorted out. No touching yourself or masturbating was the next command. That one had made me panic.
“Not at all?” I had said eyes wide open. I had answered him back so he spanked me over his spanking stool. Screaming out, “I can’t do it, sir!” I had admitted the level of my sexual self-service: daily frigging under the sheets in the morning and at bedtime to help me to sleep. His approach had been to coach me with the carrot not the stick. There were no threats of terrible punishments if I broke the rule. I suspected he could have inflicted rather more painful techniques to create an aversion to masturbating.
“I don’t want you to hate your body, Gemma. Quite the contrary, you need to treat it with respect. You must stop seeing your sensual side as belonging to you. It will be your master’s to control. Once you let him give you pleasure, you won’t want to touch yourself. Pleasing him will be your focus. You will please me by not masturbating and only when I ask you to.” Relying on controlling me had been his technique. He would ring me during the week, when I was back at my apartment, and order me
to masturbate over the phone for him.
At first, he would ring two or three times a week. I had eagerly waited for those calls each evening. Pacing up and down my shabby little sitting room, the TV soaps blaring in the background to help pass the time, I would pounce on the phone the moment he rang. I would have to tell him what I done that day. My behaviour towards others and how well I was performing in my new job. Then he would tell me to strip and touch myself and come strongly for him. I did every time. I had loved that he was there back at his house listening to me lose it for him.
The calls came less frequently. Once or twice a week, then once and eventually one complete week flew by and he did not call at all. By then I had found other ways to occupy my time. The evening classes in watercolour painting, a dance class, meeting Trudy in a pub or simply the pleasure of reading. My rampant thoughts of lust had been replaced with hobbies, sensible socialising and self-discipline. That Friday when I had arrived at his house, he had asked if I had struggled to comply with his wish for me to cease masturbating and I had said I was grateful for his methodology. It had gently removed the selfish desire and made me regain my self-respect. For the rest of the time I was with him, I did not break his masturbation rule and I was proud of my achievement. So was he and it had been fantastic boost to my morale, knowing he had been pleased with me.
After we had parted company, I was without a full-time dominant for weeks or months on end and the self-indulgent act had crept back into my life but never to the frequency that I had sustained in my final year of studentship. However, I would always struggle with my demon fingers and the way they drifted down between my legs when I fantasied about naked men, dominating naked men. I had acquired different tastes since my silly student fantasies. I fully understood what it was to be dominated and controlled. The fearsome voices, the physical stature and the power these men had over me. It meant containing my frisky fingers was incredibly difficult sometimes.
Jason’s voice was of that calibre. Closing my eyes, I started to touch myself again and even re-attached the pegs on my nipples. It did not take much and remembering his sultry voice on the phone was all it took to bring me to a small but pleasurable climax. I lay there satiated and happy, the minutes ticked by as I slumbered.
Jason’s ringtone made me jump in my skin.
Oh fuck, what now?
Control, control. My voice must not betray anything.
“Hello, Jason,” I tried to speak as calmly as possible.
“Have you been touching yourself, Gemma?” The question was blunt and his voice was icy.
“Ummm .... No, sir.”
As soon as the words left my mouth I knew I had screwed up, too long a pause and a lack of assertiveness in my voice. He inhaled sharply down the phone, his voice slightly breathless, like he was exerting himself.
“I’m coming over for a personal inspection. You better not be lying to me.”
The phone went blank and I scrambled off the bed. He must have already been heading down to his car and the office was only ten minutes’ drive away at this time of night.
“Shit, shit!” I said as I quickly put my bra, knickers and t-shirt back on. My hair was a mess, a bit sweaty and my face terribly flushed. I rushed to the bathroom to throw water on my blotched complexion to cool it down. I had a pee as I was suddenly bursting, probably with anxiety. By the time I had straightened my hair, tidied the bed and removed the pegs from the room, the doorbell rang. He must have been breaking the speed limit to reach my apartment.
I nervously approached the front door and opened it. Jason was standing there one arm leaning on the outer door frame, his face was hard and unwelcoming. He was wearing his typical sleek business suit, tie loosened, hair combed neatly back. I smiled at him trying to encourage him to look friendlier. Behind him, I saw his Austin Martin parked up on the road, no escort tonight, but he did not bother when he commuted between his townhouse and work.
“Hello,” my voice was quiet and I could not hide the quivering tone.
He walked across the threshold and then leant back on the door to shut it with a slow click of the locking mechanism. The whole time his eyes were on my face. I lowered mine to the ground, convinced I was betraying myself.
“Sorry about the mess, you know, packing is not a tidy job.”
I tried to look as apologetic as possible and he took a few steps into the apartment hallway.
“I’m not here to inspect your packing. I’m here to inspect you: my girl.” Jason continued to walk toward me, a panther stalking his prey.
I could not take my eyes off the floor in front of me and I started to back up, walking away from him backwards. We walked in tandem like this, keeping a distance.
“Would you like a coffee, or something? Wine maybe. Sir,” I added belatedly.
“No.” A short response was not encouraging.
I pushed my bedroom door open with my behind and practically stumbled backwards into the room. Naturally, he followed, divesting himself of his jacket as we went, hanging it up on the door handle. Holding out his hand, he pushed me against the bed and then with a none to gentle shove, I was tipped back on to the bed behind me. He reached down, forced my thighs apart and grabbed my sex with his hand. I shut my eyes and folded my arms over my eyes. There was no hiding my very damp knickers. He pulled the crotch of my knickers to one side and pushed a finger up inside me.
“You’re very juicy down here,” Jason hissed. “I am mad at you now. Not only do I think you masturbated on your own, but then you lied to me. You said, I quote, ‘I wouldn’t dream of breaking your rules’. You are pathetic when you lie. I can see right through you. Your face, your voice, and your whole demeanour shouts that you fucked yourself in my absence.”
He was bending right over me now his face achingly close to mine, breathing on my bare arms. He grabbed them and pulled them away so he could see my pale face and teary eyes.
