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during the week, quicker and to the point. He was almost completely uninterested in me and I was little more than a pleasure vessel for him, as close to being his sex slave as I ever had been. I accepted my role had changed on those nights and waited for the weekend when I would be given his rigorous attention.
I did catch his attention in other ways, simply because I was sharing his homes. He had lived on his own for most of his adult life and it showed in his habits and the way he kept his houses. They were tastefully decorated and furnished, homely and comfortable, but he seemed to haunt his homes rather than live in them. There were few pictures on the walls, no ornaments on the dressers or cabinets, and the kitchens were purely functional. At Blythewood House, the only full height mirror was in the interior of his dressing room and at Piedmont the mirror was tucked away in the bathroom. It was not as if I wanted the rooms to be quaint and covered in knick-knacks, just extras that would make them appear to be more than fancy hotel suites.
Blythewood had the dungeon space. Not something that every house in the country had going for them. It was hidden away and unless you eyed up the outside wall and compared it to the inside floor space, could you judge that an entire room was tucked away out of sight. Piedmont was a sleepover house. A bachelor pad that he had rented since making his wealth. The most used room in the house was his study. There were plenty of books: legal textbooks, financial reports, political essays and heavy tomes on the world of economics. On one closer inspection when he was at work, I found a few books on sexual psychology, anatomy, advanced first aid, tantric massaging and golfing legends. His hobbies summed up nicely on one shelf. I was strangely re-assured by those books, as if it made him a real person and not a freaky executive with kinky ideas about sex.
I had added my own bits and pieces. The toiletries in the en-suite cabinets expanded dramatically overnight. His own clothes were pushed to one side as I hung up my own. They looked out of place next to his refined elegant suits. I really needed to go shopping, soon. My books went to Blythewood, along with my ancient computer and most of my artistic hobby stuff. Only when I was there in the townhouse did it cross my mind that I was going to be spending more time here then at Blythewood. Boredom set in quickly.
He had a complete silverware set at both houses. Such extravagance and I wondered how much entertaining he did. I could not help opening up the cutlery canteen and admiring the quality of its contents. My knives and forks had come from Argos and his probably from Harrods. There were silver tea and coffee pots, platters, condiment sets, napkin rings and candlesticks. Unintentionally I left smudges on the silver plate. I grimaced at my grubby marks and went to find the silver polish in the utility area.
By the time Jason came home on the Wednesday evening, I had the kitchen table covered in old newspaper, cloths, a bottle of cleaning fluid and his silverware. Most of it had been made sparkling bright by the time he was home. He stood in the kitchen doorway staring at me.
“What are you doing, Gemma?” he asked with a faintly amused expression.
“Polishing,” I said carefully checking over the platter for my fingerprints.
“I can see that, but why? Brooks has the house cleaned for me, including the silverware.”
“I thought they could do with an extra buffing up,” I said with a shrug. “I like polishing. Cleaning is tedious, but polishing is much more satisfactory. All the shiny surfaces reflecting....” I stopped speaking, too much information which did not interest him in the slightest.
“Were you that bored today?” He put his briefcase down on the floor, as there was no space on the table.
“I’m making myself at home.”
“By polishing my rather well polished silver?”
“I left a smudge on something and it kind of snowballed into a whole polishing everything. They look good don’t they?” I said waving my blackened hands over the table.
“What about painting, sketching thing you claim you like to do?”
Good point. Why had I not simply taken the time to draw? “Nothing to draw here. Sorry, but this house is pretty dull subject matter....”
He interrupted me. “Go out then. You can buy what you like and Johnson can take you wherever,” he reminded me of his generosity.
“I know, thank you. I suppose I’m trying to make myself at home. I’ve got two homes to get use to.”
“You’re going to polish the silver at Blythewood too then? Poor Mrs Harris will be out of a job,” he said going to the put the kettle on.
“Oh, I don’t want to get in her way....”
“Joking! But I think you can find a better way to make yourself at home. Perhaps making me some dinner?” he said staring at the empty kitchen worktops.
Whoops! Time had flown by, helped by my iPod and headphones.
“I’ll just tidy up and I’m sure I can rustle up something quick for you, sir.”
I scrambled to my feet.
“I know you’re keen for a proper job, but there are better ways to impress upon me that need than stinking my kitchen out with polishing fluid,” his tone had changed and I recognised it. My ears were becoming accustomed to his vocal inflections.
“I apologise, sir, I thought I was....”
“Gemma, you don’t have to clean, polish or scrub the floors. I’ve told you before. You please me in other ways. So make me tea and then you can keep me company in the study by sitting quietly and reading, or whatever you do when you’re being unobtrusive. Understood?”
He came over to me, and without touching my filthy hands, lent forward to give me a tender kiss on the lips.
“The only thing I want clean in this house, is you and for obvious reasons.”
My legs shook like jelly when he said those words.
