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It would leave my parents with first impressions only and they would be delighted at finding their daughter had hit the jackpot in terms of opportunities. Would they like Jason? He could be incredibly charming and entertaining without giving away much personal information. My father would be quietly resigned to my circumstances and keep his assessment to himself. However, my mother would make her little mental list of criticisms and at some point in the near future would tick them off one by one with me. Whatever my opinion, it would be an inevitable consequence of introducing my mother to my first real boyfriend. Ironic, given Jason was not really my boyfriend, he was my dominant and I was his submissive partner.
Having my hawkeyed mother appraise me always made me tense to the point of virtual panic. Coming home from school with my end of year report card in a sealed envelope used to make me apoplectic with anxieties. Regardless if I did well – which invariably was the case – I dreaded her stern face and the way she made me wait before pronouncing her judgement. She would take forever to read the words of indifferent teachers as if they were statements of great sages. The most she would say in praise was ‘Very good, Gemma’ and then she would mention every tiny criticism and ask me to explain their origin. I hated report day with a passion.
Feeling passionate was doing me no favours as I waited for the call from the gatehouse. Jason had enough of my agitated prowling about and I discovered another aspect of our relationship. Given the right circumstances, I could rely on him to bring me to my senses with tactics that would only work with the type of personalities we exhibited.
“Gemma, down here!” he shouted up the stairs as my patrolling caused the floorboards to creak excessively.
The internal telephone, which was linked to the gatehouse, had not called so I knew they had not arrived. He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs with his hands on his hips. Lips pursed together, he gave his head a tiny shake of disapproval. I had to confess he looked scrumptious dressed in his more casual attire. A light grey silk suit with white shirt and no tie. He had a belt on his trousers and he was fingering the buckle ominously.
My arm was grabbed unceremoniously and I was practically frogmarched into the kitchen.
“Sir?” I said nervously.
He led me to the long pine table and pushed me down, forcing me to bend over the end.
“Please, sir!” I said alarmed.
“Shut up.”
I could hear him pulling the belt out from his trousers loops. The skirt of my Donna Karan dress was hitched up above my waist and my knickers yanked down. One of his hands pressed down on the base of my lower back while the other had the belt looped about his knuckles.
“Noooo!” I whimpered.
“Yes,” he said in reply. “Position yourself.”
Hell, he was going to do the deed properly. He knocked my legs apart and I hooked each one on either side of the table legs effectively opening me up wider. My arms stretched out straight before me and I weaved my fingers together and buried my head between my arms.
Whoosh. Whack!
“OW!” I yelped.
There was nothing gentle or sensual about the blow he landed across my bare buttocks.
Whoosh. Whack!
The rhythm was quickly established.
“My parents!” I hollered audaciously.
“Are not here yet,” he pointed out.
Whoosh. Whack!
“Argh!”
The blows were not the hardest a belt could deliver. He was not after substantial pain from me. This was no sadistic voyage for him, he went for the rhythm and pace. A repetitive swing of his arm and the belt landed with a slap. I grunted with each smack of the leather strap and it began to happen.
Tears crept out of my eyes. They were not the tears of excessive pain or distress. They indicated I was letting my pent up frustrations and fears leak ou
t of me. Each teardrop accompanied a smarting spank of the belt and each time I gave a little more of my negativity back to Jason for him to vanquish. The unwanted emotions were replaced with a sense of acceptance and a strange soup of euphoria.
“My mascara…” I muttered incoherently as I spotted black stains on the wood surface.
“Shhh, babe,” he was stroking my bottom, dispersing the pain and marks. Every few blows he would stop and repeat the action.
I continued my grunts, groans and finally I moaned erotically. I was quite relaxed pressed on the table and the pain was a distant presence. A red-hot bum of burning did not quite make it to my pain sensing brain. I was drifting beautifully. Now I did not want him to stop. I was out of control and thankfully, he was in control.
He stopped and I actually whimpered in disappointment.
