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A disembodied voice called out her name, and into the doctor’s room she went with her heart beating as if it had been transplanted outside of her chest wall.
Mrs Henderson was perhaps Jason’s age, in her midthirties. In profile, she had an attractive face with smile wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her baggy top failed to hide her pear-shaped figure. The cluttered desk rested against the wall and, as Gemma approached, the obstetrician swivelled around in her chair. She would have preferred the doctor to be on the other side of a desk, less intimidating than close proximity.
“Mrs Lucas, welcome.” She paused to thumb through Gemma’s referral letter. “Your GP has written to me and informed me that you want to have consultant-led antenatal care. I’m sure you will find our facility and care excellent. We pride ourselves on giving our mums-to-be the peace of mind they need. You’re quite early on in your pregnancy. We can do a scan at your next appointment to check for the foetal heartbeat. Were you having any concerns, bleeding or pains?”
Gemma drew long, slow breaths throughout the introduction, taking note of the reference to peace of mind. She was certain she could do with that as she sat twisting her fingers together, knees knocking slightly.
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. Concerns, yes, I have those. You see, Mrs Henderson, I’m not a run-of-the-mill wife.”
She stopped as the face opposite her went into the quizzical expression she had anticipated. Right there and then, she wanted to walk out of the room. What would Jason do if she did? He would express disappointment in her lack of assertiveness and obedience to him, but he wouldn’t punish her. It wasn’t the kind of order; she knew when he meant it to be carried through without deviation. Nevertheless, she’d been asked to do something and sometimes, as his wife, she had to obey him regardless of her personal preferences. She had sworn to do so on their wedding night, in private, at his feet and full of bliss.
“Mrs Lucas? Are you sure you’re all right?” Mrs Henderson put down her pen and clasped her hands on the desk.
She spoke to her feet. “I’m more than his wife. I’m his submissive. I don’t know what you know about relationships involving Dominants and submissives, but that is what we are. He is my Dominant husband and I, his submissive wife.”
She’d managed the first hurdle. The next one was the hardest, explaining the kink, the sadomasochism, and the bondage. She looked up at the doctor and saw a blank face. Perhaps the woman was too stunned or bemused to express anything disagreeable. Certainly no
t laughing or horrified, which were the two extremes she couldn’t tolerate.
“I’m not sure I follow, Mrs Lucas. How does this type of relationship impact your pregnancy?”
Gemma clutched her hands together on her lap. “Domination and submission falls under the umbrella of what many people know as BDSM. Kinky things. Though that is being a bit simplistic.” Her face flushed hot.
“I see. Handcuffs and spanking-type stuff,” said Mrs Henderson, smiling, as if she wanted to make a joke of it all.
Gemma considered it a wayward and simplistic view of what they did together. With a sense of purpose, she took the plunge. “To be honest, Mrs Henderson, what we do goes way beyond tying me to the bed with silk scarves and tickling me a feather duster. It’s very intense and affects our whole life. It’s a consensual lifestyle choice. What I need to know is about how the physical, sexual aspects of what we do can affect the baby. Neither my husband and I wish to harm our baby.”
The corner of Mrs Henderson’s lips flickered upwards at the mention of feather dusters. Then it went solemn and impenetrable again. Gemma felt lost for words.
“I…see,” said the doctor then she shrugged. “You can’t refrain?”
The sinking feeling grew inside Gemma. Perhaps she should find another obstetrician.
“We can and we have because I’ve been sent to find out more. A fact-finding mission. I need information so we can make decisions, collective decisions about what is important to us. It would be a shame and very challenging for us both to put on hold our way of life simply because of ignorance. I’m sure tickling me with a feather duster isn’t going to harm the baby; it might amuse it.”
A gynaecologist couldn’t be ignorant of the sexual nature of kink, surely? She wondered if the reticence was mutual, whether the obstetrician was just as uncomfortable talking to Gemma as she was with her.
But the doctor seemed to respond to her attempt to lighten the atmosphere with humour. “We seem to be stuck in pregnant pauses. Forgive the pun.” Mrs Henderson’s joke broke the ice, and Gemma smiled back. “You have questions and you obviously feel awkward about asking them, and I don’t want to embarrass you by suggesting what they might be. We’re educated women. I think there must be a way we can go forward. May I make a suggestion?”
“God, please do.” Gemma raised her hands in fists, as if to punch air. Some progress, at last.
“E-mail me. I can give you my private address. I’m sure you want to keep your questions private. That way, we can conduct this conversation without seeing who can turn the deepest crimson. Would this be feasible for you? Helpful?”
“Oh, yes. It would be the perfect solution. I don’t want to bombard you with my difficult personal questions. It’s not fair to either of us. Thank you.”
Gemma and the doctor exhaled a collective sigh of relief. They exchanged private e-mail addresses. Mrs Henderson would try to respond in the evenings and during her lunch breaks. Gemma booked an appointment for her first scan to check the baby’s heartbeat.
“Bring your husband along, if you can. They like seeing the first scan; keeps them involved,” suggested Mrs Henderson.
“My husband is a busy man, but I don’t recollect him mentioning being out of the country in two weeks’ time.” Gemma stood up and prepared to leave. “We’re both very private people, Mrs Henderson.”
“I understand, Mrs Lucas. I await your e-mails. I promise to try to answer them promptly.”
Gemma hoped she would, as she had an essay to write for her husband and the deadline was fast approaching.
Numerous e-mails passed back and forth on many issues that Gemma attempted to present in a subtle, though honest, fashion. After spanking, she tackled other forms of play including bondage, ice, and wax play. Her doctor appeared to take the obscure questions in her stride. In response, she was told pain wouldn’t be an issue for the baby, however, the emotions accompanying the pain would have to be considered. The hormonal rampage of pregnancy might cause Gemma to tolerate pain differently—increased skin sensitivity and emotional outbursts.
She realised most of what Maggie Henderson suggested was common sense. Bondage shouldn’t include the abdomen, shocks induced by some play, such as hot wax or ice, might be unsuitable if done abruptly. Reading over the messages, Gemma purred with excitement. She’d found out much she didn’t know. Nothing daunting, until the notes touched on the birth. Gemma’s fear of blood reared its ugly head. From there, it became necessary, in another e-mail, to mention her nightmare scene—her rape. The nightmare she’d buried deep and only spoke of to Jason.
