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She parted her legs wide. An arm looped around her front, holding her underneath her breasts, and the other appeared lower, still holding the cane. Sliding it along his palm, he came near to the tip, and the realisation dawned on her what he planned to do. She pushed backwards, as if to escape.
“Babe, don’t move,” he whispered. An agreeable, pleasant command, which always tricked her into obeying. Damn.
She panted, watching his hand creep closer. The tip, the tiniest of possible dildos, nudged her clitoris. She’d made herself come with a pen cap once, years ago, at work, in the toilet when she’d been addicted to masturbating. Having another work over her nub with the hard end of the cane filled her with shame. It thrilled her, too. She hated how the parallel elements fought over her sexual being.
She shrieked, not so much in pain, the excruciating sensation of pleasure won through. The tiniest agitation of his cane made her dance on tiptoes, squirming in his clutches.
“Come for me!” He accompanied his command with a frenzied flutter of the cane tip. She knocked her knees together, and he practically lifted her off the ground.
“No, no—” Now she feared coming. Too much! God damn him!
Breathe. Stop fighting him.
“Good girl.”
Her feet touched the carpet again. Her legs spread, and the cane tip circled the edge of her clitoris, slipping up and down her wet slit.
“Argh!”
He held her upright as she bucked. The explosive orgasm swept about her body in waves of spasms.
She had little time to compose herself. Jason released his grip about her w
aist and undid his buttons.
“Kneel.”
She scrambled down onto her knees, keen to please him. She held out her tongue and licked upwards, tasting his clean skin. He dipped in then lunged, taking her deep. With her nose pressed against his belly, she sucked hard, drawing in her cheeks and creating a vacuum about his erection. She ignored the painful glow of her bottom and her tender clitoris. Her attention focused on his pleasure. He placed a hand on her head, fingers tangled in her hair, the other held the cane. The tip continued to torment her skin as he trailed it over her back.
Jason shuddered. Her scalp stung as his grip intensified. He let out a cry and pumped into her throat. She gulped his cum down into her belly. Sometimes, Jason went beyond masterful. Naked, vulnerable, and kneeling at his feet, she came close to the edge of what she could tolerate. His controlling nature had the potential to suffocate her spirit and remove all her willpower. It would never happen, but she knew they walked a tightrope. It didn’t matter, that day. She faced a threat to her safety, her person, and Jason was back, in charge and directing her once again. He was exactly where she wanted him to be.
***
Martinson appeared shortly after 2:00 p.m. She, Jason, and Martinson sat around the kitchen table with Joshua pinned down in his high chair, happy to nibble on breadsticks and squish cheese between his fingers. The room smelt of a rich coffee aroma as the bean grinder whirred in the background. Gemma inhaled the strong scent, hoping it would refresh her memory both of Tuesday’s dance class and whoever knew her eight years ago. The conversation started with Martinson asking similar questions to Gibson’s. The routine, the timescales, how long was she in the changing room? Could she describe the members of the dance class? She ruled out a number of them for being too young.
“Unless they were given the photos by an older person, they would have been school kids when the photo was taken.”
“Tuesday was your third visit?” asked Martinson.
“Yes.”
“Let’s assume, during your first visit, someone recognised you, perhaps even followed you about. But they didn’t get close enough to see your wedding ring.” Martinson stared at the diamond collar necklace with its miniature pedant J dangling down. “You wore that, too?”
“I don’t take it off.” She was about to add “without permission”, but stopped short of the revelation. “The letter doesn’t show, unless close up.”
He had yet to deny her permission to remove the symbolic mark of his ownership, trusting her judgement. Most times, she hated the idea of being without it. Its absence could be disconcerting. She missed having it close about her neck when she visited her parents. She and Jason had discussed her having a permanent mark of his ownership on her body, somewhere hidden about her personage. Jason frowned upon permanent tattoos. He didn’t like the way they changed colouration as the skin aged and wrinkled. The idea of piercing still felt too fearful about, not the pain of having the procedure performed, but the idea of a sharp spike entering her flesh filled her with morbid dread. Too close to her nightmares. It left her with the necklace—her symbolic collar.
Martinson cleared his throat. “Would its significance be understood by the person who had the photo?”
Jason answered. “Yes, more than likely.” Under the table, his hand squeezed her thigh, and it stopped her heel tapping relentlessly on the floor. A little act of reassurance on his part.
The security chief scratched his head thoughtfully. “But, the note doesn’t imply that you are married or in a relationship. So…they didn’t get that close to you. Perhaps the person went away that day, thinking they had recognised you. Found your photo and began to remember you. The next week, they had a better look at you, confirming your identity. Not Gemma Lucas—Gemma Marshall.”
Jason spoke up. “If the blackmailer didn’t get close enough to see the necklace or rings, how did they identify Gemma’s bag?”
Jason had made a good point. The bag was one of many left on a bench in the changing room. She didn’t bother to lock it away. There was nothing of value left in it, and the bag itself was old and tatty. A much-loved relic of her life before Jason, a memento.
“Wait!” She didn’t have time to explain; she leapt out of her chair and dashed out of the room. Upstairs, in the spare room, which acted as extra storage space, she retrieved her blue sports bag, complete with dodgy zipper and frayed shoulder strap. Returning to the breakfast room, she dropped it on the table in front of the two men. Jason wearing a grim expression of distaste, stared at the bag as if the item were diseased. It was old, easily as old as eight years, but clean and usable.
