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The doctor wrote out a prescription. “I’m afraid you’re in for a few sleepless nights, though.” Her medical bag repacked, the out-of-hours doctor left for her next appointment.
Jason sent Brooks out to fulfil the script. After Brooks returned, Jason reappeared in our bedroom with syringes. I didn’t enquire where he kept them. In the past, when I’d suffered a serious panic attack, he’d injected me with sedatives. With the needle detached, Jason grasped Joshua in his arms while I squirted the liquid down his throat. Following the forced administration, Joshua clambered away from us and, grizzling, he flopped down on a pillow, and lay there.
Joshua disrupted the next three nights with his irritability and restless nature. Jason’s planned scene wasn’t just postponed, it was cancelled. We were lucky to grab a few hours of continuous sleep, snatching them throughout the night between placating visits to Joshua’s nursery. Relocating to Blythewood House for the weekend settled him, and Jason rose early on Sunday morning and went to check on Joshua in his cot.
“Out for the count still,” he said, upon returning. “Nice and cool. I think he is catching up on sleep.”
“Thank goodness. Let’s go and have a breakfast without a screaming child, shall we?” I reached for the baby monitor. Jason went ahead to turn the coffee machine on while I slipped on a dressing gown.
I scanned the Sunday paper, sipping my steaming coffee. The monitor activated once when Joshua had stirred then went back to sleep. We sighed collectively. I hummed to myself, planning a leisurely morning, perhaps a bath. My period had started on Friday. However, Jason had other ideas. Sex had been off the agenda for four nights, and as he eyed me, I dismissed my cosy-bath idea. Jason was about to shift into action.
He removed the empty mug from my hands and, unlike Wednesday evening, he skipped foreplay. I rose, a little perturbed because certain areas of my body were off limits. Which meant…? A whoosh of adrenaline flared in my stomach. Had I told him about my period and my omission? As I pondered my dilemma, Jason discarded my dressing gown to unveil my nudity and, with a hand about the back of my neck, bent me over the kitchen table.
“Sir. My period—”
“Yes. I know. I’m going to use this.” He put a finger against my puckered anus and I tensed, clenching my cheeks, squeezing his digit. Jason tutted.
I bent my knees, lowering my bottom. Another indication of my reticence to engage. The reason would have to be given. “I haven’t prepared myself for you.” Which meant I hadn’t used the cleansing douche.
“You’re not ready? When did you last do it?” He leaned over me as I squished my face into the pine surface, avoiding his looming figure.
“Umm, Tuesday,” I mumbled.
He heard. “Tuesday!”
“With Josh being ill, I didn’t think—”
“Did I stop shaving when Josh was ill, Gemma? Did I decide not to brush my teeth? Preparations, hygiene. They’re in the rules you agreed to. Be ready for me. I can understand if you’d not done it since yesterday, but five days!” He sounded more annoyed than I’d anticipated. I mean, it’s a ritual, not a laborious cleansing. Did it matter so much?
“We were tired. I didn’t think you would care…”
Wrong words! As soon as they slipped out of my disgruntled mouth, I’d stepped into a new area of disobedience.
“You get to decide, do you?”
No. No! I didn’t mean that.
I kept my mouth shut. I had dug a hole, and words were not going to be sufficient to clamber out of it.
Stupid, stupid!
“Go and do it now. You’d better show me your apologies.” Jason gave my departing bottom a hard slap as I scampered towards the door, leaving my dressing gown behind.
Stomping up the stairs, I blamed my hormones, lack of sleep, the weather, anything but my neglect. The man was impossible to please sometimes. Slamming the bedroom door, I inhaled from the bottom of my lungs. The truth was, I’d fucked up, because I could have asked permission to forgo the cleansing ritual for the duration of Joshua’s illness, and Jason would probably have consented to my proposal. For two nights, he’d looked exhausted and, other than a kiss good-night, he’d showed no interested in me sexually.
I dithered, circling the bedroom for a few seconds before accepting my fate. I went into the bathroom and did what I should have done days earlier.
He walked into the master bedroom ten minutes later to find me lying on the floor in the classic, I’m-really-sorry slave position—arms and legs outstretched, head tucked down, hands pressed together as if in prayer.
Lying at his feet, I heard a familiar swoosh and braced myself for the chastising suede flogger.
The knotted tips swept across my bottom, leaving a trail of stings. “Pigs roll around in their own muck, Gemma. That’s what you are, a dirty piggy. So let’s make you pink, shall we?”
I cursed, muttering under my breath. Unfair. Turning me into a pet pig lay right at the bottom of my kinky list of fun things. The flogging would be nothing compared to the humiliation. For once, I wanted Joshua to interrupt our impromptu scene. However, I uttered the appropriate response, “Yes, Sir. I’m a pig,” and embraced the stinging tails of his flogger.
He swung back and forth, working across my bottom and back in a figure-eight pattern. I jerked with each swish and thud, scrunching my hands in the carpet pile, trying hard not to cry out or release unshed tears. Disappointment raged inside me as I tried to understand why I had pushed my daily routine aside and hidden my carelessness from Jason.
He turned me over so he could target my breasts, tummy, and inner thighs. By the time he’d finished, I’d turned pink, and my skin prickled with soreness and unwanted heat. Instructed by Jason to kneel and rest on my forearms, I waited.
