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“For not doing as you asked.”
“Mmm. Technically you did. Hardly something I can correct. Unless you feel a burning need to have your arse warmed.”
I snuggled closer and yawned. “Not tonight.”
“Then, I will hold you to our next trip out.”
A week later, the butt plug and Ben-Wa birthday bash was a complete success. I was hot for him the entire evening in Carla’s chosen restaurant. Jason sat next to me, running his fingers up and down my thigh and I must have looked vacuous while driven wild by my tormenting sex toys—several times he had to nudge me for a response to a question. If he had asked me to strip naked and dance on the table, I would have done it. He did not. I had to wait until we got home then he fucked me all over the bedroom floor in his favourite positions with my hands tied behind my back.
Risking public exposure presented one set of problems, but not as risky as displaying his dominance in the presence of family members.
Our sporadic visits to family usually resulted in a major toning down of behaviours. However, Jason’s confidence in his own family’s lack of interest must have achieved new heights. Gone were the days when his sexual predilections as a practising Dominant had been ignored, swept under the proverbial carpet of ignominy. Since my outing as Jason’s submissive on his thirty-third birthday, we’d gradually unveiled our mildest of habits, which reflected my deference towards my husband, and, subsequently, his family resumed their head-burying techniques.
Things went up another notch during a visit to his parents, when Jason must have been in need of some thrill or excitement to alleviate the tedium and chose the conservatory as his playground for one of those unplanned scenes that made our sexual life so erotic and addictive.
***
One of Jason’s delights was using a blow job to control my breathing. It would intensify the desire in me, the need to orgasm, and make me extra submissive. It was power play, and I loved the feeling it gave me.
Breath play to the point of fainting, he didn’t do. During my rape, fainting had saved me considerable suffering. What you do not recall, you do not know. Jason avoided my losing consciousness. I wouldn’t be in his control if I was not sentient or aware. He kept me conscious at all times, whether in a state of pleasure or pain. Subspacing was the limit of my imaginary unconsciousness.
That Sunday morning in the conservatory, his parents had volunteered to take Joshua out in the garden. While they clowned about with their grandson, Jason lounged on the cane sofa and watched through the slatted window blinds. No sunshine, but the late spring morning was warm and pleasant. The room possessed the wonderful ambient temperature conservatories rarely attained: neither too hot nor too cold.
Just as we would in our own conservatory, I parked my butt on a big soft cushion on the wooden floor and read.
“What are you reading?” asked Jason.
“Poetry.”
“Not T.S. Eliot?”
“No. Something different. I have varied tastes.” I waved the book above my head and poked my finger at the title. “See?”
“Read a poem to me. Your favourite.” He stroked my hair, and my scalp tingled.
I thumbed through the paperback and found the one I liked best. “Valentine” by John Fuller. I read aloud a romantic poem with lots of rhyming couplets. The more I read the hypnotic poem, the more I appreciated its style.
“Sweet. Memorise it for me,” he said.
“Why?” I turned to face him.
His head rested on the back of the seat, eyes staring up at the ceiling fan. “Babe, the next time you say it aloud, I’m going to be spanking you super hard. It’s time you had new poetry in your head.”
Boy, did he look sexy, and I’d knots in my belly. I placed the book on the floor and laid my head on his lap. He was hard, surprisingly rigid, and it made me even more pathetically needy. My little internal motor hummed, revving up the nerves in my loins.
Outside, our son screamed in delight at something. Jason had a good view of the garden and his parents. He pulled me up onto the sofa, and I flopped next to him, my mind a puddle of poetic erotic thoughts.
“Ask.”
“Please may I service your beloved cock with my mouth?” I’d devotional begging off to a fine art by now.
“Sure,” he murmured.
Gentle words but rough hands. He dragged my head onto his lap, using my previously caressed locks of hair, and unzipped his flies. His erection sprang up into my face, and I sank my mouth right over it, all the way down to the balls.
“Suck.”
Not the voice, please! In his parents’ house, too. I sucked, gagged, and tried to come off him.
