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“I thought he might like this garage. It comes with a slide and....” His newspaper lowered. “Okay. Nothing. Poor lad.”
“That does it, Gemma. If you buy one thing for him without my permission, for every pound you spend, I get to spank you.” Back up went the newspaper.
“Just a spank? I think it was only twenty or so pounds. Not much really,” I ventured.
He curled his fingers around the paper. “Are you negotiating?”
“No. I’m pointing out you may be too generous.”
“Generous? It’s meant to be a disincentive, not to encourage you.”
“It was a plastic garage, however, I spotted this wooden one for eighty pounds, but I thought that was extravagant. Maybe, it was the better choice, looked sophisticated, too,” I added. Truly, I pushed my luck.
The newspaper shot down. “Sophisticated? How can a kid’s toy be sophisticated?”
“Better made. Do I have your permission? It’s just a garage.” I gave him the best flutter of my eyelashes. Underneath his apparent indifference, I knew he was in a good mood, and I flirted on the edge of the dangerous line of pushing him into action.
“No. Because next it will be extra cars then before we know it you’ll have a race track all over the floor. Eighty with the wooden paddle, the big one. You know the one I mean. Is that generous enough?”
Damn. He’d ramped the price tag up too far. My masochist urges didn’t extend to that bloody paddle, and I gave up on the idea. The newspaper wasn’t lowered again until he had finished reading the contents. I put aside ideas for toys and sought out other ways to treat my son. Ordinary mother and baby things.
One of Joshua’s main entertainments was the Monday toddler group based in an old church hall next to a rundown inner-city parish church. Two pounds for the privilege of hanging around in a dilapidated building with an antiquated heating system and boxes of donated toys. I sat on a plastic chair with other mums and compared tantrums, snotty noses, and ill-fitting clothes. I also heard about useless spouses, obnoxious relatives, and everything being too expensive. I kept my mouth shut on the last topic and would never consider referring to Jason as useless. Quite the contrary, I generally found him very useful.
It wasn’t that the other mums were not friendly or approachable. They lived such different lives from me. However, if there had been a rich mums’ play group, I wouldn’t have wanted to go. I liked immersing myself amongst average people, the opportunity to experience life as the majority did, and I envied the normality of their existence. My once youthful ambitions for a married life and kids had been based on the church-hall scenario—gossiping, comparing notes, and worrying about everyday things.
The mundane marriage had been what I’d envisaged in my teens. I’d pictured coming home to a semi-detached house, cooking tea, cuddling up next to hubby, watching TV while we chatted about our day. Sex would feature, of course, though those daydreams were my pre-kink ones and I’d foreseen sex as a function of marriage and merely an act to complete the description of husband and wife.
After my introduction to the world of BDSM, I put aside conventional ideas of marriage and relationships. Did I want them? Not back then, fresh out of university. In my early twenties, I’d been on a hedonistic voyage of discovery about my own desires and abilities—traditional approaches to living with men hadn’t been on the agenda. As my first Master nurtured and guided my submissive practices, I’d begun to rethink what I wanted from marriage—the lifelong partnership, which my parents seemed to have excelled at and enthused about when I visited them.
Deep down, I’d wanted it—to love and be loved without end and having kids, too. I’d aspired to fulfil the broody requests my subconscious mind made of me. I’d ogled over newborns in prams at the shops or watched the kids dash about the playgrounds while their mothers chatted. That would be me, I’d told tell myself. I had started to fantasise about having a dominant husband to nurture my fledging submission.
I would want to please my lover, and the premise had always been part of my psyche. My new vision, back then, had been of my husband coming home from work and finding his submissive wife waiting for him with the dinner ready. She would wait on him, at his feet, while he told her what he wanted her to do. She would bring him whatever he wished. Ask him if he’d had a good day and if he had not, what she could do to make it better for him. If he wanted sex, she would give it to him in whatever fashion he desired. Perhaps she would open her mouth to take him while he watched TV or bring him an object for his pleasure: a book, a beer, or a toy to play with her.
Throughout my meandering dreams of my “normal” marriages, whether with or without the kink, I hadn’t foretold a future that would take me on exotic holidays, see me driven in chauffeured cars, flown about in private jet planes, or living in mansions.
If my married life was destined to be off the scales of normality, then I would have my maternal experiences grounded with ordinary people. I wanted to hear about the latest cheap deals in the supermarkets, cut-price clothes, and the best local state schools. For an hour and a half, I pretended I was one of them, those everyday mums, nodding my head in agreement and pretending to know all about where to shop for bargains.
Joshua coped quite well, and it pleased me seeing him on the floor with other toddlers. They didn’t have a concept of sharing or borrowing. It was snatch-and-grab tactics all round, and we mums rebuked them and apologised for their behaviour. I shifted on my seat when, on one occasion, Joshua looked like he had bitten another child’s arm.
“Josh, no!” I scolded.
He wavered for a minute and leaned forward with his mouth open again.
“No!” I scooped him up and plonked him on my lap. When would he learn the word no meant no?
He wriggled and whinged, kicking his heels agains
t my shins, forcing me to release him again, and he headed off to explore another box of recycled toys. Defeated by his stubbornness, I went to make some tea for the others, and it kept me busy and away from deflecting their questions about my life.
Casual clothing helped with my transformation. The diamond collar necklace was a no-no, as was my expensive watch and handbags. I possessed an unassuming collection of everyday clothes to wear on occasions when I wanted to disguise my wealth. Gibson waited outside somewhere, watching from the car. A mums’ group wasn’t considered a likely source of threats.
The “mum” part of our group wasn’t a requirement. Dads were welcome, too. However, they didn’t come. Generally working or put off by the idea of long conversations about breast-feeding, nappies or puke, they were non-existent. More likely they would be surprised at the amount of chat about relationships, arguments, and “getting enough sex” or “keeping his hands off me.” Having a man present might have tempered the conversation to less personal matters. However, I had no plans to reveal my weekend spent in my parents-in-law’s conservatory, sucking my husband’s cock.
Unfortunately, I made my assumption of normality based on a false reality, one I’d conceived in my imagination and founded on little practical experience of the world from which Jason kept me sheltered.
The man bounded in with clenched fists. He wasn’t what we expected from a father, for one thing, there was no baby with him. Just his fists. He walked right up to a brunette with a pacifier swinging on her finger and yelled a stream of verbal abuse.
I grabbed Joshua and parked him on my hip, ready to leave as Jason would have told me to do. However, I couldn’t. He accused her of cheating on him, having a fling with a mate or something. She denied it at first.
