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“Several times a week, Sir,” I whispered, hoping the extractor fan would mask my voice.
“Did it not occur to you I would draw your attention to any abnormalities? My grandmother died of breast cancer. You know that. I’m well aware of the importance of checking for your lumps and bumps.”
“My body, my health. It is why I have that clause. If you do it, you take away my decision to—”
“You would ignore an abnormality?”
“I didn’t mean that. Of course I would take it seriously,” I countered. “If I see my doctor, I want to be able to tell her I look after myself and have control over my well-being.”
He pushed me back against the tiled wall.
“Control? Do I tell you when to take a piss or watch you when you do? Do I tell you when to eat, how fat or thin you should be? Do I alter your body permanently in any way for my pleasure? Do I? I ask only to control your sexual being for my pleasure. Your sensual flesh—your tits, cunt, and arsehole are mine. Your lips, throat, and tongue, when they touch my flesh, are mine. You were not conducting a medical examination. You stood there, eyes shut, mouth gaping, and groping yourself until you practically came.”
I sank further into the wall, wishing I could slip through, ghostlike, into the next room.
“When is your period due?”
“In a few days. Sir.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong. Isn’t the week after your period when you should examine your breasts? Shall we check your leaflet?”
He’d scuppered my defences, leaving them shattered. He knew so bloody much about everything. I hiccupped, struggling to stave off the tears.
“Where is the leaflet?”
I could pretend I’d destroyed it, but my lies were failing. “My bedside drawer.”
“Do I need to fetch it, or are you going to confess how many times a month you check your breasts for that all-important act of self-control.”
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.
“Don’t turn on the taps, Gemma.”
“My intention is genuine,” I blubbered.
“For how many fucking months? It might once have been, but it isn’t now.”
I bowed my head. I loved my few minutes of titty squeezing, the way it made me hot and sexy, tingling in all those wondrous places. Since Jason had invoked his rules, I’d lost ownership of them. I hadn’t seen my little self-indulgent moments as denying or replacing Jason’s prerogative or right over me. However, Jason did, and it came as no surprise he saw what I’d done as breaking the rules.
“For the rest of the month, you will shower with clover clamps on your nipples. Understood? You will keep them on until I give you permission to remove them, and you will carry them around with you so I may choose other occasions to remind you those tits are mine.”
He went to fetch the clamps, and I waited, shocked at my audacity. Why hadn’t I confessed? I’d not gained any respect by denying the obvious.
Upon his return, I proceeded to bawl my eyes out and not due to the nature of the punishment. I could handle nipple clamps, however, the growing sense of disappointment and guilt dissolved my resistance.
He draped a large towel about me, rubbed me down, and carried me into the bedroom, laying me on the bed. Broken by him, I let him rebuild me. With the punishment complete, my errors exposed, outstanding issues dealt with, words of closure were given.
Jason declared he would perform my breast examine after my period according to my advisory leaflet so we could jointly discuss any findings or concerns. I said thank you, grateful he’d uncoupled the sexual act from the health one, giving me back my dignity and ensuring my health concerns weren’t belittled.
The tardy Joshua woke up, hollering his demands across the house, and Jason left me curled up on the bed to take our son down for breakfast. If Joshua had woken up at his usual early time, Jason would have been downstairs giving him food instead of stumbling upon my supposed breast exam. I wondered how long I’d have let my fondling go on for before he’d found out or I’d come to my senses and stopped.
The next occasion we were in the lair, Jason ordered me to stand blindfolded. He approached me from behind, took my hands in his, and used them as guides. With his direction, I went on a sensual tour of my body. I caressed my nipples, the little pebbles erect and deliciously responsive, then I felt the substance of my breasts. Sending my hands below, he directed them to stroke my belly, cupping my sex, and he let me slip my finger inside my wet pussy. Finally, I separated my buttock cheeks, leant forward, and shuffled my legs apart. As I poked my arsehole, I groaned with anticipation, breathless at the thought of him probing and using me via my own hands.
“This, baby, is how you touch yourself. Through me, my control, and my guidance,” he whispered in my ear.
“Yes, Master. Thank you for letting me touch myself.”
“Would you like me to make you come with your own hands?” His voice was mellow and soft.
