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“Please, Master.” My legs had already turned to jelly. Now they shook, and between them, I was atrociously wet.
“I will, then, my lovely sub. Remember I don’t wish to deny you pleasure. My will is to control it for you.”
He guided me back between my legs and rubbed my fingers up and down over my clit. I felt the nub grow, poke out, and buzz with electric sensations. I bucked my hips back and forth, riding my hand, and he gripped my waist, whilst driving my fingers up into my slit, forcing the heel of my palm to pound my clitoris.
“Come for me!”
I screamed, my hand scrunched by his and my clitoris, swollen and tender, throbbed as he trapped my fingers, refusing me relief from the pulsating contractions.
***
My silly attempt at circumventing my rules hadn’t garnered Jason’s sympathy. His opinion was clear on the matter—what was the point of rules if they were not enforced? Tinkering with the wording, re-interruptions, or negotiating remained forbidden. Major transgressions resulted in serious disappointment on Jason’s part—mine, too. With suitable lecturing, a brisk punishment, he showed me how to move on and not look back with regret.
I existed in a dichotomy. The pull of independence pushed back by the crushing desire to please. However, now and again, the independent Gemma would come out and beat back the submissive until Jason set things right again.
My tendency to disrespect Jason was tolerated, up to a point. His leniency didn’t extend to woeful disobedience. Even if it wasn’t intentional or I allowed my impulsive behaviour to take hold, he offered me little latitude. When I slipped up, there were no illusions about the nature of our dynamic. Our lifestyle wasn’t a game or quirk. We took it seriously, and Jason packed a verbal punch when he needed to return me to a state of unwavering obedience.
What did he expect from me, when my life flitted from one mental state to another? I had to build an art gallery from scratch, but, at weekends, I came home and had to make the switch to submissive. Try as I might to be obedient, my pattern of screwing up continued in July, and I risked the ramifications bouncing back at me for a long time afterwards.
On Fridays, I would arrive at Blythewood to paint in my atelier. Clara would keep Joshua occupied while I mixed, brushed, and plied my paints to a blank canvas. Some days the inspiration seeped out of me and left me as blank as my canvas. Frustrated by my lack of creativity, I would seek refuge in the indoor swimming pool located in the same old stable block. An impulsive dash into the changing room to put on a costume—I never could bring myself to swim in the nude—and a few laps later, I would be reinvigorated with pictures in my head.
On a blazing July Friday, my frustrations were worse than I realised. The week hadn’t been great, with Jason absent for a large part with work commitments and the latest building work for the art gallery delayed by incompetent contractors. I pushed myself hard and swam faster than my usual sedate pace. I’d fed my stomach a few morsels for lunch, and the inappropriate diet led to my weakness in the water—cramp.
My calf muscle felt like it had been split apart with a knife. I hollered and grabbed at my rogue limb
. Stuck in the deep end, unable to rest my other foot on the bottom, I sank underwater. My mouth filled with water, making me retch and gasp for breath. The pain became agony as I struggled to find buoyancy. Panic enveloped as the water washed over my head. Somehow, I doggy paddled my way to the edge of the pool, reaching up and groping about the tiled floor.
I found what I sought under a metallic flap: the panic button. Smacking the button hard, I clung on to the side rail and pressed my bent toes against the wall of the pool, stretching my tendons and muscles, trying hard to alleviate my suffering.
Several long minutes passed before the door burst open. Glancing up, the large hand of Dave Johnson, the duty officer in the gatehouse, waved in my face. He pulled me up out of the water, and I hopped about, jabbering about my cramp. Having received training in first aid, Johnson told me to lie down and straightened the offending leg, holding my foot at right angles. The cramp eased, ending its torturous spasms.
“Thank you,” I murmured, breathless. “I panicked. I didn’t think I could get out of the pool.”
“That’s okay, Mrs Lucas.” He went in search of a towel. After he’d helped me to my feet, I wrapped it around my shoulders before limping towards a sunbed.
I lay with leg before me, aware of Johnson standing nearby, panting, with sweat dripping down his brow. “Sorry, I made you run over. I probably would have been fine.”
He crouched down, hands clasped together. “Mrs Lucas, I wasn’t aware you were taking a swim. You should tell us before you get in the water.”
An omission on my part, and I gave a small shrug of acknowledgement. “I forgot in my eagerness to be here. You know, slipped my mind again.”
Rising, he shifted backwards on his feet. “Again? You’ve come swimming before without telling us?”
I bit my lip. Whoops. I’d let slip something I shouldn’t have done. “Maybe, a couple of times. I only spend ten minutes or so…I mean, not very long. Why do you need to know?”
“It’s a long run from the gatehouse. One of us should be in the house, while you take a swim. That way, we’re closer, if there is a problem.” He stepped backwards again, his soft stance changing, stiffening as he moved.
I shut my eyes. “His stipulation, I guess.” A rhetorical statement, and I knew the answer. I’d been reminded: Jason had insisted I ring the gatehouse before using the pool. A mandate he had made years ago when he first showed me the pool house. I had forgotten the significance of the prerequisite. My safety was paramount to Jason, not just when we were out in public or travelling. It extended to activities he construed as dangerous or risky.
“Shit,” I muttered.
I didn’t say anything further to Johnson. He would be obliged to write a report and my transgression turned into typeface, transmitted over the airways to Jason’s desktop. What I couldn’t guarantee was Jason reading it before I saw him. I had learnt that lesson the hard way. It meant I would have to confess, to pre-empt and come clean as quickly as possible.
I threw the towel across the changing room. Whatever artistic inspiration had come in the pool prior to my cramp had been lost. Edgy and unfocused in my thoughts, I couldn’t be bothered going back to the atelier. I relied on my son and chatting to Clara to distract me.
The face that greeted me in the evening was frosty. A chiselled expression of disdain. I had my answer. Jason had read Johnson’s missive. I slipped down on to my knees in the hallway and unlaced Jason’s shoes. Spontaneously, I bent to kiss each foot. A silly attempt at putting him in a good frame of mind.
“Later. After we’ve eaten,” he said, without acknowledging my foot worshipping.
