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“I do what?” butted in Jason. Damn, he might have been listening throughout. I’d not noticed he’d stopped speaking to Michael.
“Nothing,” I hastened to add.
“Gemma was talking about other party games she’s played,” explained Gillian. I wanted to thump her arm and tell her to shut up. I stared at my empty cheese plate.
Jason put his knife down and pivoted on his seat to face me. “I hope we’re talking cards or monopoly.”
“Backgammon?” I suggested. “Not chess, though. No hope for me there.” The one-time president of the university chess club trounced me every time we played—the kind of beating I did not enjoy.
“I should stick to playing something you can win at, Gemma.” I detected a veiled threat. In other words, watch my penalty quota.
“With you, winning is half the fun,” I murmured. “Losing has its incentives.”
Back at our home, I discovered the penalties involved elastic bands, which I hated and Jason loved. I had to offer him eight parts of my body for him to snap at me with the thick bands. Standing naked in the bedroom of the White House, I considered my options and held out my hand.
“No, Gemma. Be adventurous.” He declined the proffered palm.
I pulled a pitiful face, which he ignored, eyeing my nipples. I pinched each breast, and he smiled.
“Better.”
He aimed for my nipples with pinpoint accuracy, and I screeched into my gag as the band snapped at them.
“Where else?” he asked, as if I had a choice.
With my eyes watering, I bent over and spread my buttocks. A few painful pings later, he examined my slit with his long fingers, rubbing along until he reached my mound.
“God, you’re wet down there. Methinks my slut likes her tender parts assaulted,” he mused. “Next?”
The soles of my feet, and I hopped about on the spot, drooling all over my gag.
“You took that well.” He tossed the elastic band away. “Turning into quite the party girl, aren’t you? Next week, we’ll go to the club, and you can show off your skills there. A little scening for the members. Time I put you on show again. Something different. What was that thing with wax and feathers you use to do?”
I rubbed my sore spots and gazed at my rather sexy husband, who grinned like a Cheshire cat. I’d excelled at his parents’, providing them with a small insight into our life without scaring them into thinking Jason abused me or drove me mad with his demands. Now, my needy sex wanted payback. Whatever, Jason. Just fuck me!
The following week, he took me to the Nightshade Club, where he bound and suspended my helpless body in the communal play area. After a short spell of whips and floggers, I drifted into a submissive state, and he dripped wax onto my exposed skin, inviting others to attach feathers to the sticky mess. Afterwards, Jason gave me a stupendous reward in a private room.
Chapter 16. Friendships
As well as taking sporadic trips to his club, Jason had under his wing a few younger or inexperienced Doms, helping them nurture their own distinctive style of dominance, usually via email exchanges.
Our differing stomping grounds in our early years had shaped the way Jason and I had interacted with BDSM communities. Mine had been informal parties, demonstration events, or munches where no play happened but attendees talked the language with like-minded people. With such an open congregation, and some events publicised on websites, we had to deal with all sorts turning up.
Jason’s social playground was very different and remained unchanged over time. Private parties required personal invitations, and private meant private with existing members vetting guests. Whereas my clubs were glorified pubs with a fetish theme, his members’ club was expensive. At one stage, Jason had attended open parties, however, he stopped after his brother, Michael, took him to one and an ex-sub had exposed Jason as a practising Dominant. Unfortunately, Michael had witnessed the unwanted adulation, and Jason’s secret had been smashed apart.
Etiquette at my informal parties had been based around courteous requests for service, friendly banter, and nothing involving strict protocols. Jason’s gatherings were rigidly formal affairs with dress codes, rules about who could speak to whom. Scenes were conducted in special rooms or a hired dungeon where dungeon masters monitored the intense scenes, certainly more extreme than what went on with my modest get-togethers.
After my rape, I lost contact with most of my kinky friends. Those who knew about my assault and helped me had kept in contact and up to date with my old network. My email inbox occasionally filled with tales about people with whom I’d once happily dance around naked or bent over to let them spank me. Unfortunately, people were disappearing from my visual memory, becoming forgotten faces. I mourned their passing from my life.
It was with great relief Jason’s own network of BDSM acquaintances had brought me a new lineup of submissive friends, salvaging my gregarious nature. However, we subs, who were scattered across London, met infrequently. Instead, we relied on emailing and texts to keep our burgeoning camaraderie alive and active. With the arrival of summer and a great deal of organisation, we arranged to meet up on a Wednesday night. I left Jason to babysit, while I went to our chosen rendezvous to natter.
A subbie girly night out with my favourite friends: Judith, Eva, and Zoe was a delicious treat. We enjoyed a mouth-watering meal followed by an essential chitchat in an establishment where background music offered accompaniment. We’d been granted permission to let our collective hair down. As long as we came home before one in the morning, and behaved ourselves, we were free agents.
Kind of free. Dave Johnson eyeballed me from a corner table. I apologised to the others.
“Oh good grief, it’s exciting having a bodyguard watching over us,” said Zoe, giving Johnson a small wave over her shoulder. I cuffed the back of her hand, horrified she might draw attention to me and upset Johnson.
“Take my word for it, the novelty wears off,” I grumbled, wishing they understood the infringement on my personal space.
