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My first key employee needed to be a sales and gallery manager, someone with a strong customer service background. The choice dawned on me one day after Zumba class. I cornered my friend Mina in the café after the class.
“Mina, do you like art galleries?”
Jason suggested my decision to employ a friend unwise. From my perspective, I wanted someone bright and trustworthy who had the potential to manage the gallery in my absence, and Mina had all the necessary skills in abundance.
“Manager of an art gallery? I’m not exactly up on the art world, Gemma,” fretted Mina, stirring her coffee like a spinning top.
“You don’t have to be an art expert or critic. Just know how to display or exhibit, sell stuff, and keep people happy. You’ve got a lovely smile, too.” I flattered her terribly in the hope she would take my bait. She visited the gallery, saw the boats chugging by on the Thames, and accepted the job.
On top of Mina’s role, I wanted somebody with a strong background in the arts to impress the customers with their knowledge. I went with a recent graduate in art history, something of a gamble. His role would focus on weekend work rather than weekday.
The third member of my team had to be a jack-of-all-trades, somebody to unpack or deliver artworks, help arrange the exhibition space, and deal with maintenance issues. I recruited a carpenter with the right mix of skills, meaning he was good with his hands, strong, and seemed to appreciate art even if he didn’t know the words accompanying the appreciation.
My core team was assembled and busy with a list of tasks to do before the opening. My grand plan, post-opening, would be to cut my hours and take on the mantel of proprietor rather than manage the gallery on a daily basis. I envisaged my role would be sourcing new works to display and sell, as well as adding to my own personal collection with time in the atelier. I needed precious time to paint and foster relationships with the local universities and colleges to aid publicity.
Since I was a millionairess in my own right, the cost of setting up the gallery had come out of my own pocket. The gallery needed to continue to be a financial success and not depend on my husband for handouts if it failed. Jason’s personal PR team helped a great deal—I was a new brand, but one strongly associated with my husband.
Jason’s connections with wealthy business people provided most of my potential opening-night visitors. Moving in his circle of influence and money benefitted enormously and without those networks, I probably would have floundered trying to find potential buyers. I had to sell pictures if the gallery was going to be self-sufficient. Seeing myself as an art dealer still seemed something of an anathema—I couldn’t equate the title with my limited experience, and I suffered with attacks of poor self-esteem.
“I’m a suburban girl from a middle-class family with no art qualifications, and I’m suggesting people come and buy my artwork. I’m crazy!” I ranted on a September evening. With my shoulders slumped over my half-eaten dinner, I glanced over to Jason as he pushed his plate to one side. “Please don’t tell me this is all in my head and—”
“It is all in your head because nobody else is saying it. If you think you’re going to make an ass of yourself, you will, so don’t.”
“Easy to say. To some extent, everything has gone too smoothly. I’m waiting for the crap reviews in the press, to not sell a single picture at the opening event, and I’ll probably puke from nerves the moment anyone speaks to me.” I reached over to pick up his plate, and he snatched my wrist.
“What do you want me to do about all these negative thoughts? Hey? I’m not going to take over for you. This is your creation, your ideas, and nest egg. I have my own business to take care of and, correct me if I’m wrong, it is slightly bigger than yours. If you do well, you will be pleased. If it goes tits up, then you will deal with it and move on to something else. You’ve plenty of talents—what you lack is the self-belief. So what do you want me to do, Gemma?” He released his grip, and I sank to the floor by his chair.
“Master, I want to please you. I
f I fail, then what will you think of me?” I murmured, eyes downcast.
“I will think you tried, gave it your best. What I won’t tolerate is you giving up before things have started, throwing in the towel without dealing with issues and learning anything from the experience. Frankly, I don’t see any reason your gallery would fail. I’ve given you the clientele you need on a plate. All you have to do is deliver the goods, so concentrate on that. I ask again, what do you want me to do, Gemma?”
I rested head on his lap. “Whatever you wish.”
I wanted nothing in my head but him. The only way I could deal with stress was vanquish it and feel his dominance.
“Go fetch the hood,” he ordered and I scrambled to my feet to fetch it.
The hood had become my salvation since the collaring. With my senses diminished, the tight-fitting cowl enabled me to centre my thoughts. I didn’t fear the isolation or the vulnerability, Jason always remained nearby, watching me. Somehow, I’d discovered the art of being mindful—no sight, little hearing, my mouth stoppered, and my worries ignored.
Cast into darkness, I concentrated on my breathing. “Up,” whispered Jason. He guided me across the floor and positioned me bent over the kitchen table with my legs spread wide. My pussy sprang to life, exuding her natural juices as he probed.
“Um,” he murmured. “You are one horny girl.”
He slid his hand up and down my slit then replaced it with his hard cock. Nudging my wet hole, he fondled, layered kisses down my back, and squeezed my buttocks with his long fingers. A few hard smacks staccatoed, stinging my bottom—more fodder for my arousal.
“Yes,” I grunted. My voice muffled by the hood, I didn’t know if he heard me.
“More?” He had. His astute ears rarely failed.
“Please.”
The spanking continued unabated, from using his hand, to some implement in the kitchen—I guessed a spatula. And then he began to spank me with something long and hard. I had no idea what it was, other than it bit like crazy. I whimpered and squirmed, grappling with my emotions.
“Hood off?”
I shook my head. I needed distance from the outside world because, perversely, it made Jason seem closer to me. Nothing else pervaded my senses but his actions. The pain drifted away, shooed off by my natural endorphins. The blows continued, interspersed by his cool hand caressing and rubbing my heated behind. He fingered my vagina, a rough frigging, and the rhythmic agitation pushed me closer to completion. No permission had been given, and I clung onto the edge of the table, my knees locked together, and he kicked them apart again.
