Trust Me to Know You (33 page)

When his parents enquired about me, I maintain the dutiful line of talking about my love of art, my experiences as an analyst and my family - all safe territory. Only one uncomfortable moment transpired when his mum asked how we met. I gave the photocopier encounter, which was the truth, and there was nothing awkward about the scenario. She referred to Jason’s solitude and work focused lifestyle, then she mentioned his lack of girlfriends. He did not blush or look embarrassed by her remark but he did not fill in the missing details, it was obvious the conversation had occurred before in the past. I could not help smiling at the knowledge I was far more aware of their son’s sexual preferences and personality traits then they could ever imagine.

“Lucky for me then,” I said. “Having Jason single and free was my fortune.”

His father scowled fractionally at the word ‘fortune’ and I bit my lip wondering if he thought I was after Jason’s wealth. Not once had the idea crossed my mind, but how did I tell them it was Jason’s dominance and control over me that was the attraction for me and not his millions.

Jason looked increasingly relaxed, as we sat in the living room watching the sunset
in the late afternoon. The tension he
had
held back in the car seemed to have lifted and gone away. I must have hit the right note with his parents, or perhaps because they
had not broached the topic of his long-term intentions toward me. They were content to see him in the company of a woman and nothing else.

We took our leave and I was allowed to give them a quick peck on the cheek. Jason looked relieved we were going home and that everything had
gone
smoothly. In the
car, I snuggled down in my seat and I dozed off for the duration. The concentration of impressing his parents had worn me out.

He pulled up at the front door and left the car abandoned as if in his haste he could not be bothered to park it in the garage. Kicking my shoes off in the hallway, I heard a huge sigh from Jason. Making me jump, he grabbed me from behind and pushed me against the wall, spinning me around to face him. He leant down and took my mouth in his, kissing hard, almost suffocating me. I was taken aback by his keenness. His hand lifted my dress skirt up and yanked down my knickers. He cupped my sex and rubbed me vigorously with the palm of his hand. I gasped and parted my legs wider for him, inviting him in
. His zipper down
and prominent erection exposed, he thrust
up into me in one sharp movement. I winced, unprepared for the extent of his desire to have me.

“Gemma,
Gemma
. I’ve wanted to fuck you all day.
You. Beautiful. Girl
.” His thrusts were becoming quicker and reaching further inside me.

He had never taken me so unexpectedly before now. Yes, he could creep up on me and start to nuzzle with his lips but he did not go straight to fucking me. Usually I was given the chance to warm up, become aroused and prepared for him. I was expected to be available to him but even with that proviso, I could not be wet for him without a hint or notification of intentions. Psychological I was willing but physically I was not there for him. Some kind of warning was required to let my libido ramp up and be ready for him. Regardless of my state, I would not deny him. It was the nature of our agreement and how my submission functioned - to be there for him.

The real issue was I hated being fucked up against a wall. I had never declared it even as a soft limit, it was a simple personal dislike. I gripped his shoulders tightly, wrapping a leg around his waist to accommodate him better and he had practically lifted me off my feet
. I shut my eyes tight,
gritted my teeth. T
his was about him and only him, there was no room for my needs in this frantic activity. He cried
aloud
and long as he emptied his lust in me. I was not ready to join him, too stunned by his sudden onslaught. Panting heavily he withdrew and propped against me, catching his breath.

“I’m so pleased with you,” he murmured in my ear. “You did brilliantly today,” he kissed me hard again.

“I’m glad, Jason. Is there anything else I can do for you now?” I was disconnected from him, emotionally and physically, my leg dropped back down and I smoothed my skirt down with trembling hands. He stepped back from me, as if he was suddenly conscious of our surroundings - barely a few feet from the front door.

“No. Not now, later.” He zipped his fly up and took his shoes off, putting them next to mine in the shoe cupboard.

“I’ll make something light for dinner,” I said.

I collected myself and headed to the kitchen door, then changed direction. I could feel his semen dripping down my leg, I did not like the sensation and I was keen to rid myself of the liquid trail.

“I’ll have a wash first, if that’s alright,” I desperately needed to pee too.

“Sure, I’ll be in my study.” He disappeared leaving me standing uncertain in the hallway.

What had just happened?

***

Jason picked as the salad leaves. He had barely spoken since he went into his sexual frenzy in the hallway.

“Is there anything wrong with the food?” I was beginning to get concerned.

“No. No. I’m sorry,
Gemma. I want to apologise for what I did when we got home. I was glad to be home and have the day go so well. You looked so sexy all day – that new dress is a killer. I didn’t hurt you? I didn’t give you a chance to ready yourself
.”

He looked me straight in the face, blue eyes searching my expression.

“No I’m fine, it’s alright don’t worry. I’m glad the day went well.”

A
partial lie. It was not
pleasant sex that had to be said. Being banged against the wall hurt more than his sudden penetration of me.

“You’re lying. Please don’t lie. You know it pisses me off,” he frowned at me.

“You haven’t hurt me, honestly,
Jason.” I spoke with greater conviction. “You know I like it rough. If you were really hurting me I would
say my safe-word. You know that.”

I sought out another topic of conversation and my eyes rested on his hands as he held his cutlery. Long fingered with well-trimmed manicured nails, they were strong in grasp and smooth in texture.

“Who does your nails?” I found myself asking.

“Sorry?” said Jason glancing down at his hands.

“You take care of them well. Not typical for a man.” I added.

He seemed faintly embarrassed. A barely perceivable expression, however I was learning to spot them. “I visit a salon every couple of weeks.”

I could not stop the words coming out of my mouth, “a closet metrosexual.”

His face hardened. “I do it for your benefit - do you want your insides scratched out?”

I retracted my facial expressions back to meekness.

“No. I'm always grateful for the care you show me, sir. All of your care.”

His face softened again and I sighed. For a few brief seconds he had revealed a strange presence of narcissism. I was convinced his nails and other parts of his appearance smacked of vanity. No way was I going to push him to find out. I bent down and kissed the back one of his hands. All being said they were a beautiful pair of hands even though they have struck me hard.

The meal completed, Jason stood and walked around to my side of the table, bending down he kissed me on the head.

“I’m going to make it up to you babe. For my hard fuck. Tonight in bed, something for you.” He pulled back my chair and took me by the hand.

Oooo
, make up sex - that had to be good.

***

I was pacing the sitting room. My parents were late and I suspected they had got lost trying to find Blythewood. I gave them clear instructions and emailed a map.

Please don’t embarrass me parents!

Jason was surprisingly unperturbed given his hatred of time wasters.
His calmness was at odds to my restless state. I hovered in the games room or guest room, which gave me a view of the front drive. Rather pointless activity since the gatehouse would ring when they arrived.

Part of me was excited at the prospect of introducing my parents to Jason. To have them see him in the flesh and to witness their reaction to the house and grounds. I doubted my parents had guessed the true extent of his wealth and probably imagined he lived in a substantial rural property and not the remains of a Victorian stately house.

My mum would not think to check the internet and Google Jason’s name. If she had, she would have found a substantial number of pages dedicated to his businesses and news items from business sources discussing his enterprises. In addition, there were the conjectures about his personal life and opinions. A scantly populated Wikipedia page with a few other links to profile pages. Notoriously private and difficult to interview, Jason remained a public enigma.

It would leave
my parents with first impressions only and they would be delighted at finding their daughter had hit the jackpot in terms of opportunities. Would they like Jason? He could be incredibly charming and entertaining without giving away much personal information. My father would be quietly resigned to my circumstances and keep his
assessment to himself. However, my mother would make her little mental list of criticisms and at some point in the near future would tick them off one by one with me. Whatever my opinion, it would be an inevitable consequence of introducing my mother to my first real boyfriend. Ironic, given Jason was not really my boyfriend, he was my dominant and I was his submissive partner.

Having my hawkeyed mother appraise me always made me tense to the point of virtual panic. Coming home from school with my end of year report card in a sealed envelope used to make me apoplectic with anxieties. Regardless if I did well – which invariably was the case – I dreaded her stern face and the way she made me wait before pronouncing her judgement. She would take forever to read the words of indifferent teachers as if they were statements of great sages. The most she would say in praise was ‘Very good, Gemma’ and then she would mention every tiny criticism and ask me to explain their origin. I hated report day with a passion.

Feeling passionate was doing me no favours as I waited for the call from the gatehouse. Jason had enough of my
agitated prowling about and I discovered another aspect of our relationship. Given the right circumstances, I could rely on him to bring me to my senses with tactics that would only work with the type of personalities we exhibited.

“Gemma, down here!” he shouted up the stairs as my patrolling caused the floorboards to creak excessively.

The internal telephone, which was linked to the gatehouse, had not called so I knew they had not arrived. He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs with his hands on his hips. Lips pursed together, he gave his head a tiny shake of disapproval. I had to confess he looked scrumptious dressed in his more casual attire. A light grey silk suit with white shirt and no tie. He had a belt on his trousers and he was fingering the buckle ominously.

My arm was grabbed unceremoniously and I was practically frogmarched into the kitchen.

“Sir?” I said nervously.

He led me to the long pine table and pushed me down, forcing me to bend over the end.

“Please, sir!” I said alarmed.

“Shut up.”

I could hear him pulling the belt out from his trousers loops. The skirt of my Donna Karan dress was hitched up above my waist and my knickers yanked down. One of his hands pressed down on the base of my lower back while the other had the belt looped about his knuckles.

“
Noooo
!” I whimpered.

“Yes,” he said in reply. “Position yourself.”

Hell, he was going to do the deed properly. He knocked my legs apart and I hooked each one on either side of the table legs effectively opening me up wider. My arms stretched out straight before me and I weaved my fingers together and buried my head between my arms.

Whoosh. Whack!

“
OW
!” I yelped.

There was nothing gentle or sensual about the blow he landed across my bare buttocks.

Whoosh. Whack!

The rhythm was quickly established.

“
My parents
!” I hollered audaciously.

“Are not here yet,” he pointed out.

Whoosh. Whack!

“
Argh
!”

The blows were not the hardest a belt could deliver. He was not after substantial pain from me. This was no sadistic voyage for him, he went for the rhythm and pace. A repetitive swing of his arm and the belt landed with a slap. I grunted with each smack of the leather strap and it began to happen.

Tears crept out of my eyes. They were not the tears of excessive pain or distress. They indicated I was letting my pent up frustrations and fears leak out of me. Each teardrop accompanied a smarting spank of the belt and each time I gave a little more of my negativity back to Jason for him to vanquish. The unwanted emotions were replaced with a sense of acceptance and a strange soup of euphoria.

“My mascara…” I muttered incoherently as I spotted black stains on the wood surface.

“Shhh, babe,” he was stroking my bottom, dispersing the pain and marks. Every few blows he would stop and repeat the action.

I continued my grunts, groans and finally I moaned erotically. I was quite relaxed pressed on the table and the pain was a distant presence. A red-hot bum of burning did not quite make it to my pain sensing brain. I was drifting beautifully. Now I did not want him to stop. I was out of control and thankfully, he was in control.

He stopped and I actually whimpered in disappointment.

“There, that’s done,” he said in the way a doctor does after they have performed some minor procedure.

“Thank you, sir.”

I was trying to emerge from my bizarre place of surrender. He could hear the disappointment in my voice.

“Gem, if I carry on you’re not going to be able to sit down.”

He was returning the belt to its correct location and as he tidied himself up, I could feel the damp moisture in my slit. Spanked but no fuck. I was in danger of sinking back into a place of frustration.