I gasped. He wanted me as his submissive! The nature of the conversation was becoming better by the minute.
Jason’s stern face brought me back down to earth.
“However, there is one thing I need to know from you. Why did you leave your job and everything? You’ve not been seen in any clubs for months. What happened, Gem? Why have you been celibate? The gossip is you had a bad master.”
I did not know how he knew all about my previous relationship but he was close to the truth and I needed to relieve myself of all my secrets. They were hindering my ability to progress further with Jason.
“Yes you’re right about me. I’ve always been submissive, at least in handing over control for sex. Couldn’t cope at university with all those immature idiots. I found it difficult to relax and be myself with men. The best relationships were with the controlling types, not in a freaky way, just in bed department. Letting someone direct me, emotionally and physically, gave me the confidence and escapism that I lacked using my own initiative. Eventually came the kinky side, the thrill of being tied up or spanked.”
I shut my eyes for a moment as I drifted back in time. An image of my younger naive self-materialised and I saw how much I had changed in those few years.
“I got into the play easily. I had been lucky with my first master. He
was very kind and quite old for me. He showed me the basics. How to do scenes and built me up gradually. He instilled in me the obedience and desire to please others. I learnt a lot about myself from him. The dynamics of submission. The power exchange and connection with the dominant. I immediately felt an energy with him, even though I wasn’t in love. The simplest non-sexual acts became erotic and enticing. Couldn’t ask for a better start. Then he wanted me to move on, he suggested I needed younger men. They had different needs he told me, more adventurous, modern. So I started to swap and moved about. Some were just one scene tricks in clubs or I went to the doms’ houses for a few hours in the evening. Others, well, four of them were serious and longer term relationships. Then he came and it all went wrong.”
I stopped and looked at Jason.
He was listening intently, one leg resting over the other with a finger on his lips - a shrink like pose I thought.
“OK, Gemma, go on. You’re doing alright,” he said encouragingly.
“He was real nice at first. A kind of gentle giant. Great sex,” I paused, but Jason was not perturbed by this confession. “Kind of romantic at the beginning. Odd traditional quirks about him I failed to pick up on. He didn’t do anal sex - said it was for queers and he hated gays. We would argue about women’s rights, you know, women should stay at home to look after their men. All the same, I was enticed by him, became blasé and my judgement suffered. Then he got possessive, not just when we’re together. Phone calls, emails, constantly checking up on me. He was unpleasantly demanding, wanting me available 24/7, which I wasn’t prepared to do.”
Recounting that night was so difficult, the nausea rose in my mouth, there was a sensation of panic building in me. If Jason had not been sitting there I would be resisting those images and forcing my memories into their cubby hole, their little hiding place at the back of my mind. Every time I had tried to recall the dreadful man, I had disengaged, scribbled over his face with my mental black marker pen. Everything had to be forgotten or at best distorted into a bearable memory. Jason was forcing me to reconstruct a night in my life I had spent months ignoring and dissociating my rational, sane psyche from recalling. I had to do this, start to remember and deal with my horrors. I had to trust Jason to help me not go crazy. I could so easily go mad.
“Go on. You’re safe here,” Jason’s voice covered up the other one whom sometimes visited me.
“I felt like I was drowning. I came to his for a regular night together. He was really pissed at me. I don’t know why, I still don’t know why. I don’t remember the details well. But he was my master so I accept it. He takes me to the garage – that’s where we did the stuff. It looks nothing like your lair. I should have spotted the warning signs: the tatty furniture and lack of hygiene. I was lucky he didn’t make me ill.” My heart was pounding thumping.
“Keep going, babe,” Jason’s tone was so reassuring.
I shut my eyes. The memories were growing colourful and vivid.
“He ties me over this…. his wooden sawhorse bench, no padding on it or anything. He has a cane… not the usual thin one…. it’s thick like a rattan cane. He had modified it by winding wire around it.” My vision blurred and refused to focus, in its place I heard sounds. “Heavy too, I can hear him swish in the air. It hurt so much. I knew, after the first two, I was going to safe-word him if he continued to hit me. His actions… were intentional. He knew how to hurt as much as how to please. Two more and I screamed the word out.”
I ground to a halt with my recollection. I knew the tears were coming; the barricade, which held them back, was failing.
“He ignored it”. I looked at Jason and his face was impassive, unreadable. “He runs at me with the cane, a full sweep and it strikes me so hard I know I’m cut. Then I fainted. When I come to, he’s standing there. He’s holding his, his...”
“I know, gone on you’re almost done.”
“It’s limp. It wasn’t when he was caning me. Then I sense that burning sensation inside me. My bum was on fire with pain, but I know there was another soreness, deep within. He’s looking really pleased with himself. He tells me,” My voice broke. “That I was a fantastic fuck,” I collapsed in sobs.
Jason was there now holding me in his arms, as I racked my body with uncontrollable tears. He held me, not too tight and stroked my hair.
“Gemma, Gemma, it’s alright. Look at me,” he took me gently by my arms, kneeling in front of me.
“I would never, never, hurt you like that ever,” his voice was decisive and direct. I believed him utterly. “They were the scars I saw, the thin white ones?”
I nodded in acknowledgement. My mouth was bitter and dry.
“Did he let you go then?”
“Later, though he didn’t touch me again. He had been too drunk, busy celebrating his conquest and he was full of triumph over my punishment....”
Jason stopped my mouth with his finger, stroking my face with his palms.
“No, not punishment. I don’t want you to think what he did was a punishment. Punishments don’t mean breaking your agreed limits. Punishments are not done in the heat of emotion or aggression. Punishment is agreed to by both parties and they don’t result in serious injuries. Nothing you described isn’t anything other than abuse, non-consensual. A criminal offence. Yes? OK?” he said clearly.