Volume Two of Sublime Trust
Gemma Lucas’s life is about to be transformed by a new arrival and her ambition to become an artist. To help deal with the mounting challenges, Gemma enters into a new agreement with her Dominant Jason, one that requires her to be his submissive full-time.
Adapting to her husband’s increasing dominance requires adjustment, especially when a threatening letter is found in her bag at a dance class.
Will the couple’s secret kinky lifestyle be exposed or will Jason’s ruthless approach to his enemies save them?
Part One
Chapter 1. Home
She rested on her knees between his legs and centred her thoughts on her job. An increasingly unexciting job. The lingering doubts and intrusive niggles that interrupted her daily tasks and routines amassed and multiplied. Try as she might, she couldn’t damp them down nor tuck them back into their recesses.
The trouble with long holidays was handling the break from work. Returning home put life into a different perspective. The cold-light-of-day experience brought about by a recuperated mind. After Gemma returned from a three-week cruise of the Mediterranean Sea on board the luxury-yacht Sublime, she faced the knowledge her chosen career wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Waking late on Sunday morning, she should have been engrossed with a particular task—giving her husband his wake-up dose of pleasurable sex. Instead, with her tongue poised at the base of his erection, she pondered the last few days.
Saturday had been the unpack, make washing piles, and wander about the house day. She’d kept walking about because she felt a stranger in her own home. Blythewood House, the vast Victorian country mansion, seemed cast in darkness after the bright Mediterranean sunshine. There were no hot radiant rays pulsing through the windows and the thick carpets dulled the sounds of her footsteps. Chilled, she wore a thick jumper, even though it was a typical warm English summer’s day.
Laziness struck her down, too. The idea of cooking, keeping the kitchen clean, and all other tedious domestic stuff was daunting and not eng
aging. Thankfully, the housekeeper, Mrs Harris, had planned ahead, and Gemma’s culinary skills were required only for re-heating or finishing off the prepared dishes left in the fridge or freezer.
Her husband, Jason, had vanished into his study. She’d known he would retreat into his den. All the same, she suffered a major drop. A depression brought on by the sense of being disowned by him as a Dominant, although not as her husband. The two days post-cruise in Venice had been a married couple’s blissful escape before returning home.
The luxury hotel off Piazzo San Marco had spoilt them. An unsurprising scenario, given Jason’s millions—he expected excellent service irrespective of the calibre of the establishment. As he had promised, they’d attended the opera—La Traviatta. Sitting in her prime-placed box seat, Gemma had cried, as she always did when she listened to the soaring arias. Jason came prepared with a spare handkerchief and tucked it into her palm when the tears dripped down her face. He, naturally, had been unmoved by either the opera or her overt display of emotion. He’d listened with head bowed and eyes shut. A casual observer might have concluded he detested the music and slept. She knew different. His mother, a music teacher, had instilled a love of the classical repertoire in him. Gemma’s first date with him had been at a concert. He preferred to enjoy music in a state of quiet contemplation and little fuss.
He’d followed up the night at the opera with the obligatory ride in a sumptuous gondola complete with an aria-singing tenor serenading them. As they drifted about the canal system, reclining in their seats, they had dined on each other’s lips. Gentle kisses and the odd flick of tongues. She adored his unobtrusive seduction, giggled at his whispered quips, and squirmed under his roving hands. Nothing happened on the gondola that could have given away their true kinky natures. They played the part of a romantic, happily married couple to perfection.
She’d asked for culture, and Jason had delivered. Gemma saw art: modern, classical, and old. From the traditional works of the Renaissance period to Cubism, metaphysical, and the abstract. Jason spent much of the time on the gallery seats, watching her peruse the displays or scanning through his messages on his smartphone, slipping back into business mode.
By the time their vacation days had ended, they were exhausted. Sex had been very vanilla, with no trappings of kink: her submission not required and his dominance muted. It had been unhurried, unrushed couplings on the bed, taking turns to touch and kiss. Orgasms had been sweet, nothing forced from her to please him, and his penetration had been delicate and slow moving. At the peak of her fertility, she had wanted him where he belonged, deep inside her.
No matter how much Gemma had focused on enjoying their end-of-holiday romantic break, she missed the kink, the full-on BDSM that had played such a part in their lives for the previous three weeks. If Jason had missed the domination and play, he hadn’t let on. He had reassured her, lying in the hotel bed after she hinted at her mental angst, that all the hormones and neurochemicals that had been buzzing around their bodies were slipping away, oozing out of their neurological systems, leaving them as simple, sensual beings once again. Plain was what she felt by the time they were back at the country mansion, Blythewood House, late Friday evening.
Kinky play continued to be suspended. Her husband wanted a complete break and to concentrate on settling into domesticity. He made love in a perfunctory style, mindful she could still be in a state for conception. However, either work preoccupied him or his libido had subsided. He would never declare it; she read between his vague lines of conversation. Her own sexual engine needed recharging. She felt drained. Their combined weekday working hours would bring a halt to their lovemaking. He wouldn’t be inclined if his mind settled into the frantic pace of business as usual.
Wandering the rooms, she didn’t miss the sex toys or kink. For Gemma, the big drop had been caused by the lack of his control over her: the voice, the intense blue eyes, and the Master persona in all its glory. No more waiting for his instructions or obeying his commands. Instead, she had to plan her own day’s activities, see and do everything without a guiding voice in her ear. She had a hole in her head. A Jason-sized hole, which wouldn’t only have controlled her, it would have calmed her, made her complete and, like an empty glass in the thirsty desert, refilling it remained very necessary.
She’d suffered before with submissive fallouts. When they returned from an intense week’s vacation in New York—their first trip there together—she’d had the blues badly. She’d been so desperate to re-engage him, she went to the lengths of defying her marital vows and enticing him into his Dominant role. The punishment had been severe, and she’d learnt her lesson. This time, she’d fired up her work laptop, sat down, and, with a heavy heart, faced what seemed like a thousand e-mails. Not quite the same as being tied up and used.
The contents of one message had captured her interest. All Saturday evening, until they retired, Gemma re-read the e-mail in her head. Sunday morning came and, shifting her body over to his side of the bed, she lowered her mouth onto him. Then she began to revisit, yet again, everything that had happened since their return.
***
“Gem! Gemma!” His voice inched into her preoccupied brain. “You stopped sucking ages ago. Where are you?”
Jason lifted her head off his semi-erect cock. Her drooling mouth was open and in position, but not active enough for him. She sighed and flopped onto her side next to his languishing form.
“Sorry. Miles away.” She rubbed her bleary eyes with her fingers, ashamed of her lack of attention.
“I guessed that much. Where? Still on Sublime? You need to disembark, darling, mentally and physically.”
She couldn’t adapt to the cooler air and goose bumps rose over her skin. He covered her with a sheet.
“No. Not there. Work, of all things. I read e-mails all yesterday afternoon, while you did yours. Wish I hadn’t.”
She curled up on her side, staring out the window, watching the morning light brighten up the garden. At least her beloved vegetable patch and the contents of the greenhouse had been well taken care of in her absence. Jason spooned around her, his erection diminished by her lack of decent blow job.
“Penny for them?”