To be naked before a clothed Jason turned her on. A flick of the switch, and she drenched her knickers. With feverish hands, she stripped out of her clothes, sank back to her knees, and though they were in the bedroom, it felt like she had gone to his play space, his dungeon.
“Find me,” he whispered.
She understood. Reaching up, she uncovered his cock. It sprung up half-erect and warm, and she ran her palm up and down its velvet surface. The skin stretched and moved over the engorging member. She ringed both her hands about it, moved them in opposite directions, allowing him to swell further. She stuck out her tongue. The pointed tip caressed his own rounded one, and he murmured with gratitude.
On many occasions, he would fuck her mouth as if it was a hole that opened before him and could be taken without consideration. This time, he allowed her to build up momentum in her own fashion. He placed a hand on her head, and rather than grasping chunks of her hair, he let her bob back and forth. Her taste buds savoured his unique flavour as the saliva thickened and coated his honeyed skin. His erection stood proud before her, and she worshipped it, her flesh-and-blood idol.
“Do you want it inside you, slut?” He stroked her hair back out of her face.
“Please, Master,” she uttered between sucks. “I’d love your cock in me.”
“Present to me.”
Kneeling on the rug, she turned and raised her bottom high while resting her upper body on her forearms.
He remained clothed in his work suit—to have him in his formal attire represented his dominance, a uniform she appreciated and adored. There she remained, conforming to his directions and wishes as, over the next hour, they made love. Sometimes perfunctory in style, he fucked her, other times he massaged his body against hers as if to caress her insides. He let her come, several times. By the end, he had divested himself of clothes and she was tearfully appreciative of his skills in taking her. His own gratification came at the end. Coarse with his words, he spurted over her bosom.
Jason rose and stood above her. She lay foetal on the rug, eyes shut and heart pounding. He left her there then came back and cleansed her while she remained in a stupor.
“To bed, wife. I’m done. You’ve been a good girl,” he articulated into her ear. A smile crept across Gemma’s face. She was at peace because he was happy with her.
Chapter 4. Conversations with doctors
Doctor Blanchard congratulated Gemma with a handshake. From her filing cabinet, the general practitioner gave her a clear-plastic folder.
“New-mum-to-be kit and leaflets. Advice on what to expect and how to cope. It’s early days for you. I’m not going to book an appointment with the practice’s midwife until you’re a bit further along. You understand?”
She held the plastic folder, pensive and uncertain as to what to say next. Dr Blanchard pushed her glasses back up on to the bridge of her nose with an air of expectancy.
“Thank you for this.” She waved the folder at the doctor. “But, these aren’t what I need at the moment. You see…well, you remember, I don’t have a conventional relationship with my husband. Especially my sex life. I’ve been sent to be referred, to see a private obstetrician.” She halted, embarrassed by her request to circumvent the services of her own doctor.
Slow realisation dawned on the other woman’s face. “I see,” she murmured.
Gemma explained in a nervous fashion why she wanted to see a private obstetrician. Her doctor knew about her background, her life as a sexual submissive. “A private maternity facility. I’m sure your own practice team is excellent but my husband insists, and on this occasion, I agree with him. If we go on the NHS, I would see different people all the time, and we need consistency. Money, naturally, isn’t an issue.” Heat bloomed over her face, and she bit down on her lip. She didn’t think she had ever said this much in one go to her doctor before now.
Dr Blanchard clicked the point of her pen in and out. “You intend to continue with your….” She stumbled to find an appropriate phrase, “practices?”
“That’s the point. I need more information. I have to consent. We both have to be comfortable with going forward. As it stands, I’m not—at least not with the physical contact side of what we do. Yet, I can’t just give it up. I would be like a fish out of water.”
Silence descended. Dr Blanchard seemed lost in thought, possibly running through her mental list of referrals, and Gemma waited.
“There is a Mrs Henderson. An obstetrician and consultant surgeon. She is very good. I think you should be able to talk to her. Young, compared to others, but very experienced and capable. I think she would suit you.”
Dr Blanchard wrote the details down on a piece of paper. “She is based at a private maternity centre attached to a small private hospital, not far from where you live.”
“Thank you.” She slipped the folded paper in her handbag.
Removing her glasses, the doctor leaned across her desk. “Gemma. Please talk to me if you are unhappy about your treatment. I wouldn’t want you to keep your worries to yourself,” she said.
A week later, Gemma sat in another waiting area, on her own again. Jason had been adamant her consultation should be her personal fact-finding mission. So much so, he told her to write him an essay about everything she found out. Upon hearing his request, she’d been tempted to roll her eyes at him then thought better. He might not be taking her into the lair or physically chastising her, however, there were plenty of nonphysical methods he could use to discipline her if she disobeyed his requests.
Since her pregnancy had started, Jason remained both attentive of her needs and hands off with regard to anything that smacked of excessive kink beyond dominating her during sex, which amounted to simple scenes in their bedroom or his study.
She smiled to herself. At least the tone of his voice and the intensity of his eyes hadn’t diminished. In that respect, he remained very much her Dominant.
In the comfortable reception area, all about her sat pregnant women in various stages of advancement. The occupants flicked through the magazines or read the numerous leaflets pinned to the notice boards.
Gemma had ignored her own collection of advisory booklets for the first few days. Then, having read them, rather wished she hadn’t. They amounted to a list of things not to do and what not to eat. She didn’t mind the clarity until things drifted into advisory statements that confused her, and she missed the frank Do Not declarations. The one on what to expect to happen to her body—morning sickness, peeing all the time, insomnia and itching—had deflated her mood further. None of her own peculiar questions were addressed in any of the leaflets. Gemma felt she was going to explode with too much information and none of it useful.