Repeatedly, she asked, beseeching him with a sweet voice. He wouldn’t budge.
She stuck her tongue out at him. He chuckled softly.
Infuriating her further, he took a phone call from somebody on his mobile while she continued her humiliating performance. Her jiggling hands ached, and she leaked onto the towel she’d laid out underneath. The phone conversation continued in the background, and she listened to Jason’s tone, the rise and fall of his voice. Abruptly, the call ended, and she jolted when he addressed her directly.
“Gemma, remember who owns your orgasms. Who owns them?” He insisted.
“You do, Master,” she murmured.
His eyelids started to close. “That’ll be all for now. I’m tired. Don’t touch yourself. Hands off.” He disconnected the call. Her fingers froze. Two stuffed in her sensitive pussy, the other rammed to the knuckle in her anus. So damn close to completion! She fumed.
Withdrawing her fingers, she could sense the juices leaking out of her pussy, the wetness a reminder of her ruined orgasm. She had to finish what she’d started. The evening had ended pathetically. Gemma contemplated lying on her bed, rubbing herself frantically. Except, she didn’t reach the bedroom. She decided, in order not to defy his instructions, she wouldn’t touch herself, at least not with her hands. Standing by his desk, an expensive antique made by some renowned artisan, and also the perfect height for stimulation, she perched on the corner. Separating her legs, she nudged the rounded edge against her clitoris and ground her hips. She achieved a rather spectacular climax heaving up and down Jason’s prized desk.
As soon as the orgasm washed out of her system, horrendous guilt set in. Stumbling away from the furniture, she rushed out of the room. In the bathroom, she washed her hands as if they were diseased, scrubbing them with a nail brush. Pacing about the bedroom, she attempted to calm down. It was one orgasm, and he didn’t know, hardly the end of the world.
In bed she blinked in the darkness, sleeping on and off in an agitated state. Normally, when Jason was away on business, she would lie on his side of the bed and wear one of his T-shirts. Not this time. A woollen vest of penitence would have been more appropriate.
Her restless nature continued into the next day. She fidgeted, fiddled with the kitchen utensils, in particular the spatula, which she slapped on her palm and lost track of time. Her silly orgasm had blown up into a major occupation of her thoughts. Why had she done it?
Clara arrived, swept into the kitchen, and surveyed the mess, especially Joshua’s grubby face. She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. Gemma didn’t take the bait but looked away.
“What’s the matter?” asked Clara.
“Nothing.” Gemma hesitated, wondering whether she could confide in her nanny, and promptly shut her mouth. It would be helpful to talk to somebody about her recalcitrance. However, Clara might be aware of their lifestyle choice, but she didn’t ask questions or delve into the details. Quite the contrary, she remained steadfastly uninterested. As the nanny had told them at her interview, their marriage was their business. Joshua was her sole responsibility.
From the moment Jason walked into the house a little after six o’clock, she couldn’t relax. She fussed about in the kitchen while he played with Joshua in the sitting room until the baby’s bedtime.
They ate dinner in silence. She avoided Jason’s eyes. Never a good plan, as it was the equivalent of setting off a flare gun. Her hands trembled, and she dropped a knife on her plate with a clatter then nearly knocked over her glass of orange juice. She cursed under her breath. No alcohol tonight—she needed to keep her wits about her.
Jason leant back in his chair. “Cat got your tongue? No chattering girl this evening?”
She shook her head and picked at her teeth with a finger.
“Toothache?”
Another useless shake of her head and more avoiding eye contact. She picked up her fork and stabbed at the cold vegetables on her plate.
“I…damn.” A pea flew across the table and with it her appetite.
He pushed his plate to one side and for a second his head lolled forward, as if it was going to hit the table. She could sense his growing frustration with her. With a sigh, he raised his chin and surveyed the ceiling.
His fingers thrummed on the pine surface. An irritating noise, which added to the tension in the room. “When do you want to tell me?” he asked. “I have a conference call at nine o’clock. I’d rather get this over with and move on. It’s been a long day, and I don’t know why I should be bothered with your stupidity. I assume you’ve done something stupid?”
Gemma nodded. A tiny movement of her head. He pushed his chair back and tossed the napkin on the table. “Ten minutes.” He left her collecting the dirty dishes.
After she had cleaned up the kitchen, she went to his study. He ignored her as she lingered in the middle of the room, her throat tight and heart pounding. She rocked on her bare toes, feeling small and inconsequential. Finished with his typing, Jason slammed his laptop shut and tilted his chair.
“Well?”
She crept closer to the walnut desk. “After your call yesterday....” What to say? How to explain? Gemma traced a finger along the edge of the desk, before deciding it wasn’t appropriate. For a few seconds, she stared past him to the picture hanging on the wall behind him. One of her own. Not typical of her style—an abstract arrangement of colours. Strident sweeps of the paintbrush matched by sharp angled shapes. She’d never quite understood why he liked it. The day he put it up—he rarely troubled with such tasks himself—she’d asked what he saw in the random array of shades.
“You,” he’d said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Bright, energetic, strong. All things that draw me to you. They remind me of your submission. My feisty girl who gives so willingly. I’m a lucky man.” At the time, his explanation had stunned her. His perspective of her often seemed at odds with her own. Fidgeting with her hair, she couldn’t help wonder if he wanted her to be sassy sometimes. Fight him a little. Perhaps, he wanted her to break his rules. On the other hand, he didn’t look happy sitting with his arms crossed.
His patience fizzled. “Oh, I can guess. Let me see, you couldn’t contain your greedy hands and you touched yourself when I told you not to.” He summed up the situation with near accuracy.
She grimaced. “Yes,” she squeaked. “Except…I didn’t use my hands.”
He craned forward to hear her speak. “A vibrator?” His frown grew deeper.