***
I was dancing, singing, that’s all!
She wouldn’t say a word. Work continued to frustrate him, and she had to resign herself to these releases of his stress. His need to dominate her when he couldn’t haul his employees into his office for a rebuke or reprimand. The circumstances required her to be their substitute.
She shrieked in the end, unable to keep quiet any longer. She howled at his fearsome pace, kicking up legs up and stamping feet.
“Sorry! I’m fucking sorry!”
Jason stopped. Her flaming bottom pulsated in response to his hard smacks. He ran his hand over the heated skin, rubbing her cheeks until she let out a small moan of relief.
“Better. Go up and wait for me.”
She knelt naked by the lounger. She considered the location appropriate, given his mood. He approached her and touched her head.
“Good girl.”
He dropped a bundle of rope onto the lounger. “Crawl here, slave.”
She crawled to the pole supporting the canopy. Several inches in diameter, metallic and white. At the base, he placed a towel, folded over to cushion her knees.
Seeing the modicum of comfort he had offered her kneecaps, she said, “Thank you, Sir.”
“Put your back against the pole, legs to each side, and hands behind. Good. Higher up by your head. The rope will keep you steady.”
He bound her wrists together behind her back, securing her to the pole. Looping her tattooed breasts with rope, he knotted that behind her shoulders and then also to the pole.
“Perfect.”
She caught his eye. “Please, may I have a drink of water?”
The singing below deck had made her parched.
“All right.”
He fetched a glass of water and allowed her a few sips to moisten her mouth then poured the rest over her breasts. She flinched at the coldness.
“Fuck, yes,” He pushed his cock inside her mouth, over her moistened tongue, and then he descended deep. He gripped the pole with both hands, fingers curled tight about it. His eyes shut while her own remained watery and open, staring up at him. He fucked his submissive slave tied to the pole, and she ceased to be the other thing she identified with being: Gemma. For the duration of this scene, she wasn’t his wife. Wives were not tied to poles with their husband’s cock thrust into their oral orifice with little consideration. Husbands made love.
He was hard, she noted, immensely stiff and large. She could barely accommodate him. Gemma witnessed her Dominant in his blissful nirvana. He had dreamed up this scene and relished it with a passion. His passion, certainly not hers. She loathed the humiliating pose and the lack of emotional play. No teasing, no touching her intimately. She was a vessel for his testosterone urges and his controlling personality. She let him because he was enjoying her. Nobody else. She was the sole recipient of his dominating play. The sentiment of giving herself to him unconditionally didn’t extend itself to any sense of pleasure in her own body. Her jaw ached from being held open, and her head banged against the pole with each of his deep thrusts into the oral cavity.
What really caused her problems were the buttons on his shorts. Flapping back and forth, they hit her face. On a few occasions, they hovered close to her delicate eyes. She sensed peril. She needed him to be aware of her situation, to remedy the danger to her person. As her Dominant, he had a duty of care, to make sure she wasn’t irreparably damaged or injured. His eyes remained shut, seemingly lost in his own ecstatic heaven. If he didn’t come soon, the buttons would be taking her eyes out.
“Jason,” she spluttered against his cock. An indiscriminate noise. She tried to waggle her tongue, but he took it as a stimulus and moaned.
No! Stop. Now!
Gemma became distressed. Her body tensed further, and she tried to say “yellow,” her safe-word. The word sounded like a pathetic string of Ls.
He looked down at her. Something must have caught his attention. Whether it was her agitated movements or incoherent speech, she didn’t know.
Gemma shook her head from side to side in a frantic display of mercy. The visual gesture he should acknowledge and respond to immediately. He did. Removing himself from her mouth, he dropped into a crouch.
“Yellow, fucking yellow. I’ve been trying to get your bloody attention,” she yelled at him fiercely.
“Sorry, babe.” He cupped her face in his hands. “What’s gone wrong?”
“Your bloody buttons. Do you want to blind me?” she snapped.