“Apologies, señor.” Esteban shot off.
Jason, satisfied they were not being watched, took Gemma to the edge of the pool and turned her around. She rested her arms on the tiles, head tucked down. He tugged on her bikini bottoms, easing them down her thighs. His body drew closer to hers, his cock, released from his swimming trunks by his eager hand, rose up into her tight pussy, which gave inch by inch. Her arms stretched out before her, allowing her to bend and push back against him. His powerful thrusts forced him to grunt with each swing of his hips. He conducted their brief interlude of underwater sex with the same urgency he used when they had sex in the pool in their country mansion. He relished the fluid sensation of moving in water. Mini waves sloshed about their bodies. Gemma tossed her wet hair over her shoulder, arching her back and allowing his hands to cup her swinging breasts. After he came deep inside her, the rippling surface gradually stilled. There he lingered, kissing the back of her neck, calming his breaths in small huffs.
Resting the side of his head on her back, he faced the main body of the vessel, the two rows of balconies. Something caught his eye on the deck above. He guffawed quietly. Not everyone had resisted viewing him play with his wife. Modesto’s familiar face peeked between the railings, and the moment Jason spied him, he scrambled away. Luckily, Jason had done nothing more than fuck Gemma. What would Modesto have made of him binding her and ducking her in and out of the water—the kind of scene he occasionally did at home in their private indoor pool? It didn’t matter. Modesto’s inquisitive nature didn’t bother Jason as long as he stayed discreet. It might have upset his wife, but Gemma seemed oblivious to their watcher.
Jason had expected the crew to be curious, and their voyeurism aided his own curiosity. He wanted to know if she would be exhilarated by the observers or unnerved. Her constant reticence at being used in the present of others and her lack of exhibitory daring riled him on occasions. She should be happy to please him regardless of the ambience, environment, or the presence of his chosen witnesses. If he was fulfilled, she should be, too, he reasoned.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t force a sentiment on her if it wasn’t a natural response. Fakery, he wouldn’t stand for. Her silence spoke volumes. He was determined to find the source of her inhibitions.
He tenderly rested his chin on her right shoulder as his waning erection slipped against her back. He wished he could find a mechanism to help her cope with her anxieties.
“Why are you reticent about erotic humiliation, especially sexual acts in the presence of others? Exhibitionism, is it not a common activity in the communities you frequented when you trained? Or were you in some particular coven that abhorred sharing their passions?” he murmured.
“Nothing to do with my socialising. I was always happy to be nearly naked, didn’t mind being spanked or paddled in open areas. Nor tied up or teased with something non-penetrative. But sexual intercourse with others watching, I couldn’t do...because….” Gemma gave a small shrug of her shoulders.
“Because of your rape?”
“No, not the rape. Something else. Before my first Master and university. While I was still at school. God, remembering it makes me feel like a harlot.” Her body tensed, and he squeezed her waist.
“Go on.”
“I didn’t deep throat or swallow back then. I liked the way men moaned, but I wasn’t good at the art of oral sex. But it was the safest way of having sex, or at least that is what I thought. I was eighteen, about to leave home, and full of confidence. It happened in a bike shed at the local community centre. A grubby, dark shed—nothing romantic or comfortable. The recipient, unremarkable, and I’d forgotten his name. I’d taken a fancy to him when we met at a pub. By then, my parents couldn’t stop me going out, not any longer.” Gemma paused, tracing her finger along the edge of a pool tile.
Jason waited, letting her work through her thoughts and memories.
“His friends interrupted us,” she continued. “I foolishly thought we were going to be on our own. They had been watching through a window, probably sniggering in the background, but I hadn’t heard. It was a dare, for his eighteenth birthday, a coming of age thing, to get a girl to go with him. He said I would open my mouth to anybody, that they should try me out because I was easy. I bolted out of the door, and their laughter followed me, including his.”
“Jealous. They were jealous.”
“Whatever, the reason behind their actions didn’t matter to me; I was mortified. After that incident, I was convinced sex anywhere other than a bedroom or secluded, secure location wasn’t a safe place. I felt having sex in the presence of others opened me up to degrading comments and laughter. My first Master didn’t require public acts of humiliation. He wasn’t interested and, after him, I made a name for myself as one who never submitted to orgies or group sex. It’s not me.”
“But you were willing to be spanked or provide other services?”
“Probably because I could be explicit about my limits and keep them non-sexual. Unless I was in a sexual relationship, I concentrated on platonic scenes—at least, when in the company of others, being a bottom to a top. I admit I found those encounters erotic and pleasurable, so I had an incentive to submit. There was also a clear understanding of what both parties wanted from the experience. I went to parties and did scenes at clubs solely on the basis I could say what I would and wouldn’t do. So, no more sex in bike sheds.” She gave a slight titter.
“You trust me. So why not relax and enjoy it, here in the middle of the sea. Why care who is watching? We’re not doing anything kinky.”
“I simply have a deep-seated mistrust of my own reaction to having sex with people about. It dampens my arousal. I don’t want to be seen as a prostitute or, this sounds silly, rubbish at it.”
“Babe, you’re not rubbish at sex. Quite the contrary. You’re very accomplished at it, not a harlot or prostitute. If I exhibit you, it’s because I’m proud of you. You had a bad experience with abusive humiliation, not erotic humiliation. Not all women are turned on by being humiliated or exhibited. I accept it won’t be your preference, but I do expect you to submit willingly and to please me, not dwell in the murky past and shrivel up in my arms. Take pride in my pride in you.”
“Thank you for the kind words. I will try, Master. But you must accept I won’t always go to those places with you.”
He wasn’t convinced, far from it. Humiliation or exhibitionism were not hard limits any longer, certainly in the private arenas he had created for their play, and he wasn’t going to restrict their usage. His chosen scenes weren’t requests to be declined. The word “try” wasn’t acceptable when “do” was what he expected. He would plan a scene that would require her acquiescence once and for all.
“Go shower. Let Maria braid your hair. We will dine early. No need to keep Spanish times for meals any longer.”
***
Jason left Gemma in the pool, taking his robe from Enrique as he returned indoors.
Though the water play had been fun, Gemma had found the sex too swift to take any erotic
pleasure. The added knowledge that the crew had watched them had dampened her desires. Such a blatant weakness had been unearthed by her husband, then prised apart and dissected.
Talking to Jason with her back to him had given her the courage to describe her first scene of humiliation. She’d wondered if Jason found her behaviour to be no different from a whore. It had been how she felt inside after the foolhardy encounter in the bike shed. However, he hadn’t called her a whore. That had been her own conclusion.
Maria handed her a towel. “Another time, he will think of you.”