He reached for his flies; she could hear the noise of the zipper.
No, no! Not here!
She glanced up. He’d pulled his zipper up, not down.
“Lick my shoe.” His tone, controlling, reached into her submissive being, yanking on her need to please him. She responded hypnotically. Leaning forward, she stuck her tongue out and slowly circled the tip over the polished leather. The humiliation crippled her. She trembled, convinced droplets of sweat were forming on her brow. She didn’t notice the taste of the leather as she curled her tongue over the laces, manoeuvring to the other side of the shoe. The spotless shoes, polished almost daily by Brooks, had no dirt to taint her. Each time she lifted her head, he tapped his toe on the floor. A small, impatient gesture to keep her focused on her task. She couldn’t see his face. Was he grinning at her, enjoying her mortification, or perhaps, he kept a lookout. Where was the tailor? Her pulse raced.
“The other one.” Jason nudged his left foot towards her mouth. She sucked on the toecap.
The control he had over her—his little power game—enveloped her pathetic sex. In her knickers, she sizzled, hot and needy. She wanted to cry as her confused, rational mind fought against her submissive one. Her stomach churned. It wasn’t the act itself. She’d sucked his toes countless times before and even licked his shoes a few times upon greeting him in the hallway, but the location screwed with her mind. What if somebody came? Were the tailors peeping through spy holes, sniggering on the other side of a wall?
Stop thinking. Stop thinking.
Just Jason. Only her Master.
Before their hedonistic cruise, such a scene would have been inconceivable. She’d have baulked, hesitated, and sent out waves of signals to tell him she’d gone way beyond her comfort zone into the world of untested limits. However, Gemma trusted her Dominant. Trust remained the bedrock of their relationship. He’d been to his tailors numerous times; he knew their procedures. How long did they give him to get dressed? How long before they returned to check everything was all right?
Her licks grew feverish. She buried her angst deep and focused on a small patch of innocent leather. Lick. Lick. Suck.
She heard footsteps and nearly erupted into a fit of conniptions. Instead, she froze.
“Thank you, darling, for tying my shoe lace.” Jason reached out to help her up. Catching his eyes, she noted the tiny smile lines formed in their corners. He squeezed her hand, a moment of reassurance. He wasn’t cross; something else had triggered his need to be assertive. He’d summoned her for a brief interlude. Something more than the forgotten delivery note had upset his day. Work, no doubt. He let go of her hand. The day was young. Whatever distractions he required might not finish with her visit to the tailors.
While on the phone summoning his personal bodyguard, Jason gave her a cursory good-bye. They went their separate ways, with Jason returning to his office in the City and Gemma, west, to pick up the package. The box-shaped parcel wasn’t bulky, and nothing about it identified what it might contain. It rattled slightly when she carried it into the house. She left it on the desk in his study.
Gemma was grateful for Clara’s astute wisdom; the nanny didn’t ask why she’d been to the tailors.
Just before lunch a text arrived from Jason.
Polish my shoes. All of them.
At that moment, it struck Gemma how the rest of the day would be played out. She was going to be “asked” to do tasks.
She poked her head around the door of the nursery. “Clara, you’ll have to mind Josh for most of today. I will have things I need to do.” Again, the tactful nanny didn’t enquire about the “things.”
Gemma polished his damn shoes. All “bloody eight pairs” of leather top-quality designer shoes. Standing in the utility room, with earphones plugged in, she listened to dance music to help pass the time and mask the sound of her curses.
Polish the silverware and the dining room table.
The second message came after lunch. She telephoned her regular beautician at the salon and cancelled the appointment for her waxing. She would have to find the time to shave her own legs and intimate parts.
Throughout her labours, Gemma never questioned why she was being made to do those tasks. Over the months since Joshua’s birth, she’d found the lack of employment made her empty of purpose. Jason’s rules had handed her over to him to control, and certainly for sex, she was owned by him 24/7. However, he didn’t decide how she spent her days in his absence. Her hobbies, activities, and interests were hers to choose. He demanded nothing of her time other than she be there for him when he was home.
Breaking off to give Joshua an afternoon breastfeed, Gemma rested her feet on a stool in the sitting room. Clara brought her a cup of tea. Gemma blessed her fortunes. Not only did she have a nanny, there were domestics to assist and do many of the household chores, usually at the weekends when the family escaped to the country house. The butler, Brooks, dealt with Jason’s shoes. The cleaners polished the silverware. All of her tasks that day were superfluous and unnecessary.
Polish the floor of my study.
She sighed, resisting the temptation to throw the phone across the room or hide it in a hopeless attempt at ignoring his instructions. He’d send the message via courier if she didn’t dutifully reply to each with a Yes, Sir. There was a definite theme developing—lots of polishing. She glared at the expanse of flooring. Submission wasn’t all fun and games. It sucked sometimes. Somewhere on the other side of the vast urban sprawl, was her husband, ensconced in a meeting, smiling smugly at the thought of his wife slaving away for him. She ached all over and some of that aching was for him—for respite and comfort.
Obedience gave her the faith to believe what she did had a purpose. Something unknown to her, but pleasing to him.
She knelt on a cushion and waxed the wooden floor of his study. Two of her nail tips broke off. The various polishing fluids and waxes made her hands chafed and rough. Even her iPod couldn’t relieve the fatigue. Gemma switched to a classical-music playlist and attempted to drown out her woes with choral masterpieces.
Resting on her haunches, she recalled how, four years ago, she had once polished Jason’s silverware at his previous townhouse—Piedmont. She’d just moved in with him and had been at a loss as to how to spend her days. Just like now, with no employment to occupy her waking hours, she’d polished his silver. A spontaneous act on her part. He had on that occasion pointed out he didn’t need that kind of service from her.
“Sexual submission. That’s what I want,” Jason had told her, and she’d been immensely grateful he hadn’t been seeking a service-oriented slave as his submissive.
Deep down she knew it wasn’t the type of submission she wanted to offer a Dominant. Sex was her elixir. In the past, before she met Jason, she’d weaned herself off the service Dominants, the ones who liked her to cook and clean in the nude or some other domestic fetish. Others became her preference.