Her World of Submission (House of Submission 3)

The power of speech flew from him, and that was always a significant moment with Jasper, for whom the power of speech was more like a superpower.

He gave three jolts of his hips, so that his cock pretty much hit the back of my throat, then I tasted it, sharp and salty, coating the inside of my mouth.

He withdrew quickly and lay down, half on top of me, his head on my stomach. I could feel him trembling all over from the physical stress of holding position for so long. I wanted to stroke his hair, to wipe his brow, but of course I was cuffed.

He lay, panting hard until he was able to speak again. Poor Jasper – I think, for him, muteness would be far worse than blindness or deafness. To see him bereft of his usual eloquence was like seeing a wounded man.

‘You’re a gift,’ he said at last. ‘Nobody got anything better than that this Christmas.’

He sat up blearily and uncuffed my wrists, then wrapped my shaky arms around him for a long, passionate kiss.

‘You did miss me, didn’t you?’ he whispered.

‘Of course I did.’

‘I missed you. I ached for you, in fact.’

‘Oh, you,’ I said, all dazzly-eyed. ‘That’s so sweet.’

‘I know, not like me, is it? But it’s true.’

‘I missed you too. All the time. And not just your cock either.’

He laughed. ‘Well, aren’t you the romantic one?’ He yawned. ‘I haven’t finished unwrapping my gift yet, by the way. I still have plans for your musical balls and beads and whatnots. But I think we should take a rest first.’

It was fine by me. I felt overwrought, both with emotion and sensation. The balls and beads were comfortable enough that I was in no hurry to lose them. I was vaguely looking forward to whatever Jasper had in mind for them but I could wait.

‘Did you have a good Christmas?’ I asked him.

‘With mother? It was the same as ever. She invited every waif and stray for miles around and we all got roaring drunk. Best way, if you ask me.’

‘Oh, that sounds great,’ I said, comparing it with the claustrophobic, over-polite season I had spent with my parents, being asked twenty times a minute if I was sure I didn’t fancy a turkey sandwich.

‘Yeah, it could have been worse,’ he said. ‘Nobody fell through any windows this year.’

‘Oh, God, did that happen?’

‘Once. A ground-floor window, mind. Nothing serious.’

‘It’s all so glamorous.’

‘What, defenestration?’

‘No, your life. Your family. Mine is so incredibly dull by comparison.’

He stroked my cheek.

‘Listen, sweetheart, dull is the last thing I’d call you. I wouldn’t be lying here now with a dull person. I often wished, as a child, my family could be duller, though, I must admit.’

‘Did you really?’

‘What you see as colour and glamour was chaos to a child. They were constantly bankrupting themselves, moving around the country – sometimes around the world. There was no stability. And of course when my brother died …’

I squeezed him tighter, regretting my words now.

‘I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how awful that must have been for you.’

‘It’s not your fault. But you can understand, I suppose, why I used to long to be the boy in the suburban two-point-four-children family, going to football practice on a Saturday afternoon and all that.’