Trust Me to Know You (41 page)

“Help pleathe,” I tried to say.

“Help you? Why would I do that? You want a fuck, you pull that chain. Keep trying.” He folded his arms this time and perched on the arm of the divan. “I’m enjoying this. You resist and I’ll keep putting things on you, so I suggest you do it.” Jason stood back and waited.

I glared at him and wanted very much to say, ‘you bastard’. He would probably fuck me anyway. Try as I may to resist his demands I could not
. I tugged harder and harder and I could feel the clamps stretching out my
nipples
. I
howled and let go of the chain. Jason slowly strolled over and slipped a finger inside my clenching pussy. Taking it out, he smeared my wetness around the clamps.

“A little bit of lube to help the clamps come off. You are ridiculously wet you know that?” He put the chain back in my mouth.

The juices worked and with a sharp jerk, I pulled on the chain. The rush of pain broke me out of my trance as I yanked off the nipple clamps using my mouth. The pain peaked immediately and I shook close to tears.

“What a fuss. I was going to put clothes pegs on you and whip them off.”

“Oooo,” I muttered. His other idea
actually sound quite enticing. I was definitely in a
pleasure /
pain seeking mood. Up to a point. I
also wanted a thorough seeing to.

“Well done.” He patted my leg and removed the clamps and chain
from where they were resting, along with the other attachments. His humiliating torment
was not finished there.

“Now you can ask me,” he told me.

I wanted nothing else in the world at that precise minute than to be used.

“Please, sir, fuck me,” I moaned.

“Not very appealing is it? Fuck me! You may be a slut in here,
Gemma, but I have some self-respect. Try again. Ask
me.”

He perched back on the divan and inspected his fingernails as if they were the most important thing in his world. Somehow the make-me-wait approach made him incredible sexy and so, so dominant. Me, lying there gaping was not inviting enough for him, he wanted me to beg. I had the sensation I was dripping down between my bum crack.

“Please, sir. Use
your
pussy for your pleasure. Please put your lovely cock deep inside me,” I practically wailed red faced.

“Why should I?”

Oh shit, come on, Jason!
Were the words in my head. What I actually said was different. “I’m yours, sir. U
tterly and unconditionally yours,” I surrendered. If that
did not do it for him, I wondered what else I could possibly say to convince him.

At long last, I was being fucked and boy, it had been worth the wait. The strung up position, being able to see his face as he went about his business and hearing his grunts of exertion. I adored the rough sex and knowing he loved me made it so special.

“Oh God, please, please, may I come for you, sir.”

“No.”

What!?
After all the waiting,
he made me hold it. I sobbed at him for relief.

“Shut up!” he said harshly.

I stopped asking and remembered I had given up my body unconditionally. I focused all my efforts on not coming and not disappointing him with my lack of concentration.

He held off his ejaculation for what seemed like an eternity. Changing pace and depth, he slid me back and forth across the table, using the spreader bar like a swing. In the
end, he hoisted me fractionally higher and I was completely suspended when he achieved his climax.

It felt like forever to untie me. I stretched out on the bed while he bundled the ropes up and stored them away. Coming over to
me, he had the Hitachi wand in his hand. My favourite vibrating massager and sex toy. He grinned at me and I looked at him imploring.

“Oh thank you, sir.”

A few minutes later, I was given my long awaited orgasm. I was very loud and thrashing about. Then I curled up and clutched my twitching tender parts.

I thought that was it. He was not finished though. Pain play was over, but I had made a stupid statement about unconditionally being his and he pointed this out to me as I stirred on the bed.

“So let’s see how many orgasms I can force out of you, my little subbie. I want loads.” He switched the Hitachi back on.

I gasped out loud and attempted to crawl off the bed. He grabbed my ankle and dragged me towards him.

“Oh no you don’t,” he laughed.

It was a futile gesture and resistance was not my true intention. I wanted those orgasms. I wanted him to control each and every one of them. I wanted to beg him to stop and have him ignore me. I wanted to cry with the intensity of having my throbbing clitoris come at his touch. I wanted him in charge of my body. I wanted to submit because then I would be showing him my love and that I was truly his.

Sitting astride, facing my feet he had forced multiple orgasms on me without mercy. Five orgasms later, he released me.

The morning light arrived in the master bed
room and I started to wake up. Jason was not in bed as he was bringing up coffee and toasted muffins. I snuggled back under the duvet and gently flexed by legs. My groin ached from the spreader. I touched my
sex;
it was still very sensitive and delicate to the touch. Well used from two hard fucks and numerous orgasms. My back and bottom
had a residual heat to the skin. I could have lit a match off my bum last night following the flogging. All of these leftovers made me smile with glee. I loved my temporary marks, my aches and soreness. They were all signs of his presence on me. He had been so sweet to me in bed after he had washed
me down. Complimenting my endurance, he had spooned about me and he said he was pleased with my devotion to him. I felt
so
good. ‘Devotion’ was an excellent accolade to pay a submissive.

The aroma of coffee was working and my eyes were less bleary.

“Gemma, your passport, it’s not due to expire is it?” he asked abruptly.

I rolled over to face him. He was sitting up in bed with his ever present laptop.

“What? My passport?” The question was completely out of the blue. “Jason, I don’t have a passport.”

The look on his face was a picture. I
did not think I had seen Jason look so surprised.

“You
don’t
have a passport?” he reiterated deliberately. “What never had or it has expired?”

“Never,” I blushed. Being without a passport
had not
been much of an issue for me. “My mum is terrified of flying hence no family holidays abroad. We went to the same familiar seaside resorts every year. I haven’t been able to go abroad since being a student. Paying off stude
nt loans has limited my savings.” I shrugged my shoulders. Explanation done.

“Student loans? I’ll get those cleared first thing Monday.
Jeez
Gemma. I just assumed you’d travelled a bit, most students do” He put his laptop down next to him on the bed.

“Rich ones do yes,” I rebutted. “Why the interest in passports?”

“I was planning a weekend away, actually next weekend. A bit of a break for both of us,” he smiled as my joyous expression lit up. “I’m going to have to do some rearranging though.”

“A romantic weekend away?” I raised my eyebrows expectantly.

“Perhaps,” he replied enigmatically. “The rest is going to be a surprise.”

The antici
pation over the week was unbearable. He told me to pack clothes suitable for cold weather plus formal evening wear. I found it difficult to concentrate on my job.
The week was centred on work. Jason worked his long hours with two nights away in Frankfurt while I concentrated on building up my confidence.

Friday arrived and Jason picked me up at Piedmont,
having left work early at three o’clock. We were driven to the city airport. I was overwhelmed with excitement as we pulled up by his private jet.

“Where are we going Jason? Please where?” I was that over the top school girl again.

“Scotland. We’re flying to Inverness and then to a rather luxurious hotel.”

I clapped my hands in delight and then remembered to be appreciative and gave him a big hug.

“Glad you’re happy, babe,” he sounded excited too, I thought.

The flight was quick and efficient. For my first flight, I was spoilt rotten with leather seats and personal service from the flight attendant
. Jason looked
completely at ease, as if this flight was a routine journey. I was jittery and childlike, staring out of the window watching the moonrise.

My family holidays had never involved exotic locations. Devon primarily, occasionally North Wales or Cornwall. My parents had been content to return to the same static caravan park for years. We had even booked the same caravan if it was available. Our estate car would be packed to the brim with clothes, toys, games and countless other just in case items that were never unpacked. My mother had been content to do what she did at home while on holiday. She had cooked, cleaned and pottered, whether in the local gift shops or seeking a bargain from the boutiques.

My brother John and I had been satisfied to spend our days on the beach if the weather permitted. Building sandcastles, seashell hunting, finding the most disgusting piece of seaweed or splashing water over our shivering bodies. Our four year age gap for several years had been of no significance. During spells of bad weather, we had visited the local towns, picturesque villages, coastal ruins or craft shops. The latter mum and I had loved, while my dad and brother had kicked the ground in bored frustration.

What I had enjoyed was going to Dartmoor and being out on the vast moorlands. Bleak and grey landscapes did not put me off and the coolness of the air had been invigorating. Climbing the rocky tors and letting the wind rush through my hair had been thrilling. I loved open spaces, losing my mind and imagination to emptiness. Views as far as the eye could see took a suburban child to places in her mind that rows of identical houses never could. I would have to be shouted down and practically dragged back to the car when the day was finished. Only the wettest, coldest winds drove me homeward.

As my brother and I grew up, the age gap had become apparent. He had been bored by the beach, the routine trips and same old locations. Preferring to hang out in the amusement arcades and chatting to the local teenagers, my brother took off on his own. As I hit my adolescence, we both tried to separate ourselves from our parents clutches. John had been far more successful at independence than me. My parents had insisted I had his company if we had caught the bus into town. I had resented the implication that I could not be trusted.

Generally, my brother and I got on well. He had looked out for me and had not let the local boys finger or ogle me. If I had been tempted to enter a pub - it was easy as I looked older than my actual years - he had shaken his head and steered me to an ice-cream parlour instead. We had become accustomed to each other and when we returned to the caravan park, he would tell mum I had been well behaved, like a school report. He never had to account for his actions. An observation that had been lost on me until he left home.

John had resisted family holidays by then. He had his college friends and being with the family was not cool or trendy. He made excuses to be elsewhere. I had hated knowing my friends went to Spain or Greece. Upon their return, they would regale me with stories of hot climates, topless sunbathing, blue seas and sexy foreigners with bronze tans and lilting accents. What to do but rebel a little.

By the time I was in my late teens, my virginity gone and my reputation as boy magnet increasing, I had attempted to find my own distractions from the tedium of static caravan parks. I had lied a great deal and sometimes I was caught out, other times I got away with entertaining my desires. My last holiday with mum and dad, when I was already eighteen with no John to whisk me away, I had attracted the attention of a young man. His name I could not remember as I sat on the jet recollecting, infuriating me. Irish, red headed with a soft accent, he had made me feel like I was abroad in Devon. I would pretend
I was visiting Ireland and he was my rebellious Irish upstart planning to elope with me. I did sneak off for a handful of clandestine trysts. I
had told my parents that I was going to buy milk and bread from the park shop or I was going for a refreshing walk along the coastline.

“Do be careful, Gemma,” had said mum. “I don't want to have to call the coastguard to rescue you off a ledge.” Not necessary because I was only a few caravans away with my Irish god tonguing my mouth on a tobacco stinking settee. His family had taken the dog for a walk while we had snogged with hands all over each other. The inevitable happened. He told me he had condoms.

Sure,
I said.

I like it rough,
he warned.

I'll try it,
I said eagerly,
If I say stop you will?

Of course,
he said with a serious face.

I had to trust him. My first adventure in trust and hard fucks.

The caravan was privately owned, not hired and in his parents’ overly ornate and tacky bedroom he had asked me to strip, which I did enthusiastically. Condom on, he had lowered himself into me gently. Jeans on with a hairy bare chest, he was sexy and keen.

Ready?
He said in his lovely accent.

I was wet every time he spoke to me.

Just do it please,
I begged.

Really sure?
He teased.

Please, please, I'll take it however you want to do it,
I said desperately without thinking that much.

He did and I let him for half an hour. My first encounter with rough, hard sex, pinned down by his weight and hammered by his thick cock. I came raucously and my response made him go crazy with lust. Fucking me harder, making me come again even harder. On all fours, bent over and up against the wall. I had been sure the caravan was rocking off its stabilisers.