Trust Me to Know You (31 page)

Given a choice of isolating forms of exercise, I would prefer gardening. Not exactly something that induced a cardiovascular work-out but it did make me ache afterwards so I had always concluded that it was sufficiently energetic to constitute as exercise. My family were all gardeners. For my parents, it was the one activity that they had in common. Their little back garden was divided into three areas: flower
beds, vegetable plot and perennials. They had been provided with ideas on garden design by my brother who studied horticulture at college. My gardening days
had ended when I left home. Living in urban environments removed the opportunity and I had gradually lost interest.

Seeing Jason’s extensive garden at Blythewood had inspired me to want to be out doing something. I quite fancied the opportunity to try my hand at cultivating and growing new plants. I would rather be outside, especially in the warm summer months. Even being out in the cold winter ones would be more appealing than the monotony of gyms. I doubted Jason would see gardening as suitable exercise to improve my endurance. Yet when he told me to go to the
gym,
I did the deed. That control thing he had over me was kicked into action.

I accepted that I was his to command when it came to sexual matters. I had given him ownership of me and he could do as he wished to gain both his erotic gratification and dominating fulfilment. He clearly loved to control and I gave up my sexual being willingly. After
that,
the boundaries became bleary. Was letting him decide on other aspects of my life permissible? He had ordered me to the gym because he wanted my stamina to improve so he could fuck me for longer. So I went. What would he expect after that? My diet, my clothing or perhaps my social life.
My insides churned at the idea. I was not going to submit that far for him. At some point, we would hit an impasse and I would find out how controlling he could actually be.

In the evenings, Jason usually
appeared around seven o’clock. I timed my meals for him well after one noticeable screw up not long after I moved in. He ate his dinner as if he had been
starved all day. I generally remembered my place and
did not venture comment or initiate a conversation. He read some paper or other while he tucked into his food. After tidying up, I lounged in front of the TV while he beavered in his study to late into the evening – I pined for him but I could not ask to be with him.

I was impressed by his hard working attitude. He did not
shy away from long hours, taking conference calls that fitted with other time zones, especially his American employees. Once when passing by his door I
had
heard him viciously berating someone over the phone. I had a twinge of sympathy for the recipient.
However, at least they were not spanked for their screw-ups.

By eleven o’clock,
I would retire and decide that if he wanted to have sex with me, he could wake me up. That tactic seemed to work for him. He would either crawled into bed and drifted off into a rapid deep sleep or he threw the duvet off me and climbed on top of me. He would lay his nakedness against
mine and buried himself into me. Kissing and nibbling on my breasts, quickly arousing me from my semi-slumber. I never went to sleep until he came to bed and I did not refuse him as he grasped my hair, thrusting himself deep into my wetness with an all too obvious urgency.

Stroking his head with my hand, I whispered silly things to him in a calming voice. I let him relieve his day-time stresses in waves of a much-needed orgasm and then he would roll off me and fall asleep.
Mine own needs were pushed to one side, he never gave me per
mission to come. I did not mind - I was fulfilling my purpose.

I recollected he said his needs were different during the week, quicker and to the point. He was almost completely uninterested in me and I was little more than a pleasure vessel for him,
as close to being his sex slave as I ever had been. I acc
epted my role had changed on those nights and waited for the weekend when I would be given his rigorous attention.

I did catch his attention in other ways,
simply because I was sharing his homes. He had lived on his own for most of his adult
life and it showed in his habits and the way he kept his houses. They were tastefully decorated and furnished, homely and comfortable, but he seemed to haunt his homes rather
than
live in them. There were few pictures on the walls, no ornaments on the dressers or cabinets, and the kitchens were purely functional. At Blythewood
House,
the only full height mirror was in the interior of his dressing room and at Piedmont the mirror was tucked away in the bathroom. It
was not as if I wanted the rooms to be quaint and covered in knick-knacks, just extras that would make them appear to be more than fancy hotel suites.

Blythewood had the dungeon space. Not something that every house in the country had going for them. It was hidden away and unless you eyed up the outside wall and compared it to the inside floor space, could you judge that an entire room was tucked away out of sight. Piedmont was a sleep
over house. A
bachelor
pad that he had rented since making his wealth. The most used room
in the house was his study. There were plenty of books:
legal textbooks, financial reports, political essays and heavy tomes on the world of economics. On one closer inspection when he was at work, I found a few books on sexual psychology, anatomy, advanced first aid, tantric massaging and golfing legends. His hobbies summed up nicely on one shelf. I was strangely re-assured by those books, as if it made him a real person and not a freaky executive with kinky ideas about sex.

I had
added my own bits and pieces. The toiletries in the en-suite cabinets expanded dramatically overnight. His own clothes were pushed to one side as I
hung up
my own. They looked out of place next to his refined elegant suits. I really needed to go shopping, soon. My books went to Blythewood, along with my ancient computer and most of my artistic hobby stuff. Only when I was there in the townhouse did it cross my mind that I was going to be spending more time here then at Blythewood. Boredom set in quickly.

He had a complete silverware set at both houses. Such extravagance and I wondered how much entertaining he did. I
could not
help opening up the cutlery canteen and admiring the quality of its contents. My knives and forks had come from Argos and his probably from Harrods. There were silver tea and coffee pots, platters, condiment sets, napkin rings and candlesticks. Unintentionally I left smudges on the silver plate. I grimaced at my grubby marks and went
to find the silver polish in the utility area.

By the time Jason came home on the Wednesday evening,
I had the kitchen table covered in old newspaper, cloths, a bottle of cleaning fluid and his silverware. Most of it had been made sparkling bright by the time he was home. He stood in the kitchen doorway staring at me.

“What are you doing, Gemma?” he asked with a faintly amused expression.

“Polishing,” I said carefully checking over the platter for my fingerprints.

“I can see that, but why? Brooks has the house cleaned for me, including the silverware.”

“I thought they could do with an extra buffing up,” I said with a shrug. “I like polishing. Cleaning is tedious, but polishing is much more satisfactory. All the shiny surfaces reflecting....” I stopped speaking, too much information which did not interest him in the slightest.

“Were you that bored today?” He put his briefcase down on the floor, as there was no space on the table.

“I’m making myself at home.”

“By polishing my rather well polished silver?”

“I left a smudge on something and it kind of snowballed into a whole polishing everything. They look good don’t they?” I said waving my blackened hands over the table.

“What about painting, sketching thing you claim you like to do?”

Good point. Why
had I not simply taken the time to draw?
“Nothing to draw here. Sorry, but this house is pretty dull subject matter....”

He interrupted me. “Go out then. You can buy what you like and Johnson can take you wherever,” he reminded me of his generosity.

“I know, thank you. I suppose I’m trying to make myself at home. I’ve got two homes to get use to.”

“You’re going to polish the silver at Blythewood too then? Poor
Mrs Harris will be out of a job,” he said going to the put the kettle on.

“Oh, I don’t want to get in her way....”

“Joking! But I think you can find a better way to make yourself at home. Perhaps making me some dinner?” he said staring at the empty kitchen worktops.

Whoops! Time had flown by, helped by my iPod and headphones.

“I’ll just tidy up and I’m sure I can rustle up something quick for you, sir.”

I scrambled to my feet.

“I know you’re keen for a proper job, but there are better ways to impress upon me that need than stinking my kitchen out with polishing fluid,” his tone had changed and I recognised it. My ears were becoming accustomed to his vocal inflections.

“I apologise, sir, I thought I was....”

“Gemma, you don’t have to clean, polish or scrub the floors. I’ve told you before. You please me in other ways. So make me tea and then you can keep me company in the study by sitting quietly and reading, or whatever you do when you’re being unobtrusive. Understood?”

He came over to me, and without touching my filthy hands, lent forward to give me a tender kiss on the lips.

“The only thing I want clean in this house, is you and for obvious reasons.”

My legs shook like jelly when he said those words.

***

I splashed out on Thursday shopping for clothes. By then Jason’s instruction for me to have a female escort had worked its way through the system. Gibson, as she was known to me – what happened to first names? – drove me to the shops, the kind I would have never
dreamed of shopping in a few weeks earlier. Trying on clothes, I discovered Gibson may be my security escort but she was not going to take on the role of personal shopper. I was left indecisive and unsure of what to buy.

I wandered up and down the aisles, picking up hangers and holding clothing against my body without a clue as to what worked or did not. In Harvey Nichols, I saw the names of designers who normally I would only read about in fashion magazines: Vivienne Westwood, Alexander McQueen, Donna Karan…. The prices were exorbitant and made me gasp. Everything was so gorgeous and stylish and I could not imagine wearing any of it.

Colours I could manage to judge for myself. I had my own particular way of handling shades and my artistic brain helped. It was the styles, the cut and fabric, which lost me. I gave up on the high and mighty end of the clothing market and tried Top Shop. The prices were not as shocking but still I had no idea how to change my image. Did I want to though? Was the real reason I was not succeeding due to my humble origins?

My mum and I had always shopped together and Marks and Spencer’s was a typical store or other common high street brands. Much of the time, we had ended up at the local supermarket buying anything on offer or on sale. We did not go to high-class functions and it had been easy to pick clothes for work or leisure. Nothing I chose made me feel out of place or lowly.

Being with Jason things were going to be different. His suits came from Savile Row and were tailor made. His buffed leather shoes were elegant, his watches were the brands advertised by Hollywood stars and he even made a pair of jeans voguish.

I was faced with the reality of being inept at changing or refining my appearance. Whatever Jason wanted on his arm was unknown to me for the simple fact we had never gone anywhere posh together. My dreams of evenings spent at fancy restaurants, box seats in theatres or lavish social occasions had all come to nothing. I gave up after four shops and returned to the house with less bought than I had anticipated.

I briefly summarised my day to Jason over dessert. He was less distracted and seemed happy to communicate.

“I’m crap at buying clothes,” I slumped in my seat, playing with my spoon. “It’s alright for you, just shirts and suits,” I grumbled.

Jason smiled at me. The first time he had smiled since showing me around the house.

“Silly girl. Go up to an assistant and ask for help. They get a commission for helping you. I’m surprise they weren’t falling all over you in. Or hire a personal shopper.”

“Well I suppose I don’t look the part. It is a vicious circle until I look the part they won’t wait on me,” I shrugged my shoulders in mock despair.

“Assert yourself, Gemma. You’re going to be on show soon, you need to play the part well. I’m not a Professor Higgins. You’ll have to sort this out yourself.”

I grinned at Jason’s reference to
Pygmalion
. “On show?” I gawped.

“Yes. This weekend. We’re having lunch with my parents. We’ll drive over on Saturday.”

My mouth dropped into an O shape. That expression made him smile in amusement.

Already!
Well I had been asking for signs of commitment.

“You’re right I can’t keep you cooped up indoors indefinitely. You’ll get up to mischief eventually and slip out
unattended, I can see it coming.” He picked out an apple from the fruit bowl.

“What about my parents? They have a right to know I’m involved with someone.” I watched as he tossed the apple up and down in his hand.

“Would they be about on Sunday? Have them over for lunch?”

Wow,
that would be amazing.
They would be impressed and gobsmacked with Blythewood House.

“I’m sure they’d be about, they’re not much for going away at weekends. I’ll give them a call,” I beamed. “I have to tell them I have a boyfriend!” That was going to be one interesting conversation.