His House of Submission Read online

  ‘My God, it sounds like passion incarnate.’

  ‘You’re teasing me.’

  ‘Yes, I am. But, Sarah, it sounds drier than the dust on my top-shelf collection of Victorian erotica.’

  ‘Yes, but you work in a world where looks and appearances and visual impressions are all-important. That’s not the world for me. It’s you people and your film stars that are responsible for so much angst and low confidence and crappy self-esteem. Hardly anyone can look like a movie star – yet we all go crazy trying to do it and feeling like shit if we fail.’

  He paused, blinking at me over the rim of his glass.

  ‘That’s a fair comment,’ he said eventually. ‘And an interesting one.’

  ‘Not really. I think it’s quite a commonplace point of view.’

  ‘It’s your point of view. That’s what makes it interesting to me.’

  ‘I’m just a normal person, Jasper.’

  ‘And I’m not.’

  He lifted the cloche on a risotto.

  ‘We should eat,’ he said.

  Spooning a pile of sticky rice studded with asparagus on to my plate, he continued the theme.

  ‘So what’s normal nowadays, then, Sarah? What are the normal people doing? Tell me all about being normal while you sit there on your sore, spanked arse drinking champagne at my table wearing nothing but a lewd bodystocking.’

  That dazzling, cruel smile again. I clamped my thighs together, shamefully aware of the absurdity of my situation.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘Because I want to. And you want me to. Deny it – go on.’

  I wanted to, but I couldn’t.

  ‘So tell me about your paper-dry boyfriends of yore. Tell me what you did with them.’

  ‘There was only one. He was a student in my year.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Hugh.’

  ‘And Hugh … I’m trying to picture him now … a university scarf, a bicycle, spectacles.’

  ‘Two out of three,’ I said with a grimace. ‘No scarf.’

  ‘He was the first then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m jealous of him.’

  ‘No, you aren’t.’

  ‘I am. What was he like?’

  ‘Nice.’ I couldn’t think of another word, which seemed a little damning.

  ‘Nice?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with nice.’ I shovelled my fork defensively into the rice and took a mouthful.

  ‘I’m nice,’ he said, leaning forward on an elbow, smiling his half-demonic half-angelic smile, willing me to react. ‘I’m as nice as you want me to be. And in bed – was he nice there too?’

  ‘He was … it’s none of your business actually.’

  ‘Oh, that bad, eh?’

  My scalp prickled as if I’d been caught thieving. It was true, the sex had been less than stellar. The whole affair had fizzled out after we graduated and picked different universities for our PhD studies.

  ‘It’s good that you finished it, then,’ Jasper opined, turning his attention to the food.

  ‘Who said I finished it? It was mutual, in the end. It just ended. We still email, you know, as friends.’

  ‘How very fucking civilised.’

  ‘Yes, it is. You’re kind of an arsehole, you know? Just for your information. At least, that’s how you’re coming across. I don’t know if you’re aware of it.’

  He stared, eyebrows up, until I didn’t think I’d ever be able to swallow the mouthful of risotto I was shifting from cheek to cheek.

  ‘Thank you for your honesty,’ he said at last.

  ‘I thought you’d like to know. Why are you trying to belittle me and my past and my life choices? What do you think I’m going to take from that, apart from an impression that you’re a bit of a git?’

  ‘I’ve always found that submissives like a bit of theatrical arrogance.’

  ‘Submissives? What, like, a homogeneous ball of girls who like being spanked?’

  He sat back and looked me over, his gaze roaming all over me, ending at my ridiculously plunging cleavage.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m just not a very nice person. Perhaps I’m even a bad person. But I’m a good master. And I can show you things. I want to show you so many things, Sarah. If you’ll let me.’

  Every ounce of common sense screamed at me to run. But I was trapped, enticed by the beguiling promise of sinful pleasure to come. He had a hold on me. It just wouldn’t do to let him know.

  ‘I’ll consider it,’ I said.

  ‘Good. Well, let’s finish eating, shall we?’

  I dug into the risotto, but my appetite wasn’t much in evidence, having been replaced by a tugging tension in my lower abdomen.

  This was not alleviated by the sudden arrival of Jasper’s shoe against my foot, then my ankle, then sliding up my calf. I chewed doggedly on a stalk of asparagus but it seemed more and more probable that his footwear journey was going to end at my open crotch.

  I put my fork down and shot him a panicked glance.

  He winked at me and moved his foot higher, shoving it in between my thighs, parting them. He had to stretch a little and shift forward in his seat but he managed to get his toecap right inside my pussy lips and he held it there, swivelling it this way and that, for about ten seconds while I sat and stared at the ice bucket.

  Then he took it away again and said, ‘Strawberries. Come here.’

  I hesitated and he pushed back his chair and held out his hand.

  ‘Come on, Sarah. I’m going to give you your dessert.’

  ‘My just dessert?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly.’

  He put me on the edge of the table in front of him, my bottom on his place mat. Once he had moved all the silverware and plates out of the way, he had me lie down with my legs dangling off the edge of the table, following the fall of the fine white cloth, almost to the floor.

  Once I lay in my place, looking up at the chandelier and the plaster ceiling rose, he stood between my knees and leaned over me to reach for a dish of strawberries. He took one, dipped it in cream, and put it to my lips. Some dim remembrance of being told never to eat in this position lurked at the fringes of my mind, but the cream was slick and the fruit smelled full and ripe and I opened my mouth for it.

  Jasper wiped it along my lips until they were coated in cream, then he pushed it towards my teeth, crushing it there until I took a bite.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said, his face low over mine. I could feel the lump of his erection, inside his dress trousers, pressing into my exposed pussy. ‘Is that sweet?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I replied in kind, sucking on the pink flesh.

  ‘Let me taste,’ he whispered and he dropped still lower and his mouth clamped down on mind so that we both licked at the strawberry simultaneously, its mushed pulp spread by our tongues into the far corners.

  He repeated this with a number of soft fruits, plunging us again and again into this messy, juicy, creamy version of a kiss until I felt utterly abandoned to sensuality. I twitched my groin against his, rubbing my pussy up and down his trouser-covered bulge, taking his tongue deep inside my throat, pushing back into his mouth with mine.

  ‘You’ve had yours,’ he murmured, pushing the last remnants of a strawberry on to my tongue and lifting his head a little. ‘Now I want mine.’

  I don’t know what I hoped he meant by this, but he could have meant anything at all and I’d have consented to it like a shot. My body wanted him to do things to it that it had never heard of, my mind having conveniently located its off-switch at some point during the preceding events.

  He picked up a fistful of strawberries and stood up, spreading my thighs wide with his free hand.

  ‘There are rules for this game,’ he told me. I watched his fingers close around the fat red fruits, mashing them a little, pink juice dribbling on to his skin. I wanted to lick it off him. ‘I’m going to eat these off of you. You’re going to like it, I promise
you. You’re going to like it a lot. But you aren’t going to come. Because I don’t want you to, not yet. Let’s see how you do with that, shall we?’

  Without further explanation, he pasted the oozing strawberries into my lower lips, some of them shoved up inside me, others pressed between his palm and my clit. He pushed and smashed and rubbed them to pulp, then he dropped to his knees and began to feast.

  I raised my neck, helpless and half-aghast, half-enraptured by his move.

  I saw his head of dark hair and his eyelids, lowered, the lashes fluttering as he licked and lapped and sucked me all over. My clit was bigger and fatter than any strawberry, slipping wantonly into his mouth, begging for his hot breath and his wicked tongue. But it was wrong of it to beg, because I had to somehow rise above this riot of erotic sensation and batten down the initial stirrings of climax.

  How was this even going to be possible?

  He pushed his tongue up inside me, swirling it around to catch every last trace of the mingled juices – strawberries and sex. He smacked his lips and moaned with arousal and devoured me as if I were the proverbial manna in the desert.

  And that’s what he seemed like to me, in that instant. Manna in my desert.

  He held my lips apart with his thumbs and moved in even deeper. I was not going to be able to hold out … I could feel a treacherous little flutter somewhere at the base of my bum cheeks, spiralling back and joining up with my cunt. Everything began to connect in a terrible, unstoppable game of join-the-dots, coming together with alarming magnitude. I was not going to be able to stop it. I had to stop it. I couldn’t stop it.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said, long and low, once I’d spilled my strawberry orgasm into his mouth. He took some time to relish the flavour of my undoing, rolling his tongue around his cheeks, smacking his lips. His thumbs retained their positions on my labia.

  ‘I tried not to.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, and he released my pussy lips, bent over me and kissed me for such a long time that I thought I might drown in the sensual, berry-scented lusciousness of it. ‘It’s an acquired skill,’ he said, pulling me up by my fingers. ‘And you’re going to acquire it. Though I don’t think it’ll be easy for you.’

  ‘Don’t you? Why not?’

  ‘Because you’re a very responsive little bunny, aren’t you?’ He tangled his fingers in my hair and pulled it, making me fall into his kiss again. ‘You want it pretty badly, hmm?’

  I felt hot and prickly and ashamed at my obvious readable lustfulness. He knew I would spread my legs for him at the drop of an antique gag. It was entirely possible that he could make me come just by looking at me. I was annoyingly transparent, and powerless in the face of his perception.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sarah,’ he whispered into my ear. ‘I’m going to train you well.’

  He sat back down in his chair, leaving me leaning my bare bottom on the edge of the table, and smiled at me.

  ‘What a mess,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to have that tablecloth laundered. And as for my shirt …’ He frowned down at the pink-splodged cotton. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you go and grab a shower and come back down to the drawing room?’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ A shower sounded good. I almost thanked him, then caught myself. What did I have to thank him for? If I wanted to take a shower, I was free to take a shower. He wasn’t my drill sergeant, for pity’s sake.

  I was obviously falling deeper into the submissive mindset, I thought with an impulse of fear. Perhaps I should try to check my descent, just a little, even if it might mean missing out on what promised to be the most mind-blowing sex imaginable.

  As I arrived at the door, he stopped me.

  ‘Oh, Sarah.’

  I turned.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘When you come back down,’ he said, ‘I want you naked.’

  He had changed his shirt by the time I came back down to the drawing room, but he still wore the black dress trousers and the shinier-than-shiny shoes. His clean shirt was more relaxed, open at the neck, exposing his Adam’s apple and a patch of chest, tan and sparsely scattered with hair.

  He sat by the fireplace, accessorising nicely with the black cast-iron mouldings of the surround. I didn’t think my pale, unclothed skin would blend quite so well.

  I don’t know why I found the nakedness so challenging. He had, after all, caught me in post-coital disarray at our first meeting, and the bodystocking had hardly provided a decent level of coverage. It felt awkward and unnatural to be completely bare, though, and I could not for a moment forget the fact that every part of me was vulnerable and on show to him.

  Instinctively, I put my hands over my pubic triangle, protecting my breasts with my upper arms.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Move your hands,’ he said. ‘Are you embarrassed?’

  ‘A bit.’ I pouted for a moment then clenched my fists at my side.

  ‘I like embarrassment. It suits you. Your little rosy cheeks. Come over here.’

  I stalked forward and stood, hunched and shivering a little, in front of him.

  ‘Get that footstool and bring it here.’

  I picked it up – rosewood with dark-green velvet upholstery, elegant carving on the legs – and set it down by his chair.

  ‘Right. Now kneel on it. But spread your legs wider … that’s it.’

  I felt like an exhibit and I couldn’t face him. What should I do with my hands? They hung there uselessly while I endured the unforgiving laser of his attention.

  ‘I need you to look at me, Sarah.’

  I did as he told me, but kept my eyelids low. My whole face twitched with the effort of not looking away.

  ‘I told you earlier not to come while I was licking that juicy little cunt of yours, didn’t I? But you came anyway. Right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s that you say?’ He cupped a hand behind his ear, his voice suddenly hard-edged.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ The words came as easily as breathing, surprising me. I was meant to say them.

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘I couldn’t help myself.’ I paused and waited for it to say itself. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Right. And why couldn’t you help yourself?’

  ‘Because what you were doing to me … it was very … it made me … lose control.’

  He smiled but his eyes were flints.

  ‘I made you lose control? Well, then, if you can’t control yourself, you’re going to need me to do it for you. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘I know you can.’

  He raised the leg that was crossed over the other, waving his polished shoe in the air beneath my nose.

  ‘Look at my shoe, Sarah. It’s got a kind of white patch on it. Do you know what that is?’

  Yes, I knew what that was. I swallowed guiltily, remembering how he had played footsie with my pussy under the table.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  He waited for me to elaborate.

  ‘It’s, er, from me. When I was wet.’

  ‘When you were wet. You were very wet, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Are you wet now?’

  ‘I … don’t know.’ I did know. I was soaking.

  ‘I don’t tolerate lying, you know, Sarah. But I’ll give you another chance. Are you wet now?’

  I heaved the words out. ‘I think so, Sir.’

  ‘You’d better make sure.’

  I blinked.

  He raised his eyebrows and nodded downwards.

  ‘Yes. You know what to do. Go on.’

  I flapped for a second before touching my fingertip, as quickly and lightly as I could, to my vagina.

  ‘Well? Show me.’

  I held out my hand, the finger pointing upwards. He took me by the wrist, bent forward and sniffed.

  ‘You are,’ he said. ‘That’s good. We can move on to the next stage.’

  ‘Oh. Can we, Sir?’

 
; ‘Yes. Open your lips and show me your clit. I want to see it.’

  I couldn’t help a sigh and a grimace.

  ‘Another thing you’re going to have to learn, Sarah, is a quick and graceful response to my commands. I think we’ll try that next.’

  I leaned back on my calves, trying to angle my pussy towards his view, and splayed the lips with my fingers. He leaned forward, frowning over his inspection, which seemed to last a long time.

  ‘You’re definitely ready,’ he diagnosed. ‘Why are you wet again, Sarah? I haven’t touched you. Is it because you’re naked?’

  ‘Partly, I think. And just … you. Being you. The way you are.’

  ‘The way I am?’

  ‘So … confident. And, like, just assuming that I’m going to do as you say. I imagined doms to be … shoutier. And like, you know, you smile a lot. I didn’t think they smiled. For some reason. Not sure why.’

  ‘Everyone’s different, Sarah. That’s humanity for you.’

  ‘I know. I feel a bit stupid, actually, but that stereotype had popped up in my fantasy life for so long, it became a kind of dom avatar.’

  He nodded sagely.

  ‘So we’ve established that you find me incredibly sexy. This is worth knowing.’

  I smirked at him, half-annoyed, all-attracted.

  Without warning, he pushed his toecap between my thighs again and rubbed his shoe in my juices. The cold, smooth leather on my clit made me let out a tiny moan. I tried to get it away, but he shook his head.

  ‘Keep it there,’ he said. ‘Hold on to my leg if you need to. You’re going to masturbate on my shoe, Sarah, and when you can feel your orgasm coming, you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘I can’t do that!’ I said aghast.

  ‘You can. You’re going to. Look, you’ve already started.’

  He was right. I’d gripped his calf and was rocking along in rhythm with his slow rotations from the ankle. My thighs flexed and relaxed, my bottom pumping in small but agitated motions, while I painted the leather with my streaming juices.

  My breasts swung to and fro and I stared down at the dark cloth of Jasper’s trousers while he issued periodic words of encouragement.

  ‘Faster than that, Sarah. Really get stuck in. Feel it building up. You want it.’

  I felt dirty and sordid, disgusted with myself, bringing myself off on a man’s shoe, but my arousal fed on those feelings and flowered all the more.