Justine Elyot - His House of Submission

‘As long as it’s wet and ready for me …’ he murmured.

I hoped I was. Was I? I couldn’t really tell, too much performance anxiety muffling the sensation, warping my sensual urges.

He bent lower, pattering, remarkably delicately, on my clit with his thick, callused fingers.

‘Nice and warm,’ he breathed.

I sat up and reached for his belt, but he batted me away.

‘Hey,’ he said, slightly reproachful, and I blushed in agony at making a wrong move. ‘I want to pay attention to you first. It’s not a game of tit-for-tat. Relax.’

Relax. Yeah. Nothing like asking the impossible.

‘Relaxation doesn’t come easily to me,’ I muttered, still mortified.

‘No kidding.’ He kissed my forehead, then my lips, then he patted my cheek sympathetically. ‘Just try, eh? For me.’

I tried. I lay back and shut my eyes and channelled all my awareness towards his fingers and my clit. His touch was rough but sure, but he didn’t say anything, leaving too much silence so that the ticking of his clock and the strange gurgles of the hot-water pipes intruded. How did it feel? How would I describe it?

‘You are enjoying this, aren’t you?’ he said, sounding puzzled.

‘Yes, but … can you just fuck me?’

His fingers stopped what they were doing and he drew them out.

‘Sure,’ he said.

My eyes were still screwed shut. I heard the sound of his belt coming off, then his jeans.

‘Most girls like a bit of foreplay,’ he said.

‘I’m just … it’s been a long time. I want to remember what it feels like.’

I heard the opening and shutting of drawers then the snap of rubber.

‘OK. This is what it feels like. You could open your eyes, you know.’

‘I like to keep them shut.’

‘Didn’t realise I was that hard to look at.’

‘It’s not you. Please …’

My plea was answered by the blunt arrival of a rounded cock head between my legs. His heat and scent moved down close to me, wrapping me in them, taking me out of my isolation, making me want him now. I put my hands on his shoulders, shivering pleasurably at the way they flexed and moved underneath his skin. He was so strong. I wanted him to make this hard, make it fast, pile-drive into me, obliterate my senses.

‘Please,’ I whispered.

He thrust forward, just the forceful way I wanted it.

‘Yeah?’ he said. ‘That what you want? That good enough for you?’

‘Oh, yes. More. Please. More.’

I opened my eyes and looked at his forearms, braced either side of my shoulders. How tense and powerful they were, holding him steady while he worked me. His chest heaved up and down, brushing my nipples with each jerking motion. He was handsome and he was fucking me. I was being fucked. What did it feel like?

It felt like a series of shocks, stretching my hidden channel, a jolt jolt jolt. I looked for the sense of being overpowered, but as always, I looked too hard and couldn’t quite place it.

I tried to reach out for it.

‘I need this,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ he agreed, panting with exertion. ‘You need this. You’ve been needing it ever since you got here. Keep those legs wide, baby, cos you’ll be getting more and more of it.’

Yes. This was working now. This was moving me towards my goal. He had been watching me, seeing the desperate slut inside the Peter Pan collars, he had known all along that what I needed was to be pinned down and given a good seeing-to. He understood what would keep me sweet and it amounted to being kept on my back with my thighs spread, taking plenty of hot, hard, grimy, sweaty fucking. He would give it to me and then he would tell his friends and they would give it to me and then …

I was almost there. I slipped my fingers between our grinding pelvises and touched the spot, my hand immediately hot and damp.

His cock was a nice one, firm and substantial, if not quite in proportion with his godlike body. My knuckles grazed against the root of it, feeling it rub back and forth, the rubber soaked and slippery now.

He plunged and plunged and I felt my buttocks tense and my spine arch and oh, yes.

‘Oh, yes,’ I said it out loud, again and again and, just as I crested the high point and tipped back down the other side of the wave, I said, ‘Thank you, Sir.’

And then I turned my head away and considered smacking myself in the face. Why on earth had I said that out loud?

But Will didn’t question it, simply banged away all the more until his own orgasm ripped through his body – really, I could feel the ripping – and then collapsed on top of me.

I always liked this moment, the hammering of twin hearts and the gathering of breath. Somehow this was a better payoff than the preceding orgasms.

‘You came, didn’t you?’ panted Will, rolling off eventually.

‘You heard me, didn’t you? Of course I did. Of course.’ I stroked his close-cropped hair. Beneath it, his scalp felt hot.

‘Just … you’re a bit of a strange fruit, aren’t you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What you said. When you came.’

I turned my face away.

‘Don’t make fun of me.’

‘I’m not. Sarah, honestly, I’m not. Look at me. Talk to me.’

I dared a glance from beneath low-slung eyelids. He didn’t look jokey or mocking. I opened them wider.

‘You and him,’ Will said. ‘You’d probably get on.’

‘Him? Jasper Jay?’

I couldn’t refer to my employer by anything but his full name. We weren’t on first-name terms yet. Indeed, we weren’t on any terms. We had never met.

‘Yeah. Jasper Almighty Jay.’

‘You don’t like him?’

‘He’s all right. He pays me.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Didn’t he interview you?’

‘No. It was a woman, his secretary or PA or something. He was in France, filming. Well, he still is. Anyway, why did you say that we’d get on?’

‘That thing you said. It was a bit kinky.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Shut up apologising, you daft ha’p’orth. Absolutely nothing wrong with a bit of kink. It was quite a turn-on, as it goes.’

I exhaled gratefully. I hadn’t made such a prize exhibition of myself after all. Though I could still see, in the corner of my mind, a little mental film reel of Will down at the local pub regaling his mates with the story.

‘Thanks. So?’

‘So. Jasper Jay and you might have a little something in common.’

‘What do you mean? He’s into …?’

‘Get your kit back on,’ whispered Will, ‘or not, as you choose, and I’ll show you.’

I couldn’t really be bothered with all the jeans and bra palaver, so I borrowed a threadbare towelling robe of Will’s and followed my half-dressed lover out of the bedroom.

‘He hired you to catalogue his collections,’ said Will, creeping barefoot down the back stairs. ‘But I wonder if he meant you to see this one.’

‘A collection?’ I whispered. Why was I whispering? Why were we creeping? It all felt deeply illicit.

We tiptoed past the library, with its vast collection of first editions, some of which I’d managed to list. Past the drawing room and the morning room and all the other rooms, chock-full of antiques and artefacts. Up the main stairs to the first floor bedrooms, past my little bolthole and into …

‘Oh, I don’t think we should go into his room.’

‘Why not? He isn’t here. He’ll never know. Here, have a swig.’

He passed me the bottle of expensive red wine, but I was too wary of spilling it, and besides, my mind was occupied with taking in the huge four-poster bed and the dark oak furnishings and the gigantic chest that took up at least a fifth of the large room’s space.

Will took a key from his jeans back pocket and fitted it into the chest’s lock.