Justine Elyot - His House of Submission

I felt creeped out, as if he had stalked me, which, in a way, he had. Where was the boundary between stalking and headhunting anyway?

What did he really want?

I lay down and let my thoughts drift around my head. The sensible course was clear. Tomorrow I would pack my bags and leave. This was all too weird and potentially disastrous. Shame about the money though and …

Practicalities grew vaguer, blurring away. I still held the razor strop in my hand and its particular heft and texture beguiled me into fantasy. Jasper Jay, in Victorian times, my Victorian husband, with impressive sideburns and a cravat, sharpening his razor on the leather.

Me on the bed, in my bodice and pantalettes, trying to fasten my corset.

‘You should get Jenny to do that for you,’ he says, and I watch his hands move as he plies the blade, swipe, swipe, swipe, from the top to the bottom.

‘That’s what I meant to tell you, dearest,’ I say, and my voice shakes. I’m nervous.

He puts down the razor, one eyebrow raised.

‘My love?’

‘Jenny … and I … that is to say … we had a difference of opinion.’

‘Oh?’ I watch his fist close around the strop.

‘It was nothing really but I’m afraid I lost my temper.’

‘Have we not discussed your impetuous humours?’ The question is couched so gently, so reasonably, but my heart jumps to my throat.

We have many such discussions. Discussions that don’t involve a great deal of actual discussion.

‘I know, dearest. But I’m afraid I lost my head for one moment and I … slapped her.’

He sighs, lowers his head, puts a hand to his brow. He is at the end of his tether, I know, and I have worked so hard on my self-discipline, but we both know that my impulses overpower my will too often.

‘And she has left?’ he says in a low voice.

‘I’m afraid she has, dearest.’

‘And she will explain the circumstances to the agency and we shall be on their black list. Another black list.’

I cannot deny it. I fidget with my corset laces, wrapping them round and around my finger.

‘Shall we discuss this now?’ I ask in a small voice.

‘Oh, yes, I think the more immediate the consequence, the more beneficial the lesson, don’t you?’

‘Yes, dearest.’

He waits for me. I know what I have to do. I remove the corset and take my place at the foot of the bed, gripping the carved wooden footboard for grim life. I hear the little clink of metal as he removes the strop from its hook.

‘Now, my love,’ he says, pacing behind me. ‘You know I never get angry with you and I am not angry now. I know, however, that you are angry with yourself, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, dearest.’

I tilt my pelvis forward, bend a little at the knees.

‘And in order for you to forgive yourself, the matter must be dealt with so that you can feel refreshed and prepared for a new start. Is that not so?’

‘It is so, dearest. Oh, I am so sorry to disappoint you.’

‘I will admit to some disappointment, Sarah, and some sorrow that we find ourselves once again in this position. Let this punishment be swift and sharp and then all can be forgiven, if not forgotten.’

Not for a few days, at least. Every time I sit.

He steps forward and parts the cloth of my drawers, the split exposing my bottom. His hand is sure and firm. I hear the shush of the strop rubbing against his trousers, dangling from his other hand.

I should not admit to my faults while he is shaving. I must learn to pick a time when that strop is far out of his reach. Perhaps on the way to church on Sundays.

I will pay for my ill-timed confession now. I squeeze shut my eyes and lower my head, trying to relax my neck muscles.

Oh, the sound it makes, the mighty whoosh, the burning crack of impact. It is so heavy and yet so fiendishly flexible. It snaps across my poor posterior, over and again, marking me with shame, making my skin blush.

As my husband whips me, he lectures me on my shortcomings and how they must be overcome. He points out his position in society and at his place of employment and how I must be a credit to him and our home and family. He reminds me of my position, my vow of obedience, my promise of submission.

And the strop catches me in every painful place it can until I scorch beneath its scorpion tongue.

‘Enough,’ he says, his voice laden with exertion. ‘I trust that the lesson is well inculcated.’

‘Very well, Sir,’ I whisper.

‘Good. Then let us forgive.’

After the discussion, there is always forgiveness. He shows it by placing the strop beneath my breasts and holding it there while he lowers his trousers and underwear and places his manhood between my nether lips.

He bathes it in my dew, noting well how it flows, for he knows how these discussions excite me. He plunges hard into my tight heat, stretching my cunny wide, slapping his thighs up against my sore bottom. But this rough usage is no punishment, oh, no, it melts into the purest pleasure. He holds the strap against my breasts while he thrusts, its well-worn surface rubbing against those tender buds.

He takes me well and thoroughly, until I sob with a presentiment of the flood to follow, and then he puts the strap between my legs and presses it to my pearl and then, oh, yes, oh, my dearest love …

I opened my eyes and then sat up straight. Oh, what the bloody hell was I thinking? The real strop, the antique, possibly worth a shedload of money, was pressed to my clit, all shiny and slick with my juices.

I grabbed a tissue and rubbed it clean, but when I put it to my face and sniffed, my scent and the leather were all mixed in one incredibly sexual cocktail. What if I’d destroyed the delicate balance of the textile? Did I not know better than to masturbate with precious artefacts? History 101, surely. Though I didn’t remember seeing it in the textbook.

I put the strop aside and began packing. It seemed my only course.

* * *

‘What’s that?’

Jasper at the breakfast table in the cavernous kitchen, laconic, handsome, dangerous.

I put my bags down on the trestle.

‘I think I ought to go.’

‘Why?’ He bit into a triangle of toast.

‘Um, because I don’t really know what’s going on.’

‘And you like to know what’s going on, do you, Sarah?’

‘Generally speaking.’

‘You don’t like stories?’

‘I don’t … follow.’

He patted the chair beside him and for some reason I didn’t think twice about going over there and sitting down.

‘Do you or don’t you? Like stories?’

‘Well, yes, I do.’

‘Do you always know what’s going on in a story?’

‘Sometimes. If it’s blatantly signposted, I suppose. More often not.’

‘It’s dull, isn’t it, when you know the ending.’

‘Not always.’ I had an idea what he might be driving at. ‘I can watch film versions of classic novels over and over, even though I know the ending.’

‘That’s a different kind of pleasure,’ he said.

‘Maybe.’

‘The thing is, Sarah, if you know the ending, you can’t explore any other possibilities. If you know what’s going on, you can’t be surprised. You can’t have your breath taken away. You miss all the best bits. Do you see?’

I swallowed. He was very close to me and I was intensely conscious of it. So intensely conscious that I was having some difficulty processing thought.

‘You’re very …’

He leaned closer.

‘Very what?’

‘Very … I don’t know.’

‘Don’t go, Sarah. If you don’t go, I’ll make you bacon and eggs.’

Breakfast. Probably a good idea.

‘That would be … acceptable,’ I said.

‘And I know you’re an accepting person,’ he said, rising and moving towards the cooker top. ‘An open-minded soul.’ He opened up a pack of bacon. ‘Incidentally, do you have my razor strop?’