Justine Elyot - His House of Submission

‘Sarah,’ he said, sitting back in his oxblood leather chair. ‘Now we come to the real test.’

‘Do we?’

He opened a drawer and brought out the strop. I chewed on the inside of my cheek, staring at it.

‘When I was at university,’ he said, ‘I directed a Gilbert and Sullivan opera. The Mikado. Do you know it?’

‘Yes,’ I said, discombobulated by this line of conversation.

‘There’s a song in it about how the Mikado dispenses justice. He’s particularly keen, he says, to let the punishment fit the crime. I like his way of thinking.’

He stroked a finger along the strop. My eyes followed it, hypnotised.

‘I see,’ I said, filling in the tense space with the useless remark.

‘So what punishment do you think would fit your crime, Sarah?’

He smiled up at me, for all the world as if he had asked me what flavour ice-cream I preferred.

‘I think you’re the Mikado around here. I think it’s your decision.’

‘Ah, my decision. Yes. That’s a good answer. And I like the bit about being the Mikado too. The emperor. Monarch of all I survey.’ He tapped his fingertips on the strop, then picked it up and slapped the end into his palm. ‘How far has your interest in this kind of thing gone?’

‘This kind of thing … meaning …’

‘You know what I mean. What have you actually done? If anything.’

‘Nothing. I’ve only …’

‘Fantasised?’

‘Written about it,’ I said defiantly.

‘Ah,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘I thought you might know the score. You’ve played this so well, like an old hand. But you’re new to it all. And, lucky for you, I’m not. You do want to try it, don’t you?’

‘I’ve always wanted to.’

There. I had crossed a line now. I had delivered myself right into his hands.

‘Good. Come over here then.’

He put the strop back on the desk as I drew level with him and he placed his hands on my hips. He rose from the chair, regaining the height advantage he had temporarily lost. He was so unnervingly close, as close as a lover. He would barely need to move at all to kiss me.

But he didn’t kiss me. He just held my hips and spoke softly into my ear.

‘You don’t have to do a thing I tell you to, Sarah. You can say no whenever you like. Is that understood?’

I nodded.

‘I want you to say yes, though. In fact, I want you to say, “Yes, Sir.” Can you say that for me?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

He sighed.

‘That’s perfect. Are you ready?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘You’d better be.’

He let go of me and took a step back, picking up the strop again.

‘Well, Sarah, I don’t know if this will ever be the same again after the way you’ve treated it, do you?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Exactly what was it you did with it? I want to hear your confession.’

‘Oh, God!’ I really don’t want to tell you out loud.

‘Understandable, that you should mix me up with a deity, but I’m not your god, Sarah, just your master. Now tell me what you did. I want the truth.’

‘I put it somewhere I shouldn’t have.’

‘And where was that? The airing cupboard?’

‘No, Sir.’ I probably shouldn’t have giggled.

He slapped the leather down on the desk with some force and I jumped.

‘So?’

‘I, uh, put it next to my, uh, private parts.’

‘Your private parts.’ He mimicked my prissy voice. ‘And once it was there, slap bang up against your private parts, what did you do with it?’

‘I, sort of, rubbed it against them.’

‘You masturbated with it,’ he said, narrowing his eyes in mock horror. ‘You committed the sin of self-abuse. With my razor strop.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ I whispered, shaking with humiliation. Or arousal. Actually, both.

‘And what did you think about while you were doing it?’

He was too cruel. He knew exactly which buttons to press to rack up the shame and mortification.

‘Must I answer that, Sir?’

‘Of course.’

‘I thought about how it might be used.’

‘What, sharpening a razor?’

‘No. You know.’

‘I don’t. Enlighten me.’

‘As a thing to, to, hit me with.’

‘Oh. As an instrument of punishment, you mean?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘On your hands?’

‘No, Sir, not my hands.’

‘Where then?’

‘Uh.’ I put a hand behind me, providing a dumb show I hoped he would pick up on.

‘I’m not a fan of mime, Sarah. Say the word.’

‘On my … bottom,’ I whispered.

‘Oh, I see. That’s what you thought about while you were rubbing my razor strop all over your soaking wet cunt, was it? The way it would feel on your bare bottom?’

The word ‘cunt’ made me quiver with shock, and yet it also made me want to hear it again, in his rich, dark voice, again and again.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Well, now we’ve arrived at the truth of the matter, I have an idea of what I should do with you.’

‘Do you, Sir?’

‘Yes, I do. Bend over the desk, Sarah, with your elbows, yes, like so.’

He pushed my spine into position and moved my arms until they were the optimum width apart. I looked down at the green leather I had so often admired, and the gold-leaf pattern that surrounded it.

Jasper Jay, the famous film director, had his palm on my rump, rubbing at the cotton skirt that covered it, assessing its thinness. His other hand lay heavy on my shoulder, holding me down, steadying me. He had placed the strop across my back, resting it there, as a sort of permanent reminder. Was he really going to use it on me?

‘Let’s see how you take this,’ he said, to himself.

He took his hand from my rear and let me experience a moment of pure anticipation before he brought it cracking back down, hard, across my outthrust buttocks.

It forced a breath from me, but not a cry. It was piquant rather than painful, spicy and peppery, moreish. He knew it, so he gave me more, fed my craving, for another dozen strokes, during which I shut my eyes and gave in to the delirious knowledge that I was having my bottom smacked by the internationally fêted Jasper Jay. Lucky old me.

‘What do you think of the show so far?’ he asked, his hand falling relentlessly.

‘Mm hmm,’ was all I could think of to say to that. I hoped he interpreted it as blanket approval.

‘I’ll take it easy this first time,’ he said, though I was beginning to gasp. ‘But one day, Sarah, when we know each other much better, I promise I’ll make you cry.’

One day when we know each other much better. What did he have in mind? I almost pushed myself up, twisted my head towards him, curious to know more.

But he stopped just then and began lifting my skirt, and all other thoughts rushed away, replaced by the imminent display of my pink lace briefs.

His hand pushed the fabric up my thighs, rippling over the protuberant curve and gathering at my waist. Extra warmth, on top of that which he had spanked into my skin, soaked through the lace when he touched it, then he grazed it with his fingernails and the sparks snapped through me.

His hand landed, confusingly, on my bare thigh. I had not expected this and I squeaked and raised my spine a little, but he pushed me right back down.

‘Lovely lacy knickers,’ he said, covering them with medium-strength strokes. ‘I’m going to spank you until this pattern transfers itself to your skin. Won’t that be pretty?’

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