His House of Submission

by Justine Elyot

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?’

  Oh, God. I thought of it on my bedside table, still perfumed with essence de Sarah.

  He turned around, my silence putting him on the scent.

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Oh. Yeah.’

  ‘You’re scarlet.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’ He threw the bacon in the pan, never taking his eyes from me.

  ‘I don’t …’ No, I didn’t want to tell him. But perhaps I ought to. But then what? What would he do or say? A tremor quickened in my lower stomach, a tightening at my core.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s just … I spilled something on it. I’m sorry. I’ll get it professionally cleaned.’ What was I saying? Was I really going to explain what had happened to some remote tradesperson?

  ‘Bring it down,’ he said.

  ‘Now?’

  He nodded, the corners of his mouth tight.

  My legs were heavy on the ascent of the staircase, and I felt sick with panic, yet at the same time exhilarated, as if I were embarking on some fantastic adventure.

  When I sniffed the leather, my faint hope that the aroma had faded overnight was dashed. Maybe Jasper wouldn’t notice. But no. That was just exactly the kind of thing he would notice. In fact, he probably knew what had happened already. I had the feeling he could see inside me, peel away my layers and pluck out my private thoughts.

  I put its metal ring around my finger and let it dangle on my way back downstairs. All the beautiful pictures watched me pass, all the ballerinas, bons vivants, burlesque girls. They were the witnesses to my onward march of shame.

  Jasper was breaking eggs into the pan when I re-entered the kitchen.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, looking up. ‘Show me.’

  He held out the hand that wasn’t occupied with pushing the bacon around with a spatula.

  I laid the strop across his palm, tenderly, giving it the respect I had forgotten to accord it last night.

  He put down the spatula and inspected the strop at close quarters.

  ‘Where’s the spillage?’ he asked.

  It wasn’t visible but I pointed towards the damned spot.

  He frowned.

  ‘I don’t see anything. What did you spill?’

  He bent closer and then drew in a breath, raising his eyes to mine. I held myself perfectly still for a horrible second, then he smiled the most radiant smile I had ever seen.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ he said.

  I had nothing to say. I stood there, panting a little, wondering why my legs wouldn’t let me run away.

  He wrapped it around his hand, slowly, making sure I paid attention.

  ‘What shall we do about this?’ he wondered aloud.

  ‘I can get it cleaned,’ I repeated.

  ‘No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll take care of that. That wasn’t what I meant.’

  With a tremor of shock, it occurred to me that I had been meaning to leave, so all of this was technically avoidable. The thought crashed into my head but I didn’t want to let it in. I didn’t want to leave now. I wanted to know what was going to happen. I wanted to read the next page of the story.

  ‘What did you mean then?’ I whispered.

  ‘What am I going to do with you?’

  The pan hissed and spat behind him. He sighed and turned his attention to it, putting down the strop and picking up the spatula.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘No, before you do that, take your bloody bags back upstairs.’

  I wanted to ask him what he was going to do with me, since the words hung so agonisingly and tantalisingly between us, but I did as I was told instead, running up the stairs two at a time and flinging the bags on the bed.

  Anything could happen, I told myself, racing back down. Anything could happen and I want it to!

  The plates were on the table and he was already digging into his food.

  ‘You look like you could do with a square meal,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing in the cupboards. What have you been living on?’

  ‘Soup, mainly,’ I said, sliding into the chair opposite him.

  ‘Not that foul packet stuff I saw on the shelf?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I felt guilty for my consumption of powdered soup. Obviously it was the Wrong Thing to do.

  ‘That won’t do. You’re going to need your strength, my girl.’

  Jesus, what was happening to me? Lightning bolts, electricity up and down my spine and all over my skin. As for my crotch, I could barely sit still, it felt so full of sparks.

  ‘Am I? For … what you’re going to do with me?’

  ‘All that cataloguing,’ he said, deadpan. ‘Takes it out of you, I imagine.’


  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘If you’re going to … make me pay … can you tell me how?’

  ‘Later,’ he said. ‘Eat your eggs. You need protein.’

  He refused to refer to the subject again, questioning me instead on my background and education until the food and the mugs of strong tea were all gone.

  I wanted to talk about him, since his experiences were so much more interesting than mine, but I sensed that he didn’t take well to interrogation and would dispense information at his own pace. I watched him speak, watched the light and shade fall across his face, followed the expressive motions of his hands. All his animation seemed to be channelled into them, while his facial expressions remained serene and controlled. He is master of himself, I thought, and that made me want to squirm even more.

  ‘Finished?’ he asked when I laid down my knife and fork.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘You’d better get to work then. Go on. I’ll wash up.’

  I hesitated. Wasn’t he going to mention the strop débâcle?

  ‘What room are you working in at the moment?’ he asked.

  ‘The, uh, the one with the piano.’

  ‘The drawing room,’ he corrected me. ‘I’ll be in the study. Come and wait outside in, shall we say, two hours? That’ll give me enough time to devise something suitable.’

  Instant shivers. Something suitable.

  ‘Run along then, Sarah,’ he said with a ghoulish smile. ‘We mustn’t neglect our work, must we?’

  But I’m afraid I did neglect my work.

  Over and over again I came to with a start, some ornament or other in my hand, after drifting into reverie. If I carried on like that, something was going to get broken. And then what might be my fate? I kept going to the door and looking around it, towards the study, listening. Sometimes I could hear his voice, faintly, making telephone calls, or the tap of a keyboard.

  While he worked, he was thinking of me. Thinking of what was to be done with me, for my shameless behaviour with his property.

  And while I worked, I was thinking of him. Thinking of how he compelled and disturbed and attracted and repelled me. I had never met a man who could do all those things simultaneously before. Perhaps there was no other man in the world who could.

  The hands of all the antique clocks made their slow progress through time until the two hours had elapsed and I put down my clipboard and pencil, patted down my skirt and left the room.

  I could keep walking, walk to the front door, walk to the car, get in the car, drive away.

  But I stopped at the study door and lifted my hand and …

  I heard his chair creak.

  I knocked.

  He didn’t reply.

  I knocked again.

  ‘Come in.’

  The study was a glorious room and his desk was one of my favourite pieces in the whole house. Mahogany with brass handles and a green leather writing area in the shape of a cross, on top of which his computer looked somewhat incongruous. He should be writing longhand with parchment and ink. There was a raised gallery at the back of the desk, along which were perched a procession of film awards, the Palme d’Or in pride of place.

  I breathed in the beeswax and stillness, letting it calm my jangling nerves.

  ‘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.