Her World of Submission
Justine Elyot
Copyright
Mischief
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.mischiefbooks.com
An eBook Original 2014
Copyright © Justine Elyot 2014
Justine Elyot asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007579488
Version: 2014–08–21
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
More from Mischief
About Mischief
About the Publisher
Chapter One
There was snow on the lawn and on the window ledges. Looking out from the drawing room, I imagined myself standing in the driveway, looking up at the house. It must resemble an old-fashioned Christmas card: holly wreath on the bright red front door and all.
In the distance, I saw Jasper appear from the pine copse over to the left of the driveway. He dragged behind him a netted fir tree, pulling a trail through the snow, covering his tracks. The tree was easily as big as Jasper was, probably bigger. But nothing stopped Jasper when he put his mind to something. He’d drag a tree the size of Big Ben’s clock tower if the mood took him.
I put my hand to my throat, feeling again the delicate silver chain with its key lock. I’d repeated the gesture countless times since he’d given it to me, a few weeks before at his mother’s house. Collaring. It was a formal thing, he told me, a commitment – lacking the legal clout of marriage, but with every vestige of the emotional significance.
Now that I wore this elegant little version of a collar, I belonged to Jasper lock, stock and barrel. The lock bit was particularly appropriate, I thought, twisting a fingernail in the tiny keyhole.
He saw me at the window and stopped to take a rest. I could see the steam coming from his mouth as he took panting breaths. He lifted a gloved hand to wave and I waved back.
I moved away from the window, ran into the hall and pulled open the handsome, wide front door.
‘Do you want a hand?’ I called from the porch.
‘No, love,’ he called back. ‘Get back inside and keep warm. You’re not exactly dressed for backwoodsman duties.’
True enough. I had forgotten, until a blast of frigid north wind struck my thighs, that I was wearing nothing but a basque and stockings, a light silky robe covering my shoulders.
This was the way, when Jasper and I had no reason to leave the spacious environs of his house. Our house, I mentally corrected myself, still unable to accept my status as co-resident there.
The museum where I worked had closed for Christmas and Jasper had little to do but kick his heels and wait for a call about funding for his next feature film. There was a bit of online ordering for festive fare to do but, besides that, our time was our own. Consequently, I spent the days either dressing for sex, having sex or cleaning myself up after sex. I was as brightly lit as the festive displays around the village and in the town centre. I felt permanently charged up, ready to spill white heat from my skin the minute Jasper gave me one of his looks.
I skipped back inside the house, but kept the door open for Jasper to enter with the tree. High-heeled marabou mules weren’t the best footwear for finding a planter tub from the back yard, but I managed to drag one in from the cobbles and manhandle it up through the kitchen and into the hall. Where would the tree stand to its best advantage? By the staircase, I thought, and I put the tub there in readiness.
A few minutes later, Jasper was in the hall and the tree lay on its side on the black and white tiles, dripping melting snow into a puddle around it.
‘That’s a big one,’ I commented.
‘As the actress said to the bishop,’ he deadpanned, before meeting my eye with a familiar wicked glint.
‘Do you think this tub will be big enough to hold it?’
‘You know, I’m giving serious thought to that kinky Carry On film you mentioned that time. You’re practically writing the script now.’
‘You’ve just got filth on the brain.’
‘And in my bed.’ He winked and lunged over to scoop me into his arms for a long and icy-wet kiss.
The wool of his long dark coat was rimed with thin shards of ice that ran into my skin and the light silk of my underwear, making me shiver and squirm in his grasp. I knew he would have no intention of releasing me, though, especially when he wound his scarf around my shoulder blades, pulling me in even tighter. His tongue, shockingly warm after the chill of his lips, pushed into my mouth, signalling his possession of me. It was a possession I welcomed and I tried my best to show it, unbuttoning his coat and sliding my arms inside, my hands creeping up the back of his sweater and tugging the shirt beneath up out of his waistband. Now there was bare warm skin to be found and touched and caressed. I clung to it, pushing my body into his cold façade, knowing that heat lay behind the sodden wool.
This was the essence of Jasper. Contradiction. Heat and chill, playfulness and severity, boyishness and authoritativeness, all in one attractive package. I had known him half a year now and my fascination hadn’t abated one little bit.
‘Naughty fingers,’ he admonished, reaching behind him to remove my hands where they tried to push their way down inside his jeans. ‘I’m supposed to be seeing to this tree, not you. You’ll have to wait your turn.’
I pouted as he gently prised me off him, and hugged my own scandalously attired body instead.
He unwound his scarf from his neck and shrugged off the long coat before shutting the door against the snowflakes that threatened to blow in and powder the mat.
‘OK, we have the tub,’ he said, surveying it, his head on one side. ‘What we need is stones and earth to pack in it before we pot the tree. You really aren’t dressed for that. Why don’t you go and put some outdoor clothes on?’
Mildly disappointed, I ascended the staircase, my mule heels clacking on the highly polished wood.
My disappointment didn’t last long. Jasper’s heavy tread pursued me. I looked over my shoulder, squealed and picked up my pace. He was chasing me.
‘It’s just occurred to me,’ he said, panting heavily as he shut the bedroom door behind him, trapping me inside, ‘that you put that gorgeous underwear on for nothing. And I can’t have that. Such a shame.’
‘I put this underwear on because I haven’t got much else,’ I said, whooping a little as he took a stride nearer. I backed away, past the bed. ‘You keep buying me the stuff. And everything else I own is old and past it.’
‘Are y
ou saying,’ he said in a soft undertone, prowling ever closer while I skipped manically from defensive position to defensive position, ‘that I’m deliberately making sure that you’re always dressed for filthy, kinky sex?’
‘Well … aren’t you?’ I uttered a screaming laugh as he caught my elbow and pulled me hard into him.
He tumbled me without ceremony on to the still rumpled bed, manoeuvred himself over me and pinned me at the wrists.
‘Yes,’ he confessed, hissing it into my ear. ‘I am.’
‘You’re not in denial, then?’ I teased, jerking up my pelvis, making as convincing a pretence as I could of trying to get away from him.
‘Oh, Sarah, you know as well as I do that denial isn’t in my repertoire.’
Yes, I knew that. Jasper denied himself nothing – nor did I, when it came to it. Except …
‘You liar,’ I said, biting his lip. ‘What about orgasm denial?’
‘Oh, well, that’s different,’ he said. ‘That’s fun.’
‘For you, you bastard.’
‘Oh, now, did somebody use some disrespectful language just then? Oh, dear. Someone was very, very foolish, weren’t they?’
He clamped his knees either side of my hips in order to keep me restrained while he let go of my wrists and removed his chunky Arran sweater.
I mildly regretted this; he looked so good in that outdoorsy, rugged kind of way when he wore it, but now he was down to the plaid shirt beneath, and the deliberation with which he unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled the sleeves up his forearms made me melt into wetness between my thighs.
This meant only one thing …
‘I didn’t mean it,’ I wheedled. ‘It just slipped out.’
‘As the bishop said to the actress,’ said Jasper with a smirk. ‘Come on.’ He smacked at my thigh. ‘Turn over.’
I rolled my eyes but there was no getting away from what was coming – and that was the way I wanted it. A relenting Jasper would not be the man I knew and loved, and I would spend the rest of the day craving that spanking that had never been.
He loosened his knee-grip on me, in order to let me roll on to my stomach. I lay there, my flaming face buried in the duvet, while he stood and went over to a large lockable chest beneath the window. The chest that had led to all this …
I wondered, as I lay in my basque, thong and suspenders with the silky robe whispering over the cheeks of my bottom, what he would choose.
An impromptu playful scene meant nothing too heavy. No canes or whips. Something leathery, perhaps. Hopefully not a wooden paddle. I hated those.
I kept my eyes stubbornly off him, not wanting to know until he chose to reveal it.
Rummage, rummage, rummage, then a low chuckle.
Oh, God, what did that mean?
‘OK, naughty girl,’ he said. ‘Get up on your knees. Let’s see that arse nice and high in the air.’
I drew my legs up until I was on all fours, then pushed up my bottom, leaving my elbows on the duvet and my hands flat in front – a position of obeisance, of humility. It was a position that never failed to shame and arouse me. As I perfected my attitude, the short silky gown lifted clear of my thighs, its hem rising to bring what lay between them into view.
Jasper pushed it higher still, crumpling it around my waist so that my bottom was bare, unless you counted the narrow strip of black lace bisecting my cheeks.
‘I like this outfit,’ he said quietly, running a palm up and down the back of one thigh top, ‘because it’s so practical for punishment. The parts it leaves uncovered are the parts one wants and needs to redden. It’s so wonderfully functional. Look … here.’ He rubbed the back and inside of one thigh, then the other, before raising his hand to my quivering cheeks. ‘And here. All black and white now, but it’ll be black and red by the time I’ve finished with you.’
He put a finger inside the lacy strip of thong and used it to pull it suddenly upwards, so that it lodged rather painfully tight inside my crease. The gusset stretched around my mons and started to work its way into my pussy lips. The friction was welcome in a way, but also uncomfortably scratchy.
Jasper held the thong taut, almost to snapping point, until I began to whimper and squirm, then he let it ping back down. I breathed out.
‘This can stay for now,’ he said. ‘But I have a feeling it might outlive its practicality, once I’ve dealt with your bottom. Speaking of which … up. It’s not high enough. I want it high and ready as you can get it. I want those little cheeks to beg me for the strap.’
Ah, the strap. I felt a twinge in my shoulder blades, a slight relaxation. The strap was good. Sharp at first, but its bark was worse than its bite and it always ended up giving more pleasure than pain.
‘That’s better.’ Jasper approved. ‘But I want your legs wider than that. I want to see what that lacy little scrap is hiding.’
I widened the gap between my thighs, knowing that he would want them well clear of each other so he could flick the leather over my tender inner skin. Perhaps he would aim a couple of snaps at my pussy. The lace might protect it a little, but not much. I wiggled, remembering the delicious fire a previous attempt at this had sparked. I had been so wet, so hot …
‘Now that’s a view,’ said Jasper, appreciative as ever. ‘What a still that would make. I’d have it for the poster. What’s the movie title? Hmm. “Sarah’s Submissions”. And on every billboard, every bus, along the sidebar of everyone’s facebook page, there you’d be, in this position, and maybe the strap would be laid across your bottom just to make it absolutely clear what’s happening to you in this film. What do you think? Shall I approach some backers?’
‘No, thank you, sir.’
The ‘sir’ came out easily now, no longer a painful prickly thing staining my lips for minutes afterwards. It was natural. It was what he was to me.
‘Well, I suppose I am still waiting to hear about funding for the other project. Let’s just say it’s on hold, shall we? And in the meantime, you need to rehearse. Twenty strokes, hard ones, you know the drill.’
Yes, I did. Take the stroke, keep position, count it, thank him, ask for the next. So straightforward in theory, so easy to get wrong in practice. But twenty was manageable. It was when it went over thirty I started to struggle.
The strap fell with a thud then a sting, ringing and cracking through the air. No matter how hard I tried to concentrate on anticipating the pain, it always came as a shock to me. I had thought that might change one day, but apparently not yet.
All the same, I was able to keep my bottom up, avoiding the shaming crumpling of knees that had accompanied our earlier scenes.
‘One, sir, thank you, sir, please may I have another?’
Four more strokes, each as hard as the last, but I stuck heroically to my brief, never so much as wriggling a hip in an effort to protect my bottom from the line of fire.
Six months of submission and at last I felt I was beginning to earn my stripes.
Literally.
I earned five more but these were harder to endure and I could feel the stress in my thigh muscles as they recovered from each blow. They were beginning to weaken and tremble.
I kept the count but it was less easy to think in the red fog of pain. Asking for another was the easy part. It came out of my lips, sing-song, mechanical.
Now I was feeling the burn, which I liked. The glow seeped into my skin and juiced me up. It didn’t stop me dreading the next stroke, though.
Eleven shook through me and I almost broke position – just a quiver, really, but Jasper saw it.
‘Careful,’ he warned. ‘You’ll get five more added if you move.’
It was enough to focus me. I had done this before, numerous times. I knew I was capable of it. I just had to grit my teeth and breathe through it.
I gave the count and kept myself still for the twelfth. Ah, here it was, just in time – the moment when it all became easy. When extra strokes just kept the delicious heat sealed in and satisfied my cravin
g.
Now I was able to push my bottom up high again and purr instead of yelping. The strap was a gift like that – it never happened this way with the cane, which bit cruelly from start to end, or the paddle, which was a feat of endurance. But the strap had a kind heart, which it would show you if you put up with its nasty streak for long enough. Oh, how I revelled in those final strokes, sighing into the burn.
‘Twenty, sir, thank you, sir, please may I have another?’
‘Do you really want one?’
He flicked the end of the strap between my thighs. He hadn’t struck there in the end, nor against my pussy in its lacy bag.
‘If it pleases you, sir,’ I said, hoping I had put enough longing in the formulaic phrase to show I meant it.
Apparently I had. He smacked at my thighs in turn, quick snappy strokes that made me gasp continuously and jolt from side to side on the mattress. My gasps couldn’t keep pace with his hand and it occurred to me in my haze that I would have to keep gasping long after he finished in order to match response with provocation. But it didn’t matter. The grand finale was one loud, hard smack against my pussy, then my thong was at my knees before I could draw breath.
He took hold of my thighs, keeping me in position, and buried his face in my hot, sticky core. I felt steaming breath then the wet, sweet intrusion of his tongue. He rubbed himself into me, prickling my thighs with his stubble, raising one hand to smack again at my bottom, ensuring it lost none of its heat while he licked me with gourmet delicacy and thoroughness.
I began to whimper, overloaded with sensations, stuck between them, unable to alight on one in particular. My bottom was sore and tight and my pussy was wet and my clit was bursting into vivid life. I wanted it all and more, I wanted him inside me, I wanted all of myself filled with all of him.
He tongued an orgasm out of me with ease, then withdrew his mouth and continued spanking me until his free hand had dealt with the inconvenience of trousers and underpants. I loved the way his pelvis slapped against me, keeping me aware of the state of my bottom while my pussy was filled and thrust into.
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