His House of Submission by Justine Elyot

Author:Justine Elyot
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins UK, Avon
Published: 2012-10-08T04:00:00+00:00

The summer came and it stayed, graciously for an English season.

I would spend the hottest part of the day indoors with my cataloguing, but in the mornings I was often found in the overgrown gardens, wearing a tiny flirty near-transparent dress Jasper had bought online. The overblown roses brushed my thighs as I passed them and sometimes their thorns would prick. I would shut my eyes and breathe in, honeysuckle, jasmine, and a ripe lusciousness behind all the scents. Life, languor, summer, sex.

I stopped putting my hair up and let it fall anyhow, spilling over my shoulders and flicking my breasts. My limbs went from alabaster to tan, and I seemed to follow in their wake, from academic to wood nymph.

Jasper rarely accompanied me on these garden trips, and, besides, we were usually in recovery from some bout of epic kinky sex. As I wandered about the hollyhocks and foxgloves, he would be pounding around the perimeter of the estate, intent on maintaining his stamina. He had a lot of it.

The birds would sing and the petals would fall and I would sit on the garden bench and dream. What did I dream about? I dreamed that this would never end.

Once the artefacts were put back in their cabinets for the afternoon, it was time for the game. The game of master and servant, dominant and submissive. The best game in the world, infinite in its variety.

Every day brought something different, a new twist or take. Jasper, as befitted a man who made stories real for a living, possessed a jewel of an imagination.

One evening, I was a harem slave and he my prince, choosing me for the night, oiling me up, making me perform lewd acts for him while he lazed on a cushion, directing the action.

Another day I found myself suspended by my wrists in chains from the cellar ceiling while he introduced me to the dubious pleasures of the clover clamp.

I was a blindfolded prisoner brought up for punishment; a careless maid who needed to be made an example of; a proud lady blackmailed into humility by a wicked baronet. I was all of these and more. I’d never been one for drama, but Jasper drew these performances from me with ease. He was the consummate director.

Afterwards he would bathe me, rub soothing ointment into my bottom (or wherever it was needed), hold me in his arms, let me sail into sleep with him.

Nobody and nothing broke into our fantasy world.

When he took calls, he never told me what they were about. Now and again he went to London for the day, but I didn’t question him about his business. We were in a bubble: a perfect, shiny, fragile but all-encompassing bubble. I could think of no better place to be.

A humid July burnt off into a scratchy, thirsty August.

The petals dried and the skies hurt my eyes. Everything was bleached and desiccated; the waters of the lake were low.

On a day like this, I was ordered upstairs after lunch to change.

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