His House of Submission (11 page)

Rustling and snapping of twigs heralded his return to the fray. I tried to conceal myself deep in the undergrowth, but he must have seen me, because his creeping footsteps were most definitely heading in my direction.

I leaped to my feet and brandished my willow wand, swooshing it about in the air. The noise triggered a spark of arousal, and I realised it would make rather a fiendish whip. And if I'd realised that, then Jasper …

He laughed.

‘Bad mistake, Sarah,' he said. ‘Very, very bad.'

I cracked it towards him. He wouldn't dare come too near, especially with his lower half completely naked.

He held up his hands.

‘I don't think you want to do that,' he cautioned. ‘Put it down.'

I waved it desperately.

He stepped closer, holding out his hand.

‘Give it to me.'

I shook my head and leaped back.

‘Give it to me now and I'll go easy on you.'

I simply lashed the air with it and took to my heels, up the grassy slopes, away from the trees, towards the picnic rug.

My breath was painful in my chest and my thighs were starting to give up the ghost when he caught me, less than halfway up the hill, grabbing at my upper arm. I tried to flick the willow back at him, but he got hold of that too and wrested it away from me with insulting ease.

‘Oh dear,' he gloated into my ear, wrapping his arm around my stomach and clamping me against him. ‘I thought you'd make more of an effort. You definitely need to come running with me.'

‘It's not fair,' I moaned, making feeble token attempts to extricate myself. ‘I stood no chance.'

‘I know.' He kissed the hollow beneath my earlobe. ‘Poor Sarah. Now you're my prisoner. What shall I do with you?'

‘I suppose you'll do whatever you want.'

‘I suppose I will. Come on then.'

He marched me back to the picnic blanket and made me get on all fours, head down between my elbows, back sloping up from my neck so that my bottom was pushed right out.

‘This is quite a weapon.' He swished the willow wand through the air. The sound, so invigorating when it came from my own hand, was now terrifying. ‘A slash across the face could have been very nasty. And I'm sure you've no idea how to wield it. Have you?'

‘Not really,' I admitted. ‘Are you going to …?'

‘I think I'm going to have to, aren't I? Or how are you ever going to learn your lesson?'

‘Oh.'

I think he must have picked up the fear in my voice, because he brushed the switch over my bottom, quite gently.

‘Don't be afraid,' he said. ‘I'm an expert. I won't go too far.'

How far was too far?

He performed the merest flick of the wrist and the end of the wand snapped sweetly on to my rear. It was a sizzling caress, nothing more, and it made me sigh.

‘More of that, eh?' he said.

‘Mmm.'

But more of that wasn't on the agenda. Instead he drew his arm much further back and whipped me properly, drawing a glowing line on my bum.

I jolted forward and screeched. It really, really hurt.

‘Not what you expected?' he asked smoothly.

‘It burns.'

‘A nice, lasting burn. How many do you think you can take?'

‘I'm not sure.' Now the immediate shock was past, I found myself enjoying the residual throb. ‘Maybe you could try another.'

He snorted. ‘Maybe I could.'

He did. It sliced across the top of the previous stripe, convincing me that I had made the wrong decision.

And yet, I kept on making that wrong decision. I kept bringing the safeword to the tip of my tongue, then swallowing it.

No matter how many times I sucked in my breath and gripped at the rug and wobbled on my knees, I went back for more, pushing my bum back out, doing what he wanted me to do.

Somehow I suffered through ten strokes of fiendish, furious pain before begging for mercy.

He threw the switch aside, pulled me up to a kneeling position and kissed me so fervently that I forgot all about the pulsing and the heat behind. Or at least, I did until its effects bled into my clit and my pussy, combining with the kiss to set me aflame. He cupped my arse cheeks, squeezing and running his thumbs over the welts, while his tongue plunged further.

‘Want you,' he gasped, breaking free. ‘Here.'

He lay back, dealt with the rubber and moved me over his upright cock, lowering me down with teasing slowness until I had him exactly where I wanted him, right up inside me. I began to grind slowly, bending low to brush my nipples against his wet shirt, and he let me for a little while before pinching my hips to make me stop.

‘Turn around,' he whispered. ‘I want to see your marks while I'm fucking you.'

Oh God. I was so stuffed full of delirious, submissive lust that I would have done anything he asked, but this was a gymnastic move beyond my capability. Or so I thought.

I worked, slowly and carefully, at rotating myself one hundred and eighty degrees, his cock the screw, my cunt the nut. Never was a tool more delicately secured.

Finally, after much balancing of limbs, I found myself facing his feet. His cock felt strange at this angle – upside-down. I felt I ought to lean back or I might warp it out of shape.

But he seemed happy enough. Instead, at his behest, I bent forward and he kept his hold of my hips.

‘That's it,' he said. ‘I can see them all now. Ten red stripes. That must hurt.'

He pressed his finger into one and I winced.

‘It's … really … sore,' I gasped, feeling his cock, thick and fat, stretching my boundaries.

‘Good,' he said, long and low, almost orgasmically. ‘You don't know how much that turns me on. Come on. Work that cunt, Sarah.'

My thighs were starting to ache but I kept a rhythmic pressure on his shaft, back and forth, bearing down where it crossed my G-spot.

He prodded and pinched at my arse while he screwed me, as if trying to push me through my barriers, on to a higher level of physical fitness. The idea that he was some kind of kinky personal trainer flashed into my mind, and I imagined myself on a treadmill, panting and sweating just as I was now, while he whipped me into shape.

The need to ask permission for my orgasm was becoming urgent. I braced my palms flat between his legs, holding myself up while I edged towards the point of no return.

‘You're getting it now,' he said. ‘Getting what you asked for.'

‘Please, Sir,' I squeaked.

‘No,' he said, thrusting harder.

‘Oh, pleeeease.' I smacked at the ground, not sure it was possible to obey him.

‘You don't deserve it,' he panted. ‘Running away from me like that.'

‘Oh, but it was a
game
. Please! Let me come.'

‘It's all a game, Sarah. And I make the rules.'

I nearly screamed with frustration and laid my head on the ground. Behind me, he gathered pace and stormed into his climax, digging his fingers hard into my upper thighs and bottom.

I wriggled futilely on his still hard cock. He laughed and slapped my bum.

‘Poor Sarah,' he said. Then, ‘Off you pop.'

My cunt raging, I disengaged and wiped my eyes and brow. The sweat was running into my switch marks, making the burn double in intensity. My clit felt so big I could barely press my thighs together. I was a melting, stinging, pulsing mess.

Jasper lay, recovering, for a little while, eyes shut, infuriatingly relaxed and at peace. I wanted to kick him.

His eyes opened again.

‘Pack the basket,' he said. ‘Picnic's over.'

I tried not to look too overtly rebellious, but I might have flung the items into the hamper a little more roughly than necessary.

Jasper put his trousers back on, though my clothes were packed up with the plates and glasses, and picked up the switch.

‘Let's go,' he said, flicking it at my upper thighs so I jumped forward, startled.

We walked back to the house like this, me naked and in front, while he chivvied me on with little cuts to my legs and bottom, holding the picnic basket in his other arm. When we passed through the wooded area where I'd encountered Will, I wanted to cover myself, and looked furtively to either side for signs of an observer. I saw nobody, but every little noise made my heart flip.

Back at the house, Jasper took pity on me. He made me bend over the arm of a chair while he used a dildo, sliding it in and out and over my slippery clit with tight control until I came, hard, saying his name.

He made me spend the rest of the afternoon in the corner of his study with my hands on my head while he dealt with correspondence and phone calls.

I could see through the window if I moved my eyes to the right and, at one point, I thought I detected movements, out by the old stables.

But I could have been dreaming.

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. He had bought me something, I surmised, and I was right. Laid out on my bed I found a set of riding gear. Jodhpurs, long-sleeved white top, hard hat, mouthwatering shiny boots.

It looked like a ride was in prospect.

This was odd, though, because, while the estate had stables, there were no horses. I had never ridden, being nervous of their size and their teeth.

Nonetheless, I pulled on the jodhpurs, smiling in advance at how Jasper was going to like the way they clung to every curve and accentuated the shape of my arse. The top went on next, and now I really hoped the ride, if it happened, might be a slow and stately trot because the thought of my bra-less breasts bouncing about on horseback made me cringe.

The boots fit precisely. The leather shone like twin mirrors. I watched myself put on the hard hat, looking down at my feet, then I saluted myself, took a final twirl and headed for Jasper.

He stood in the hallway, smart as the whip he held, in a dark riding jacket with brass buttons. I thought it must surely be too hot for the breathless weather, but he didn't seem concerned. His boots were even shinier than mine and he looked slick, ruthless and jodhpur-dampeningly sexy.

‘Are you ready to ride?' he asked me, slapping the crop down in the palm of one hand.

‘I'm … not sure, Sir.' We'd come to an arrangement whereby he was ‘Sir' after four o'clock, ‘Jasper' before.