Her World of Submission

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 you 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 craving.

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.

He reached under to pull my breasts out of the basque cups and hold them as he banged into me, feeling and fumbling and plundering the soft flesh, flicking and pinching at my nipples. All of me was all of his and I knew he liked me to know it.

‘I suppose you’d like to come, would you?’ he asked between thrusts. There was no telling from his voice whether this question would lead to ecstasy or agony.

‘Yes, please, sir.’

‘Ah, well, you’ve been a good girl,’ he said. One hand quit my breasts and replaced itself over my clit, the fingertips pressing down in the way that always guaranteed a messy, wet-eyed, hot-cheeked orgasm from me.

This was no different. I bumped and ground on his fingers while he fucked hard. I fell into a chasm, a blind place of intense sensation. I was only aware of the noise I was making a few seconds after I started making it.

He took up the cry, lower and shakier, as if a part of him had been torn out with the orgasm. We collapsed, kissing damp brows, hugging each other’s bones.

A phone rang.

Jasper swore and yawned and seemed set on ignoring it, but at the last moment he reached down to the floor for his trousers and retrieved his phone from the pocket.

As soon as he got it, it stopped ringing. But he had seen the caller ID, because his eyes widened and he returned the call with a jabbing, urgent finger.

‘Who is it?’ I asked, pulling the sheet over me. ‘Is it the call you’ve been waiting for?’

He nodded, then spoke into the receiver.

‘Jim, hi, how’s it going?’

He got out of bed and wandered into the bathroom, leaving me to claw the air with frustrated curiosity.

He had been waiting weeks to find out if he could get funding for his next film project. I have to admit, a part of me was hoping that the answer would be no. There were things about this film that were awkward for me – especially since that stupid newspaper story. But he was set on the idea to the point of saying he’d produce it independently if it came down to it.

Now James Gretsch, one of the three big backers he had been courting, was on the phone. I found myself craving a cigarette and I didn’t even smoke.

He burst in so triumphantly that I didn’t even need to ask what the answer was. Gretsch had taken the bait.

‘Hang on to your bustle, baby,’ he announced. ‘Dunraven and Walters are coming to Tinseltown.’

Chapter Two

We were halfway through decorating the tree before he’d be drawn on any details. I had asked every question in my mind and more, but he’d deflected them all, wanting only to savour his moment of bliss until its purity faded and it had to be kept alive by talking it over.

‘So the film is going into pre-production after Christmas,’ he said, handing me a bauble. ‘And we’ll start filming in April.’

‘When you say pre-production,’ I said cautiously, trying not to get prickled by the little pine needles as I tied on the bauble, ‘that includes casting, I guess? After Christmas?’

He sucked a breath in between his teeth.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘well, I need to talk to you about that.’

My chest fizzed uncomfortably. I hadn’t agreed to this. I wasn’t going to be made to agree to this.

‘You didn’t say …’

‘Hush. We did discuss this, didn’t we? When we rehearsed the script. Nobody is more perfect for Walters than you, my love.’

‘But Jasper!’

‘We’ll need to sort out an Equity card for you, that’s all, then nothing will stand in our way.’

‘Yes, it will!’

‘Oh?’

He put down the jewelled robin ornament he’d been toying with and put his head on one side, as if to say, ‘You aren’t going to spoil my fun, are you?’

‘I’m not an actor. And – don’t say what I know you’re going to say because that’s not the crux of it. I’m not an actor and I don’t want to appear on film all over the world doing things that, to me, are private.’

Jasper put down the robin and reached for my hands, which were freely given.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘The thing is, it’s a stipulation of the studio that you and I appear in this film. After that story about us shagging in that Mayfair square the other week, it’s golden pre-publicity. It’s the reason they finally decided to back it.’

‘Oh, God. How about it being a good film by a good director?’

‘Not good enough, I’m afraid.’ Jasper shook his head. ‘My reputation’s high with the critics but I’m not box-office enough for that. I have to make concessions. One of them is that you play Walters.’

My breath was too short for speech for a while.

Eventually I looked him full in the face.

‘I am not,’ I said, slowly and firmly, ‘doing or showing anything on film that I wouldn’t do at the museum. No nudity. No sex acts.’

‘It’s called acting, Sarah. Obviously nobody is going to actually fuck.’

‘No, but the other stuff. You know what I mean. I’m not showing my bare bum to the world.’

‘I think you already did,’ said Jasper, and he was referring to the newspaper scandal.

‘That was extremely blurred and hardly recognisable as a bum,’ I replied. ‘Plus, it wasn’t meant to be public.’

‘OK,’ said Jasper. ‘I talked about this with Jim already.’

‘You did? Why didn’t you say?’

‘I like watching your agitation sometimes. It’s all right. Relax. Christ.’ He put his arms up to deflect a sudden hail of small wooden angels. ‘Sorry, OK?’

‘You’d better be. So what have you and Jim cooked up?’