His House of Submission (House of Submission 1)

I thought he might have forgotten. A little sound of dismay leaked from my lips.

‘Unluckily for you,’ he said, ‘you’ve alighted upon one of the most devastating tools in my box. You’ll be feeling the effects of this for a day or so. The leather’s so nice and thick, you see, yet it bends to your shape, leaving lovely tight stripes … but you’ll see for yourself. I’m going for ten, since you’ve never done this before. Count them. If you can’t take any more, say “pax”. Yes?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Say it, then, so I know you’ve been paying attention. What do you say if you’ve had as much as you can take?’

‘Pax, Sir.’

‘Right. And you’re counting out loud. Right, then. I’m going to hold you down because there’s no way you’ll stay still for this. Ready. One … two … three …’

‘Jesus!’ I exclaimed. The stroke was vicious, a scorpion’s sting of pure agony. After a ferocious second or so, it burned off, leaving a beautiful throb.

‘One, Sir,’ I breathed.

That was bad, but was it that bad? I needed another to make sure.

Yes. Yes, it was that bad. The second stroke tore through me, winding me.

‘Twooooo, Sir.’ I writhed under his hand. He let me wriggle through the pain for a moment or two before pushing down again.

It was horrible, but I wanted another. I wanted to feel overwhelmed, the enormity of submission, the heart-pounding excitement of it. It didn’t seem to come without pain. I would just have to get used to it.

But I also wanted to see what he looked like, wielding that thing. I needed a snapshot for my memory bank. I craned my neck, hoping to catch a glimpse.

‘Turn around,’ he ordered, and he shouted it this time. I hadn’t heard him raise his voice until now and it intimidated me. ‘Sorry,’ he said, after a pause, much more gently. ‘I’m sorry. You have to keep still. I don’t want to hurt you.’

He chuckled self-consciously.

‘Well … you know what I mean. Not really hurt you. Look, you’re still OK with this, are you?’

‘It hurts a lot. But I don’t mind. I want more. I want to know what happens if you give me more.’

‘You want to know how the story ends,’ he said with an edge of satisfaction.

‘Yes.’

‘More of a chapter, this,’ he ruminated. ‘Chapter one. I wonder if it’s going to be a slim volume or something along the lines of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. I think we’ll have fun finding out anyway. Right. Brace yourself.’

Oh, that burn, that awful, unendurable, shocking burn that forces its heat deep inside me and transforms it into … something else.

‘I hate it,’ I whimpered. ‘Three, Sir.’

I found something inside myself, a core of endurance, or submission, or whatever I wanted to call it – semantics weren’t at the forefront of my mind at the time – that took me through the pain and let me embrace it. As a gift or a privilege, because that was how it felt to me.

Jasper was showing me something about myself, giving me an insight into my nature. I learned that I was made for this, made to be thrashed on my bare bottom with an antique razor strop, made to take whatever the higher power had to give.

It made me feel safe.

How paradoxical was that? When it came down to it, the way Jasper treated me, for all its capricious cruelty, made me feel cared for and special. It made me feel love.

When the tenth stroke came, I almost asked for more, even though my thighs were trembling and my bottom felt as if it had been skinned. I had the delusion that I could take as much as he had to give, that I could become one with the pain and make it a part of myself. I know it was some kind of endorphin-related euphoria, but it was powerful and, for that moment, uncontrollable.

‘Ten, Sir,’ I panted. I hadn’t shed a tear, though my eyes stung with sweat. How much would it take to make me cry? One day he would show me.

He stood, his hand still on my shoulder, keeping me immobile while I absorbed the final moments.

‘I didn’t think you’d make it all the way to ten,’ he said.