His House of Submission (House of Submission 1)

I sighed. ‘Yes, Sir. For now.’

‘It’s a shame for your bottom that you can’t keep out of trouble, isn’t it, Sarah?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Turn back round. No, don’t put your hands there. Keep them at your sides. Spread your legs, wider. What have we here? Touch it.’

I put a fingertip on my clit, looking stra

ight downwards.

‘Let’s play a guessing game,’ he suggested. ‘You’ve been here, what, six weeks?’

‘Seven.’

‘Seven weeks. Forty-nine days or so. How many times has that pussy been fucked in those seven weeks? What’s your guess?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe …’ I tried a quick mental calculation. It was going to be a lot. Twice a day was slow. Sometimes he made it four or five.

‘A hundred and fifty,’ I guessed, as a safe average.

‘Wow. You think that pussy has been fucked a hundred and fifty times since you got here. That’s a hard-working pussy, isn’t it? A greedy, rapacious but very hard-working little pussy. And I bet it isn’t even tired, is it? I bet it wants more.’

‘Maybe, Sir.’

He chuckled. ‘Maybe? No two ways about it. I can see it glistening from here. How can we take your mind off it? Do some exercises. Star jumps. Go on. Give me twenty.’

Star jumps were not comfortable with no bra and my tits soon began to ache.

‘OK, good. Now I want you to touch your toes, left to right, right to left, twenty times. Actually, turn around to do this. I want to watch your arse.’

I plunged down, ten times either side, watching the breeze in the trees, trying to pretend there was no camera.

‘Now get down on the grass and give me ten sit-ups. With your hands behind your head. Spread your legs a bit, let me see if you’re still wet. Oh dear, Sarah. What will it take? You’re insatiable, aren’t you? Get up then.’

I stood up, breathless and warmed up, my body tingling.

‘I know you like things old school, love, and so do I. So I’m going to give you a penknife and ask you to cut yourself a nice switch. A good whippy one. Make sure it’s got some staying power. If it breaks, you’ll have to cut another and start all over again.’

He pulled a Swiss Army knife from his pocket – vintage, of course – and threw it at my feet. He followed me around the copse, camera in hand, while I tried to select a good switch. I knew it had to be flexible, not too brittle, which was difficult at this time of year. Most of the sap had dried out and the branches were snappy instead of swingy. But eventually I found a good birch rod, in one of the shadiest parts of the grove, and I sawed it off and cut away any knobbly bits or buds, just as Jasper had taught me.

All the while, his camera hovered at my shoulder and he asked me sly little questions. ‘Why are you doing that? How will it affect the sensation? What’s worse – a switch or a cane?’

I couldn’t answer the last one. The cane laid ice that turned to fire and made ridges across my flesh, but the switch could make my bottom feel as if something hot and sharp had been embedded inside it for days on end.

‘Now then,’ he said. ‘Carry on preparing that rod while I put the camera on the tripod. I’m in the next few scenes.’

I chipped away at my instrument of punishment until the camera angle was right and he had rolled up his shirtsleeves, ready. I loved that shirtsleeve moment; it never failed to make my heart flutter and my pussy clench.

‘Hand me the switch,’ he said grimly.

When I did so, he swished it through the air, nodded approvingly, then laid it aside, turning instead to the prop box. He took a length of rope, walked to a spreading chestnut tree and threw the rope over a low-hanging branch, securing it there with a complicated fastening. Then he beckoned me over.

He looped and knotted rope around both my wrists, shortening its length until my arms were raised and my hands rested just under the branch.

I stood, in my stockings, suspenders and heels, back to the camera, tethered to the tree. I could move about a foot in any direction, but no further.

‘OK, now I’ve got you safe and secure,’ he said, moving back to the prop box. I looked over my shoulder and saw that he held a squeezy tube of lubricant in one hand. I knew what was going to happen next, then.