His House of Submission. Justine Elyot

other hand.

      I should not admit to my faults while he is shaving. I must learn to pick a time when that strop is far out of his reach. Perhaps on the way to church on Sundays.

      I will pay for my ill-timed confession now. I squeeze shut my eyes and lower my head, trying to relax my neck muscles.

      Oh, the sound it makes, the mighty whoosh, the burning crack of impact. It is so heavy and yet so fiendishly flexible. It snaps across my poor posterior, over and again, marking me with shame, making my skin blush.

      As my husband whips me, he lectures me on my shortcomings and how they must be overcome. He points out his position in society and at his place of employment and how I must be a credit to him and our home and family. He reminds me of my position, my vow of obedience, my promise of submission.

      And the strop catches me in every painful place it can until I scorch beneath its scorpion tongue.

      ‘Enough,’ he says, his voice laden with exertion. ‘I trust that the lesson is well inculcated.’

      ‘Very well, Sir,’ I whisper.

      ‘Good. Then let us forgive.’

      After the discussion, there is always forgiveness. He shows it by placing the strop beneath my breasts and holding it there while he lowers his trousers and underwear and places his manhood between my nether lips.

      He bathes it in my dew, noting well how it flows, for he knows how these discussions excite me. He plunges hard into my tight heat, stretching my cunny wide, slapping his thighs up against my sore bottom. But this rough usage is no punishment, oh, no, it melts into the purest pleasure. He holds the strap against my breasts while he thrusts, its well-worn surface rubbing against those tender buds.

      He takes me well and thoroughly, until I sob with a presentiment of the flood to follow, and then he puts the strap between my legs and presses it to my pearl and then, oh, yes, oh, my dearest love …

      I opened my eyes and then sat up straight. Oh, what the bloody hell was I thinking? The real strop, the antique, possibly worth a shedload of money, was pressed to my clit, all shiny and slick with my juices.

      I grabbed a tissue and rubbed it clean, but when I put it to my face and sniffed, my scent and the leather were all mixed in one incredibly sexual cocktail. What if I’d destroyed the delicate balance of the textile? Did I not know better than to masturbate with precious artefacts? History 101, surely. Though I didn’t remember seeing it in the textbook.

      I put the strop aside and began packing. It seemed my only course.

      * * *

      ‘What’s that?’

      Jasper at the breakfast table in the cavernous kitchen, laconic, handsome, dangerous.

      I put my bags down on the trestle.

      ‘I think I ought to go.’

      ‘Why?’ He bit into a triangle of toast.

      ‘Um, because I don’t really know what’s going on.’

      ‘And you like to know what’s going on, do you, Sarah?’

      ‘Generally speaking.’

      ‘You don’t like stories?’

      ‘I don’t … follow.’

      He patted the chair beside him and for some reason I didn’t think twice about going over there and sitting down.

      ‘Do you or don’t you? Like stories?’

      ‘Well, yes, I do.’

      ‘Do you always know what’s going on in a story?’

      ‘Sometimes. If it’s blatantly signposted, I suppose. More often not.’

      ‘It’s dull, isn’t it, when you know the ending.’

      ‘Not always.’ I had an idea what he might be driving at. ‘I can watch film versions of classic novels over and over, even though I know the ending.’

      ‘That’s a different kind of pleasure,’ he said.

      ‘Maybe.’

      ‘The thing is, Sarah, if you know the ending, you can’t explore any other possibilities. If you know what’s going on, you can’t be surprised. You can’t have your breath taken away. You miss all the best bits. Do you see?’

      I swallowed. He was very close to me and I was intensely conscious of it. So intensely conscious that I was having some difficulty processing thought.

      ‘You’re very …’

      He leaned closer.

      ‘Very what?’

      ‘Very … I don’t know.’

      ‘Don’t go, Sarah. If you don’t go, I’ll make you bacon and eggs.’

      Breakfast. Probably a good idea.

      ‘That would be … acceptable,’ I said.

      ‘And I know you’re an accepting person,’ he said, rising and moving towards the cooker top. ‘An open-minded soul.’ He opened up a pack of bacon. ‘Incidentally, do you have my razor strop?’

      Oh, God. I thought of it on my bedside table, still perfumed with essence de Sarah.

      He turned around, my silence putting him on the scent.

      ‘Sarah?’

      ‘Oh. Yeah.’

      ‘You’re scarlet.’

      ‘Am I?’

      ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’ He threw the bacon in the pan, never taking his eyes from me.

      ‘I don’t …’ No, I didn’t want to tell him. But perhaps I ought to. But then what? What would he do or say? A tremor quickened in my lower stomach, a tightening at my core.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘It’s just … I spilled something on it. I’m sorry. I’ll get it professionally cleaned.’ What was I saying? Was I really going to explain what had happened to some remote tradesperson?

      ‘Bring it down,’ he said.

      ‘Now?’

      He nodded, the corners of his mouth tight.

      My legs were heavy on the ascent of the staircase, and I felt sick with panic, yet at the same time exhilarated, as if I were embarking on some fantastic adventure.

      When I sniffed the leather, my faint hope that the aroma had faded overnight was dashed. Maybe Jasper wouldn’t notice. But no. That was just exactly the kind of thing he would notice. In fact, he probably knew what had happened already. I had the feeling he could see inside me, peel away my layers and pluck out my private thoughts.

      I put its metal ring around my finger and let it dangle on my way back downstairs. All the beautiful pictures watched me pass, all the ballerinas, bons vivants, burlesque girls. They were the witnesses to my onward march of shame.

      Jasper was breaking eggs into the pan when I re-entered the kitchen.

      ‘Ah,’ he said, looking up. ‘Show me.’

      He held out the hand that wasn’t occupied with pushing the bacon around with a spatula.

      I laid the strop across his palm, tenderly, giving it the respect I had forgotten to accord it last night.

      He put down the spatula and inspected the strop at close quarters.

      ‘Where’s the spillage?’ he asked.

      It wasn’t visible but I pointed towards the damned spot.

      He frowned.

      ‘I don’t see anything. What did you spill?’

      He