His House of Submission

He put the strop back on the desk as I drew level with him and he placed his hands on my hips. He rose from the chair, regaining the height advantage he had temporarily lost. He was so unnervingly close, as close as a lover. He would barely need to move at all to kiss me.

But he didn’t kiss me. He just held my hips and spoke softly into my ear.

‘You don’t have to do a thing I tell you to, Sarah. You can say no whenever you like. Is that understood?’

I nodded.

‘I want you to say yes, though. In fact, I want you to say, “Yes, Sir.” Can you say that for me?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

He sighed.

‘That’s perfect. Are you ready?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘You’d better be.’

He let go of me and took a step back, picking up the strop again.

‘Well, Sarah, I don’t know if this will ever be the same again after the way you’ve treated it, do you?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Exactly what was it you did with it? I want to hear your confession.’

‘Oh, God!’ I really don’t want to tell you out loud.

‘Understandable, that you should mix me up with a deity, but I’m not your god, Sarah, just your master. Now tell me what you did. I want the truth.’

‘I put it somewhere I shouldn’t have.’

‘And where was that? The airing cupboard?’

‘No, Sir.’ I probably shouldn’t have giggled.

He slapped the leather down on the desk with some force and I jumped.

‘So?’

‘I, uh, put it next to my, uh, private parts.’

‘Your private parts.’ He mimicked my prissy voice. ‘And once it was there, slap bang up against your private parts, what did you do with it?’

‘I, sort of, rubbed it against them.’

‘You masturbated with it,’ he said, narrowing his eyes in mock horror. ‘You committed the sin of self-abuse. With my razor strop.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ I whispered, shaking with humiliation. Or arousal. Actually, both.

‘And what did you think about while you were doing it?’

He was too cruel. He knew exactly which buttons to press to rack up the shame and mortification.

‘Must I answer that, Sir?’

‘Of course.’

‘I thought about how it might be used.’

‘What, sharpening a razor?’

‘No. You know.’

‘I don’t. Enlighten me.’

‘As a thing to, to, hit me with.’

‘Oh. As an instrument of punishment, you mean?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘On your hands?’

‘No, Sir, not my hands.’

‘Where then?’

‘Uh.’ I put a hand behind me, providing a dumb show I hoped he would pick up on.

‘I’m not a fan of mime, Sarah. Say the word.’

‘On my … bottom,’ I whispered.

‘Oh, I see. That’s what you thought about while you were rubbing my razor strop all over your soaking wet cunt, was it? The way it would feel on your bare bottom?’

The word ‘cunt’ made me quiver with shock, and yet it also made me want to hear it again, in his rich, dark voice, again and again.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Well, now we’ve arrived at the truth of the matter, I have an idea of what I should do with you.’

‘Do you, Sir?’

‘Yes, I do. Bend over the desk, Sarah, with your elbows, yes, like so.’

He pushed my spine into position and moved my arms until they were the optimum width apart. I looked down at the green leather I had so often admired, and the gold-leaf pattern that surrounded it.