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30th Nov, 2012

Friends Friday and Job Done with Justine Elyot.

FF

Job Done

I’m here with Victoria again and I love it! Many thanks for letting me come back and commandeer your blog for another Friends Friday – you’re a gem. So…today I have a question.

What are the best careers for characters in erotic stories?

I don’t think I’ve ever written the same job twice. I’ve had heroes who were barmen, businessmen, life coaches, doctors, rocket scientists (actually, two rocket scientists, now I think of it), tango instructors, headmasters, chauffeurs, gangsters…the list goes on.

And the heroines are no less diverse. Private investigators, journalists, hotel receptionists, music teachers, advertising executives, porn stars…

One thing I’ve never done is writers – unusually, I think, since so many erotica stories are about erotica writers. But watch this space – I may have one of those coming up…

In His House of Submission, my latest petite novel from Mischief, the male protagonist is a film director with a love of antiques. The heroine is hired by him to catalogue some of his precious collections. Already they have something in common. But a shared penchant for walnut writing desks isn’t their only connection…

House of Submission Justine Elyot

He’s a collector with some kinky interests on the side. She’s here to catalogue his possessions. But will she end up being one of them?

Sarah turns up at Jasper Jay’s country house thinking she has been hired to make an inventory of his large collection of historical artefacts. But when she and her lover, Will, are caught by the boss sneaking a peek at some of his more private pieces, she starts to suspect an ulterior motive. Alone with Jasper Jay in his secluded manor, Sarah finds herself enthralled by the enigmatic collector, especially given the intimate interest she shares with him. Pretty soon, they’re entangled in an intense relationship of domination and submission that excludes the rest of the world. Until it intrudes, in the form of a vengeful Will, bent on exposing everything his erstwhile boss has worked so hard to keep secret.

Here’s an excerpt:

I turned the key in my door lock and sat down on the bed, catching my breath. Situation out of control. I had to try and slot the different pieces of the night into place, discipline them into making some kind of sense.

One: I shagged Will.

Two: Will showed me Jasper’s collection of BDSM gear.

Three: Jasper caught us and fired Will.

Four: It turns out he hired me because I wrote that article.

My mental cataloguing stopped here, unable to proceed.

He hired me because I wrote that article.

Jasper Jay, the film director and winner of the Palme d’Or, had read my silly little piece on Victorian kinksters and hired me on the strength of it.

Why had he gone to those lengths? Weren’t there professional evaluators of this kind of thing? Could he not have got somebody from an auction house?

I felt creeped out, as if he had stalked me, which, in a way, he had. Where was the boundary between stalking and headhunting anyway?

What did he really want?

I lay down and let my thoughts drift around my head. The sensible course was clear. Tomorrow I would pack my bags and leave. This was all too weird and potentially disastrous. Shame about the money though and . . .

Practicalities grew vaguer, blurring away. I still held the razor strop in my hand and its particular heft and texture beguiled me into fantasy. Jasper Jay, in Victorian times, my Victorian husband, with impressive sideburns and a cravat, sharpening his razor on the leather.

Me on the bed, in my bodice and pantalettes, trying to fasten my corset. ‘You should get Jenny to do that for you,’ he says, and I watch his hands move as he plies the blade, swipe, swipe, swipe, from the top to the bottom. ‘That’s what I meant to tell you, dearest,’ I say, and my voice shakes. I’m nervous. He puts down the razor, one eyebrow raised. ‘My love?’ ‘Jenny . . . and I . . . that is to say . . . we had a difference of opinion.’ ‘Oh?’ I watch his fist close around the strop. ‘It was nothing really but I’m afraid I lost my temper.’ ‘Have we not discussed your impetuous humours?’ The question is couched so gently, so reasonably, but my heart jumps to my throat. We have many such discussions. Discussions that don’t involve a great deal of actual discussion.

‘I know, dearest. But I’m afraid I lost my head for one moment and I . . . slapped her.’ He sighs, lowers his head, puts a hand to his brow. He is at the end of his tether, I know, and I have worked so hard on my self-discipline, but we both know that my impulses overpower my will too often. ‘And she has left?’ he says in a low voice. ‘I’m afraid she has, dearest.’ ‘And she will explain the circumstances to the agency and we shall be on their black list. Another black list.’ I cannot deny it. I fidget with my corset laces, wrapping them round and around my finger. ‘Shall we discuss this now?’ I ask in a small voice. ‘Oh, yes, I think the more immediate the consequence, the more beneficial the lesson, don’t you?’ ‘Yes, dearest.’

He waits for me. I know what I have to do. I remove the corset and take my place at the foot of the bed, gripping the carved wooden footboard for grim life. I hear the little clink of metal as he removes the strop from its hook. ‘Now, my love,’ he says, pacing behind me. ‘You know I never get angry with you and I am not angry now. I know, however, that you are angry with yourself, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes, dearest.’ I tilt my pelvis forward, bend a little at the knees. ‘And in order for you to forgive yourself, the matter must be dealt with so that you can feel refreshed and prepared for a new start. Is that not so?’ ‘It is so, dearest. Oh, I am so sorry to disappoint you.’ ‘I will admit to some disappointment, Sarah, and some sorrow that we find ourselves once again in this position. Let this punishment be swift and sharp and then all can be forgiven, if not forgotten.’

Not for a few days, at least. Every time I sit. He steps forward and parts the cloth of my drawers, the split exposing my bottom. His hand is sure and firm. I hear the shush of the strop rubbing against his trousers, dangling from his 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.

The book is available now from Mischief Books, only 99 p!: http://www.mischiefbooks.com/books/his-house-submission/

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