Submitting: A Mischief Erotica Collection. Justine Elyot
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my eyes, startled to find that I am no longer in darkness. A spotlight has appeared. I stand inside it like an animal in a circular cage, suddenly missing the shadows. I even miss the storm-tossed corridor.
There is no question of my obedience. My fingers tremble as I slide my clasped hands apart, uncertain where to begin. I am dressed in what I was told to wear – a smart skirt and blouse. The jacket is first. I can just about manage the single button in the centre and I slip it off. For a moment I stand holding it, looking around for somewhere to put it. But I am given no guidance.
I fold it carefully and lay it on the floor at my feet, just outside the circle of light. Then I focus on the skirt. It feels good to have a task, to have something – anything – to focus on doing, even if I am only delaying the inevitable. It’s very hard to fit my fingers around the tiny button at the waist, and the zip sounds to me like a predator licking its lips.
I step out of the skirt and lay it on top of the jacket. The long hem of the blouse hangs down, covering me. I am still decent for the moment, if that’s the word, and some part of me wishes for this to be as far as it goes. I imagine hearing the voice again, softer this time. A gentle laugh and a smiling tone as he tells me that is all, that I may go.
But the silence is as good as a command. I swallow hard and set about the challenge of unfastening each button of my blouse. At last I manage to peel it open. Gooseflesh stands out all over my body and I feel my nipples pucker as the thin material of my bra is exposed to the chill of the room.
It’s easy enough to slip off my shoes, and the stockings come down one at a time with a silky hiss. I hesitate again, raising my hands to the middle of my back, willing them to unhook my bra. It’s as though I am separate from my body, telling it what to do from somewhere else. The illusion fades once the hooks are undone and my breasts tumble free. My natural instinct is to cover myself with my hands, but I stop myself in time. I know that isn’t permitted. Instead I busy myself with folding the bra, as though presenting it as a gift.
My panties are all that cover me now, and the tiny scrap of silk only seems to enhance my sense of exposure. They are easier to manage than the bra. I slide them down over my bottom and thighs and crouch down to place them on top of the rest of my clothes. Then I rise unsteadily to my feet. And wait.
I clasp my hands behind my back again, grateful for the submissive posture. I couldn’t bear having to keep them at my sides and inside I plead not to have to.
Now there is the creak of a chair and a hint of movement in the shadows. The room grows a little brighter and I can make out the silhouette of a man as he stands and moves towards me. He is tall and intimidating.
I lower my head, keeping my eyes down as I’ve been taught. I have no control over what will happen next.
‘It’s time,’ he says. His voice is deep and resonant. It makes me weak. I feel lightheaded, as though I might faint.
‘Put your hands on your head.’
It’s a simple command, one I can easily obey. Gratitude washes over me as I lace my fingers on top of my hair. The position forces me to raise my head and I see him for the first time. His eyes are dark and brooding, his expression inscrutable. I can’t bear the eye contact, so I drop my gaze. Before I can focus on the floor, I see what he is holding. It’s a small whip. A dozen red and black tails hang from a braided handle.
He notices me noticing and brings the whip up to my eye level. Then he slaps it against his palm. The sound makes me jump, and I sense that my nervousness gives him pleasure.
‘Do you know why you’re here?’ he asks, his voice low and silky, full of authority.
I open my mouth to speak, but at first nothing comes out but a little squeak. I clear my throat and try again. ‘Yes, Sir.’
His expectant silence prompts me for more.
‘My Master sent me to you.’ I can barely bring myself to speak the words, but I manage to force them out. ‘To test me.’
‘You know of my reputation, then?’
Oh, yes. Who doesn’t? I am overwhelmed by the reality that I am here. Actually here. With him. My head is spinning with the impossibility.
‘Hmm? I didn’t hear you.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ I say, my own voice barely a whisper. ‘I do.’
He nods, seeming pleased – both by my answer and by my obvious fear. He looks like a judge about to don a black cap and sentence me to the gallows.
‘Very well, then,’ he says. ‘Stand still and straight. Arch your back.’
I had been expecting him to tell me to turn around. Instead, he stays in front of me and merely takes a step back. I feel my entire body begin to tremble as I realise what he intends. I lock my knees and inhale deeply.
The first stroke falls, striking my right breast. The soft leather tails impart a sharp kiss to the nipple, making my skin tingle. I close my eyes as the stinging sensation swells, gritting my teeth to keep from whimpering.
The wait is torture. My arms are already beginning to ache from their position on top of my head and my legs have felt in danger of turning to liquid ever since I got here.
He doesn’t keep me in suspense for long. The whip comes down on the other side, bringing pain to the delicate skin there as well. My nipples burn and it takes all my willpower not to press my cold fingers against them to soothe it away.
But I know better.
I picture myself in my Master’s arms, wrapped in his embrace and comforted after a challenging session. I hear his voice praising me, telling me I’ve been a good girl and made him proud. I feel his lips as he kisses mine, taste his tongue as I press myself against his hard cock and his hands explore every inch of my punished flesh. I sigh at the vision, knowing it will be my reward if I am good for this man.
The whip falls again, and again, the tails fanning out over each breast in turn, spreading their bright little kisses all across my chest. My skin feels alive, every nerve tingling. The stimulation is having an effect all over.
The pain builds in a wild crescendo, finally reaching a peak where it begins to blur into pleasure. Like a developing photograph, wonderful sensations come into focus, exploding throughout my entire body. My sex pulses in response, conditioned both to fear and to want what is coming.
When the whipping stops, he tells me to lower my arms. I do so, my shoulders flaring at the sudden return of blood. I flex my fingers to encourage the sensation.
‘Kneel,’ he says.
I sink to my knees, grateful not to have to stand any longer.
‘Right down.’
It’s as though I’m melting into the carpet. I bend my knees all the way, until I’m sitting on my calves. Then I fold my body, sliding my arms out in front of me like a sphinx and lowering my forehead until it touches the carpet. I love the position. It deepens my feeling of submission, liberating me further from the confines of reality.
I sense movement, feel the stirring of air as he walks around me, inspecting me. I know he intends to whip me more, and I’m not surprised when I feel the tails flick against my bottom. He directs me to adjust my position.
‘Present yourself for me,’ he says.
I have been well trained and I know exactly what he expects. I lift my bottom, raising it up in the air. At the same time, I curl my spine forwards, cat-like, tucking my head under. My breasts still burn and tingle, radiating warmth from the punished skin.
The whip finds my back, caressing, tickling, as he draws the tails over my waiting flesh. The first strokes are gentle, almost sensual. Each unerringly finds its mark with a resounding slap in the small room. I can feel my skin reddening beneath the slow, steady onslaught, building until I can’t restrain my little gasps and yelps.
A particularly hard stroke between my shoulder blades makes me cry out and