Her World of Submission
Justine Elyot

Copyright

Mischief

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

77–85 Fulham Palace Road,

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.mischiefbooks.com

An eBook Original 2014

Copyright © Justine Elyot 2014

Justine Elyot asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007579488

Version: 2014–08–21

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

More from Mischief

About Mischief

About the Publisher

Chapter One

There was snow on the lawn and on the window ledges. Looking out from the drawing room, I imagined myself standing in the driveway, looking up at the house. It must resemble an old-fashioned Christmas card: holly wreath on the bright red front door and all.

In the distance, I saw Jasper appear from the pine copse over to the left of the driveway. He dragged behind him a netted fir tree, pulling a trail through the snow, covering his tracks. The tree was easily as big as Jasper was, probably bigger. But nothing stopped Jasper when he put his mind to something. He’d drag a tree the size of Big Ben’s clock tower if the mood took him.

I put my hand to my throat, feeling again the delicate silver chain with its key lock. I’d repeated the gesture countless times since he’d given it to me, a few weeks before at his mother’s house. Collaring. It was a formal thing, he told me, a commitment – lacking the legal clout of marriage, but with every vestige of the emotional significance.

Now that I wore this elegant little version of a collar, I belonged to Jasper lock, stock and barrel. The lock bit was particularly appropriate, I thought, twisting a fingernail in the tiny keyhole.

He saw me at the window and stopped to take a rest. I could see the steam coming from his mouth as he took panting breaths. He lifted a gloved hand to wave and I waved back.

I moved away from the window, ran into the hall and pulled open the handsome, wide front door.

‘Do you want a hand?’ I called from the porch.

‘No, love,’ he called back. ‘Get back inside and keep warm. You’re not exactly dressed for backwoodsman duties.’

True enough. I had forgotten, until a blast of frigid north wind struck my thighs, that I was wearing nothing but a basque and stockings, a light silky robe covering my shoulders.

This was the way, when Jasper and I had no reason to leave the spacious environs of his house. Our house, I mentally corrected myself, still unable to accept my status as co-resident there.

The museum where I worked had closed for Christmas and Jasper had little to do but kick his heels and wait for a call about funding for his next feature film. There was a bit of online ordering for festive fare to do but, besides that, our time was our own. Consequently, I spent the days either dressing for sex, having sex or cleaning myself up after sex. I was as brightly lit as the festive displays around the village and in the town centre. I felt permanently charged up, ready to spill white heat from my skin the minute Jasper gave me one of his looks.

I skipped back inside the house, but kept the door open for Jasper to enter with the tree. High-heeled marabou mules weren’t the best footwear for finding a planter tub from the back yard, but I managed to drag one in from the cobbles and manhandle it up through the kitchen and into the hall. Where would the tree stand to its best advantage? By the staircase, I thought, and I put the tub there in readiness.

A few minutes later, Jasper was in the hall and the tree lay on its side on the black and white tiles, dripping melting snow into a puddle around it.

‘That’s a big one,’ I commented.

‘As the actress said to the bishop,’ he deadpanned, before meeting my eye with a familiar wicked glint.

‘Do you think this tub will be big enough to hold it?’

‘You know, I’m giving serious thought to that kinky Carry On film you mentioned that time. You’re practically writing the script now.’

‘You’ve just got filth on the brain.’

‘And in my bed.’ He winked and lunged over to scoop me into his arms for a long and icy-wet kiss.

The wool of his long dark coat was rimed with thin shards of ice that ran into my skin and the light silk of my underwear, making me shiver and squirm in his grasp. I knew he would have no intention of releasing me, though, especially when he wound his scarf around my shoulder blades, pulling me in even tighter. His tongue, shockingly warm after the chill of his lips, pushed into my mouth, signalling his possession of me. It was a possession I welcomed and I tried my best to show it, unbuttoning his coat and sliding my arms inside, my hands creeping up the back of his sweater and tugging the shirt beneath up out of his waistband. Now there was bare warm skin to be found and touched and caressed. I clung to it, pushing my body into his cold façade, knowing that heat lay behind the sodden wool.

This was the essence of Jasper. Contradiction. Heat and chill, playfulness and severity, boyishness and authoritativeness, all in one attractive package. I had known him half a year now and my fascination hadn’t abated one little bit.

‘Naughty fingers,’ he admonished, reaching behind him to remove my hands where they tried to push their way down inside his jeans. ‘I’m supposed to be seeing to this tree, not you. You’ll have to wait your turn.’

I pouted as he gently prised me off him, and hugged my own scandalously attired body instead.

He unwound his scarf from his neck and shrugged off the long coat before shutting the door against the snowflakes that threatened to blow in and powder the mat.

‘OK, we have the tub,’ he said, surveying it, his head on one side. ‘What we need is stones and earth to pack in it before we pot the tree. You really aren’t dressed for that. Why don’t you go and put some outdoor clothes on?’

Mildly disappointed, I ascended the staircase, my mule heels clacking on the highly polished wood.

My disappointment didn’t last long. Jasper’s heavy tread pursued me. I looked over my shoulder, squealed and picked up my pace. He was chasing me.

‘It’s just occurred to me,’ he said, panting heavily as he shut the bedroom door behind him, trapping me inside, ‘that you put that gorgeous underwear on for nothing. And I can’t have that. Such a shame.’

‘I put this underwear on because I haven’t got much else,’ I said, whooping a little as he took a stride nearer. I backed away, past the bed. ‘You keep buying me the stuff. And everything else I own is old and past it.’

‘Are you saying,’ he said in a soft undertone, prowling ever closer while I skipped manically from defensive position to defensive position, ‘that I’m deliberately making sure that you’re always dressed for filthy, kinky sex?’

‘Well … aren’t you?’ I uttered a screaming laugh as he caught my elbow and pulled me hard into him.

He tumbled me without ceremony on to the still rumpled bed, manoeuvred himself over me and pinned me at the wrists.

‘Yes,’ he confessed, hissing it into my ear. ‘I am.’

‘You’re not in denial, then?’ I teased, jerking up my pelvis, making as convincing a pretence as I could of trying to get away from him.

‘Oh, Sarah, you know as well as I do that denial isn’t in my repertoire.’

Yes, I knew that. Jasper denied himself nothing – nor did I, when it came to it. Except …

‘You liar,’ I said, biting his lip. ‘What about orgasm denial?’

‘Oh, well, that’s different,’ he said. ‘That’s fun.’

‘For you, you bastard.’

‘Oh, now, did somebody use some disrespectful language just then? Oh, dear. Someone was very, very foolish, weren’t they?’

He clamped his knees either side of my hips in order to keep me restrained while he let go of my wrists and removed his chunky Arran sweater.

I mildly regretted this; he looked so good in that outdoorsy, rugged kind of way when he wore it, but now he was down to the plaid shirt beneath, and the deliberation with which he unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled the sleeves up his forearms made me melt into wetness between my thighs.

This meant only one thing …

‘I didn’t mean it,’ I wheedled. ‘It just slipped out.’

‘As the bishop said to the actress,’ said Jasper with a smirk. ‘Come on.’ He smacked at my thigh. ‘Turn over.’

I rolled my eyes but there was no getting away from what was coming – and that was the way I wanted it. A relenting Jasper would not be the man I knew and loved, and I would spend the rest of the day craving that spanking that had never been.

He loosened his knee-grip on me, in order to let me roll on to my stomach. I lay there, my flaming face buried in the duvet, while he stood and went over to a large lockable chest beneath the window. The chest that had led to all this …

I wondered, as I lay in my basque, thong and suspenders with the silky robe whispering over the cheeks of my bottom, what he would choose.

An impromptu playful scene meant nothing too heavy. No canes or whips. Something leathery, perhaps. Hopefully not a wooden paddle. I hated those.

I kept my eyes stubbornly off him, not wanting to know until he chose to reveal it.

Rummage, rummage, rummage, then a low chuckle.

Oh, God, what did that mean?

‘OK, naughty girl,’ he said. ‘Get up on your knees. Let’s see that arse nice and high in the air.’

I drew my legs up until I was on all fours, then pushed up my bottom, leaving my elbows on the duvet and my hands flat in front – a position of obeisance, of humility. It was a position that never failed to shame and arouse me. As I perfected my attitude, the short silky gown lifted clear of my thighs, its hem rising to bring what lay between them into view.

Jasper pushed it higher still, crumpling it around my waist so that my bottom was bare, unless you counted the narrow strip of black lace bisecting my cheeks.

‘I like this outfit,’ he said quietly, running a palm up and down the back of one thigh top, ‘because it’s so practical for punishment. The parts it leaves uncovered are the parts one wants and needs to redden. It’s so wonderfully functional. Look … here.’ He rubbed the back and inside of one thigh, then the other, before raising his hand to my quivering cheeks. ‘And here. All black and white now, but it’ll be black and red by the time I’ve finished with you.’

He put a finger inside the lacy strip of thong and used it to pull it suddenly upwards, so that it lodged rather painfully tight inside my crease. The gusset stretched around my mons and started to work its way into my pussy lips. The friction was welcome in a way, but also uncomfortably scratchy.

Jasper held the thong taut, almost to snapping point, until I began to whimper and squirm, then he let it ping back down. I breathed out.

‘This can stay for now,’ he said. ‘But I have a feeling it might outlive its practicality, once I’ve dealt with your bottom. Speaking of which … up. It’s not high enough. I want it high and ready as you can get it. I want those little cheeks to beg me for the strap.’

Ah, the strap. I felt a twinge in my shoulder blades, a slight relaxation. The strap was good. Sharp at first, but its bark was worse than its bite and it always ended up giving more pleasure than pain.

‘That’s better.’ Jasper approved. ‘But I want your legs wider than that. I want to see what that lacy little scrap is hiding.’

I widened the gap between my thighs, knowing that he would want them well clear of each other so he could flick the leather over my tender inner skin. Perhaps he would aim a couple of snaps at my pussy. The lace might protect it a little, but not much. I wiggled, remembering the delicious fire a previous attempt at this had sparked. I had been so wet, so hot …

‘Now that’s a view,’ said Jasper, appreciative as ever. ‘What a still that would make. I’d have it for the poster. What’s the movie title? Hmm. “Sarah’s Submissions”. And on every billboard, every bus, along the sidebar of everyone’s facebook page, there you’d be, in this position, and maybe the strap would be laid across your bottom just to make it absolutely clear what’s happening to you in this film. What do you think? Shall I approach some backers?’

‘No, thank you, sir.’

The ‘sir’ came out easily now, no longer a painful prickly thing staining my lips for minutes afterwards. It was natural. It was what he was to me.

‘Well, I suppose I am still waiting to hear about funding for the other project. Let’s just say it’s on hold, shall we? And in the meantime, you need to rehearse. Twenty strokes, hard ones, you know the drill.’

Yes, I did. Take the stroke, keep position, count it, thank him, ask for the next. So straightforward in theory, so easy to get wrong in practice. But twenty was manageable. It was when it went over thirty I started to struggle.

The strap fell with a thud then a sting, ringing and cracking through the air. No matter how hard I tried to concentrate on anticipating the pain, it always came as a shock to me. I had thought that might change one day, but apparently not yet.

All the same, I was able to keep my bottom up, avoiding the shaming crumpling of knees that had accompanied our earlier scenes.

‘One, sir, thank you, sir, please may I have another?’

Four more strokes, each as hard as the last, but I stuck heroically to my brief, never so much as wriggling a hip in an effort to protect my bottom from the line of fire.

Six months of submission and at last I felt I was beginning to earn my stripes.

Literally.

I earned five more but these were harder to endure and I could feel the stress in my thigh muscles as they recovered from each blow. They were beginning to weaken and tremble.

I kept the count but it was less easy to think in the red fog of pain. Asking for another was the easy part. It came out of my lips, sing-song, mechanical.

Now I was feeling the burn, which I liked. The glow seeped into my skin and juiced me up. It didn’t stop me dreading the next stroke, though.

Eleven shook through me and I almost broke position – just a quiver, really, but Jasper saw it.

‘Careful,’ he warned. ‘You’ll get five more added if you move.’

It was enough to focus me. I had done this before, numerous times. I knew I was capable of it. I just had to grit my teeth and breathe through it.

I gave the count and kept myself still for the twelfth. Ah, here it was, just in time – the moment when it all became easy. When extra strokes just kept the delicious heat sealed in and satisfied my craving.

Now I was able to push my bottom up high again and purr instead of yelping. The strap was a gift like that – it never happened this way with the cane, which bit cruelly from start to end, or the paddle, which was a feat of endurance. But the strap had a kind heart, which it would show you if you put up with its nasty streak for long enough. Oh, how I revelled in those final strokes, sighing into the burn.

‘Twenty, sir, thank you, sir, please may I have another?’

‘Do you really want one?’

He flicked the end of the strap between my thighs. He hadn’t struck there in the end, nor against my pussy in its lacy bag.

‘If it pleases you, sir,’ I said, hoping I had put enough longing in the formulaic phrase to show I meant it.

Apparently I had. He smacked at my thighs in turn, quick snappy strokes that made me gasp continuously and jolt from side to side on the mattress. My gasps couldn’t keep pace with his hand and it occurred to me in my haze that I would have to keep gasping long after he finished in order to match response with provocation. But it didn’t matter. The grand finale was one loud, hard smack against my pussy, then my thong was at my knees before I could draw breath.

He took hold of my thighs, keeping me in position, and buried his face in my hot, sticky core. I felt steaming breath then the wet, sweet intrusion of his tongue. He rubbed himself into me, prickling my thighs with his stubble, raising one hand to smack again at my bottom, ensuring it lost none of its heat while he licked me with gourmet delicacy and thoroughness.

I began to whimper, overloaded with sensations, stuck between them, unable to alight on one in particular. My bottom was sore and tight and my pussy was wet and my clit was bursting into vivid life. I wanted it all and more, I wanted him inside me, I wanted all of myself filled with all of him.

He tongued an orgasm out of me with ease, then withdrew his mouth and continued spanking me until his free hand had dealt with the inconvenience of trousers and underpants. I loved the way his pelvis slapped against me, keeping me aware of the state of my bottom while my pussy was filled and thrust into.

He reached under to pull my breasts out of the basque cups and hold them as he banged into me, feeling and fumbling and plundering the soft flesh, flicking and pinching at my nipples. All of me was all of his and I knew he liked me to know it.

‘I suppose you’d like to come, would you?’ he asked between thrusts. There was no telling from his voice whether this question would lead to ecstasy or agony.

‘Yes, please, sir.’

‘Ah, well, you’ve been a good girl,’ he said. One hand quit my breasts and replaced itself over my clit, the fingertips pressing down in the way that always guaranteed a messy, wet-eyed, hot-cheeked orgasm from me.

This was no different. I bumped and ground on his fingers while he fucked hard. I fell into a chasm, a blind place of intense sensation. I was only aware of the noise I was making a few seconds after I started making it.

He took up the cry, lower and shakier, as if a part of him had been torn out with the orgasm. We collapsed, kissing damp brows, hugging each other’s bones.

A phone rang.

Jasper swore and yawned and seemed set on ignoring it, but at the last moment he reached down to the floor for his trousers and retrieved his phone from the pocket.

As soon as he got it, it stopped ringing. But he had seen the caller ID, because his eyes widened and he returned the call with a jabbing, urgent finger.

‘Who is it?’ I asked, pulling the sheet over me. ‘Is it the call you’ve been waiting for?’

He nodded, then spoke into the receiver.

‘Jim, hi, how’s it going?’

He got out of bed and wandered into the bathroom, leaving me to claw the air with frustrated curiosity.

He had been waiting weeks to find out if he could get funding for his next film project. I have to admit, a part of me was hoping that the answer would be no. There were things about this film that were awkward for me – especially since that stupid newspaper story. But he was set on the idea to the point of saying he’d produce it independently if it came down to it.

Now James Gretsch, one of the three big backers he had been courting, was on the phone. I found myself craving a cigarette and I didn’t even smoke.

He burst in so triumphantly that I didn’t even need to ask what the answer was. Gretsch had taken the bait.

‘Hang on to your bustle, baby,’ he announced. ‘Dunraven and Walters are coming to Tinseltown.’

Chapter Two

We were halfway through decorating the tree before he’d be drawn on any details. I had asked every question in my mind and more, but he’d deflected them all, wanting only to savour his moment of bliss until its purity faded and it had to be kept alive by talking it over.

‘So the film is going into pre-production after Christmas,’ he said, handing me a bauble. ‘And we’ll start filming in April.’

‘When you say pre-production,’ I said cautiously, trying not to get prickled by the little pine needles as I tied on the bauble, ‘that includes casting, I guess? After Christmas?’

He sucked a breath in between his teeth.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘well, I need to talk to you about that.’

My chest fizzed uncomfortably. I hadn’t agreed to this. I wasn’t going to be made to agree to this.

‘You didn’t say …’

‘Hush. We did discuss this, didn’t we? When we rehearsed the script. Nobody is more perfect for Walters than you, my love.’

‘But Jasper!’

‘We’ll need to sort out an Equity card for you, that’s all, then nothing will stand in our way.’

‘Yes, it will!’

‘Oh?’

He put down the jewelled robin ornament he’d been toying with and put his head on one side, as if to say, ‘You aren’t going to spoil my fun, are you?’

‘I’m not an actor. And – don’t say what I know you’re going to say because that’s not the crux of it. I’m not an actor and I don’t want to appear on film all over the world doing things that, to me, are private.’

Jasper put down the robin and reached for my hands, which were freely given.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘The thing is, it’s a stipulation of the studio that you and I appear in this film. After that story about us shagging in that Mayfair square the other week, it’s golden pre-publicity. It’s the reason they finally decided to back it.’

‘Oh, God. How about it being a good film by a good director?’

‘Not good enough, I’m afraid.’ Jasper shook his head. ‘My reputation’s high with the critics but I’m not box-office enough for that. I have to make concessions. One of them is that you play Walters.’

My breath was too short for speech for a while.

Eventually I looked him full in the face.

‘I am not,’ I said, slowly and firmly, ‘doing or showing anything on film that I wouldn’t do at the museum. No nudity. No sex acts.’

‘It’s called acting, Sarah. Obviously nobody is going to actually fuck.’

‘No, but the other stuff. You know what I mean. I’m not showing my bare bum to the world.’

‘I think you already did,’ said Jasper, and he was referring to the newspaper scandal.

‘That was extremely blurred and hardly recognisable as a bum,’ I replied. ‘Plus, it wasn’t meant to be public.’

‘OK,’ said Jasper. ‘I talked about this with Jim already.’

‘You did? Why didn’t you say?’

‘I like watching your agitation sometimes. It’s all right. Relax. Christ.’ He put his arms up to deflect a sudden hail of small wooden angels. ‘Sorry, OK?’

‘You’d better be. So what have you and Jim cooked up?’

‘He’s fine with the idea of body doubles for us. So in the kinky scenes, your head and face will be there but the body will belong to another woman. And the same for me, as the man.’

‘Body doubles? So … we won’t actually be doing the naughty stuff on camera?’

‘Oh, we will. But when we get into the editing suite we’ll swap our body parts for somebody else’s. We have to do the scenes, Sarah,’ he added quickly, ‘or the facial expressions and noises won’t be right.’

‘You dub the sound over it anyway,’ I protested.

‘Some of it. Come on. The world will see no more than your face and a bare arm and foot or so. That has to be good enough, right?’

I put down a length of tinsel and sat on the stairs, my chin in my hands.

‘I don’t know. This is too weird for me. It’s a long way out of my comfort zone.’

‘I know. That’s why you’re considering it.’ He winked at me.

I flapped my hands at him.

‘Come on, Sarah. You hate your comfort zone. You’re never there. You’re like the absentee landlord of the place.’

‘That’s not true,’ I countered. ‘Just because I do all sorts of things I’d never have countenanced with anyone else – with you. It’s because of you. You’re my comfort zone, because I trust you.’

‘There.’ His eyes lit; I’d signed myself up. ‘You said it. And you’ll be with me. I’ll direct you. You can take direction, can’t you?’

‘You know I can. It’s just … this isn’t private any more. I’m not sure …’

‘Listen, darling, you don’t have to give me a yes or no answer right this minute. Nothing will get done until after Christmas and New Year now anyway. We’ve got that long to mull it over.’

‘I like a bit of mulling,’ I said. ‘But I usually prefer it when wine’s involved.’

‘That’s a good thought,’ he said, sitting down beside me and taking my hand. He spread out my clenched fingers, one by one, in his palm. I sighed into the gesture, always seduced anew by his touch. ‘We’ll make some mulled wine tonight. And I’ve promised Jim I’ll source the potential body doubles, so I’ll sort that out this afternoon. Once this tree is decorated.’

‘Where do body doubles come from? Is there an agency?’

‘Well, no, I rather thought I’d call a friend.’

‘What friend?’

‘A friend on the club scene. BDSM club scene, that is. They’ll be able to point me in the right direction.’

‘I see. Will they be actors? I mean, the one doubling for me might be called upon …’

‘No, she won’t,’ said Jasper firmly. ‘It’s a condition of the financing that you play opposite me. Otherwise this film will never find a studio.’

‘They just want to market it on the back of that tawdry newspaper story,’ I said in disgust.

‘Yes. Yes, they do. And that’s the way of the world, I’m afraid, my love, and if it gets me my backing then I have to go along with it.’

‘This project really means so much to you?’

‘Let’s say it’s been on my mind for years and years but I never thought anyone would go near it …’ He picked up the tinsel. ‘Can you use tinsel in bondage, I wonder?’

‘Uncomfortable,’ I surmised. ‘Horribly prickly.’

‘That sounds quite good.’

He wound the end of it around my wrist and tethered it to the banister.

‘There. You sit there and mull and I’ll finish the tree. If you need to use the bathroom, you’ll have to ask permission.’

I could easily untie myself, using my other hand, but I was happy enough to sit there and do as I was told. I was tired and my head swam with the enormity of this news.

The entire course of my life could change, the moment I made my decision. If I took this role, it was unlikely that I’d be able to continue with my job at the museum – not that that job was the be-all and end-all, but it was a step on the path I’d laid down for myself at sixteen, when I made my A-Level choices. And I loved history and heritage; had dreamed for years of working in a similar role.

Could I really throw it all up to play a kinky Victorian maid with a spanking stunt double?

It was the same question all over again, the one that kept rearing its head nowadays.

How much was I prepared to give up for Jasper?

I watched him as he pondered over which ornament to place where, making an art of it, as he did with everything. Such fastidiousness, such attention to detail. It was what made him such an amazing lover, such an amazing dom. Nothing was left to chance. Everything was deliberate and planned.

To be honest, I hadn’t yet had to give up anything much for him. Only a crap flat, in order to move in to his exquisite home. Not much of a sacrifice, on the face of it. But then, there were little things that perhaps I’d let go of too easily. I’d failed to cultivate friendships with the museum staff after moving in with Jasper, allowing them to wither on the vine instead. And I really needed to call some of my university friends. I had changed my phone number after the big press incident, and hadn’t got round to telling people what it was now.

I should do it. I should have sent Christmas cards. I should have done a hundred things that got forgotten about because I was far too busy having mind-blowing, body-wracking sex.

And I’d been nervous of contacting them as well. Nervous of what they might think of Jasper, of what advice they might give me. I could face censure, I could face hostility even, but I didn’t think I could face their disappointment in me.

But then, perhaps they would approve. Perhaps they would think it none of their business, or wish me luck with it and hope we might be happy. To cut myself off from all other relationships over fear of a bit of disapproval seemed silly now, especially in this season, when half the world was turning to friends and family in celebration.

I watched Jasper place a star at the top of the tree, having had to climb on a stepstool and tiptoe in order to reach that high.

‘We put an angel at the top of ours,’ I told him.

‘Controversial,’ he said, twisting his neck to raise an eyebrow in my direction.

‘Not really. Because it’s right.’

‘Did you mean for that to sound like fighting talk?’

I shifted on the stair, trying to decide if my bottom was still sore. It wasn’t, not really. Other parts of me, though, were not in such acceptable condition. Probably best not to start a verbal sparring match just now. The angel/star debate could keep.

‘Of course not,’ I said, prim and proper as I could be. ‘’Tis the season to be jolly, after all.’

‘Fa la la la la, la la la la,’ sang Jasper. He had a good singing voice too. He had good everything. It really wasn’t fair.

‘On that subject, I’m thinking of getting back in touch with some friends,’ I told him.

He stepped down from the stool and came to sit beside me on the stairs.

‘Go for it,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you had any. You’ve never mentioned anyone. Bit strange, I thought, but I didn’t like to ask.’

‘I just … got out of the habit of being social, I suppose. When it was just you and me, here, over the summer, I forgot that anyone or anything else existed.’

‘Mm, so did I,’ he said with a dreamy smile. ‘Bloody wonderful, wasn’t it?’

‘Well, it still is, I hope. And it still can be, even with the outside world mixed in.’

‘Of course.’ He reached over and untied the tinsel from the banister. ‘As long as we’re in the middle of it, together.’

‘Right.’

He took my freed wrist and kissed the inside of it, a gesture that always unleashed ten million fluttery pulses in me. He held it against his cheek, gazing soulfully into my eyes. ‘Will you be honest with your friends? About us?’

‘It’s not really any of their business, but if they ask, then yes.’

‘You might lose a few.’

‘I know. That’s why it’s taken me so long to get the courage up. But I hope at least a couple might understand.’

He kissed the tip of my nose.

‘Brave girl,’ he said. ‘And now, I’ve got calls of my own to make. I’ll be in my office.’

He went off to take care of business and I stood up to give the Christmas tree a full appraisal. It looked glorious, warm and twinkly, like the Christmas tree of my childhood dreams. But I wouldn’t be spending Christmas here with Jasper – I’d be down on the coast with my parents, and he’d be with his mother in East Anglia. It wasn’t going to be easy, but we were going to have our own Christmas the day after Boxing Day and it was going to last all the way into the New Year.

I went back up to the bedroom and found the sim card of my old phone in a dresser drawer. Who would I call first? Stella? No, she was forthright to the point of abrasive. I’d leave her until I’d eased myself in a bit. Who was easy to talk to and undemanding and unjudgemental?

Rosie.

I found her number and dialled it, my fingers slippery over the metal rectangle. I was insanely nervous. I wondered if I’d even be able to talk.

It rang twice and then I heard a kind of gasp on the other end.

‘Oh, my God, Sarah, is it you?’

‘Rosie. I’m really sorry, so sorry, it’s been ages, I know …’

‘You changed your number! I tried and tried to call you.’

‘I know, I’m so sorry, but I was getting calls all day and night on that old number so …’

‘I bet you were!’

I stalled, suddenly aware of how noisy it was at Rosie’s end. She was in a pub or a café or something by the sound of it.

‘Sorry, are you OK to talk now? Are you busy?’

‘Oh, fine,’ she said. ‘Just having a coffee with friends.’

‘Ah, London life,’ I said wistfully.

‘Yeah, it’s brilliant, you’ll have to come up.’

‘I’d love to. Or you could come down here.’

There was another pause.

‘To … Jasper Jay’s place?’ she asked, as if in disbelief.

‘Sure. I mean it’s my place too. Oh, God, we have too much to talk about. Let’s meet up soon.’

‘I couldn’t believe it when that story came out,’ she said eagerly. ‘I’d been wondering where you were – all I’d had from you was a text about starting your new job back in September – and then, last month, bam! All over the papers, up close and personal with a famous film director. How did you swing that one?’

‘It turned out that house I was employed to work in over the summer was his,’ I explained. ‘And he came back early from filming and we … got to know each other.’

She snorted. ‘Just a bit,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you’re not the only one who’s been making new friends.’

‘You’re seeing someone?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Rosie! That’s excellent news! Tell me all about him.’

‘I would have put him on to speak to you, but he’s just been called away to talk about something in the office.’

‘Office? I thought you were having coffee with friends?’

‘Yeah, some of the friends kind of own the place. That’s who he’s talking to. Anyway, he’s called Dimitri and he’s dreamy as fuck.’

‘Dimitri?’

‘He’s Russian. A moustachioed Muscovite.’

‘Oh, wow, that sounds …’ Actually, I wasn’t sure how it sounded. ‘Amazing,’ I finished.

‘He is, take my word for it.’ Her voice tailed off into a sigh and then I heard something that sounded oddly like a whipcrack.

‘What was that?’

‘What?’

‘That noise? Was that you?’

‘Oh, no, somebody at another table,’ she said vaguely.

‘Where are you?’

She giggled.

‘Believe me, love, if I told you I’d have to kill you. Although something tells me you’d be cool with it.’

‘Rosie!’ I was too intrigued now.

‘Sorry, got to go. Dimitri’s coming over and he looks as if he has big news. I’ll call you back, OK?’

‘OK. I think Jasper’s coming out of his office anyway. Call me when you get a moment.’

I pressed ‘end call’ and went into the hall to intercept Jasper.

‘How did it go?’ he asked politely.

‘What?’

‘Your friend – did you call her?’

‘Oh … yes. She was a bit distracted though. How about you?’

‘Success. My friends at the BDSM club know the very people to play our body doubles. And I’ve decided to invite them down for a couple of days over New Year. What do you think? A bit of a party perhaps.’

I wasn’t sure what to think. What kind of party would four kinky people have? It all sounded rather alarming.

‘Not that kind of party,’ he said, seeing my ambivalence and putting a hand on my arm. ‘Unless …’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said hastily. ‘So, who are the people? Actors? Or just kinksters?’

‘Both, as it happens,’ he said, escorting me into the drawing room with a hand between my shoulder blades. ‘The woman is very experienced; she’s done a lot of spanking movies, reputable ones, plus she’s got an Equity card from being in the chorus line of a couple of shows.’

‘Does she look like me?’

‘From behind, I daresay she might,’ said Jasper with a grin. ‘She’s blonde, apparently, but we’ll get her a wig.’

‘And the man?’

We sat down together. Jasper put his feet up on a low table and clasped his hands behind his head.

‘A new talent, I’m told,’ he said. ‘Russian. Very popular at the club and he’s had quite a few bit parts. You know the kind of thing. “Eastern European patient” on Casualty and so forth. Nothing big yet, but he hasn’t been in the UK that long.’

‘Russian? Wow.’

‘He’s called Dimitri.’

I stiffened a bit, thinking this was something of a coincidence.

Jasper noticed.

‘What? Do you know him?’

‘No … just … my friend said she had a new boyfriend called Dimitri. Also Russian. From Moscow.’

Jasper smiled.

‘Do birds of a feather flock together?’ he asked slyly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, is she that way inclined, would you say? Your friend?’

‘Well … not that I know of. She’s just normal.’

‘Like you?’

‘Yeah … like me …’

My phone rang. It was Rosie again. I snatched it up.

‘Hey there.’

‘Sarah, hi, guess what, you’ll never guess what, oh, my God, you are not going to believe this.’

She sounded near-hysterical and as if she was going to burst into laughter before she got the words out.

‘What?’

‘This is the weirdest thing ever, I just can’t believe it.’

‘Rosie! Please!’

‘Your Jasper Jay –’

‘Er, yes?’ I glanced sideways at him. I didn’t know if he could hear Rosie’s words but he was certainly enjoying the high-pitched squawking.

‘– he’s only gone and offered Dimitri a job.’

‘What?’

I widened my eyes at Jasper, who widened them back, drolly.

‘He wants Dimitri to be a body double in his next film. Isn’t that just so beyond bizarre?’

‘Wow.’ I took the phone from my ear for a moment and said it again, to Jasper. ‘Wow.’

‘It’s the same Dimitri?’

‘So it seems.’

Jasper laughed and clapped his hands.

‘Tell her she’s invited too,’ he said.

I put the phone back to my ear.

‘Rosie? Did Dimitri tell you that Jasper was going to invite you down here for a couple of days?’

‘Yeah, him and bloody Trixietots.’

‘Who?’

‘The female body double.’

‘Oh, right. Well, he said you can come too.’

‘Really? Awesome! Oh, my God, this is just so …’

It certainly was just so … I could hardly put my own thoughts in order, let alone hers. A big realisation was muscling its way to the forefront of my brain, though, and I couldn’t hold it back.

‘So, Rosie, this club or café you’re at …?’

‘Ah, yeah, it’s kind of like a specialist place.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘I thought you might.’

As if somebody had just wound us both up and taken out the key we began to laugh manically and in concert, a mixture of embarrassment and exhilaration at being able to talk openly about our taboo private lives.

‘I can’t wait to see you,’ I said, meaning it.

‘Isn’t it brilliant?’ she sighed. ‘So perfect. This is going to be the best Christmas ever.’

Chapter Three

As best Christmases ever went, it had some catching up to do.

Driving back to Jasper’s after two and a half days of awkward silences and desperate attempts to steer the conversation away from my private life, I reflected that I’d made the effort, been the dutiful daughter and now it was time to be me. Jasper and I had two days together before Rosie, Dimitri and the mysterious Trixietots showed up and I could hardly wait to ease back into our dynamic.

Wearing normal clothes and having normal conversations seemed such an effort now. I’d forgotten how to do that kind of thing. And Mum and Dad both wanted to know about my career plans, the museum and all of that while I just wanted to switch off from the irksome necessity of thinking and eat a tin of Cadbury’s Roses in front of the Downton Christmas special.

When Jasper had phoned on Christmas Day, Mum had said, ‘That was him, was it?’ with very tight lips.

What a shame. They had seemed to come round to him on that awkward, horrible day they met him at my flat. Mum had been charmed and Dad reluctantly followed suit. But the newspaper-story affair seemed to have shoved them back to square one with Jasper as the villain of the piece.

His name wasn’t brought up, by any of us, and we skirted around the issue, being over-effusive about the food and excessively interested in what was on TV until I could pack my bags with a sigh of relief and escape to the car.

No sight had ever been more welcome than the automatic gates in front of Jasper’s drive. I entered the combination and watched them glide open, granting me access to wonderland again.

Wonderland was looking a bit brown and slushy underfoot, but the avenue of arching bare-branched trees still gladdened my heart as I passed through it, finally catching my first glimpse of the house sitting in splendour beyond the expanse of melting snow.

Downstairs lights were on and the windows glowed. I felt myself illumine in response.

I wondered if he’d hear me drive up and park. Would he come to the door to welcome me?

I leaped out on to the gravel, but it was left to me to get my case from the boot and lug it up the steps to the front door. No sign of him yet.

I thought about ringing the doorbell, but it seemed a bit silly when I had a key of my own. I opened the door and stood looking at that same Christmas tree, still gorgeously adorned and fairylit, towering over the handsome vestibule like a green bushy gatekeeper.

The tree welcomed me back, but there was still no sign of Jasper.

I pulled my suitcase on to the parquet and shut the door behind me.

‘Hello?’

Perhaps he was out. But his car was in the drive and he wouldn’t leave lights on in the house before leaving – it was just such an un-Jasper thing to do. Maybe he was chopping wood in the kitchen yard? Now that I’d like to see …

My mouth already watering, I passed through the back kitchen and looked hopefully into the yard, but there was no strapping, axe-wielding man to be seen with shirtsleeves pushed up his arms and an honest sweat gathering on his brow. Worse luck.

I returned to the hall and called out again, but without much hope of a response. As I did so, something glittering under the tree caught my eye and I noticed a parcel in holographic wrapping paper lying there.

Was this my Christmas present?

I knew I should wait until he was around to share the exchange of gifts, but I was too intrigued not to pick the box up and take a closer look.

There was a card on it. I looked for Jasper’s writing, expecting it to have the conventional ‘To Sarah, Merry Christmas, love Jasper’ format on it, but it didn’t. It said, ‘Open me now. Don’t wait.’

Ooh.

I looked around, convinced now that I must be being watched. Would Jasper have put a hidden camera somewhere? On the stairs, on the wall, in the tree?

I obeyed the directive on the tag and began to unwrap the parcel. Inside the paper was a box and the box contained a pair of brown leather cuffs with buckles and rings. Slightly disappointing, as Christmas presents go, but there was another card inside and I picked it up, my heart skippy with excitement.

‘Put on the cuffs. Find your next gift in the drawing room.’

I buckled the new cuffs around my wrists. They were comfortable and felt luxurious; obviously the best quality, which was typical of Jasper.

In the drawing room there was still no sign of the man himself but I soon found the next gift, a flat rectangular box that took up most of the chaise-longue it had been placed upon.

Inside it, wrapped in layers of silver tissue paper, was a tiny filmy black lace babydoll nightdress; more like gossamer than lace, in fact. It came with a pair of hold-up stockings and a frilly garter but nothing else. A card fluttered out when I unfolded it.

‘Put these on. Come to the office.’

Surely he had to be watching? I felt intensely self-conscious, despite the silent stillness of the room, as I pulled off my boots, stepped out of my jeans, unbuttoned my shirt. I was strongly conscious of undressing for someone, even though there was nobody there. I tried to be graceful and seductive instead of taking it quickly, imagining Jasper’s eyes, his face, his intent concentration at all times.

The babydoll was barely there against my skin, just a little gauzy web over my breasts and belly, so short that it left the lower half of my pubic triangle exposed.

I tried to smooth it down so it might cover more, but there was no point. It was supposed to be this short. I sat on a buttoned velvet stool and eased on the stockings – carefully, because they were so sheer a sharp look would probably ladder them.

Dressed and ready for action – but not the kind of action in an action movie – I tiptoed on my stockinged feet over to the office.

I felt so sure that Jasper would be in there that I knocked first.

No direction followed, either to enter or to wait. I knocked again, then turned the handle.

No, he was not there.

On his leather swivel chair was another box, stout and square.

This one proved to contain a little silk-embroidered case inside which lay a pair of shining silver balls. They jingled when I took them out. Of course, I knew what they were. I hadn’t studied the historical evolution of sex toys for nothing. But, strangely perhaps, given our no-holds-barred relationship, I’d never yet experienced them in play.

A label was stuck inside the lid of the case.

‘Insert them,’ it said, ‘and walk (carefully) up the stairs to the master bathroom.’

And now I was glad to be alone and, hopefully, unobserved. I removed the box from the chair and sat down, considering how this was best to be done. I thought it best not to put them in while I was sitting bare-bottomed on the seat, so I stood up again and leaned against the desk instead. Or did I need to be lying down?

No, I would stay in this position and, if any adjustments needed to be made, I would see to them. I took one of the balls out of the case and jiggled it up and down in my palm. It made the most beautiful low chiming sound. Whose idea was it to make them do that? It seemed a bit random, but pleasingly so.

I reached down below, keeping my thighs apart, and rested one shiny curve against the shallow dint behind my pussy lips. It felt cold, but unthreatening. Jasper had certainly put more menacing objects than this up there quite painlessly.

I gave it a little nudge, thinking perhaps it would be better to do this lying down, because my wrist was beginning to ache. But I didn’t have to struggle to insert it at all – it glided in and my pelvic muscles held it in place. For a moment, I worried that it would be lost up there, but all the same I pushed the other one in behind it – and now I could really feel them together, squashed in and stretching me. Keeping them in would constitute a fairly serious workout for my pelvic floor. I supposed Jasper was only trying to be helpful.

I pushed myself off the desk and tried to stand up straight. I felt the balls move inside me to accommodate themselves to this new posture. I clamped my thighs together and they seemed to grow, then shrink when I relaxed my stance. I tried bending over, which threw my muscles into a panic of clenching, desperate not to lose their new guests. How freely was it possible to move wearing these? I tried a few dance steps. It required a high level of concentration, but it was possible.

Obeying the directive on the card, I left the office and headed for the stairs. I was conscious of a faint click-clicking inside me as I walked, and an occasional musical note. As I took one step after another I felt the balls slip and slide as if struggling to escape, and I was careful to keep my muscles clenched. It was a potent reminder to me that I was never to forget my sexuality. I wondered if Jasper would make me wear them in any other contexts and the thought was shiver-inducingly exciting.

The bathroom door was open and I walked in and looked around. I failed at first to locate the next parcel but found it eventually underneath the sink.

I wasn’t particularly surprised to find a string of anal beads – very pretty ones like pearls that you could probably get away with wearing around your wrist at a party – and a small bottle of lube.

I didn’t even remember to look for the card before I started coating the tip of a finger in the gloopy substance. Too late now, I thought, grimacing. Still, this was undoubtedly the thing to do, and I could read the card once this business was taken care of.

I prepared myself carefully, then began to insert the little string of beads until the plaited end was left protruding. Again, these were not uncomfortable compared with some of Jasper’s plugs and once it was done I felt no more than a little daring and very sensually stimulated.

I took a good look at myself in the full-length mirror from all angles. I was a sex kitten, ready to play. If I’d been able to send a snapshot of myself like this to my year-ago self, she’d have screamed and probably torn the thing in two. Would she even have recognised herself? It was hard to know.

Finally, after preening my fill, my attention was drawn back to the empty box – but it wasn’t empty, of course. Nestling in the tissue wrapping was the inevitable card.

I picked it up and read, confident of a summons to the bedroom now.

But it wasn’t.

‘Go to the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. Attach your wrist cuffs to the apparatus you find there. And wait.’

Apparatus? What could that mean? I couldn’t restrain a little shudder as unpleasant images of torture equipment flashed into my head.

But my curiosity would not be denied and I tiptoed along the landing, keeping all my senses on alert for any signs of Jasper. But there were none.

The end guest bedroom was a spartan little chamber containing, usually, no more than lots of shelves and cabinets on which various art curiosities were displayed. It contained no bed and nothing in the way of useful furniture, as a rule, but today the Turkish rug in the centre of the room had something on it.

I laughed and then frowned.

It was a sleigh bed. You know the kind – they have a curved kind of prow at each end instead of a head and foot board. Fancy calling it an ‘apparatus’. Jasper had just been trying to psych me out, as usual. This looked really rather comfortable. But he had mentioned attaching the cuffs to something …?

I drew closer and noticed that a pair of small hooks were fixed to one of the sleigh ends. Did he mean me to kneel or lie? I couldn’t be sure.

I decided to lie, placed my wrists up behind my head and pushed their rings against the hooks until they clicked together. Now I could sit on the pillows and wait.

But for how long?

From where I sat, I could look through the window. Light was failing. Soon the room would be dark. Luckily it was heated by a radiator beneath the deep window ledge. All the same, my nipples were starting to complain, stiffening beneath the gossamer lace.

I strained my ears to hear any telltale sounds but the house was so silent my scalp began to prickle with dread. What if those notes weren’t from Jasper? What if he’d been … kidnapped … or … For God’s sake, Sarah. Who the hell else would they be from?

The mantel clock tick-tocked and I heard the grandfather in the hall strike a solemn five. It was now fully dark and I hadn’t thought to switch the light on in the room. I was getting colder and more shivery by the second. If I called out for help, what would happen?

I was just breathing in when I heard something.

Not much, a soft click, possibly from somewhere along the landing. I held my breath in my lungs and listened.

There was a definite creak – a floorboard. He was coming.

I shuffled, adjusting my posture for maximum attractive helplessness, whilst at the same time trying to make sure I could aim a good kick if needed. This wasn’t an easy manoeuvre.

The sudden downward turn of the door handle made me gasp, even though I was expecting it. I stared transfixed at the rectangle of white in the greyish gloom and watched it slowly open inwards. It brought with it a glow of orangey light, a candle, preceding its bearer. Its brightness concealed for a millisecond the identity of the person who held it but my eyes soon overcame the difficulty.

I saw an intent gaze above the flame, the curl of a familiar lip, a dark suit.

Thank goodness he hadn’t dressed as Santa. I never could understand the sexy Santa thing.

He stopped a little way into the room and put the candle down on a shelf.

‘Oh, now this is a Christmas present,’ he said fervently. ‘Did you find everything?’

‘I think so,’ I said, feeling my muscles tighten around the balls and beads.

‘Everything?’ he persisted, stepping closer.

‘I opened a lot of boxes.’

‘You opened more than boxes, if you found the lot,’ he said. He sat down on the side of the bed and grazed his knuckles along my nearest leg. ‘Didn’t you?’

I twisted my face away, feeling it flame.

‘Perhaps.’

‘Perhaps?’ he said, reaching for my chin and twisting my face back to him. ‘Did you find the little jingly balls, my love?’

‘Yes.’

His fingers ran along my inner thigh and patted it at the top. It was an almost unbearably sensuous feeling and I felt myself gush.

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