The House of Elyot

Posts Tagged ‘bdsm

A new story from me is available now in the Mischief anthology Submitting. I enjoyed writing this one so much that I’ve started writing a book about the characters, covering the lead-up to the story and what happens afterwards.

Doing It For Emmett is about a submissive woman’s first experience of being shared, and is about how far you can go for love.

Here’s how it opens:

If you’re going to behave like a cheap whore, the best place to do it is an expensive hotel.

This was the thought running through my head as Emmett led me by the hand through the polish and glister of the lobby, towards the miniature fountain that signified the entrance to the bar.

I didn’t look like a cheap whore. Emmett had chosen what I was wearing: silvery silk shirt, knee-length pencil skirt, heels that were high enough to make me wiggle but not high enough to make me totter. I could pass as a delegate en route to pre-conference drinks, or somebody’s elegant mistress. Who would guess what I actually was?

We stopped at the fountain, and Emmett took my other hand, tilting his head and looking deep into me.

“Are you nervous?” he said.

“A bit,” I admitted. “I don’t want to let you down.”

He let out a breath, kissed my forehead, then my lips.

“You won’t,” he promised.

He walked me over to a corner table underneath a potted palm, where a pinstriped gentleman in his late forties sat working on the Times crossword.

Impressions of him were quickly absorbed and filed: elegant, distinguished, wealthy, watchful, intimidating, attractive. Everything Emmett had described.

The man looked up, and I turned quickly to Emmett, lacing my fingers more tightly into his.

“Your order, sir,” said Emmett.

The man – I knew his name, but the idea was to pretend I didn’t – stood up and shook Emmett’s hand.

“Thank you,” he said, then he looked me up and down with hard, grey eyes. “Yes, this one will do.”

Emmett nodded, unlocked his hand from mine, and went away to the bar. I put the hand he’d released on to my chest, clenching and unclenching it, and looked after him. Come back, I pleaded silently, but I knew I couldn’t say it aloud.

He would be in the hotel room later. He wasn’t abandoning me.

“You can sit down,” said the man. “I’ve ordered you a gin and tonic.”

“Thanks,” I said, following his instruction and taking a sip of the welcome drink.

“I’m Charles,” he said. “But you will call me Sir. What’s your name?”

“Suky,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Suky? Suky Tawdry?”

He’d got the allusion straight away. I suppressed a smile. Emmett had said it was too obvious.

“That’s right, sir.”

“And is your boyfriend over there Mack the Knife?”

“No, sir,” I said. “He isn’t a criminal.”

“I should hope not, although I believe procuring is still a shade on the illegal side.”

“I don’t think it counts if no money changes hands, sir,” I ventured.

He smiled, running a finger around the rim of his brandy glass.

“You’re probably right. You’re doing this for nothing, aren’t you? Why?”

I clenched my thighs in an effort to stop them quivering. The tension of this encounter was exquisitely tightly strung. A barrage of conflicting feelings coursed through me with each exchange.

“I’m doing it for Emmett,” I said. “Because he told me to.”

“Ah, he told you to. And you do everything Emmett tells you, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered.

“Why is that?”

“Because he owns me.”

 

I’m in this one with some of my favourite authors – stories by Rose de Fer, Lily Harlem, Sommer Marsden, CeCe Marsh, Alegra Verde, Ludivine Bonneur and Kathleen Tudor can all be found behind this man’s chest.

submitting

Back to 2010 again, and the closure of Black Lace had forced me to gambol in some fresh woods and pastures new. One of the most fertile of these was Cleis Press, the veteran San Francisco-based indie publishing house behind one of my favourite contemporary erotic books, Carrie’s Story.

My story Sunday In The Study was the first of many to be accepted by one of the biggest names in the business, Rachel Kramer Bussel. It appeared in her male dom/female sub collection Please, Sir – and I can tell you, I was absolutely thrilled to bits when I got my acceptance. I felt like I’d broken America, hahaha. Well, it was a nice feeling while it lasted…

The book is an excellent hot read on one of my favourite themes and includes stories by Shanna Germain, Elizabeth Coldwell, Sommer Marsden, Mercy Loomis, Tess Danesi, Heidi Champa, Emerald, Yolanda West, Isabelle Grey, Remittance Girl, Evan Mora, Doug Harrison, Alison Tyler, Aimee Pearl, Kissa Starling, Charlotte Stein, Ariel Graham, Lisabet Sarai, Salome Wilde, Donna George Storey and Rachel Kramer Bussel.

And I love the coy look on the cover model’s face.

Here’s the opening of my story:

I never know how long he will make me wait.

 

Never less than five minutes, usually between ten and twenty, and on one unfondly recalled occasion I was standing hands-on-head listening to the steady tick of the grandfather clock behind me for over an hour.

 

This, he says, is Reflection Time.  I am to spend it thinking through any of the week’s tribulations or missed opportunities, and considering how I will account for them.  That is the theory, although in practice these tense minutes lend themselves to speculation.  How many?  How long?  What will he use?  Will I be able to sit at the family dinner afterwards?

 

Later I will find myself in reflective mode once more, but this time I will be facing a corner, holding my hands clasped in the small of my back, above my bare and throbbing bottom.  This is Recovery Time, and usually lasts half an hour – long enough for tears to dry and sins to be absolved before we move into the final stage of the process – forgiveness and reconnection.

 

You will gather from all of this that Sinclair and I are lovers of ritual.  What holds us together is something more than our mutual kink, our undeniable attraction and all the usual romantic folderol.  It is our need for this Sunday to be like every other Sunday in essence, even if certain elements are allowed to vary.  It is my need for correction and his for control.  When we were younger, my Sundays were spent in church, while he captained the school cricket team.  As adults, we have exchanged these rituals for their deviant counterpart.  He dominates, as he did his ten bowlers and batsmen; I submit, as I did to the God I worshipped.  But this time there is nothing unpredictable, nothing unknowable, nothing to fear.  It is all so much more satisfying.

 

Tick…perhaps the strap…tock…I hope not the cane…tick…but then again…tock…I like the cane…tick…I must be insane…tock.

 

The door opens.

 

I know the drill.  I remove my hands from my head and lower my eyes, letting them drift over the familiar pattern of the Persian runner, through the doorway and across the highly polished oak floorboards.  My feet follow their gaze until they are stopped by the obstacle of his desk.

 

I love his desk.  It is so antique it even has an inkwell.  When I am bending over it, I can see my face in the mirror shine, though I tend to screw my eyes shut rather than watch my contorted expressions.  Rarely, he requires me to keep them open – for instance, on the day that he invited his dominatrix friend to watch and take notes.  I had to look her in the eye through twenty four strokes of the tawse, an almost impossible task, though I am proud to say I managed it to their satisfaction.

 

He walks, always in a slow, stately fashion, from the door to the desk.  He stands on the other side of it, looking down at me with his more-in-sorrow-than-anger face for a moment.

 

‘Well, Beth, here we are again,’ he says.  ‘I wonder if the day will come when I do not have to waste my Sunday morning taking you to task over imperfections of behaviour.’  We both know it will not.  ‘No answer to that, hmm?  Well, it does seem a very distant prospect to me as well.  Now then.’

 

He seats himself and pulls over a large book, a leatherbound ledger.  Large as it is, after two years it is already half-filled with page after page of copperplate script, remembrances of crimes past and their associated sentences.  He opens it, flipping the leaves to where the ribbon bookmark lies across a blank expanse.

 

Not blank for long though, for soon a fountain pen is slanted between his elegant fingers, dipped in the inkwell and put to the page.  As he writes, he talks, his murmur following the looping progress of the pen.

 

‘Sunday June 18th,’ he says, then he holds the pen in suspended animation and looks at me.  ‘What should I write, do you think?  Any ideas?’

 

 

In April 2010, Xcite brought out another in their ‘Ultimate…’ series, on a theme that was right up my street. Ultimate Spanking contained my story Paying For It, about a woman who indulges her spanko curiosity by hiring a professional.

The original cheeky seaside-postcard cover with its pastel stripes along the bottom was typical of Xcite books of this era, though they had several redesigns and repackagings over the years. The most recent – before it went out of print – was a mysterious dark blue with misty fronds.

I think, by the time this came out, Adam had already left Xcite and editing was left in the hands of the enigmatic ‘Miranda Forbes’. It contained stories by a cracking roster of authors, though, many of whom had come over from Black Lace. Monica Belle, Shanna Germain, Philippa Johnson, Poppy St Vincent, Sadie Wolf, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Ashley Hind, Cyanne, Heidi Champa, Charlotte Stein, Robin Moreton, Amelia Thornton, Sandrine Lopez, Izzie French, Aishling Morgan, Laurel Aspen, Landon Dixon, Teresa Joseph and Philip Kemp are all represented in the contents list.

I recently re-read Paying For It, as I’m thinking of putting all my out-of-print Xcite stories together as a collection, and was surprised at how much I liked it. It’s hot and sweet and rather romantic in its way.

Here’s how it starts:

He makes a living from spanking girls – can you believe that? I told him it was money for old rope, but he said, ‘Nah, I do spanking, not bondage,’ then told me to get out the strap for making such a disrespectful suggestion.

‘What you don’t understand, Kat,’ he said, plying the leather and ignoring my gasps while I gripped the iron bedstead for dear life, ‘is that spanking is not easy. It isn’t just a case of throwing the lady over the lap and whaling away. There is finesse involved. Psychology.’

‘Ouch!’

‘Sensibility.’

‘Ouch!’

‘Sensitivity.’

‘Ouch!’

‘Good judgement.’

‘Ouch!’

‘Aesthetic refinement.’

‘OUCH!’

‘And maybe a soupçon of sadistic intent.’

The final stroke caught me at the top of my thighs and my resolve, along with my knees, buckled beneath it.

‘OK, I’m sorry,’ I panted, doubled over on the carpet. ‘It’s not easy. But please don’t tell me it hurts you more than it hurts me.’

He chuckled softly behind me.

‘No, I wouldn’t go that far. Back up, Kat, bending over the bed, please.’

‘Ohhhh,’ I pouted and put an authentic-sounding sob into my voice.

‘It doesn’t hurt me,’ he said, once my upper body was pressed to the quilted eiderdown while my bottom, tight with the heat of the strapping, faced him at a jaunty angle. ‘But I do have to make sure I maintain the requisite muscular strength. In my right arm in particular.’

I expected a smack just then, but I got something else – cold lubricant in that intimate pucker, and then he was easing one of his bigger-sized plugs into me, and I knew he was going to fuck me next, and I sighed, eyelids lowering in pleasurable anticipation.

But instead – and this was what convinced me that no ordinarily-wired man could do his job – he asked me if I’d ever been paddled with a plug in before.

Oh, the despair; the sweet, dizzying, dismaying, rapturous cruelty of it all.

The fucking came later, but I must make it clear that he rarely fucks the girls he spanks. Only, he tells me, the very naughtiest ones. The ones that really need it. Such as me.

‘Do you ever get…you know…emotionally involved with your…clients?’ I asked him afterwards, staring limply at his digital alarm clock, knowing he would probably have another girl to punish in about an hour.

‘Of course,’ he said seriously, then he reached over to ruffle my hair. ‘With all of them. In a way.’

‘Right.’

I showered and dressed and caught the bus home, grateful that there was standing room only, still feeling some of the residual heat my tights held into my thighs and bottom. I wished that the heat could last forever.

 

Mischief Books have just brought out this hot little anthology, which contains my story Open Minded, about a woman who flatshares with a dominatrix.

It contains a slew of other stories as well by the likes of Ashley Lister and Rose de Fer, so there’s plenty of bang for your buck.

Here’s an excerpt from mine:

The advert had asked for an ‘open-minded’ flatmate, and when I asked her what she meant by that, she replied with breathtaking frankness.

“I moonlight as a sex worker,” she said. “Specifically, kinky stuff, a dominatrix. But you don’t need to worry about weirdoes hanging around the place – I know all my clients very well and they’re 100% decent, respectful guys. Most of them pretty well-off, too. No shifty types in raincoats, I promise.”

It took me a while to reply to this. I needed to take stock of her answer. The fresh-faced thirtysomething woman sitting in front of me in sweats and a messy ponytail was a…?

“I know, it fazes most people when I tell them,” she sighed. “If it bothers you, that’s fine, I’ll readvertise…”

“Er, no, no, hang on,” I said. “So you’re saying you meet your clients here?”

“I’ll have made enough for a deposit on a serviced apartment in the West End soon,” she said. “The plan is to move operations out of here as soon as I can. It’ll just be for a few weeks, I hope, until I’ve made all the necessary start-up costs.”

“Start-up costs?”

“You know, marketing, a new web page, maybe some hush money for the concierge. That kind of thing. I’ve already got everything I need for the job itself.”

“The job itself,” I echoed. “You mean, like, whips and stuff?”

“Yeah. Thigh high boots, all that.” She grinned suddenly over the rim of her coffee mug. “I know I don’t look the type. You can’t picture it, can you?”

“I can’t really,” I confessed. Shona seemed such a very typical kind of London woman – gym, office, wine bar, home. Not gym, office, wine bar, walk all over a man’s back in stilettoes. But then, perhaps there was no ‘typical London woman’. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have my own secret dark side, after all. In fact, Shona and I could almost be birds of a feather. Perhaps it was right that we should flock together. “I thought you had to be about six foot tall and built like Wonder Woman.”

“Hey, are you saying I’m not built like Wonder Woman?” she said with a fake pout and a laugh. “No, you’re right. But you can dress up to look like anything, really. And it’s all about confidence. If you can say the right things in the right way at the right time, you can look like a Cabbage Patch doll and still get clients. OK, I might be exaggerating that last bit – you do have to make an effort with your appearance. But it’s not as prescriptive as you might think.”

There was a pause.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can see this has knocked you sideways. I’ll let you get on.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head for emphasis. “No, it’s OK. Honestly. I said I was open-minded, and I am. I’m more fascinated than repelled, definitely.”

“So you might take the room?”

“Well, it’s a really nice one. And the location’s perfect, two minutes from the Tube. Price is right. I haven’t seen anything else half as good.” I muted my thoughts, to put the minus side to myself. “But it could be noisy, what with all the walloping and howling that might go on. And what if we get raided by the police?”

“It’s really a great area to live in,” Shona enthused. “The high street’s full of pubs and bars, there’s the cinema, loads of shops, leisure centre around the corner, park at the bottom of the hill…”

I made my decision. This was London. When it came to renting property here, there was always a compromise to be made. The question was only what it would be. I could cope with a few submissive blokes passing through now and then better than half an hour on top of my commute, or rising damp. Perhaps they’d even make me the odd cup of tea, or do the dishes for us.

“How often do you see clients?” I said.

“Not that often at all,” she said. “Two Saturdays a month, and one evening a week – usually a Wednesday, six till ten. I’ll always give you tons of warning. If you like, just go out for a drink on those evenings. Spend the Saturdays in town, or with mates, or whatever. It’s flexible, anyway. I’ll always take your needs on board.”

“OK, then,” I said. “I really like the room, and you seem really nice, and…and…OK then. Let’s do it.”

She clapped her hands. “Thank fuck!” she said. “Finally, somebody who knows what open-minded actually means.”

Hard Bargains: A Mischief Erotica Collection by [Mischief]

Fresh and ready for plucking is the new Mischief anthology, The Pact, which features my story Motivation, along with others by: Rose de Fer, Ashley Hind, Heather Towne, Lily Harlem, Kathleen Tudor, Giselle Renarde and Willow Sears.

Here’s the opening:

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

The time was three months earlier, when I’d sat at the kitchen table moaning to Joe about all the extra work the evening at college would entail, and how I didn’t really have time for it.

“But if you want to get to the next level at work, you don’t really have any choice,” he’d said, quite reasonably. Annoyingly reasonably. “And they’re even paying for you to do it. You’d be mad to turn them down.”

“I know,” I whinged, “but I hate writing essays. And I’ll have to write one every fortnight. Three thousand words! It’ll kill me.”

“Of course it won’t. You can do it.” He turned around from his duties at the frying pan and pointed the spatula sternly at me. “There’s no excuse for not trying. I don’t want to be standing here in a year’s time listening to you going on and on about being passed over for promotion again.”

“OK,” I said meekly. “I’ll give it my best shot. But I really do struggle with writing essays. I’m all right once I get started – it just takes so long to get the first paragraph down. And I haven’t written one since I left college.”

“What’s the problem? Procrastination?”

“In a word. Leaving everything to the last minute, then not having enough time to think properly.”

Joe took this in quietly for a moment or two, nibbling at his lower lip in deep thought. I always found this sexy and I watched the muscles in his cheeks twitch and his eyes drift away from me before they snapped back and he spoke.

“Well, we can fix that,” he said, and my heart skipped a little, because he had That Look on his face. That Look was normally a prelude to the ribbon ties and the flogger coming out of the bottom drawer in the bedroom. I wasn’t sure how this would translate to the kitchen, but I was interested in finding out.

“Can we?”

“Yes, I think so. We’ll set aside an afternoon every weekend before your assignments are due in, for you to work. That time is non-negotiable working time, and by the end of it, you need to have your assignment finished and ready for me to look at. With me so far?”

“Yes,” I said. “Boring way to spend a Sunday afternoon, but I have to find the time somewhere, I suppose. What if it isn’t finished, though?”

“Ah,” he said, and That Look intensified to cuffs-and-riding-crop level. “If it isn’t finished – or even if it is, but I don’t think you’ve made your best effort – there will be consequences.”

He raised his eyebrows. I squirmed. I’d heard that word often enough to know what it led to. We’d only role-played this kind of dynamic before, but making it real was certainly an interesting idea.

“What kind of consequences?” I asked, but he knew I knew, and he shook his head at me.

“I’m surprised you have to ask, Claudia.” He only called me by my full name when he had me over his lap, as a rule. The use of it sped me straight into my most submissive headspace. “What’s the one thing guaranteed to improve your behaviour?”

I looked down at my lap. “Oh, that,” I said quietly.

“Yes, Claudia. That.” He tapped the spatula end lightly into his palm. “I can demonstrate if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said hurriedly. It wasn’t that I disliked being spanked, but that thing had been pushing eggs around the pan.

“So, do we have an agreement?”

“Well…” I twisted my fingers, exquisitely embarrassed by the thought that I was going to have to admit that only the threat of a spanking would suffice to get me out of my lazy habits. But, looking at Joe and that attractively determined cast of brow he got when the subject came up, I couldn’t fight it. “Yes. I guess so.”

“Good. Can you get the chips out of the oven, love? These eggs are just about done.”

 

If you’d like to read on, the book is available from Amazon and all good e-book outlets now!

Ta-daa! Here is the opening section of my Misbehaviour story, Office Sex.

‘Why, when the time accurate to a millisecond ticks away on the screen before me, do I still find myself watching the clock?  Something about the stiff vibration of the minute hand compels my eyes, or maybe it’s the effect of years spent at school in the same pursuit.  Is it habit, or do I prefer the clock to the screen?

 

Who cares anyway?  Usually he has been into the office by now.  This is the latest he’s left it by a good ten minutes, and I’m beginning to feel antsy.  I keep clicking the screen, refreshing it for no good reason, so it looks as if I’m doing something productive, but really I’m wondering whether I could phone or email him on some pathetic pretext, just to make sure he’s in the building.

 

But then, that would make him think I care, and I don’t want him to think that.  I don’t want him to realise that this daily ration of furtive eye-contact and quasi-accidental touching is at all important to me, because then it would probably stop, and I’d have to think about getting a life.  Or a ‘normal’ boyfriend.

 

I chuckle under my breath at the concept of ‘normal’ and tip my half-cup of paperclips on to the desk.  Time for some Clip Art.  I link them together to make two rough stick-figure shapes and flatten them out on the veneered wood.  What shall it be today?  Doggy style perhaps.  Paperclip figure 1 bends gracefully, clinky metal arms hanging down, while Paperclip figure 2 (extra clip for height) stands behind.  I think his arms can cross in a diagonal, so that they rest on figure 1’s back.  Ah, primitive but surprisingly pretty to look at.  I try to cross my legs, which is hard work in the progressively shorter and tighter skirts I have favouring lately.  Before the left and right limb can cross, there is a low rumble in my ear which makes me leap off my chair, sending it skittering on its castors across the office.

 

It is him, clearing his throat behind me.  The bastard has come in through the fire escape door at the back of the office.

 

He has a hand lightly on my back, preventing my impulse to flee to the Ladies’ and beyond from taking effect.

 

“If that isn’t flagrant misuse of company property, I don’t know what is,” he says, his voice perfectly mingling amusement and disapproval in that uniquely come-hither-but-only-if-you-can-handle-it way.

 

I just glance at him from under radically lowered eyelashes and curl a bit of lip.  Should I apologise or flirt?  I’m not sure, so I wait for his next signal.  The other four desk jockeys in my bank of workstations are trying their best not to blatantly rubberneck, but I know what the coffee-boat conversation will be today.

 

At that very moment, my bloody screensaver chooses to make its appearance; usually I can hastily return it to the default setting whenever anyone important crosses the threshold, but the boss’s sneaky entrance has thrown me into confusion.  ‘MR MORRELL IS HOTTER THAN HELL’ ambles across the screen, in no hurry to pass by and spare my blushes.  Childish, I know, but I’ve only been here three weeks and nothing wittier has occurred to me yet.

 

I shut my eyes and await my P45.

 

Instead, I am told that the stationery cupboard needs reorganising, and I seem to be just the person for the job.’

After Ultimate Decadence my next taste of publication was in the Black Lace anthology Misbehaviour. Although Black Lace had stated their intention of closing at the end of the year, they were still rolling out their catalogue up until then, which was a great relief to me, among others.

My story, Office Sex, opened the collection. It was originally entitled In The Stationery Cupboard, but that was deemed not sexy enough. No idea why – stationery is as erotic as hell as far as I’m concerned (and I know of at least two anthologies that are completely devoted to it).

It was a wonderful opportunity to write about bad things happening with the aid of Tipp-Ex and staple guns. Mind you, is Tipp-Ex even a thing these days? I imagine it’s virtually obsolete now, which is sad when you consider how many happy hours I spent at school painting my nails with it.

My stationery cupboard antics shared space with stories by Janine Ashbless, Gwen Masters, A D R Forte, Alegra Verde, Eva Hore, Rhiannon Leith, Portia Da Costa, Jennie Treverton, Sommer Marsden, Chrissie Bentley, Kimberly Dean and Charlotte Stein.

It’s still available from Amazon (and I particularly love this cover).


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