Free His House of Submission by Justine Elyot

this before?’
    I shook my head and laid it on his shoulder, overwhelmed with the position I found myself in. How had I arrived here, on the end of this man’s cock, ready to beg him for my release?
    â€˜So, what are you waiting for?’ he said. ‘Show me how you grind those hips.’
    I was painfully aware that I had been hovering on the tip of orgasm for a long time already. I would have to take this quite slowly and try to fix my mind on his pleasure. The closer I could get him to his orgasm, the more kindly disposed he would be towards granting mine. At least, it seemed a sensible equation.
    So I made a study of the feel of his cock in me and the reactions each little move I made brought from him. He liked me to rock forward until my breasts were almost in his face, presented for his delectation, and he also liked me to straighten my spine and jolt and pant like a rodeo cowgirl. He liked to hold me by the elbows and restrict my movements when I broke the speed limit, shaking his head, warning me not to rush.
    â€˜I’m enjoying this too much,’ he said. ‘Let’s make it last.’
    Oh, but I didn’t want to hear those words. I wanted to come. I could feel my climax bubbling underneath, rising with every tiny spark of friction.
    I tried all the nefarious means I could. I sucked at his nipples. I licked beneath his earlobe. I kissed him like a drunken fool, all tongues and biting until he smacked my bum and made me stop.
    â€˜You only have to ask,’ he reminded me.
    But I didn’t want to ask! I wanted him to come, then I could just follow along in his wake, surfing the remains of his wave.
    â€˜I’m asking now,’ I wailed. Dear God. It was so close. I was going to start coming mid-sentence.
    â€˜Nicely,’ he insisted, pushing four fingers into the furrow of my arse.
    Why did he have to do that? The gesture, of such implicit ownership, threw me into a madness of sensation.
    â€˜Please, Sir, may I come?’ I gibbered.
    â€˜I’m going to have to say yes, aren’t I?’ he sighed, and he was, because I was already there.
    â€˜Uh huh,’ I said, or an approximation thereof.
    â€˜Yes, go on, then.’ He tutted and rolled his eyes, but there was humour behind it all, and fond indulgence.
    At last I could give myself over to the shooting sparks that heralded my orgasm. No more cruel ruination. I immersed myself in the centrifugal rush, the spread and reach of it, roaring in my ears, taking me into its vortex.
    â€˜Thank me for it,’ he said, seemingly from some distance away.
    â€˜Thank you, Sir,’ I said, through the aftershocks.
    â€˜Right. Now hold on tight.’
    He stood up, then, with me still attached, and lowered me on to the hearthrug. I wrapped my legs around his back and lay, floating happily, while he thrust away, good, hard strokes that almost built me up to another peak. But not quite, because he grabbed my wrists and pinned them over my head before his face contorted and his panting jerked all over the place. That moment of blissful helplessness touched me more than I could say; so uncharacteristic of him, and yet so telling. Underneath the effortlessly dominant veneer, he needed the love, needed the validation, just like everyone else.
    â€˜Your face,’ he said, minutes later, lying beside me. ‘You have the best range of expressions when you’re being fucked. I’d love to film you.’
    â€˜Oh, God, no,’ I said instinctively. I’d always been camera-shy. Everything-shy, if I’m honest.
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜You’re a professional filmmaker. You wouldn’t be able to resist showing it to somebody.’
    He raised his eyebrows, as if disappointed in my low opinion of him, then he seemed to accept it.
    â€˜You’re probably right,’ he said. ‘I’m a big show-off. Or, the term I prefer, an artist.’
    I smiled. ‘An
auteur
,’ I