Free Master of the House by Justine Elyot

but there was something terribly un-erotic about that technique, and for some reason I wanted to do this properly.
    Wanting to and being able to, were different propositions.
    I fidgeted for what seemed like several days, growing steadily redder in the face and shorter of patience.
    ‘Fuck it!’ My exasperation reached its peak.
    ‘It’s OK,’ said Joss. ‘Do you want me to do it?’
    ‘I should learn how to –’
    ‘No need,’ he said, at my shoulder. ‘You won’t be wearing a bra to this do, believe me. A corset, maybe. A leather harness, even. A common or garden M&S underwired bra – no.’
    ‘Right. Oh. Go on then.’
    The way his fingers slid inside the elastic made me catch my breath. He unhooked me neatly but he didn’t remove his hands straight away. They lingered on my skin for a moment or two, the knuckles pressing whisper-lightly into the space between my shoulder blades. I wanted them to stay there.
    They didn’t.
    And neither did the bra. Within seconds, it was history, a battle trophy that Joss kept in his hand when he stepped away again.
    My breasts were bare now and, despite the balmy weather, the evenings were chilly and my nipples knew it.
    ‘What he likes,’ said Joss, in the most prayerful of whispers, ‘is for you to present your breasts to him. Hold them. Touch the nipples. Show them off.’
    ‘That’s what
he
likes?’ I faltered, asking for clarification.
    He didn’t reply. He didn’t look as if he could. Tongue dry, eyes absolutely glued to my nipples. A slight nod was all I got.
    I cupped the twin weights and lifted them, keeping my eyes on Joss. I closed my hands, tightening my hold, feeling my fingertips press into the soft tissue. My nipples stuck out ridiculously now, fat and red, little bullets aimed squarely at Joss. I pushed the mounds together, seeing the dark cleft form between them. The fashion directive ‘cleavage
or
thigh but never both’ drifted through my head. What a stupid rule; who was responsible for it? I’d show as much of my body as I felt like showing, thanks.
    Joss’s eyes were beady and almost black, his cheekbones twitching. I’d seen that look before. I wanted to see what effect touching my nipples would have on it, so I put the pads of my thumbs over them and stroked.
    It had an effect all right – on me as well as Joss, who half-closed his eyes and exhaled. I moved my thumbs in circles, awakening sharp spangles of sensation that tumbled from my chest to my crotch in rapid somersaults.
    ‘Get them really hard,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Pinch them.’
    I did as I was told, ignoring the little darts of pain until they grew too insistent. I twisted them like radio dials until they throbbed and were huge and sensitive.
    ‘Will that do?’ I breathed.
    Joss gave a slow nod, never taking his eyes from them.
    ‘Good. Now the rest,’ he said.
    A glow at his word of approval was swiftly succeeded by irritation at myself. His opinion was not relevant. Not relevant. Not relevant.
    I repeated it in my head like a mantra as I pulled down my thong. I was a little better at this than I had been with the jeans, and I stepped out of them without major incident. It was still embarrassing, though, to be standing fully nude in front of a man who looked as if he might be rethinking his promise not to touch me.
    ‘Show yourself to me,’ he said dreamily. ‘Turn around. Bend over.’

Chapter Seven
    It was weird and shameful but strangely heady to obey his order and show him my bottom, especially when I pivoted at the waist and felt the skin tauten at my upper thighs and lower cheeks. I put my hands on my knees and kept my head up, not wanting the blood to rush to it.
    ‘Spread your legs,’ said Joss.
    I was reluctant for a moment, then I moved my feet wider apart. It was easier to balance that way anyway. On the other hand, the rapid cooling of my lower lips, which were damp, told me that he could see them, and what lay within.
    ‘Good,’ he said again. I