Master of the House. Justine Elyot

much care for the term “bottom” in this context. It does sound like, well, as you say …’

      We both smiled at each other, conspirators caught out in low-minded thoughts.

      ‘The difference between the two,’ he continued, ‘is that I have full control over a scene with a submissive. But with a bottom, we have to agree what happens first. Bottoms hate not knowing what’s going to happen – submissives enjoy it. Well, that’s a bit crude, but you see what I’m driving at?’

      I nodded, rather relieved by his assessment. I wasn’t ready to just place myself in his hands and let him go to town on me … yet. But if we could negotiate what he would do to me beforehand, then it wasn’t so scary.

      ‘So, with that in mind, I think what I have to do is go through the sorts of things that would be expected of you at one of His Nibs’ parties and practise them. I’m not going to make you “my submissive” because you don’t want that. Unfortunately.’

      He paused, looking sideways at me. I gave him my blankest face.

      ‘But I’m going to make you able to play the part,’ he continued after a sad-eyed pause.

      ‘Right. So what’s first?’

      ‘Positions,’ he said, standing up and snapping his fingers. I was so startled by the sudden change in tone that I stood up too, which seemed to delight him. ‘Posture.’

      ‘Books on the head?’

      ‘If necessary, but probably not. There are nine positions that he will expect you to know. Tonight I’m going to teach them to you. It’ll be up to you to practise and learn them before our next session.’

      ‘Sexual positions?’ I asked warily.

      ‘No. Just ways of presenting yourself to emphasise your submission.’

      ‘Right. So …?’

      ‘So,’ he said, coming closer and giving me a greedy up-and-down inspection. ‘Would you take off your clothes, please?’

      ‘Really?’

      He tilted his head, his eyes boring into me.

      ‘I’ll put that another way,’ he said. ‘Take off your clothes.’

      If I’d thought properly about this, I wouldn’t have worn the skinny biker-style jeans. There was no point fighting it. It was going to happen and, if I was honest with myself, I wanted it to. It was fair and equitable; he had laid himself open and now it was my turn.

      Besides, something about the tone of his voice …

      I let a door slide in my mind and convinced myself that I was acting under compulsion, powerless to disobey any command he gave. It was easier that way – just to switch off my sentient twenty-first-century feminist self and let the ragged, primitive stuff underneath it have its way.

      It was easy enough to slide off my high-heeled pumps and unbutton my sleeveless white shirt. The jeans needed to be peeled though, and I half-turned away from him to do it, my hair hiding my face.

      ‘No, that won’t do,’ said Joss softly. ‘Stand up straight and look me in the eye.’

      I wanted to moan, but I contented myself with shaking my hair out of my eyes in an aggressive manner and keeping my expression stony.

      ‘His Nibs likes to watch the submissives undress,’ said Joss. ‘And he expects it to be done in a certain spirit. Nothing hidden, everything on display. He considers that respectful. Trying to conceal yourself in any way is against his rules.’

      ‘I don’t know his rules,’ I remind him.

      ‘I know. I’ll help you. Look, what you did with the shoes and the shirt was fine, but you have to keep your eyes to the front while you take off the jeans and don’t try to hide anything. There’s more, but we’ll come to that.’

      I shrugged and continued pushing the tight denim over my hips. I had to concentrate hard on not pushing my thong down with it, but I managed it somehow.

      ‘Look,’ I said, once they were at my knees. ‘I have to bend now, to get them off properly. Am I supposed to still keep my head up?’

      ‘If possible. Try it. And think graceful. Think swanlike.’

      I gave a little huff of laughter at that. Swanlike I was not.

      I managed to get them around my ankles without falling over, but a fit of mortified giggles was bubbling up inside me and it burst forth when I found myself hopping wildly to one side, contorted like the losing player in a hardcore game of Twister. Not so much swan as reef knot.

      Joss rushed forward to catch me before I fell heavily on one side. By that time, I was squealing and cackling like a kid on a rollercoaster. He nudged me upright again. It was the lightest touch, nothing really intimate about it, but it shocked me.

      ‘Steady, girl,’ he said. One hand was still on my shoulder. ‘These weren’t made for stripteasing in, were they?’

      He was close, warm, solid beside me. I felt the way a reformed addict might feel, presented with a handful of their former nemesis. The tiniest movement towards him could change everything …

      ‘I’m OK now,’ I managed to say. ‘Can we assume I won’t be wearing skinny jeans next time and just let me sit down to get them all the way off?’