In today’s post I take great delight in sharing the first chapter of a new book from a new series. The House of Seven Sins is planned as a dark erotica trilogy.
The first book, Mistress in Training, sees an academic researcher in sexology, Ella Cartwright, in need of fodder for her new book about sexual fantasy and environment. She truly has no idea what she has found, or just how much her theories will be put into practise—or how far every boundary she has will be explored and pushed—when she discovers a Gothic house, steeped in secrets, and a Master who, above all else, needs a Mistress…
This is a novel-length work of approximately 90,000. I appreciate any comments and feedback. If you manage to read it in its entirety as I post – I love you to pieces!
THE HOUSE OF SEVEN SINS
Mistress in Training
An excess of white fluid ran down her chin, but Ella had managed somehow to let the contents of her mouth run surreptitiously down the side of the toilet pan.
“Did you swallow, gorgeous? Did you?” Daniel’s eyes were still closed, his back pressed up against the whitewashed wall of the bank’s one and only toilet, in what was once a lean-to coal house. Unheeded, his cheap grey suit snagged on the unsanded brick, as his hands were now grasping his own ginger waves, rather than shoving down hard on Ella’s own chestnut hair as if he were trying to make her tongue lick his backside at the same time as swirl around his cock.
Ella took advantage of Daniel’s temporary inability to see her, and used the inside edge of his open jacket to wipe her mouth, grimacing into the nylon lining.
“Yes. I swallowed. Just like you keep asking.”
He opened his eyes and shot her a smarmy grin, the one that told her he’d made her do what he wanted, again. “Good. I do love it when it’s the end of semester; no students to keep wasting your time, and you don’t even need to be on campus. What’s the point if there’s no-one to teach? You just drop everything for me, don’t you?” His finger lifted her chin so her eyes met his, and she could see the deep brown reflected back in his ice blue, almost white, irises. “Off the floor now, darling. Get out, quick, will you? My lunch time’s nearly up and old Lloyd’ll want to go and stuff his sandwiches and his secretary in a few minutes. I’m meant to be behind the till then.”
Ella sighed as she stood up, trying not to touch the several indiscriminate pools of urine on the toilet floor, two of which leeched into one another as Daniel’s shoe caught them, and as the tell-tale zip told her Daniel had stuffed his easily satiated cock back into his Assistant Manager trousers. She said nothing. What was the point? He’d only give her one of those self-indulgent grins if she told him what she’d actually came for—to just talk to him, tell him that her employment was looking a bit on the shaky side, and her book was in serious jeopardy. The difficulties in seeking and attaining a tenured position she knew he had no real interest in; the book on sexual fantasy and environment he had. She was glad he had. Not that she found it particularly ethical to use the ‘it’s not what you know but who you know’ leg-up, but Daniel did have a relation of some sort in the academic publishing world. She’d been promised an introduction, and that had gone well, so she’d written her proposal, and that had gone down even better. Then had come the contract discussions, and signing on the dotted line. Now all she needed to do was write it, which was going to need a secure job so she could eat, and involve a fair bit of research. And make it the right kind of research, which was going to take something even more…
When she’d mentioned needing time away for research purposes, Daniel’s face had turned to thunder, until he’d suggested, “Why don’t I provide you with all the material you need? Fucking, and different environments – that’s what you need, right?” Ella hadn’t managed to sufficiently explain the difference between the ‘environmental delights’ of the day before yesterday, when she’d had the joy of rubbing him to cum shot down the alleyway at the side of the Cock and Bull while he drank his eighth, ninth – whichever – pint and wiped the condensation from the glass on the new dress she’d only worn because he’d said they were going out somewhere good, and that of the nuances surrounding emotional and psychological environment.
Neither did Daniel much care, she was sure. The week before, she’d just finished sucking him to full hardness and was removing her bra and knickers in a bedroom specially prepared (by her) as a birthday treat (for her), surrounded by candles. She slid her finger against her hardening clit, watching him lying there on new red satin sheets which glowed like licking flames around him in the candlelight and drove her almost to the point of a kneeling orgasm. She imagined a devil, fucking her hard, lifting her up and down on his ferocious cock as the fork of his tail entered her seamlessly from behind; it made her desire burn as her fingers touched his flesh, and she slid her nakedness over his as his eyes held her with mesmeric ease, when Daniel’s phone went off and he said he’d got to go because his mates were one short for football. Oddly enough, she was seriously starting to question the point of her relationship with Daniel, such as it had been, in the last year.
Ella left the ‘one man and his cock’ sized toilet, pretending she hadn’t seen as Daniel reached out to give her a squeeze between the legs, and rolled back her eyeballs as she adeptly avoided his hand. She walked down the main road, not looking back, knowing Daniel would already be handling the request of the next customer with a smile and complete compliance to their every wish. A twinge of jealousy for the unknown receiver of Daniel’s undivided attention, mingled with the niggle that she should be a bit more careful in her outdoor ‘environmental testing’ of Daniel’s whims and fancies, in case someone from University Admin came past with an armful of sandwiches and baguettes for their colleagues, and made life very awkward with the powers that be. It would be about right: any self-respect, chance for a tenure, and the opportunity to be taken seriously as an expert in the field of sexology, whipped away because her knees, just visible below the line of her skirt, were, as she now realised, covered in bits of grit and unexplained fluid, and she’d been heard slurping Daniel’s cock as he’d moaned, “Ella Cartwright, you’re a dirty little cock-sucker. Harder, girl. Take it all. You know you can,” and “put your tits away. I want to come all the way down your throat.” It wouldn’t matter to Daniel, of course. ‘Old Lloyd’ was his uncle. Some people have all the nepotistic luck.
It was with a heavy feeling deep in her gut which insisted on chewing away at her entrails, that she nipped into the General Stores. She’d missed her food in favour of Daniel’s all too brief liquid lunch, disappointingly lacking in sustenance. Disappointingly lacking in many ways. Prowling the length of the confectionary shelf, massaging the tops of the chocolate bar wrappers and fingering one or two with familiarity and a small smile, she let her mind drift to past experiences—the pretext of the sexual ‘environment’ for research purposes served well when she needed it to. She wandered to a past apartment, and a room of rich brown silks and velvets, in the hope that thoughts of a delicious banquet with her ex, Matthew, the way in which he’d enjoyed eating the chocolate bar hors d’oeuvres from her porcelain-looking, intimate plate which she’d prepared specially for him, how he’d urged her to let him eat her up along with the melted chocolate as his main course, and finishing their piping hot dining experience by demanding that Ella ate a lollypop of his own for dessert, might make her feel a bit better. A bit more satisfied. A bit more of a woman who received everything she craved, and sated her desires. It didn’t. Instead, thoughts filled her head that she seemed to have spent her time ultimately sacrificing her ‘research’ time to one knob or another in an attempt to find what she was looking for. It would help if she knew what that was. All she knew was that she hadn’t found it in Matthew’s slick, circumcised cock, or his depressing willingness to do anything she wanted without objection or an opinion of his own, and she certainly wasn’t heading towards fulfilment with Daniel’s dick and thoughtless fucking whenever it suited him.
Armed against the mythical beast, Fulfilment, she carried a bar of milk chocolate and one of dark to the counter, where Craig, the almost-school-leaver assistant, working on a weekday instead of revising for his exams, Ella observed, smiled in his genial but gormless way.
“Look at that.” Craig’s finger jabbed at the top copy of the local rag which sat there, hoping someone would bother to buy it. Ella noted the print-covered end of Craig’s sweaty finger, and tried to shudder away the thought that, had that been Daniel, he wouldn’t have given a second thought to shoving that finger into her knickers and mingling newspaper print with her soft, long-suffering folds. At least, it felt they were long-suffering. Had it really only been six months? Had she really lived in this dreary place for a year now, just so she could be closer to a job that may not exist if some decision-maker who didn’t know her got their own way with budget cuts?
“What am I looking at?” Ella plopped the chocolate on top of the newspapers, biting her lip and frowning as she noticed for the first time that her top was buttoned up askew and a lonely, loose button stuck there at the top, making a silent prayer to the god of younger brothers that Craig wouldn’t mention it to his older sibling, one of the home-grown university students who was in his third year and in Ella’s Gender Studies seminar group. Thankfully, Craig’s attention was completely focused on both the newspaper and what was inside Ella’s top, and his finger jabbed randomly between the chocolate bars, onto an image of a huge building.
“That house. Maygrave. Massive place, it is. Right creepy. Always feels like the curtains is movin’ when I bang on the door with the grocery delivery.”
“You deliver?” Ella kicked herself for never asking about such services before. She thought that was only reserved nowadays for her local pizza parlour and the Indian Takeaway.
“Nah, not to anywhere else. But they’ve always had deliveries. Years and years, that place has. Loads of grub I take, but no-one there but some bloke I never see. Maybe he’s got a butler…” Craig pranced like a penguin, imitating the antics he imagined a butler performed, leaving Ella wondering, from Craig’s odd hand movements, what it was he thought butlers did do. His amateur dramatics over, Craig continued, “Nobody seems to know who’s there, really. I just collect the money in the envelope where I leave the groceries. Dad organises it on the phone.”
“So what’s the deal with this place, then? I don’t think I know where it is.” Ella’s knowledge of this small town on the outskirts of the city was restricted to her route to and from work, and her route to and from Daniel’s various body parts, with a small deviation taking her to places where food and drink could be consumed. Everything else, she did in the city itself.
Craig leant forward, speaking confidentially to her cleavage now. “Oh, this place is out the back way, beyond the new estate. A few fields, then there it is, looming at you like a gigantic castle out of Dracula. Point is, they keep saying the place is falling down. But nobody goes and sorts it out. There’s always a row at the Council about it, and people wanting to pull it down. They’re at it again, see? Something about lowering the tone, and resistance of the owner. Personally, I wouldn’t give a monkey’s if they bulldozed the place. Save me from going all the way out there and ending up dead in their flower border, or their cellar, or something. Neither would anyone else. No-one likes the place that I know of. It’s got a ‘reputation’, apparently.”
Ella’s eyes opened wide at Craig half-whispered confession. His face still seemed to be making friends with the lacy edge of her top as she asked, “Really? What kind of reputation?” Her Sex in History lecturer’s hat on, she waited for an answer that the place had been a World War Two bordello for recovering soldiers, or a fifteenth-century casino that became a smuggling ring trading laudanum-induced mulatto beauties to nineteenth-century pirates—such the English upper classes. She was disappointed when Craig’s shoulders shrugged.
“I think it’s just that it’s bloody weird. And no-one round here likes places that are dropping to bits.”
“But what about the history? The tradition in the building? Imagine what secrets it holds, if it’s centuries old. Surely that must count for something. Keeping the building going keeps all of that alive.” Her words grated on her own ears, as she thought about her compact second-floor apartment with no draughts, and no soul. It irritated her to see Craig shrug again.
“Let me have one of those, too, will you?” Ella picked up the top paper with her chocolate, paid, and left the shop, her nose stuck to the front page of the newspaper. She could do with a long walk in the open air, after being squashed on her knees in the dirt. Maybe it would make her feel better.
In the last twelve months, Ella had never really given time over to meandering through the town and taking full notice of the shops, never mind allowing herself to roam its more rural side. From her regular view of the train line, the Green Belt passed her by in a sea of student essays and lecture notes.
She wasn’t really sure how long she wandered, but the houses became fences and hedges, and then almost exclusively flat fields which surprised her, so close to the city. The temperature was warming quite quickly outside in the early afternoon haze. Walking along and indulging herself in her purchase, she felt the chocolate melt with ease inside her mouth and trickle down her throat. The last pieces, hot in her palm, she wiped with her fingertip from the wrapper, dallying the darkness against her tongue, and stroking her lip with the molten deliciousness before scooping it off and swallowing. She was sucking her fingertip, savouring the taste, lost in a world of deep sensuous delight, when she noted that the field had developed a wall, and then a wrought iron gate, flanked either side by railings consisting of several dozen spiralling spindles. Her breath caught. The appearance of the building was music to the way her senses were wired. Craig hadn’t told her it was Gothic, not properly. She’d assumed it was just a big house.
She tried the gate; she stared, wide-eyed, when it opened, and she could just step through onto the driveway. She was sure that she ought not to be there—it would be just her luck to be accused of trespassing—but she couldn’t move. Her eyes fixed on the enormity of it: its conical towers on each wing, the huge, dark stone, the long, narrow windows. It was as if she had stumbled across something from an unnerving Daphne du Maurier novel, a place that made the back of her neck tingle and a throb appear between her legs. All she needed were the crashing waves of the coast below. Yet it came upon her like Thornfield did on Jane Eyre. Ella started to wonder if, possibly, she absorbed too much of the books she read.
The stonework was overgrown and thoroughly punctured with ivy roots, and moss attacked its mortar. The windows, although clean, looked tired, as if they had seen enough and were weary of looking upon the pretence of beauty in the lawn and tall trees, which only served to hide the wall that held back strangers’ eyes, and the gate which prevented entry of the unsympathetic. Why was the gate open? Had it found her one who could empathise with its feelings? Buildings had them, she was sure. They were a living, breathing, evolving part of the fabric of any life, any culture. And she couldn’t help wondering: Do old buildings need money, or just a new imagination to restore them rather than demolish them?
It was then that she heard the rustle. Her head banged; she felt sick. “Stupid idiot,” she muttered to herself, calming enough to turn and realise that the rustle came from knocking against a piece of paper, glued to the gatepost, as her handbag brushed against it. And she spotted the words, printed neatly on a piece of paper. One could almost have missed them altogether.
Mistress needed. Interview with the Master essential. Please enquire by ringing the following number for details.
Ella stared hard at the building. The prevalent thought in the academic compartment of her brain was that this would be one hell of an environment to investigate sexual fantasy. The historical vibes penetrated her, their power as strong as catnip to a pussy. The research potential here was enormous. Sunbeams fell like a shooting star through the branches of the tallest tree and lit up the front of the house. Her heart surged at the sight of the stonework, dark and holding the secrets of centuries in its mortar and moss, the towers glinting brilliant white where the sun struck, and midnight blue in shadow.
But that wasn’t what made her stomach rise to join her heart, flipping in the process. It was the face that stared at her out of one of the top storey windows. The distance from gate to building was much too far to recognise features clearly, but she felt the stare. And she felt how her body began to burn, from her face, down over her breasts, and beyond, lighting a fire between her thighs. Her breath began to race, becoming shallower, and her eyes couldn’t stay open. Every time they closed, an echo of an imagined wail rippled through her, gathering force, multiplying, filling her mind with the beautiful sound of building orgasm. Her flesh pricked; the feeling filled her, making ready to come crashing over her, completely unbidden. Her nipples grew hard, pushing against her bra until she had to ease them with her thumbs, there, in the driveway. She felt the desperate ache moving down through her pelvis, and her eyes flew open to find the man, needing the catalyst for the release that threatened to overwhelm her where she stood.
The man had gone. Her entire body was left unsated, aflame.
She took a pen from her handbag and wrote down the telephone number.
© Ina Morata, 2017