Discipline of the Private House

DISCIPLINE OF THE PRIVATE HOUSE

'Now then, slave,' Max said. 'We're at the training room. You've probably realised that today you're a little puppy. You're going to be taught how to behave and be obedient. We'll turn you from an unruly puppy into a well-disciplined bitch.' He allowed himself a little smile.

'Therefore,' Ilsa continued, 'from the moment we lead you through that door we want to see you acting like a puppy. You will be boisterous. You will run and jump aimlessly - until such behaviour is beaten out of you, of course. You will be pathetically eager to please. The slightest failure to act in a puppyish manner will be regarded as a breach of your promise to remain submissive and obedient. And, as you are about to discover, today your adherence to your vow will be particularly closely monitored.'

Also by Esme Ombreux:

ONE WEEK IN THE PRIVATE HOUSE AMANDA IN THE PRIVATE HOUSE

DISCIPLINE OF THE PRIVATE HOUSE

Esme Ombreux

'But nothing worth saying
is
proper!'
From
Candida
by George Bernard Shaw

This book is a work of fiction.

In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.

First published in 2000 by Nexus

Thames Wharf Studios Rainville Road London W6 9HA

Copyright © Esme Ombreux 2000

The right of Esme Ombreux to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon

Printed and bound by

Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks

ISBN 0 352 33459 2

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

One

The new girl - Ingrid, that was her name - was late. Julia stood in the darkness of the antechamber and tapped her riding-crop against the stiff leather of her boot. Flames flickered in niches along the corridor.

Julia heard a door open and close in the shadowy distance. Black-clad figures outlined in glimmering red approached. In their midst, a pale naked form.

'Blindfold her,' Julia whispered urgently as the guards drew near. 'Can't you remember simple instructions?'

Julia stepped from the doorway into the corridor and studied Ingrid as she struggled between two of the guards. Yes, this one would do: short, spiky blonde hair; wide cheekbones; a generous mouth, filled and held open by a ball gag; a slender body, pale as alabaster, with heavy breasts. Lustrous blue eyes that flashed defiance until concealed behind the black velvet blindfold. Despite the chains that pulled her wrist cuffs together behind her back and ran down to ankle restraints, the girl was fighting to be free. She tossed her head. The guard couldn't tighten the blindfold.

Julia lifted her crop. The flat tip touched the girl's left nipple, and she was abruptly still. 'Don't overdo it, Ingrid,' Julia said. 'A certain reluctance will be quite adequate. Charming, in fact. Understood?'

Ingrid nodded. She allowed the blindfold to be secured. Her breasts rose and fell. Reluctantly, Julia lowered her riding-crop. There would be plenty of time for that later, if Jem found Ingrid interesting.

Surely Jem would find this one interesting.

Julia hooked the crop's wrist-loop on to her belt and tugged the glove from her right hand. She flexed her fingers. Her hand was warm.

The girl was still now, but trembling. Bound and naked, she looked vulnerable among the stiffly uniformed guards.

'Are you cold?' Julia pressed the palm of her hand against the girl's cheek.

Ingrid shook her head, slowly, as if reluctant to lose contact with Julia's hand.

'My name's Julia. I'm the commander of the guards. The commander-in-chief.'

Ingrid sobbed through the gag and drew away, averting her face.

'You've already heard of me, then,' Julia whispered. T'm afraid all the rumours are true. But you needn't worry. As long as you perform well tonight. Just be a good girl.' Julia stroked her hand along the girl's jaw, down her throat, and cupped her left breast. 'Remember to keep your legs apart.'

Chains jingled as Ingrid shuffled her feet across the deep red carpet.

Julia squeezed her fingers into the soft mound of Ingrid's breast, and with her left hand pushed the empty leather glove between Ingrid's thighs and then upwards. The girl stretched her neck and sobbed again. Julia smiled briefly. This was taking up too much time. She didn't like to leave Jem's side, not this winter, not now the evenings were dark and long. But there was no alternative. The girl had to be made ready.

Julia rubbed the glove back and forth. She pinched the girl's nipple and was rewarded with a moan. She inspected the glistening glove by the ruddy light ©f a wall-torch, then pressed the damp leather into the hollow of the girl's neck.

'Feel that, little Ingrid? That's your wetness. I think you're ready to meet the Mistress of the Private House, don't you?'

From the room below came the sound of voices, male and female, raised in anger or excitement. Olena couldn't tell which. Outside her window, closed and curtained against the cold night, were the noises of the street, still busy. So many people in the city; so many people with things to do, places to go. Other people to meet.

Olena turned on her back in the bed and stared at nothing in the darkened room. She was used to retiring soon after dusk and rising at dawn. Her rhythms were still those of her rural community. Yet she didn't feel tired this evening.

She envied Barat. He seemed to have adjusted easily to the ways of the city. She supposed he had been here previously. He was only a few years older than her, but he could find his way through the crowded streets. He rode the public omnibuses with ease. He understood the rapid, slurred diction of the people here: unlike Olena, he didn't have to ask meekly for simple questions to be repeated.

Without Barat, she wouldn't have been able to survive the first few days. The rushing traffic, the babble of voices, the insolent, curious stares. It was becoming more bearable: she knew the route from her tiny apartment to the University; she was no longer bewildered by the wickedly alluring abundance of wares in the shop on the corner of her street.

It was Barat who had persuaded her family that Olena should take up the opportunity of higher education: she was the first from the community to have earned the chance. And it was Barat who had volunteered to come with her to the city, to be her guardian and adviser. Only then had her family relented, reluctantly. So Olena felt and expressed over and over again to her family and to the elders - and, above all, to Barat - a gratitude that at times she thought would burst her heart. She was going to be able to study. It was her only passion.

And here she was, in this bustling, noisy, colourful, threatening place. She hugged herself and merely smiled, for it was unseemly for a young woman to laugh or cry out.

Now she had to rise and dress. Barat had asked her to come to his room. Nervously, she had asked him to confirm the time of the meeting: he had specified an hour that she was sure was after nightfall. He had merely smiled his reassuring smile and insisted that the time would not be inappropriate; they were in the city now, and must learn to adopt those city customs that did not conflict absolutely with the ways of their rustic community.

Standing in the narrow space between the bed and the dressing table, Olena drew her nightdress over her head. It was dark in the room but she couldn't help catching a glimpse of her nakedness, reflected dimly in the mirror. She averted her eyes and groped for her bodice and pants.

She was shivering, and she knew that it was not entirely because of the cold. She had noticed on several occasions that the moments of nakedness as she changed made her think of Barat and his reassuring smile. So, too, did washing herself in the bath. Sometimes the scratchy texture of her underclothes made her think of him. And usually, when she thought of Barat, she felt shivery in a way that was not entirely unpleasant.

Olena sighed. Tears sprang into her eyes. She wasn't stupid; she could see the connections clearly enough. But she didn't understand why she felt the way she did, and she was almost certain that such feelings were sinful. After only a few days away, she was becoming a disgrace to her family and to the entire community.

She struggled with the heavy fabric of her dress. She tied the strings of her headdress under her chin. She knotted the laces of her shoes. She was ready. Perhaps Barat could explain things to her; if anyone could prevent her being tempted into transgressions, it was Barat.

The bed-sitting room was so tiny that Barat crossed it and reached the door in two strides. Two more brought him back to the bed; two more, and he was again at the door. He paced back and forth and tried not to think about Olena.

Great God, but he hated being poor. This room was scarcely bigger than Olena's. Neither was much bigger than one of the henhouses back home. The elders had tutted and sighed when he'd pointed out that he would need funds in order to keep himself and Olena in the city. They'd eventually agreed on a sum that they claimed to know was generous: brother Barat and the student girl would be able to live comfortably, well above the squalor and temptations that the elders knew, by repute, were to be found in the disreputable urban quarters.

What did the elders know? Nothing worth knowing, in Barat's opinion. More than half the money was already committed to these thin-walled cupboards that the landlord called 'studio accommodation'.

Barat sat on the bed. Olena would be here soon. He knew she would be punctual. There were advantages to small rooms, he thought. She would have to sit beside him on the bed; it would be perfectly natural if their knees were accidentally to touch. Her smell would fill the enclosed space: the dry-earth smell of her skin, and the sweet smell of the oil in her hair.

The room was illuminated by nothing but the weak bulb of the rickety bedside lamp. The half-light excited him. He had never before seen her after dark - except for the one vision of her that was engraved in his memory, even though it was three years ago that he had seen her naked. Newly adult, and now one of the brothers in the community, Barat had revelled in the freedom to wander through the village after dark. His nocturnal walks usually took him near the house of Olena's parents, as he had already noticed that Olena promised to grow into the prettiest maiden in the village. At the back of his mind was the desperate hope that one day, perhaps, the shutters of her room would be partly open and he might catch a glimpse of her hair, released from its headdress and spread across the pillow, or of her undergarments, drying before the fire.

And one evening he found that the shutter of the women's bedroom was indeed partly open. When he looked through the ^ap he could see nothing, as the room was in darkness. Olena, her mother and her sisters had all gone to bed at sunset and were no more than shapeless lumps stirring under heaps of blankets.

Then a sudden movement caught his eye; the coverings on one of the beds were thrown back; a slim, pale figure rose wraithlike in the darkness. It was Olena, naked, walking on tiptoe towards the window; Olena, far from shapeless, her swaying breasts already full despite her youth, her long legs converging in a mysterious delta of shadow that would haunt Barat's dreams for years to come; Olena, stepping towards the very window at which Barat stood transfixed.

She stopped only inches away from the opening between shutter and window frame. Barat saw her hair: long, dark and lustrous. He watched her dark eyes widen as she peered through the gloom. He saw her nipples stiffen in the chill draught; he saw her breasts tremble as she lifted her flawless arms to run her fingers through her hair. She leaned forwards; Barat could have reached through the gap and cupped one of her breasts in his hand. He was on the point of doing so when she found her nightdress and hurriedly turned away.

Olena had then covered herself quickly. Barat had stumbled away from the house, his movements made awkward because he was monstrously aroused.