Discipline of the Private House (2 page)

From that evening Barat spared no effort in befriending Olena's family. He allowed no one to suspect that he was interested in, still less obsessed with, Olena. He studied hard, ingratiated himself with the elders, and was rewarded by being trusted to go on expeditions outside the community. The elders all agreed that he was the most promising of the younger brothers. But all he wanted was to have Olena to himself, away from the eyes and ears of the villagers. At first he had thought in terms of a few hours, or perhaps a day: time enough to find a private place - a cheap hotel or the heart of a deep wood - strip her naked, touch her soft body, and introduce her to the pleasures for which he had had to pay during his occasional trips to the outside world.

Barat laughed. The sound was loud in the tiny room. He still couldn't believe his luck. The old fools had given her to him. And not just for a day. Not even for a month. For a whole academic year. Three years, if Olena didn't blab about him when they returned to the village next summer.

Barat looked again at the wristwatch he had bought that morning. She would be here in a few minutes. She was clever enough to come to the University, but she was hopelessly naive. Barat forced himself to remain calm. He willed his incipient erection to subside as he smoothed the rough cloth of his robe. He intended to debauch her thoroughly, but there was no need for haste. He would enjoy each lingering moment of her gradual descent into sin.

In the darkness behind the blindfold, Ingrid's imagination tried to conjure a picture of her surroundings. The carpet beneath her knees and shins - positioned well apart, as she had been instructed - was deep and soft. The guards had been dismissed and she could hear only two voices: one the cultured, modulated tones of the guards' commander, Julia, and the other - a husky voice with a slight drawl -obviously that of Jem Darke, the Mistress of the Private House, about whom Ingrid had heard so many rumours. The two women were speaking quietly but their voices echoed a little: Ingrid could easily imagine a high-ceilinged chamber, typical of the Gothic architecture of the rest of the House.

'She's not merely pretty,' Julia was saying, 'she's also very new. I had her brought to you as soon as I saw how delightfully she struggles under the lash. Would you like to see how quickly her bottom colours?'

Ingrid tossed her head in frustration. If only she could see the whip as it descended! Unable to see, she found herself imagining the swish of the lash's descent and, as if it were real, the sudden sting across her left buttock. Or would it be the right? Or both? The anticipation, in the black silence, was far worse than the harshest flogging.

The silence continued. Ingrid rattled her fetters and shook her hips. It would look as though she was struggling in her bonds, while all she wanted was for someone to touch her, with a hand or a whip, before it became evident that she was already becoming aroused. It would be difficult to maintain the pretence that she was an unwilling innocent if everyone could see that the very thought of her buttocks writhing as the lash rose and fell was enough to bring her on. Perhaps the room was full of spectators, after all; at that thought Ingrid felt again the warm tingling in her loins, and her labia beginning to part.

Julia was being less than entirely truthful. Ingrid was a recent arrival in the Private House, it was true, but she had come voluntarily and had already been in training for a week before she had been brought to the attention of the commander of the guards. She had herself told her Mentor, Anton, that since adolescence she had fantasised about being kidnapped, tied up and smacked, and Anton had wasted no time in putting Ingrid's fantasies into practice.

For a week Ingrid's bottom was punished once or twice a day. And each time the smacking stopped only when Ingrid had achieved a climax. The first time, laid comfortably across Anton's lap, with Anton's fingers stroking between her legs and his palm slapping softly on one cheek and then the other, she had taken almost ten minutes to come. By the second spanking of the third day, when Anton tied her legs apart and used a leather strap on her sore buttocks, Ingrid had started to come within seconds of his fingers sliding from her wet vagina towards her erect clitoris. After that she had been caned while being penetrated by one of the male guards;* whipped while tied up with a buzzing vibrator secured inside her; made to hold her buttocks apart for a particularly painful caning while squatting astride the face of one of her fellow trainees; and, most humiliating and exciting of all, spanked while using her own fingers to bring on her climax, while being closely watched by a squad of Mentors and guards. Each time, the pain spurred her on to orgasm, at which point the punishment was stopped.

The daily smackings suddenly ceased. For three days no one had so much as touched Ingrid's bottom or clitoris; she had even had her hands tied to the bedhead at night, to prevent her playing with herself. Anton had merely told her that she was being prepared for something special. Now she understood: she was to be a present from Julia to the Mistress. And she had to appear new and unwilling, it seemed, because the Mistress's appetites had become jaded.

'Yes, Jules.' The Mistress's husky voice sounded tired but amused. 'You're right, of course. It will be entertaining to see her whipped, and she is certainly pretty. So carry on, by all means.'

Ingrid imagined the Mistress as a tall woman of ageless beauty and aristocratic languor. She sounded weary. Julia's voice was bright and animated but, with the sensitivity of the temporarily blind, Ingrid thought she could detect an undercurrent of anxiety, perhaps even desperation, beneath the commander's gaiety.

'Would you like to whip her yourself?' Julia asked. 'You really should keep in practice. Or she could kneel in front of your chair and you could hold her breasts while I whip her bottom.'

'She does have very tempting tits,' the Mistress said, and Ingrid shuddered as she felt slim fingers press against her left nipple. 'Take off the gag and the blindfold,' the Mistress added with sudden decisiveness. 'If she's lively and intelligent, this one could keep me occupied for tonight. Maybe longer.'

'Yes, Jem,' the commander said, with what Ingrid suspected was a sigh of relief.

Ingrid sensed Julia moving behind her; she felt fingers unbuckling the harness at the back of her head. She heard the whistle of leather through the air and, as the gag was pulled from her mouth, Julia's crop landed between her parted buttocks. She let out a howl of surprise and relief that, she realised, was indistinguishable from a cry of outrage.

The crop landed again as the blindfold fell away. She gasped, and blinked her eyes because she had expected to be dazzled by sudden light. In fact, the room was dimly lit, but she hoped that the spectators could see the bright tears she had managed to produce.

While tossing her head in order to look defiant, she glanced about the candlelit chamber and was disappointed to find that Julia and the Mistress constituted the entire audience.

The Mistress was in front of her, sitting in an armchair. Kneeling with her head bowed, Ingrid could see only the Mistress's feet, which were small and clad in pointed, black velvet ankle-boots, and her stockinged legs. Ingrid lifted her head and found herself gazing into huge, quizzical, violet eyes.

Jem Darke bore no resemblance to the Mistress Ingrid had imagined. She was slim, but petite and not remotely aristocratic or languorous. Her hair was a tumble of titian curls, her face was heart-shaped and elfin, and her lips were wide, kissable and curved into a mischievous smile. She was the prettiest woman Ingrid had seen in the Private House, which was full of beauties. And she looked like a lot of fun.

'What big blue eyes you have,' the Mistress said as she stood up and stepped towards Ingrid. 'It's against the rules to stare, little one.'

Ingrid knew the rules, but she couldn't take her eyes off Jem. The Mistress was dressed in a black velvet bodice that drew attention to the uncovered parts of her body: tightly cinched, long-sleeved and high-collared, it left her throat and breasts exposed. At the front of the collar there was a silver ring from which two taut silver chains ran to delicate clamps on her nipples. The skirt of the bodice, like those of Julia's guards, was cut away at the front to reveal the Mistress's pubic mound, which was shaved. Each black stocking was held up by a single silver chain; the chains ran up between the Mistress's thighs, and Ingrid could only imagine how they were held in place.

'You shouldn't be looking at me, slave,' the Mistress said, and sank to her knees so that her face was only a finger's length from Ingrid's. 'But as you insist, let's see how expressive those big blue eyes can be. Move your knees further apart. Dip your back, and push your bottom out.'

Ingrid remembered, too late, that she was supposed to appear reluctant. The Mistress's eyes held hers, and she could only stare imploringly. She wanted to be touched. She pulled at the chains that held her hands behind her back, hoping that the movement would draw Jem's attention to her pendant breasts.

'Give her ten, Julia. Not too hard.'

Ingrid tried to look shocked and hurt as the burning stripes were laid across her buttocks. Ten strokes were just enough to ignite the smouldering warmth throughout her lower body that she had come to expect and yearn for at Anton's hands.

'Now put your hand between her legs, Julia. Tell me whether she's getting excited. And no evasions!'

Ingrid felt Julia's gloved fingers suddenly and ungently thrust against her vulva. There was no resistance; her outer labia were already distended and open, and within she was sopping wet. She felt her face colour as the withdrawal of Julia's fingers caused a distinctly liquid sound.

'She is a little moist, Mistress,' Julia said.

Jem's eyebrows lifted sceptically. 'Is that so?' she said, toying idly with Ingrid's stiff* nipples.

It was obvious that Julia's understatement was not going to deceive Jem. Ingrid bit her lower lip to stifle her moans of pleasure as the Mistress's skilful fingers plucked at her breasts, but she could feel her juices trickling from her sex and down her thighs.

The Mistress stood. She was so close that merely by extending her tongue Ingrid could have licked her depilated cunt. The Mistress smelt of musk and citrus.

'Come here, Julia,' the Mistress said. 'And give me your riding-crop.'

The commander's leather tunic gleamed in the candlelight and creaked as she kneeled beside Ingrid. She proffered the crop. 'Mistress,' she began, but Jem silenced her with a gesture.

The Mistress studied the kneeling women. Ingrid took the opportunity to look covertly at Julia.

The commander of the guard of the Private House, Jem

Darke's confidante and adviser and, it was rumoured, most frequent lover, was a striking woman. She was older than the Mistress, but had ageless, gypsy looks and a lithe body. Her curling black hair shielded her face from Ingrid's glances, but Ingrid remembered dark, troubled eyes and a mouth of vivid red. Her black leather uniform -skirted tunic, gloves and long boots - left exposed only her shoulders, her concave belly, and the tops of her thighs.

'What am I to do with you, Commander?' the Mistress said, clearly not requiring a reply. This pretty young thing would be a delight to play with, I'm sure. But then, the same could be said of the muscular guy you brought to me two nights ago, and the twins of whom you promised so much last week. And so on, since the beginning of the fall. I want to be entertained, Julia.'

Julia spoke in a low voice, without lifting her head. 'You would be less bored, Mistress, if you were to resume your interest in the running of the Private House. Since you delegated all authority to the Council -'

'Hush now,' the Mistress said. 'I've made my decision. The Private House can run itself. Why, I appointed and trained every single one of the Council members. They don't need me. But
you
need a lesson. Advance to the chair and present yourself for punishment.'

Julia sighed and shuffled on her knees to the chair. As she reached to sweep her hair over her right shoulder, Ingrid saw that she was smiling ruefully. She crossed her arms on the seat of the chair and leaned forwards until her head was resting on her arms. Her stiff skirt lifted to reveal slim, deeply separated buttocks.

The Mistress seemed suddenly playful. She tapped Ingrid's nipples with the tip of the crop, making them tingle and sway. She suddenly leaned forwards and greedily kissed Ingrid's open mouth. 'You must count the strokes I give Julia,' she said, pressing the plaited leather into Ingrid's bosom, 'and tell me when she's had enough. Then you'll get the same here, on your breasts.' Her lips descended again, and Ingrid responded eagerly. 'Would you like that?'

Ingrid nodded. Yes, she wanted to see the haughty commander whipped, and she wanted to feel the whip on her own tits. But how many lashes? The way she felt at that moment, Jem could have whipped her for ever. But she had never been punished that way. How many would she want?

'Remember to count, little one,' Jem said. She knelt beside Julia and started to whip Julia's buttocks.

The Mistress used the riding-crop almost coquettishly, seldom lifting her arm high but from time to time flicking her wrist to deliver a particularly telling blow. She spent more time caressing Julia than punishing her, stroking the reddening globes or dipping her hand between Julia's thighs and then tracing with a wet finger a fading crimson line on Julia's flesh.

Her left hand was busy, too, between her own thighs, and Ingrid thought that as the Mistress became more aroused she grew more intent on playing with Julia and kissing her bottom than with punishing her. Ingrid wondered whether she should count as whip-strokes the playful little flicks that the Mistress administered between kisses and the little pushes of the crop's end against Julia's anus and vulva. Both Julia and Jem were moving their hips in a gentle rhythm and giving little moans of pleasure. Ingrid could hardly prevent herself from moaning aloud, too, from sheer frustration.