Master of the House (29 page)

I saw her lips part in front of me, saw how deep red they were and how her clit pushed itself out, as if begging for attention.

Joss tapped it, very lightly, with one fingertip, but it made her knees bend and I knew she wanted to moan.

I could hear the pleasure in his breath behind me, but he didn’t keep it up for long. He gave her breasts a perfunctory manhandling then sent her back to Sasha with a slap on her bum.

The hand that hadn’t touched her inside returned to my shoulder, squeezing it slightly as if in reassurance. It wasn’t needed. I wasn’t jealous, if that was his fear. I was too intrigued by far for that.

‘Good,’ said Voronov, nodding his approval at Sasha. ‘She is very obedient, very compliant. You have trained her well. You know the next test, of course. Lord Lethbridge, I hope you are paying attention.’

‘Oh, I am,’ said Joss, having to clear his throat as he spoke.

Sasha didn’t even dignify Voronov’s question with a reply. She was already at the side of the room, dragging a large padded footstool affair to the centre.

‘Up,’ she commanded gruffly, and Puss placed herself meekly over the thing, her stomach flat, head and legs over each side, bottom highly positioned.

I could guess what was coming next.

‘What are you going to use?’ asked Voronov, and he purred with satisfaction when Sasha replied, ‘The cane.’

Watching Sasha select a thin, whippy crook-handled number from an umbrella stand by the door, I was relieved that my turn would not be coming after all. This was no cause for envy – the very sound it made was enough to make me shrivel with dread. I wondered if Joss would ever cane me. He had suggested it would happen one day … perhaps it would … but not yet!

Sasha primed her submissive’s bottom with some quick, light smacks of her hand. I wondered if this helped. Joss’s hand felt so heavy on my shoulder I could almost collapse beneath it. His fingers pinched. He was seriously interested in this.

Sasha finished the warm-up and laid the end of the cane along the centre of Puss’s bottom. She rubbed it left and right for a few tantalising seconds, then tapped it gently. Throughout, Puss made no reaction at all.

‘How many strokes?’ asked Voronov.

‘Six from me, then one each from all of you,’ she said.

There was approving laughter from the mouths of those above my level, including Joss. The git. If he wanted to cane a person, it should be me.

The audience settled again. Sasha did more tapping, then she drew the cane away from Puss’s rounded bottom and brought it swooping down with a smart swish and
thwick
.

Ouch.

I saw Puss convulse, but she didn’t cry out. The place where the cane had landed went white, then colour began to seep into the line.

Puss’s self-discipline was amazing, but even she couldn’t restrain herself for the duration of the caning. She took the second and third strokes with fortitude, but on the fourth she whimpered and lifted her heels in the air.

I felt for her – I almost felt it
with
her – sucking in my breath each time the cane landed.

Five and six brought forth little sobs, but she didn’t move and she didn’t complain. I was sure there were tears in her eyes, even though I couldn’t see her face.

At six, Sasha rubbed her bottom with the hand that wasn’t occupied with the cane and spoke some words into her ear. I hoped the words were kind and private and told Puss how brave she had been. She really had.

Sasha patted her shoulder then stood up again and offered the cane to Voronov. He came over to the pair and accepted the rod from Sasha, who went to crouch in front of Puss’s face and hold her hands tightly.

Voronov shrugged off his jacket and threw it to one of the kneeling submissives. He had style and a certain effortless physicality, I had to admit. It was difficult to think of him as my father – I suppose it hadn’t sunk in.

He extracted flashing cuff links from his shirt and rolled the sleeves up to the elbow. It seemed a lot of theatrical preparation for one stroke, but it was certainly effective. Everybody was on the edge of their seats – those that were on them, that was.

He seemed eager to land a stroke that wouldn’t cross any of the others already given, and he poked and tapped the cane around the target area for some time before he determined on his spot.

The choice he made marked him out as an expert – there were lines above and below, quite close. He would have to be unerringly accurate in his aim to fit a welt between them.

But unerringly accurate he was, and he did it.

The four who came after him were less fussy and I took more interest in concentrating on poor Puss’s anguished contortions of expression, and Sasha’s calm, firm reassurance of her. I found this curiously moving and wondered, without fear, if that could be me and Joss one day. It occurred to me that I would be
proud
to endure this for him. It was a sort of perverse ceremony of commitment, and it was clear that both Puss and Sasha were emotionally locked into the scene and each other.

At last, Joss’s moment of glory came. I wanted to stop him, to wish him good luck, to touch his hand or something, but I knew this would be considered bad form so I held my position and tried to keep my face bland.

He took the cane – like a relay baton – and flexed his wrist for a moment, swishing it this way and that like a swordsman preparing to fence.

‘In your position,’ said Voronov, ‘I would go for the cross stroke. The eleven-barred gate.’

Joss nodded. I could see he was nervous. He gripped the cane so hard his knuckles whitened, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.

He laid the cane diagonally across the eleven dark-red welts and I saw what he intended to do. It seemed risky and a stroke that could easily misfire. I clenched my fingers behind my back and almost had to shut my eyes.

But he positioned himself well, lined up the cane and swung it with confidence so that it landed precisely and smartly. Puss, for the first time, yelled then sobbed. Gold star for Joss. The audience clapped and one man whistled.

‘Wonderful work,’ complimented Voronov. ‘You must have practised that. Does Lulu take the cane as well as Puss?’

‘I have yet to cane her,’ he admitted, and some of the tops looked askance at each other.

‘Perhaps I have summoned you too soon,’ suggested Voronov. ‘But I was keen to see you with your submissive. Never mind. Sasha, and Puss, well done. A fine performance. How do you intend to finish it?’

Sasha finished rubbing her sub’s neck and straightened.

‘If you want, she’s going to give you a blow job while I do the business with my strap-on.’

‘That’s acceptable,’ said Voronov, smiling for the first time.

Puss dismounted the spanking bench and shuffled on her knees towards our host. He parted his legs and tugged at his belt while Sasha busied herself taking off her tight skirt and buckling herself into a belt-and-dildo affair over her sturdy, sensible knickers.

Puss bent her head and waited between Voronov’s knees until all extraneous clothing was out of the way. I couldn’t watch this. I didn’t want to see the organ that had brought me into being getting dealt with by some woman. Instead, I watched the fascinating Sasha. She was exquisitely brutal, getting Puss up on her feet and making her bend over with Voronov’s cock still in her mouth, so that she could get the sex toy up inside her.

She thrust and grunted, grunted and thrust, her face getting redder and redder, her spiked-up hair beginning to wilt with the effort of it all. I saw her screw a finger into Puss’s bottom and that made Puss whimper and slurp.

‘You don’t get to come,’ puffed Sasha. ‘If you come, you get the cane all over again.’ She smacked her bottom rhythmically for the last few thrusts. When Voronov made a tight, high noise in his throat, the whole strange affair ended.

Sasha and Puss retired to sort their rumpled selves out while Voronov tried to restore his impeccable front.

‘Drinks for everyone,’ he said. ‘I think a break is in order before we put this Lulu through her paces.’

The subs filed over to a side table and prepared the tops’ drinks of choice.

I looked up at Joss, who indicated that I should follow them.

‘We need to get him alone,’ I whispered, and he nodded.

When I came back, with a glass of water for Joss, he was conferring with Voronov, their voices pitched very low.

‘What is it you have to say to me that cannot be said here?’ Voronov was saying. ‘If you want to discuss the lease or the Hall, this is not the time or place. You can call me in office hours.’

‘It’s nothing to do with that,’ said Joss. ‘It’s a personal matter. I really think some privacy would be appropriate.’

‘Must it be now? I want to watch this Lulu –’

He broke off, narrowing his eyes at me.

‘Have we met?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Yes,’ I said, my heart dropping right through the soles of my feet. My breathing was chaotic as I added, ‘A few years ago. In Budapest.’

‘My God, I think I remember. The shopping mall I was building? I took you to Costes for dinner.’

‘Yes, Costes. That’s right.’

‘I’m sorry, I forget your name,’ he said, then he burst out laughing. ‘Of course. It’s Lulu, right? You ditched me. You wouldn’t come back to the hotel. Well, well, well. How small is this world, eh, and how the fates play with us.’

There was less geniality in his smile now; it had become a rapacious thing.

‘I don’t take rejection well,’ he added.

‘Neither do I,’ I said, speaking through lips that seemed numb, frozen almost. It was fear that did it.

‘I’m sorry? Rejection? I did not reject you.’

‘Yes, you did. Before I was born.’

Joss interposed, ‘I did say this was a conversation best held in private –’

‘Shut up,’ said Voronov. ‘I want to hear what Lulu is saying. What are you saying?’

I took a deep breath. ‘I’m saying that my name is Lucy Miles. Lucy-In-The-Sky-With-Diamonds Miles. My mother is Karen Miles. I believe you know her.’

His gaze, so piercing, like glittering knife blades coming down at me on the field of battle, almost made me run. But I held my ground, held his eyes, held my pride and my self-worth high and firm.

I was aware of Joss standing nearby, radiating a much-needed comforting, if anxious, presence, but he was on the periphery of my vision.

‘Is this true?’ he said after a long and horrible silence.

‘You contacted my mother earlier this week,’ I said. ‘You visited her at her market stall. You said you wanted my number.’

‘You’re a journalist,’ he said suddenly and loudly.

Everybody looked over.

‘Yes, but, more to the point, I’m your daughter.’

His eyes raked over the rubber dress, the garish lipstick, the tottering heels. His lips twisted into a sneer.

‘You went to all this trouble for this? Dressed yourself up like a whore, got yourself mixed up with this loser? All you had to do was call me.’

I shook my head. ‘That’s not what this is … oh, look, it’s complicated, but I really am with Joss and I came here tonight because you invited us.’

‘I’m supposed to believe that? You, a journalist, just happened to hook up with Lord Lethbridge here, who is known to have a high-profile mystery guest? Of course. It happens every day, I’m told.’

‘It’s true,’ said Joss. ‘Lulu and I …’

Voronov looked utterly disgusted. This didn’t seem to be going well.

‘I want a DNA test,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay for it. I’ll make you an appointment.’

‘My mother wouldn’t lie,’ I said hotly.

‘Well, perhaps not, but you understand I deal with cases like this two or three times a year. People come forward claiming to be my children all the time.’

‘Perhaps you should consider using a condom’ was on the tip of my tongue but I didn’t quite dare to say it aloud.

Instead, I said, ‘When you talked to mum at the market, you seemed to believe I was yours.’

‘Because she told me about you years ago. And I wasn’t as famous then as I am now, except in my home country. But there could have been other men. It was just once, at a festival …’

‘OK, I’ll take the test. It’ll be positive, I promise you.’

‘Go and do it and then we’ll talk again.’

I nodded and turned to Joss.

‘We should leave.’

‘You should never have come,’ said Voronov sternly. ‘I will have something to say to you, Lord Lethbridge, next time we talk.’

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ said Joss, sulky but defiant.

We crossed the room, through the laser stare of all eyes, keeping our shoulders back and our dignity in full feather.

* * *

Neither of us spoke until we were out of the east wing and back in the dustier environs of Joss’s part of the house.

‘Shit,’ he said, banging his forehead against a wood-panelled wall in the morning room while he fixed us drinks from the cabinet. ‘I think we’ve blown it.’

‘Do you? Blown what, exactly?’

He turned around, handing me a brandy while he stuck to ginger and tonic for himself.

‘He hates me,’ he said. ‘And now he’ll hate me even more. He’ll probably have this place levelled in a random drone attack.’

‘Oh, don’t.’ I laughed. ‘Look on the bright side.’

‘There’s a bright side?’

He sat next to me on the chaise and I laid my head on his shoulder, the pair of us looking through the French doors into limitless darkness.

‘I suppose it was naïve to expect an emotional reunion and a happy-ever-after fade to black,’ I said. ‘But there’s still hope.’

‘Hope that he won’t kill me. Yeah. Fuck. You know the rumours about him getting people whacked, don’t you?’

‘Rumours,’ I said.

‘God,’ he cried, smacking his forehead so vigorously that a splash of his drink escaped from the glass in his other hand. ‘What
possessed
me?
Why
did I think it was a good idea to take you in there as my submissive? I must be suicidal without realising it.’

‘It’ll be OK,’ I said and I did feel inexplicably calm, perhaps as a reaction to his panic. ‘He won’t hurt you. He won’t touch you. I won’t let him.’