One Week in the Private House (17 page)

She loved Julia's anus. She loved its musky, bitter smell, its texture of crinkled silk, its little palpitations and contractions as she forced her tongue deeper and deeper into the secret recess. She was dimly aware of her fingers paddling with a life of their own in Julia's subterranean fruit-juice lake, and of the slow writhing of Julia's hips, but her tongue was hunting for paradise in a slick, vibrant tunnel, and she returned to the outside world only when her jaw began to ache.

'I'm sorry,' she said, breathing hard. 'Got a bit carried away ...'

'It's all right,' Julia sing-songed, 'it was absolutely heavenly. Come here and cuddle me.'

Lucy crawled up the bed, her limbs still weak with desire. 'You've got to kiss my tits,' she breathed, 'and suck my nipples hard. Please, please .. . Oh, yes, like that ...'

As Julia's knuckles pressed against the hood of her clitoris and engendered a spasm that shook her from head to toe, Lucy resolved to tell her delicious bedmate every one of her suspicions and discoveries about the mysterious health club. Together, she thought tenderly as Julia's nibbling teeth began to lift her towards another climax, together Julia and I will be invincible.

Jem brought the MG to a halt in the shade of the trees at the edge of the woodland clearing. She re-read the dossier that the Security agent had given her at the castle, checked her make-up in the mifror, stepped out of the car and made for the ornate structure at the centre of the clearing.

It was an oriental temple: an extravagant folly with spiral columns and onion-shaped domes, its rooftops and doorways decorated with gold and turquoise paintwork. Jem pushed aside heavy, brass-studded doors and walked along a gloomy corridor with sky-blue floor tiles that glowed in the shafts of sunlight that dropped through occasional light-wells in the ceiling. She stopped at a door marked
Private
; knocked, and waited for permission to enter.

It was a quiet, peaceful room. Light filtered through the climbing plants that had colonised the sills of the small, high, triangular windows and illuminated the erotic tapestries that hung on the white walls. Chinese carpets were scattered across the tiled floor, and white leather couches were arranged in a semi-circle facing an antique desk inlaid with lapis lazuli. Behind the desk was the only discordant element: a modern table on which stood a video cassette player and a large television screen. Terence Headman was seated at the desk. Jem strolled across the room towards him.

'Reporting for duty, boss,' she said.

Headman watched her approach. That is not the correct mode of address,' he said, his moustache twitching as he failed to restrain a smile. 'Shall I punish you now or later?'

'Later, your Masterliness. I thought we had chores to do this afternoon.'

'You're right. It's always later with you, Jem.'

'Such are the burdens of responsibility, I guess. And partly it's because I want to keep you interested. I'm enjoying myself too much to let you finish with me just yet.'

'You're having fun here? I'm pleased. I, on the other hand, have been working all morning. Or trying to. But you've bewitched me, Jem. You're quite extraordinary. I couldn't get you out of my mind. So, in the end, I
decided
to have you with me. I see you've changed your outfit.'

'Aha! So you have been watching me! I thought you wouldn't be able to resist keeping tabs on me. I
laddered
my stockings, so I thought I'd find something else. Do you like it?'

Jem pirouetted, casting aside the cape that she had been wearing to keep her warm while driving. She was in pow-der-blue and silver. Her red-brown curls were tied back loosely with a blue silk bow; from a square-cut blue yoke across her shoulders fell a short net of fine silver strands through which her nipples peeked as she moved. A skirt of fine silver chains hanging from her waist failed to cover a blue cache-sex which was held in place by a silver chain that ran between her buttocks; each pale blue stocking was held up by a silver chain that ran from beneath the skirt to the outside of each thigh. On her feet were high-heeled laced blue shoes.

'Magnificent, Jem!' Headman seemed genuinely impressed. 'Wherever did you find that costume?'

'You haven't spent all morning spying on me, then,' Jem laughed, swaying her hips as she moved towards him. 'You remember that Rhoda took a fancy to me yesterday? I went over to see her at the airstrip. We did a fashion show for the guys in the clothing warehouse, and this little number came out tops.'

'The Reception Centre is out of bounds, Jem. And you know that. But I have to admire Rhoda's taste. You look almost too lovely to touch.'

'Almost?' Jem said, pressing the front of her thighs against the arm of Headman's chair.

'But not quite, of course,' Headman said, reaching behind Jem to run the back of a fingernail down the chain links that disappeared between her arse-cheeks. Jem leant forward to meet his kiss, pushing her tightly-covered sex against his fingers.

'Now it's my turn to postpone our pleasure,' Headman whispered. 'Duty calls. Are you ready for the interview?'

'Aye, aye, Master. Let it roll.'

Headman removed his hand from between Jem's thighs and pressed a button beneath the desk. Jem spread her legs and sat on the arm of the chair, moving from side to side until her buttocks were suspended in curvaceous freedom on either side of the ariqrest and she could feel the silver chain pressing into her anus. Headman leant back in the chair, cupped her nearer buttock in his hand, and decided to remain in the same position to impress his interviewee. Jem smiled: she understood the little erotic elaborations that Headman appreciated. She put her hands behind her head and pushed forward her silver-netted breasts. The door opened.

A young woman entered the room, bowing her head to the Master. She was short and slim, with bobbed and wavy blonde hair. A crimson mask covered most of her face, revealing only a wide mouth with full, crimson lips. She was wearing a one-piece red catsuit that clung to her figure; ragged holes had been torn in the material to expose her small, high breasts, her fuzz of blonde pubic hair, and the outswelling pears of her buttocks.

In her right hand she carried the end of a length of rope; stumbling behind her, his hands tied together with the other end of the rope, came a naked man. He, too, was slim, but older than the woman. His hair was greying, but he was tanned and carried no excess weight. Jem guessed that he was probably older than he looked. His eyes were covered by a blindfold, but he retained a dignified bearing as the crimson-mouthed blonde led him to one of the leather couches and pulled him on to it alongside her. At a signal from Headman, she removed the man's blindfold and untied his hands.

He blinked, and found himself staring at the masked girl. Her red-nailed hand crept up his thigh, and her lips smiled suddenly as she grasped his wrinkled
member..
He smiled in return. 'More games, my dear?' he murmured, leaning forward to kiss her. She shook her head, and flicked her eyes towards the desk, and the man realised that they were not alone.

Jem admired his sang-froid; he didn't bat an eyelid as he turned to face the Master.

'So,' the man said, his voice carrying a trace of a Scottish accent but no hint of concern, 'it's you. I have to say I'm surprised. What is all this in aid of?'

Headman removed his fingers from Jem's bottom
and
placed both hands flat on the desk. He paused before speaking, and avoided the question. 'I trust you've had a pleasant day, Morton.'

'I would have preferred not to have been kidnapped and blindfolded and held prisoner; but apart from that, things haven't been too bad.'

There was another long pause. Morton and Headman looked at each other, both reluctant to commit themselves and both ignoring the two shamelessly-attired women. Jem was enjoying the subtle moves in the power game between the two men; the masked girl gazed at Morton, her hand moving gently and ceaselessly in his lap.

'The entertainment was to your liking?' Headman asked at last.

'This bonny lass has been very, er, amenable. As were her equally bonny friends. No doubt you have the entire performance on that video machine over there. I'm surprised you think that a film of a bit of hanky-panky will give you any kind of a hold over me. I've survived worse, you know. So don't bother to show me the tape. You're wasting your time.'

Headman nodded once. 'Jem,' he said, 'would you remove the first cassette from the machine and insert the second?' Jem thought she saw a momentary widening of the eyes behind the woman's mask; she stood up with a tinkling of silver chains and changed the videotapes.

'Do you know what I want, Morton?' Headman barked suddenly.

'Money, I imagine. Although I would have thought your property dealings provided you with an adequate income. Have you fallen on hard times, perhaps? Is that why you're reduced to these pitiful blackmail attempts?'

'I want your companies, Morton. Every one of them. Every last share you own.'

Morton laughed. 'This is madness. I'm sitting stark bollock naked in some architectural nightmare in the middle of God knows where, I've been screwed senseless by a bunch of gorgeous girls one of whom is still hard at work on my poor tired private parts, and now this whizz-kid financier wants me to donate everything I've got to him. And all on the strength bf a dirty video.'

'Not donate, Morton,' Headman said. 'I've no wish to drive you into penury. You can keep your properties. And I'll give you a hundred grand for your stockholdings. Seed money: you can start again.'

'A hundred -! My companies are worth millions, man!'

'It seems unreasonable, doesn't it? But you see, I've got more than just a dirty video. I've got your young ward.'

'Flora?' Morton at last looked concerned. What do you mean? Flora's in Italy. Finishing school.'

'No,' Headman said. 'She's on tape. Jem, would you switch on the machine and run the second cassette?'

Jem flicked the switch and resumed her perch on the arm of Headman's chair, which he had swivelled to face the huge screen. Light flooded the room as the television flickered into life.

FLORA DRUMMOND
, said the message that appeared on the screen as guitars flowed on the soundtrack, followed by
in HO LI DA Y ROMANCE
. The music continued as the titles were replaced by an aerial shot of a Mediterranean coastline; the camera panned across villa-strewn cliffs and crowded beaches before zooming in towards a rocky headland. The film cut to a middle-distance shot of a white-walled, red-tiled villa perched on the summit of the crag, and then cut again, to a close-up of the villa's wrought-iron gates and the lawn-sprinkler within.

The guitars faded as the picture changed again to reveal a white-walled, brick-floored courtyard in which a young woman lay sunbathing. Jem stared at the screen: the terracotta pots looked Italian, but the plants they
contained
would have thrived in almost any climate. Jem suspected that from this scene onwards the film had been shot on location in the grounds of the Private House.

The
young woman in close-up: lying face-down on a white towel, long black hair in a pony-tail, naked but for
yellow
briefs that barely contained rounded buttocks that
seemed
almost too generous for her otherwise slender frame. She turned over, to face the camera, and opened blue eyes.

Jem heard Morton's stifled exclamation. The poor bastard's recognised her, she thought; I hope he doesn't
go
through with this.

Headman might have had the same thought. 'Do you want to see any more?' he asked.

'This proves nothing,' Morton said wearily. 'You've been snooping round the villa, that's all, and you've managed to get some, what do you call them, some candid shots of my ward. I expect you'll tell me you've got some compromising film of her. Well, she's an adult now, legally, and her life is her own affair. If she's been fooling around on her holidays, that's her business.'

On the screen, Flora stood up and cupped her small, pink-tipped breasts in her hands. She looked into the camera and smiled. 'I'm so frightfully bored,' she said, her voice clear and actressy on the soundtrack. 'I wish something sexy would happen. Oh look! Here comes Antonio the gardener with his great big garden hose!'

The picture expanded to include a curly-haired bronze-skinned youth in dazzling white trunks that matched his delighted grin. He was dragging a length of green hosepipe and holding the dripping nozzle in front of his bulging crotch. Flora stepped back in mock alarm, and the hose suddenly spurted into life, producing a spray of water that sprinkled her with droplets from neck to feet. She squealed and giggled but remained in the spray as her nipples visibly hardened and her yellow briefs became transparent. The gardener threw the hose aside. 'Very sorry,
signorina
,' he said, still grinning. 'I make you wet.'

'You certainly do,' Flora gasped. 'You'll have to take my knickers off, you naughty boy, they're soaking!' She caressed her breasts with the palms of her hands as Antonio knelt in front of her and eased her briefs down her legs, pausing at intervals to lick drops of water from the bush of dark hair he had revealed. She stepped out of the wet garment and stood with her legs apart and her hands on the young man's head as his face disappeared between her thighs. There then followed close-up shots of Flora's fist clenched in Antonio's hair, of his face and extended tongue, briefly withdrawn from between her quivering thighs, of his hand squeezing her rotund arse and exploring its dark recesses and of her face flushed and wide-eyed in ecstasy.