One Week in the Private House (25 page)

Asmita's bottom was already the colour of burnt almond; the riding crop, although applied with vigour, left only a white streak that disappeared almost immediately. Asmita gasped loudly at each blow, however; and Jem, who had received a few light lashes from a crop, could imagine the burning sensation that Asmita must have felt each time Headman's crop thwacked into her raw and sensitised bottom.

When Headman stood behind Asmita and started to administer fast, short flicks into the open gap between her buttocks, Asmita's gasps rose in volume. Nyman started to increase the speed of her upward tawsing, and Asmita's voice rose in a crescendo of cries. She was approaching orgasm. She threw back her head as both the crop and the tawse whipped faster and faster, and with a shout she came. Headman stepped back and watched with interest as she shuddered and moaned in the aftermath of her climax.

'Well done, Nyman. That's the demonstration over. Take the volunteer off the whipping frame. And bring something warm for her to wear. She's had an exciting experience. And now,' Headman paused, and looked up at the observation gallery, 'now it's time to
announce
Asmita's punishment.'

It took a moment for Jem to comprehend Headman's words. They were clear enough. The chastisement that Asmita had just undergone had been merely a demonstration. The punishment was still to come. Jem saw an expression of outraged bewilderment blossom on Asmita's face.

Headman rounded on the Asian girl. 'You stupid volunteer slut,' he raged. 'We both know that there's no point in whipping you. You enjoy it. You'd enjoy any amount of it. Hence the demonstration. I wanted you to appreciate exactly what you'll be missing from now on.'

'Missing?' Asmita sounded dazed. Jem was beginning to understand the nature of the punishment Headman had planned for Asmita. It was more cruel and sadistic than any beating.

Try to comprehend,' Headman shouted at Asmita. 'You have just experienced the last whipping and the last orgasm that you will ever experience in the Private House. Do I make myself clear?'

Asmita shook her head. She opened her mouth, but couldn't speak. A guard wrapped her in a towelling robe. 'Are you going to banish me, Master?' she said at last, in a very small voice.

'Banish you?' Headman pretended to consider the idea.
⁴
No, 1 don't think so. My original plan will be much more enjoyable. And it will encourage obedience in the others. No, you silly girl. You will remain here. But everyone else will be forbidden to touch you. You will become the spectre of the Private House: young, beautiful, filled with desire, desperate for the lash, and completely untouchable. No more sex, no more spanking. For ever.'

Asmita burst into tears at last, and would have fallen to the flagstones if Nyman had not held her up with one strong hand.

Headman continued, lifting his voice above Asmita's wails. 'You'll be able to watch, of course. In fact, I'll insist that you do. You will be present at every session of formal punishment. And - here's a good idea - anyone who wants to be considered for promotion will be obliged to organise and take part in a display of sexual punishment that will be staged entirely for your benefit. This is becoming a very fruitful form of discipline for you, don't you agree?

Asmita was in no state to agree or disagree. She was almost hysterical with grief. Jem marvelled at Headman's grasp of the girl's psychology even as she felt nauseated by his inhuman cruelty. Headman was giving instructions that Asmita should be taken to a cell until her new costume was ready, but Jem was hardly listening.

Asmita, she cried inwardly, I'm so sorry! I didn't know it would be anything like this. But I'll make him pay, Asmita. This morning's work won't be in vain. Terence Headman has been tried and found guilty. He'll wish he'd never met me. He'll wish he'd never been born!

By the time Headman returned to the viewing gallery, Jem had repaired her shattered emotions. She was sipping the coffee and reading the newspaper that she had requested from the Security guards. Headman lifted an eyebrow: he appeared to be surprised that she had not remained absorbed in the activities in the dungeon.

'I hope the entertainment was to your liking?' he said.

'It was all very - moving,' Jem said, hoping to suggest that she had found Asmita's ordeal arousing but was too coy to admit it.

Headman smiled knowingly. There's nothing a woman enjoys as much as watching the suffering of a rival.'

Jem smiled sweetly. 'You're so right,' she said. 'Did you enjoy it too?'

'Of course. A pretty girl in agony, what could be more fun? I only wish it had been you, Jem.'

Here comes the difficult bit, Jem thought. 'I'll take that as a compliment,' she said. 'But my thorough lubrication of your riding crop seems to have been a waste of time.'

Headman's eyes sparkled icily. 'Not necessarily, Jem. It seems that these days I never tire of inflicting pain. Would you care for a thrashing?'

Jem contrived an expression of melting delight. 'What a lovely idea, Master! The perfect finish to an entertaining morning. I'll kneel on the couch, like this, and lean forward across the backrest.'

She parted her legs, hollowed her back, and pushed her bottom upwards to create an irresistible target. She glanced over her shoulder to see Headman stroking the tip of his crop up and down the length of his barely-covered erection. His eyes were fixed on the flawless split peach of her arse. She found herself wanting the pain. 'Whip me hard, please, Master,' she whispered.

Five bulls out of six shots! Julia could hardly believe her eyes, and she jumped to her feet and walked to the target. As Instructor Harrison had said, it was just like sex: a matter of technique and practice. She touched the little feathers that protruded from the darts embedded in the canvas. The air pistol was only a short-range weapon that looked like a child's toy, but at close quarters it was possible to place a dart precisely. Julia gazed at it thoughtfully, replaced it in the holster at her belt, and looked up to see Harrison beckoning to her.

'Good shooting, Julia,' he called as she approached, if that target had been me, I'd be so full of sleepers I wouldn't wake up until next week. Next session we'll try you with moving targets. But right now you're wanted on the phone. Chief Anderson himself.'

Julia took the receiver from his hand, pressing herself against his tunic as his fingers crept round her hip and on to her bushy mound. Anderson's voice was gruff and urgent. 'Julia? Report here at once. That woman Larson has disappeared off the screens. We've lost her.'

Julia, still savouring her new-found sharpshooting skills, nestled her head against Harrison's shoulder. 'What's the problem, Chief?' she said lightly 'Asmita's over at the Club, and -'

'Asmita is not at the Club,' Anderson barked. 'Don't question orders, Julia. Asmita's been taken to the - She's been taken away. Off this case.'

Julia stiffened. Instrijctor Harrison diplomatically removed his questing fingers. 'Asmita?' Julia was bewildered. 'Why, Chief? What's going on?'

'Not my idea, Julia. Orders from the Master himself. That's not our concern. We've lost track of Lucy Larson, that's the immediate problem. Get over here for a briefing immediately. Understood?'

'Yes, Chief.' Julia let Harrison take the receiver from her hand. Asmita's in trouble somewhere, she thought, and I've got to leave her and look for the tiresome Larson creature over at the Health Club.

'Bad news?' Harrison asked.

'I don't know,' Julia said slowly. 'But something's going on.'

In the slatted sunlight, Lucy removed her tennis shoes and tiptoed across the creaking floorboards. It was hot in the pavilion; motes of dust hung in the lifeless air. As she reached the window she dropped to her knees, and then cautiously raised her head to the level of the sill. Beneath the wooden blind was a gap through which she could survey the tennis courts: it was lunchtime, and no one was playing. The spectators' benches and the avenue of silver birches were deserted.

Lucy grinned. She hadn't been followed. This was what she called real detective work; the kind of work she didn't get half enough of in the Force. She glanced at her wrist-watch: 12:56. It was time to find the equipment room, but Lucy found herself drifting into a reverie. It was very warm in the pavilion, and Lucy squatted on her haunches, resting her back against the wall and flapping her tiny pleated skirt. She felt excited, but drowsy. She spread her thighs and placed her fingers against the tight gusset of the white cotton panties: yes, she was wet again. She knew police officers who hated the tension of the job, the stake-outs, the early morning raids, the secret assignations with untrustworthy informants; but Lucy loved every nerve-tingling minute. The silence, the furtiveness, the waiting: to Lucy it was the delicious, lingering foreplay to an explosive climax of action. Her restless fingers gathered the expanse of white cotton that half-covered her suspended buttocks and pulled it into the crack between them. She ran her hands across the exposed taut globes and buried her fingernails in the bunched strip of material, pushing the cloth into the deep tender valley. Then, with little gasps of breath, she teased apart the lips of her sex, pulling on the blonde hairs and rolling back the pink flesh, until the cotton gusset was a bunched and sodden strip almost hidden inside her. Tight, uncomfortable, but very exciting: Lucy felt that her knickers were now just like her favourite situations.

There was something else about this pavilion: it stirred a memory ... Of course! The pavilion at school. It had been a hot, dusty day, like this one, and the room had smelt of wood and sweat and sunlight. Lucy had been playing lacrosse, and had bruised her ankle. Helen, a shy girl who was in Lucy's class but not in her sporty set of friends, had helped Lucy to hobble to the pavilion. Lucy had allowed Helen to stroke her damp brow and to place a get well kiss on the injured ankle; after a long pause filled with sunlight and anxious breathing, she had declined Helen's faltering offer of more kisses.

The two girls had done nothing else. Helen had stammered a few words and had fled, red-faced. But, Lucy realised, in a way that incident had been her First Time: her first tingling enjoyment of yearning, wide eyes, of a face gazing at her in embarrassed longing; the first time she had tasted the sweet pleasure of power over a supplicant suitor.

She stood up, and felt the thin line of her panties bite into her moist crease. She placed the palms of her hands across her jutting breasts, feeling her hard nipples through the material of the sports bra and the tennis shirt. There were three doors at the rear of the pavilion; the middle one bore a sign saying
Equipment Room.

The door was padlocked. Almost without thinking, Lucy picked up the nearest suitable tool, a metal croquet hoop, and with one swift movement levered the pad bolt away from the wooden door. She lifted the latch, opened the door and took one step iqto the dark space beyond.

The air was colder. The rear wall of the equipment room was whitewashed brick: the pavilion was built against the perimeter wall of the Health Club's grounds. Lucy's eyes became accustomed to the gloom; she saw rickety cupboards, rolls of netting, stacks of wooden boxes - and a small cloaked figure, standing motionless in a corner. She took another step.

'Your name,' the figure said; a woman's voice.

'Larson - Lucy Larson.' Lucy almost forgot to omit her rank and number. 'Who are you?'

The figure threw back the hood of her cloak. Lucy saw an ethereally pretty face: a pointed chin, rosebud lips, wide cheekbones, startling blue eyes, a halo of long red-brown hair.

'A friend,' the woman said with a smile. 'And an ally, I hope. You broke in here like - a professional, shall we say? I want to trust you. This isn't a trick, but I must know: I think you are not what you seem, and I think that you want to find out the secrets of the Private House. Am I right?'

Lucy knew she had to think quickly. One wrong answer and she might frighten away this beautiful apparition, and lose the only real lead she had so far found. 'Yes,' she said bluntly, 'you're right. But how did you get in here -'

'Hiish! It would take too long to explain. We don't have much time. They'll try to trace me and take me back. They could come at any moment. I heard that you've been asking questions. Do you want to hear what I know about this place?'

Lucy moved towards the cloaked figure, mesmerised by the sparkling eyes and aware of the woman's heavy spicy perfume. She lowered her voice. 'Yes, of course. I want to know everything.'

'Then listen closely.' The woman spoke quickly, with a trace of an American accent. 'The Health Club - the mansion and the grounds, right up to this wall, are only a part of the Private House. The Club's a front, a cover. The House is huge, it butts on to the end of an old castle, and it's in the middle of a vast spread of land on the other side of this wall. Stretches for miles.'

'I saw a park, from the car; and some farmland ...'

That's all part of it. There's a complex organisation, hundreds of staff, unimaginable wealth. And they drag people in. It's impossible to escape. There are armed guards everywhere.'

They kidnap people? And hold them prisoner in this big 'house?'

'You got it.'

'But what for?' Lucy hadn't known what to expect to hear, but she certainly wasn't ready to believe stories of mass kidnapping and a private army. 'Who runs this place? Terrorists? They're holding hostages?'