One Week in the Private House (31 page)

Julia stared at the brief list of words and numbers.

'Memorise them,' Anderson said, 'then destroy the paper. Keep the card: it displays your Gold clearance code. It's also imprinted on the magnetic strip.'

'And then what, Chief?'

'Then, Julia, you can gain access to just about every part of the House and every file on the computer system. Someone up there likes you,' he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

'You mean the Master?'

Anderson nodded conspiratorially, but Julia was thinking about Jem. She must have arranged this. Then another thought crossed her mind. 'Chief?' she said.

Anderson looked wary. 'Yes?'

'Where's Asmita, Chief?'

Anderson took a deep breath, and looked at the floor.

'I can find out now, Chief,' Julia reminded him gently. 'I've got clearance. Anyway, I know she's in the dungeons. I want to know why.'

Anderson shook his head. 'I don't know, Julia. I really don't. The order came directly from the Master. But if I know Asmita, she's probably enjoying it.'

And if I know the Master, Julia thought, he'll have done his best to make sure she isn't.

She realised she was thinking the unthinkable. Basically, the Master was a nasty piece of work.

Bathtime had been a surprisingly pleasant experience. Melanie and Patrick had discarded their uniforms and their severe demeanour, and had joined Lucy in the huge pool of scented bubbles. They had washed her thoroughly but gently, and when she had found herself sitting between them with Patrick, behind her, massaging suds into her breasts and Melanie, kneeling between her legs, carefully inserting her submerged fingers into all of her most intimate crevices. Lucy had started to think that perhaps she would enjoy her self-imposed undercover operation after all.

Patrick had blow-dried her hair into a cloud of spun gold. Melanie had made up her face with subtle shades of highlighter and blusher, and a touch of scintillating green above her eyes. Lucy had not protested even when Melanie methodically rubbed red-brown rouge into her lips and nipples. Patrick had dressed her in a thin black suspender belt, black stockings, and black shoes with impossibly high heels. The costume, he had told her, was the basic uniform for guests in the Private House.

Now, tottering as she practised walking in her heels, Lucy towered above her jailers. She caught sight of herself in the mirror that took up one wall of the enormous dressing room. I look quite something, she thought: tall, slim, fit, glowing with health, and definitely very sexy. In these shoes it's impossible not to wiggle my bum when I walk. And my legs seem to go on for ever.

She saw that Melanie and Patrick were encasing themselves in their sinister uniforms, and she sensed a change in the atmosphere.

Time to start your initiation now, Lucy,' Melanie said with a twisted smile. She folded back a set of double doors to reveal a dark room beyond. 'Everyone's enjoyed watching you get ready. Now they'd like to meet you in person. Come along into the Equipment Room.

Lucy scanned the room. There, in the corners of the ceiling, are those the lenses of closed-circuit cameras? Or are they just trying to put the frighteners on me?

Trying to project more confidence than she felt, she stepped into the darkness. Melanie and Patrick guided her past bizarre and unidentifiable shapes, and abandoned her in an empty area. She was about to set off to explore her surroundings when lights suddenly flashed on, pinning her in a crossfire of spotlight bpams. The darkness around her was now impenetrable, but she could hear voices murmuring indistinctly.

More lights began to glow. Some, like cinema lights set high above her, cast a dim illumination that allowed her to see the full extent of the chamber she was in; others were spotlights, trained on the chrome and leather contraptions that surrounded her. She could make out, hanging among the spotlights, video cameras that shifted automatically to track her slightest movement.

The place was like a modern gymnasium, she thought, although she had never seen exercise machines quite like these, with chains and manacles, and none of the gyms she'd used had had seating for spectators. About twenty people, vague but colourful shapes in the semi-darkness, were sitting restlessly in the nearest two tiers of the seats that sloped up one side of the room.

'Ladies and gentlemen!' a voice boomed. This is Lucy, a new guest.'

The audience murmured. A spotlight threw a beam and picked out the announcer, standing only a few metres from Lucy. He was a tall, thick-set, giant of a man, wearing only chains, a collar, and a bulging pouch of black gauze. Lucy felt imprisoned within her circle of light, and could only watch him as he advanced towards her, dragging with him his own spotlight beam.

'Lucy,' he said, his voice still loud enough to be heard throughout the room, 'welcome to the Private House. The first thing you must understand is that you are one of us now, and you can never leave. You are inside, and it is impossible to return to the outside. Do you understand?'

Lucy tried to think. Had it started like this for everyone in the Private House, she wondered. Those indistinct watchers in the seats? Melanie and Patrick? The big bruiser bearing down on her? Julia, if Julia really was an insider? The mysterious redhead with the cloak and the whip-marks? And her darling Asmita? Had they all been
through
this ritual?

'Well, Lucy? Do you understand?'

She nodded, taking care to make a mental note that confessions made under duress are not admissible as evidence. The big man was standing next to her now; their pools of light had merged. He was taller even than she was in her heels, and she tried to stop herself being intimidated by his physical presence.

The rules of the Private House can be summed up in two words,' he said, 'obedience and sexuality. Once you have learnt unquestioning obedience, your life will be devoted to sex. That is all you need to know.'

Lucy felt her shoulders stiffen. She'd never bothered to attend the Force's psychological warfare course, but she had an instinctive determination not to succumb to brainwashing.

'I am your Mentor during your initiation,' the man said. 'The first lesson you must learn is respect for authority. Don't speak unless you're spoken to, and always address me as "Sir". Do you understand?'

Despite the cold tightness of her stomach, Lucy almost smiled. If only he knew how familiar she was with regimentation and the use of formal titles. 'Yes, sir!' she responded.

'Good.' He stepped back into the darkness, leaving Lucy alone in the converging beams of light. 'Now turn your back to the audience and bend over.'

Lucy's mind raced. What exactly did he want? Was this some sort of medical inspection? She turned slowly, and leant forward.

There was laughter from the audience. 'Lucy's not a natural, is she?' shouted the Mentor from the darkness. 'Legs apart, Lucy, and bend right over. Touch your toes.'

Not medical, Lucy thought. It's a sex thing. I can't do it! I won't do it! Not in front of all these people!

She straightened, and stepped out of the pool of light. The beams followed her, trapping her again just as she was met by two young women in uniforms that were the same as Melanie's. They grabbed her; she tensed, about to throw one to the floor and break the other's arm. Just in time, she remembered that she had to avoid showing her hand too early, and she allowed herself to be led back to the Mentor.

'Don't worry, Lucy,' )ie said with sinister cheerfulness, 'very few novices show complete aptitude at first. You will be trained to obey.'

I won't! Lucy told herself as she was dragged towards one of the gleaming, spotlit machines. I'll never do what they want!

This is a simple device,' she heard the Mentor saying for the benefit of the audience. 'We call it the Basic Stimulator.'

Lucy struggled, but a small army of black-garbed guards converged on her, removed her shoes, and positioned her on the polished wooden platform. Chains were looped around each of her ankles and were used to separate her legs and secure them to metal hoops at the bottom of metal uprights at the sides of the platform. Her arms were lifted above her head and chained to a metal bar that ran between the two uprights; the bar was then cranked upwards until her body was stretched taut. A second, padded bar was then inserted between the uprights, across the small of her back. Now she could move only her head, and despite her frantic movements, she could not prevent a blindfold being secured across her eyes.

She sensed that the guards had dispersed. Thankful, in a way, that she could no longer see the audience, Lucy forced herself to remain calm and await developments. They can tie me up, she thought, and they can inflict whatever diabolical tortures they can think up; but they'll never make me do anything I don't want to.

She heard movements all around her, and suddenly a cold object nudged her between the legs: the merest brief touch of something hard against her exposed crotch. She jumped to her toes, and felt the tips of her breasts bump into soft material. She lowered herself again, slowly, and as her heels touched the floor the hard object was there again, just touching her private parts. She felt it move slightly, as if someone was adjusting it, making sure that it was positioned exactly beneath her centre, resting
against
the line that divided the outer lips of her sex. She breathed deeply, and concentrated on preparing herself for excruciating pain.

'The Stimulator is ready, ladies and gentlemen.' The Mentor was speaking again. 'It is a fully automatic
device,
with electronic sensors and cybernetic feedback mechanisms, all housed within this charming mock-Victorian machinery. I'll switch it on in a moment, and I'll turn it off again - just as soon as Lucy asks for permission to dance for your entertainment. Do you understand, Lucy? Whenever you're ready to dance for us, with some decoration, of course, just ask me nicely, and the machine will stop.'

He's off his rocker, Lucy thought. Ask his permission to dance naked, in public? I'd rather die. 'What do you mean - decoration?' she asked.

'A bum plug with a tail of horsehair,' the Mentor said offhandedly, it will look very fetching when you swivel your arse. We'll be expecting a dance with lots of bumps and grinds, of course.'

You kinky bastard, Lucy said to herself. You'll never get me to do that. Do your worst!

'No comment?' the Mentor said, in that case, I'll switch on the Stimulator.'

There was a quiet click. For a moment Lucy, muscles rigid and teeth clenched, thought nothing had happened. And then she felt it: the thing between her legs was moving, vibrating very slightly, a persistent buzz that began to tickle the curls of her pubic hair. She raised herself onto her toes, and the tickling stopped, but her nipples had again come into contact with the soft stuff, and now it, too, was moving: rotating in tiny circles, brushing against the very tips with gossamer lightness, a velvety, soft and yet tickly feeling that Lucy decided she could put up with while she tried to collect her wits.

They're not hurting me! was the thought that went round and round in her head. The sense of relief was so overwhelming that she could think of nothing else, until she realised that her nipples were hardening and her breasts swelling as the Stimulator relentlessly buffed her rouged tips. She allowed herself a smile of relief, and pushed her breasts forward, revelling for a moment in the innocuous mechanical caress.

They're not hurting me - yet. What if this is a trick, she thought, a ruse to lull me into a false sense of security?

What is that thing between my legs? And as she thought of her legs, she became aware that the straining muscles in her calves were crying out for a rest. Cautiously she lowered herself from her tiptoes; and, just as her nipples dropped out of the range of the ticklish velvet caresser, she felt the vibrating object touch her lower lips and push between them.

Whatever it was, it had grown. A little bit of it was inside her now, just inside the mouth of her sex. It's vibrating, she thought; therefore, it's probably a vibrator. Perhaps they think it'll turn me on. If so, they must be really stupid. But then again, it is bloody insistent. Hard to ignore. I think I prefer the soft thing rubbing against my tits.

She stood on tiptoe again, and couldn't restrain a shiver as her sensitised nipples touched the velvet pads. She knew they were separate pads because they moved independently. They were no longer rotating; instead they were flicking up and down, the left one brushing downwards as the right moved up. She shivered again. Her nipples felt as big and hard as peach stones.

When the pain in her calf muscles obliged her to rest on her heels again, the vibrator impaled her. It was unmis-takeably embedded in her slit, and now it was moving a little, up and down, forward and backward, from side to side, as well as vibrating. Lucy shook her head, refusing to admit that the machine's buzzing was beginning to set off an answering tingle in her loins. She felt hot, she knew she was blushing, she wanted to move her limbs but all she could do was to wiggle her hips, and that only increased the sweet tension building inside her. She sagged, trying to envelope more of the vibrator; and she felt something else as well.

It was in front of her; there was something just in front of her pubic mound, something brushing against the golden curls that clustered round the top of her slit. She moved her hips forward, and it touched her skin: something cool, thin and hard, moving very slowly
downwards
as it crept towards her. It was heading straight for her clitoris. She stood on tiptoe gain, and offered her breasts to the machine.