One Week in the Private House (41 page)

A slim iron bar was resting against the padlocked door, almost as if it had been left there for her to find. She used it to break open the padlock.

The weapons in the store room were mainly useless: ornate swords, a multitude of whips, strange electronic gadgets. She chose a pistol in a holster, identical to those she had seen clipped to the belts of the Security guards. It was only an air-pistol, she realised, and useless for longdistance work; but the feathered darts were supposed to contain a strong tranquiliser, and she reasoned that she would be as well armed as any opponent she might confront. She discarded the holster, gripped the pistol in her right hand, and made for the main staircase.

The Master had secured Lesley on the seat of the leather armchair in the position that Jem had been made to adopt earlier: her buttocks and sex protruding over the edge of the seat, her legs lifted into the air, with her elbows crooked behind her knees and her wrists pulled back beside her shoulders.

The seat of the chair had been raised, not quite as high as when Jem had been on it, and now Jem had a bird's eye view of Lesley on display.

Jem was tied on to the saddle, as Lesley had been.

It was surprisingly comfortable. The metal frame supported undulations of wood and shaped leather that were covered in soft hide and upholstered with varying amounts of padding. At the front a padded wooden fork with three tines, slightly yielding and with a slight upward slope, supported Jem's shoulders and breastbone while leaving her breasts uncovered and freely hanging between the tines. The middle part of the saddle was very soft, horizontal, and slightly U-shaped in section; Jem's stomach almost nestled in the giving upholstery. A wide belt ran across the middle of her back, holding her down; her wrists were chained to rings set into the belt. The end of the saddle was the most generously padded part: a thick roll of resilient, leather-covered wadding that lay underneath her hip bone and tilted her hips upward. Her ankles were no longer chained together, but instead each ankle cuff was chained three ways, behind the heel and on each side, to one of the two stirrups into which Jem's feet had been placed. The stirrups had been raised almost up to the central bench of the saddle, rounding and parting Jem's buttocks as much as Lesley's.

Lesley was still encased in the rubber suit, although Jem's view of her was dominated by her punished, pink-ened buttocks and her pinker, swollen sex-pouch. Jem could see and smell that Lesley was still aroused, even though with her eyes and ears covered with rubber she could not possibly know what was going on. Perhaps, Jern thought, she was simply excited by being tied in such an exposed position, or because she expected to be whipped again.

That must be what's doing it for me, Jem thought.

She was aware of a yearning heat inside her sex. She could feel trickles of her juices running on to and along the puffy ridges of her parted labia, and wondered whether drops of the liquid were falling on to the carpet. The Master had promised her an introduction to the pleasure of pain. She couldn't wait for him to begin.

She lowered her head and looked at her breasts, framed within the twin hoops of the saddle's front. They felt full and heavy. Jem hoped that the Master wouldn't forget to smack them, perhaps with the strap that Jem had used on Lesley's breasts.

Where was the Master? He hadn't spoken, or moved into Jem's line of sight, since securing her on the saddle. But she hadn't heard him leave the room. What was he waiting for?

Ah. Yes. Of course.

'Master,' Jem said hesitantly, 'may I speak?'

'Jem,' the Master exclaimed. 'I thought you'd fallen asleep. What would you like to say?'

'Master, I'd like to be punished now. Please.'

His hand brushed the stretched skin of her right buttock. 'Here?' the Master said. His voice and his touch sent tremors of excitement through her.

'Whatever pleases you, Master,' she said. She found that when she lifted the register of her voice, a lisp came almost naturally. 'But please, don't forget my breasts.'

'Of course not, Jem. There's plenty of time.' He chuckled, and Jem smiled happily. 'You're going to be a perfect little girl. Shall I start by spanking you where you're wet?'

'Yes please, Master,' she lisped, and felt her sex fill with liquid desire as she anticipated the first slap of the Master's hand.

The Master smacked her very slowly. He was so kind, she thought, even while he was being cruel. Each slap landed with a wet noise that reminded her of the physical symptom of her arousal and made her blush with shame. Her buttocks and thighs were held wide apart; she couldn't move them together. Her sex was completely exposed, hanging nakedly, waiting defencelessly for the lazy upswing of the Master's arm and the shock of his carefully aimed slap. Sometimes his hand covered her vulva entirely, stinging it a little, and the tips of his fingers would nudge her clitoris. Sometimes his fingers smacked the labia, to the left or to the right, and occasionally his fingers would land between them and thrust inside her. The smacks weren't painful; or perhaps it was just that the little stings and shocks were subsumed into the waves of throbbing desire that grew as they flowed through Jem's body. She didn't really care.

Jem was excited as much by the delirious shame of her own arousal as by the smacking. The Master's hand, wet with her juice, spread the evidence of her naughtiness across her body. Her buttocks and thighs were sticky with her wetness. The crater of her anus was a pool of liquid, regularly refilled from the Master's fingers.

She knew he had stopped smacking her. Instead of standing behind her, letting her anticipation of the next slap build and turn into liquid longing, he strode to the front of the saddle.

'Look, Jem.' His hand, in front of her face, glistened with her juices. 'Smell.'

She inhaled the scent of her arousal, a little more lemony than the aroma from Lesley's upturned sex.

He put his fingers across her lips. 'Taste.'

She kissed his fingers, licked them, and opened her mouth in a desperate appeal. He stroked her hair, and slowly pushed two fingers between her lips. She sucked, imagining that it was his erect penis, as wet with her juices as his fingers, that was sliding back and forth in her mouth. Her clitoris tingled maddeningly. She could almost come, she thought.

He withdrew his fingers.

'Did you enjoy your spanking?' he said.

Yes. Yes, she had loved every shame-filled moment and she had wanted it never to stop. 'Yes, thank you, Master,' she said. 'It was lovely.'

'Very good. Now, Jem, if you ask very politely, I'll whip the same place with a strap.'

Instantly she could imagine the sharp, fiery sting as the belt of leather smacked against the moist, tender skin of her sex. She wanted to feel it.

'Please, Master,' she said, 'would you please whip my private parts with your strap.'

The smacks were closer together, and harder. And they hurt. Jem gasped with each blow, and felt her breasts trembling as she tried to move in her bonds. She pictured the pink split peach of her sex gradually turning as red as her pubic curls. The smacks stopped, and she felt the Master's strong fingers stroking the hot flesh, probing her wet interior. A sudden wave of arousal made her shudder.

His fingers were between her buttocks now, stroking the well-lubricated hole. It felt good; it was somehow connected to the stinging of her sex. Another ripple of lust spread through her.

That felt even better. The Master was putting his finger into her anus. No, not his finger: something else, about the same thickness, but hard and cold and smooth. It was stretching her, filling her. It was uncomfortable, but it made her pant with desire. Her sphincter closed suddenly and once again she almost came.

The smooth cylinder was inside her, but a narrower part of it was still in her anus, still stretching her slightly. The Master's finger tapped something, and a tremor ran from her tight anus through the cylinder lodged in her rectum.

The base is flanged,' the Master said, it flares out into a long, flat oval that fits very neatly between your buttocks. It stops the plug disappearing inside you. I'll use the strap there a little later. But first, I seem to remember you wanted me to attend to your breasts. What do you say, Jem?'

It was easy to ask. 'Please smack my breasts, Master. Smack them hard.'

That's for me to decide, Jem,' her Master said.

There was another long silence. Jem almost wept with frustration. She hadn't intended to offend him. What could she say? i'm sorry, Master. Truly sorry.'

'Don't worry, Jem. These are early days. You're only at the beginning of the road, and you're doing very well. Now: to whom do you belong?'

'I belong to you, Master.'

His strong hands cupped her breasts. She sighed, and smiled gratefully. 'And these?' he said.

'They belong to you, Master.'

'Be sure to remember that,' he said. He released her breasts, and brought his right hand to her face. His hand held one end of the strap, a tongue of leather about two centimetres wide and forty centimetres long. Thank me for each stroke,' he said. 'And whenever I stop and ask you if you've had enough, plead for more. Keep your head up; I want to watch your face.'

She lifted her head,, and immediately the first stroke landed. The underside of her left breast flamed with sudden heat.

Thank you, Master,' she gasped.

He allowed her time to appreciate the glow that spread through her breast, to feel its weight tremble and gradually become still, to writhe in her bonds and enjoy the realisation that she couldn't move, that she couldn't protect her breasts, that they were not her breasts but his, to do with as he wished.

The next stroke landed on her right breast. She said. Thank you, Master,' quickly, anxious to savour the sensation again.

He whipped her more and more quickly, until her breasts were dancing like marionettes and the flaming lashes merged into a glorious rising blaze that seemed to burn a path down her spine to kindle a fire in her sex. She could hardly complete a breathy sentence of thanks for each stroke before she had to start thanking her Master for the next. Thank you, Master,' became a garbled mantra that somehow expressed in combination her gratitude to her Master, her reaction to the lines of wonderful sensation that he was writing across her reddening breasts, and the throbbing crescendo of lust in her loins.

He stopped. She lowered her head, panting as her eyes focused on the red lines fading to pink all over her jiggling breasts. Her Master put a finger under her chin and lifted her face. He looked into her eyes, and kissed her. She returned the kiss, her lips seeking his as he withdrew.

Thank you, Master,' she whispered, it was wonderful.'

That's perfectly all right, Jem.' He was always polite. He was never hurried. 'You deserve it. Have you had enough, do you think?'

Her breasts were stinging. Her vulva was stinging. There was a warm weight in her rectum and a pressure in her anus. Her nipples were hardening again and felt sore, but not sore enough. Every sexual part of her felt swollen and glowing.

i belong to you, Master,' Jem said. 'Do as you wish. But I'd like you to whip my breasts again, please. Harder than before.'

'You don't sound as though you mean it,' he said, stepping back.

She panicked, i do, Master, I do, I do. Please believe me. I really want you to punish my breasts as hard as you want to. As hard as you can.'

She heard him laugh, but not unpleasantly. It was an indulgent laugh. 'Very well, then. Head up, as before. Don't thank me after each stroke this time. Just keep your mouth slightly open.'

This whipping was even better. She was able to concentrate more on the physical sensations, the intense stings each followed by a pulse of fiery pain that spread and burned across the whole of both breasts and was superseded by another crack and sting even as it continued down her body and fed the blaze in her loins. Her breasts felt huge and very soft. She could feel them swinging and jumping to the rhythm of her Master's arm. Her nipples were points of sensitivity that strove to position themselves in the path of the strap.

'Now have you had enough?' Headman said, slightly out of breath.

'No, Master,' Jem replied immediately. 'Please whip my breasts again. Much harder, please.'

Her Master laughed. 'I have to tell you, Jem, that I have never seen you look more beautiful. Your soft eyes, always half closing, your lips, your little gasps and moans - the very essence of martyred ecstasy. And your breasts are a pleasure to punish: large enough to merit attention, firm enough to retain their shape and resilience even in this position, pale enough to colour under each stroke, and obviously more than sensitive enough. I'm tempted to fulfil your request; but we have to move on.'

He kissed her, and then moved out of sight behind her. She wanted him to touch her, wanted it so much that she was sure he would see the small thrusting movements she tried to make with her hips. Her vulva felt so hot and so wet.

His fingers plunged into her. She cried out, and her body shuddered. Her tingling breasts danced and made her shudder again. She knew she was very close to a climax.

'You're obviously still rather excited,' her Master said.

'If I didn't know you're a tough-minded, independent, no-nonsense young woman, I'd think you were becoming an obedient slave with remarkable enthusiasm. I believe you derive sexual pleasure from being punished and humiliated. You're a very naughty girl.'