One Week in the Private House (6 page)

Jem tried hard to retain her grip on reality. This is the office of a business tycoon, she told herself. I'm here to interview him; this is his personal assistant. 'Miss Morelli,' Jem said flatly, i would very much like to meet Mr Headman, and -'

'Perhaps you will, Jem. You don't mind if I call you Jem, do you?'

'Not at all. What should I call you?'

'You must address me as Miss Morelli, of course. I think that you have still not grasped the situation. Mr Headman is a very busy man. He has many interests. He never lets anyone see him. Occasionally he will ask to see someone. He delegates that authority to his assistants. On matters of property, finance, share dealings and so on his assistants are accountants, brokers, business managers. In matters touching his private life, I am his assistant. Mr Headman might ask to see you, if I recommend it. Is that clear?'

'No. But I'll play along, I guess. Can we move things along a little?'

'By all means. As you have heard, Darren has been making enquiries about you, and checking your belongings. The results are positive. Next we have to consider you personally. Stand up, Jem. That's right. Now: I think you're rather overdressed, don't you? Start taking your clothes off, my dear.
^v

Scented oils filled the wood-panelled room with a heady mixture of jasmine and patchouli. The Asian girl hummed softly as she continued her ineffectual but very relaxing massage. Lucy surrendered to the gentle caresses but fought off her inclination to doze: she was determined to review everything she had so far discovered about the Private House.

It had all been very easy; almost too easy, Lucy thought. She had telephoned yesterday. Yes, there were immediate vacancies. The club's facilities were extensive, and could provide a tailor-made regime for each member: anything from a weekend's peace and quiet to a month-long intensive fitness and dieting course. Fees were high, but not extortionate.

The place was less grand than Lucy had expected. She had driven through winding tree-shaded country lanes to reach the entrance, a vast pair of wrought-iron gates set in a high stone wall; but the Private House didn't live up to the promise of its gateway. The main building was a Jacobean manor-house, very charming but much smaller than Lucy had anticipated. It was surrounded by more modern buildings and a few acres of attractive formal gardens. Beyond the encircling wall lay the panorama of parkland and copses that Lucy had glimpsed while driving, and which she had assumed were the grounds of the club; now she realised that, even if the land had once been the estate of the Jacobean country house, it must have been sold off long ago. The Private House seemed to be no more than it claimed to be: an expensive, classy, health and fitness club. Turn left for car park; all major credit cards accepted; please do not leave valuables in the changing rooms; special menu for slimmers.

And yet, Lucy reflected as she tried to ignore the insistent fingers playing on her vertebrae as if they were piano keys, there are peculiarities. Not enough rooms, for instance: she'd already counted fifteen guests, and there were only about fifteen bedrooms; did the staff sleep in a dormitory in an outbuilding? Or were they from nearby villages? Come to think of it, there were no nearby villages. And the staff behaved oddly, too. They were very friendly with the guests - almost off-hand, in fact - but addressed each other only in the most formal speech. And they all wore uniforms that were outrageous replicas of those worn by nurses and domestic staff a hundred years ago.

If you want information, Lucy decided, you have to ask questions. She propped herself on an elbow and looked up at the Asian girl. Large dark eyes met hers. 'What's your name?' Lucy asked. 'Mine's Lucy.'

'Asmita,' the girl replied, with a devastating smile.

Lucy felt a familiar tingle of interest. There really is something about young women in uniform, she thought, as she let her gaze take ip the crisp white button-through dress that clung tightly to every curve of the girl's brown body. Tell me, Asmita,' she began, 'do you come from these parts?'

'From round here?' Asmita giggled. 'Oh no. From the Midlands. I'm not really a masseuse, you know. I'm just,' she giggled, 'moonlighting, I suppose. It's good to get away sometimes.'

'I see. What about the other staff? Are they part-timers too?'

'Some of them. Some are here all the time. But we all love our work. Do you like this?' Asmita had started to rub oil into the backs of Lucy's thighs, stroking her fingers higher and higher up Lucy's legs with movements that were far too gentle to have any effect on muscle tone but which were playing havoc with Lucy's nerve endings.

it's quite nice,' Lucy said in a level voice, but she allowed her head to sink back on to the folded towel.

Asmita's hands stopped moving; they had reached the tops of Lucy's thighs. Then Lucy felt the hands gliding from her hips to the small of her back, skirting her bottom. One hand stayed resting on her coccyx; the other skimmed her right buttock, lifting the tiny invisible hairs. Lucy heard her heart beating; she remembered to breathe.

'Now I'll massage you here,' Asmita said lightly, 'if you ask me to.'

'All right,' Lucy said in a voice that sounded unnecessarily loud. 'You can do that.'

The Asian girl giggled. 'No, no,' she said, 'you don't understand. I'll only stroke your bottom if you ask me to. You have to ask me nicely, or I won't do it.'

Lucy swallowed. This wasn't the sort of situation she was used to. Asmita's warm fingers were making little movements at the perimeter of her arse-cheeks, and Lucy found that she couldn't resist the urge to wriggle slightly, at the same time parting her thighs as unnoticeably as she could. She took a deep breath.

'Asmita,' she said with a slight tremor, 'would you please massage my bottom?'

'With pleasure, Lucy,' Asmita replied, moving her hands in diminishing circles that ended with her fingertips tickling the smooth sensitive areas on the lower inner slope of each buttock. 'Perhaps, in a few minutes,' she added after a while, 'you would like to ask me to smack your bottom?'

'Mmmm, yes,' was all that Lucy could say.

'And after that, if you ask me very nicely and remember to say please, perhaps, I'll do the same things for your titties?'

Lucy sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. Perhaps I'll find out some more about this place. And anyway, this feels heavenly. 'Yes, please, Asmita,' she said. 'Please smack my bottom.' She spread her legs apart and lifted her arse off the bench. 'Do anything you want, but please don't stop doing it.'

When Darren returned with tea on a tray, Jem was posing in her underwear. The semi-transparent bra barely covered her small but well-rounded breasts and the matching briefs hid only her triangle of dark red curls. The lace that trimmed both garments and her narrow suspender belt added a subtle touch she thought, and her fortuitous choice of white undies perfectly complemented the black of Miss Morelli's brief garments. Jem was standing as Miss Morelli had directed, with one leg bent and her arms raised, her hands tousling her auburn curls.

She pouted at the muscle-bound boy. The tea-tray trembled.

'Well, Darren,' Miss Morelli said, 'what do you think?'

'Very nice, Miss Morelli. Should I put this down?'

'Yes, yes, of course. Stupid boy. On the table. That's right. Now back to business. I want your opinion, Darren.'

'She's a bit of all right, Miss Morelli, she really is. A bit on the small side, I suppose, if she weren't in them heels, but not dumpy, not at all. Nice slim legs, beautiful bum, tits aren't very big but they're a lovely-shaped couple of handfuls, if you see what I mean.'

'Yes, Darren, thank you. Very graphic. And what about her face? Her hair?'

'Beautiful hair, Mis$ Morelli. I think Mr Headman would go for that. And he'd like her boat race, too. She looks sort of cocky - cheeky, I suppose. It's a good face -small and round.'

'Heart-shaped,' Jem broke in, 'is the usual description. Are you both through dissecting me?'

'No,' Miss Morelli said bluntly. 'Turn round. Is that a tattoo on your hip?'

'Only a little one,' Jem said, 'and it doesn't say anything naughty. Not unless you know what the letters stand for.'

'I'm not really interested, Jem. My only concern is whether Mr Headman will object to it. I don't think he will. You'll do, I think, in terms of appearance. Now we'll do some practical exercises. Come here; kneel on the floor in front of me.'

Jem opened her mouth to protest, but then she remembered that she would never meet Terence Headman unless she satisfied his tall, supercilious assistant. Anyway, she thought, as she sank to her knees and found herself gazing at the triangle of lace that covered Miss Morelli's prominent mount of Venus, this might be interesting.

'Put your hands behind your back, Jem,' Miss Morelli said, stepping forward so that her crotch was only centimetres from Jem's face and her thighs remained slightly parted. 'That's right. And you must remember to say "Yes, Miss Morelli" each time I tell you to do something.'

'Yes, Miss Morelli,' Jem said, breathing in the heady mixture of spicy perfume and body scents that emanated from the junction of the two long tanned legs before her.

'Darren,' Miss Morelli ordered, 'go and stand behind Jem. That's it. And now I want you to play with those titties you like so much. One in each hand. Keep your arms behind your back, Jem dear. I don't want you interfering with Darren's games. That's a very lovely little bra, isn't it, Darren? But surely you can play more roughly than that? Give those breasts a proper working-over, Darren. Keep those nipples erect!'

Jem bit her lip. Darren's thick fingers were kneading her breasts, returning incessantly to rub and pinch her upright nipples through the flimsy fabric of the bra. It was not an altogether unpleasant sensation, but it made concentration difficult.

'Now, Jem,' Miss Morelli said, her voice a little hoarse, i want you to remove this G-string I'm wearing. Without using your hands, of course.'

Jem moaned, and tried vainly to shake herself free of Darren's relentless fingers. She knew she could move her hands, but they remained behind her back as though tied together. 'Yes, Miss Morelli,' she remembered to say, and leant forward, her forehead brushing the satin skin of Miss Morelli's flat belly and her lips searching for the strip of elasticated lace that held up the black triangle.

Miss Morelli smelt wild and exotic. Her skin had a warm, earthy odour; the perfume that rose from her tight-ly-curled black pubic hair was heavy and sophisticated. As Jem's lips pulled down the tiny garment and her nose slid deeply into the slowly revealed bush of black curls, she became more and more aware of the tangy smell of womanly sex that underlay all the other odours. There's no point in hurrying this, Jem thought, shuddering slightly as Darren squeezed both of her breasts simultaneously; she pulled the thin waistband away from Miss Morelli's pelvis, released it suddenly with a snap that made the tall woman flinch, and proceeded to plant a series of little kisses in the warm furrows between Miss Morelli's crotch and thighs.

She felt Miss Morelli's hand on her head, playing with her hair. 'Very good, Jem,' Miss Morelli said in an uncharacteristically gentle voice. 'You show initiative. But really, my dear, you should attend to the main business. I think I can undress myself from here. Both of you, stop what you're doing.'

Darren's hands were removed from Jem's mauled breasts. She watched as Miss Morelli slid the G-string down her long legs and stepped out of the black circles of lace. Jem felt a pang of disappointment as the tall woman stepped backward, removing her enticing body from the vicinity of her eager lips.

Miss Morelli arranged herself on the
chaise longue
with one golden sandal on the floor and the other on the seat, and rested one crimson-nailed hand between her widely-parted thighs. 'Now I'm going to watch,' she said. 'Let's see how hot you can make me, shall we? Jem darling, stay where you are, but turn to one side a little. And Darren, come and stand in front of her. Perfect!'

Jem found herself nose to crotch with the muscular lad. The bulge in his shorts had grown to an alarming size, and he was having some difficulty keeping still. The same procedure, Jem,' Miss Morelli called out, 'but this time it's freestyle. Let's see what you can do with a big boy's equipment.'

Jem raised her head, grasped the waistband of Darren's shorts between her teeth, and pulled down. An arc of skin, paler than the suntanned stomach, was revealed. Jem shuffled sideways and repeated the procedure. Darren, anxious to be helpful, began to turn round in small increments so that Jem was not obliged to circumnavigate him on her knees. Soon the shorts were half-way down Darren's hips. His pale, hard-muscled buttocks were protruding cheekily above the waistband, and Jem had not resisted the temptation to kiss and nibble them at every opportunity, drawing embarrassed shivers and whimpers from the boy.

Now Jem was faced with a problem. She was unable to drag the shorts any further down Darren's legs: at the front the waistband remained hooked over the boy's hard protuberance, and yanking at the stubborn garment with her teeth only caused Darren to writhe in pleasurable discomfort. She mastered the urge to unclasp her hands, and glanced towards the
chaise longue.
Miss Morelli lifted a languid eyebrow and moved her hand from her crotch as if to demonstrate that Jem's efforts had so far failed to arouse her.