by Various
The study door opened. A stern-faced woman, in the lemon vest, black short, pleated skirt and laced pumps of a gym mistress, entered the room. Her sharp, hazel eyes darted from the deserted desk to Emma.
‘What are you doing in here, girl? Where is Dr Flint?’ she rasped.
Emma, startled by the sudden entrance and abrupt tone, gulped – and had to wipe the gin trickling from her chin. The cane dropped silently at her feet on the carpet.
‘Felicity has just gone to –’
‘Felicity?’ the gym mistress thundered. ‘How dare you be so impertinent. All girls, without exception, address members of staff here by their correct title, understand? What were you doing with that cane?’
The svelte, athletic woman approached, her pumps treading the patterned carpet with silent menace. ‘Is that gin?’ She sniffed suspiciously.
‘Gin and T,’ Emma, struggling to explain, managed.
‘Bend over this instant, girl. You may be new but there’s simply no excuse for this outrageous behaviour.’
Emma, so shocked she almost giggled, stepped back. ‘You don’t understand –’
‘I said bend over. At once,’ the gym mistress hissed. ‘Unless you learn to obey instantly your time here at Laments is going to be painfully unpleasant,’ she grunted, wrestling Emma expertly down across a chair and pinning the struggling girl down with her right pump.
‘No, don’t, get off,’ Emma screeched, no match for the lithe and strong gym mistress.
‘Silence,’ snapped the stern woman, pulling out a white hankie and forcing it into Emma’s mouth – silencing her shrill protest.
Pinning Emma down by the nape of her neck with one hand, the gym mistress unfurled a coiled leather belt from her skirt pocket. As she dragged it out, a silver whistle spilled down on to the carpet. Emma spluttered into her gag and wriggled violently beneath the pinioning hand at her neck and pump on her upturned rump. But the gym mistress, snapping the length of leather ominously, was clearly adept at dealing with girls who struggled to evade the lash.
‘Rule number one for new girls at Laments,’ she hissed, planting her feet apart and deftly baring Emma’s bottom. ‘Obey all rules. Understand?’
Emma squirmed but found all struggling futile. She was bared and prepared for the bite of the leather. Helpless, she tensed, dreading the moment the hide would caress her buttocks.
‘Stop struggling or I’ll double your six to a dozen, girl.’
Emma’s outrage collapsed into raw fear. The gym mistress was implacable – Emma knew that she was about to receive six searing strokes across her poor, defenceless little bottom. But with the knowledge came a guilty thrill.
Crack. The length of hide sliced down, bequeathing a deep pink band of pain across Emma’s clenched cheeks. It stung and burned. Emma squealed.
‘What on earth –’ Dr Flint’s voice demanded imperiously as she strode through the door into her study.
Crack. The gym mistress lashed the leather down once more, adding a second pink swathe of pain to the deepening crimson of the first stripe. ‘Nothing to worry about, Head. Found this new girl in here drinking your gin –’
‘No, stop –’ Dr Flint commanded as the leather strap was raised aloft. ‘Let her go at once.’
‘Head?’ came the challenging response. The leather quivered above Emma’s bottom, its tip dangling teasingly across the surface of her whipped cheeks. ‘Let her go?’ echoed the gym mistress, lowering the strap down across the crowns of the punished buttocks.
‘Not a new girl,’ the Head gasped, coming to Emma’s rescue at once.
‘But then –’ Emma’s tormentress countered, baffled.
‘Oh dear,’ Dr Flint purred, palming Emma’s bottom gently. ‘Not a very good welcome to Laments, hmm?’
The gym mistress furled up her strap and pocketed it. Stooping, her lemon vest bulging as her unbrassiered breasts burgeoned, she snatched up her silver whistle.
The Head assisted Emma from the chair. ‘Never mind. Time for a bite of supper.’
Deciding the incident to be closed, the Head picked up the cane from the carpet. ‘How did this get there?’
Emma blushed.
‘She was playing with it when I came into the study,’ the gym mistress remarked.
‘Was she?’ the Head murmured. Giving Emma a playful tap on her bottom with the tip of the yellow bamboo, she returned the cane to its resting place in the chest of drawers. ‘I am sure we shall all three of us look back one day upon this little misunderstanding and smile.’
Dr Flint and the gym mistress laughed brightly. Emma, still in shock, sore bottomed after the stinging leather and – to her discomfort and puzzlement – disturbingly aroused, did not laugh. She did not even return the Head’s attempt at a winning smile.
‘No sulking, now. Mistakes will happen,’ Felicity Flint reasoned, her tone brisk and reasonable.
Emma attempted a political, if uneasy, smile.
‘Marion, my deputy,’ the Head continued, making the introductions and explaining Emma’s presence at Laments.
‘The Wigmore girl did that? Do we know her accomplices, Head? They too must be punished.’ Marion remained unapologetic. Her manner was, Emma felt, annoyingly bracing.
A flash of anger darted across Emma’s face, clouding her grey eyes. This gung-ho gym mistress had just bared her bottom and swiped it twice with a strap. No apology. Just dismissing the incident as trivial. Like Dr Flint had said, a mistake. Bloody assault and battery, Emma thought. And now all they could talk about was the institution, and the prospect of further punishments.
Felicity Flint glanced at Emma. Noting the frown beneath her visitor’s blonde mane, she motioned to Marion, dismissing her.
‘Ready for supper, I’m sure.’
Emma wanted a fuller apology. An apology for the outrage visited upon her poor little bottom. But the Head’s pale-blue eyes held a let’s-have-no-more-nonsense challenge in their gleam. Emma decided to play safe. She smiled weakly, surreptitiously fingered her panties back into place at her cleft and followed the stern Head obediently out of the study to supper.
PET TRAINING IN THE PRIVATE HOUSE
Esme Ombreux
About the Author
Esme Ombreux is one of the original practitioners of fetish fiction. Her first novel for Nexus, One Week in the Private House, took erotic fiction to new horizons of flagellant behaviour – and sold out within weeks of its first publication in 1991. Since then, Esme has added another four novels to the series, set in the timeless but familiar – and fiendishly kinky – world of the Private House. She also edited the first two New Erotica collections for Nexus. All in all then, an erotica CV worth writing home about! You can write to Esme at [email protected]
We’re looking forward to publishing Esme’s next full-length novel soon. In the meantime, here’s an extract from Pet Training in the Private House. Here Jessica, newly arrived in the suburb of Hillingbury, is put through her paces by Matt, an instructor at the local health club with a rather unusual exercise regime.
Also by Esme Ombreux
ONE WEEK IN THE PRIVATE HOUSE
AMANDA IN THE PRIVATE HOUSE
DISCIPLINE OF THE PRIVATE HOUSE
AN EDUCATION IN THE PRIVATE HOUSE
CAPTIVES OF THE PRIVATE HOUSE
BY THE TIME Jessica arrived at the Hillingbury Health and Exercise Club it was already late afternoon. Once again there would be no time for her exercise programme: she would have to report to her mentor, tell him everything that she had done during the day, and hope that he had time to punish her and use her.
She had been in a state of arousal for so many hours that she felt disconnected from the world. It seemed as though she had floated, rather than walked, from her house to the club. As the rain had stopped at last, and the sun was out, the raincoat had seemed inappropriate, and she had put on a skirt and a blouse. She was still wearing the stockings and ankle-boots from the morning’s outing.
Her breasts,
bottom and sex were naked under her summery garments and, of all the sensory stimuli surrounding her as she walked to the club, only the sensations in these erogenous zones managed to hold her attention. In fact she couldn’t stop thinking about those sensitive parts of her body, and things that she hoped Matt would do to them. Her bottom, in particular, wouldn’t let her forget that it hadn’t been spanked since the morning, and then not much. Her skin was tingling with anticipation. And she had become so used to the weight and size of the plug that she had worn in her anus for most of the day that, now it was no longer there, she missed the uncomfortably full feeling.
‘You’re late again,’ Matt said, as soon as they were alone in his office. ‘Don’t bother to explain, I know you have other commitments now. Undress, please.’
He seemed more austere and remote than ever. It seemed impossible to believe that he cared for her in the slightest. And yet he insisted, each time she left, that she must return. And, as she stood before him, naked but for her stockings, with her hands clasped behind her head, she could see that he desired her.
He walked behind her to lock the door and, instead of returning to the desk, without warning he grasped her wrists in his left hand, bent her over, and delivered six hefty smacks to her buttocks. Jessica hardly had time to breathe, still less to enjoy the painful sensations, and the spanking was over almost as soon as it had begun.
There was no explanation for the punishment. Matt pulled off his T-shirt and his shorts, sat at the desk, and gestured to Jessica to stand at his left side.
‘Report,’ he said, and positioned a pen in readiness over a blank notepad.
Jessica drew a deep breath. He had hardly looked at her since she had arrived. Did he know, she wondered, how much his disdainful attitude excited her? Was his severe, almost contemptuous manner an act, designed to inflame her perverse desires? Or was it that he truly didn’t care?
As she gave a detailed account of her activities during the day, Jessica consoled herself with the thought that Matt must like her, at least a little: he couldn’t keep his hand off her. While he wrote copious notes with his right hand, his left was roaming across and between Jessica’s blushing buttocks. She talked, falteringly whenever his fingers dipped into the wet channel of her sex, and he wrote without pause, even when she described the events that had taken place in Mrs Smythe’s bathroom. He seemed imperturbable.
She couldn’t keep her eyes from his manhood, rising like a domed tower between his hard, flat stomach and the front of the desk. She wanted to touch it, and her wish was granted when she began to tell him about the toys in Mrs Smythe’s playroom. He stopped writing and pushed his chair back a little.
‘You like to have something to play with, do you?’ he said. ‘Play with that. Continue your report.’
Leaning forwards, with her hand curled round his hot, hard shaft and her right buttock cupped in his left hand, she managed to resume her account. Now that she was holding his erection she felt more disoriented than ever by the strength of her desire. It wasn’t enough to have his manhood in her hand: she wanted it in her mouth.
He stopped writing, abruptly, when she told him about the plug that had been inserted into her anus. His hand fell from her bottom.
‘Bend over the desk,’ he said. ‘Legs wide, bottom up.’
He pushed his chair back and stood beside her. He wasn’t satisfied with her position. Wordlessly he pulled her arms behind her back and pressed her breasts against the surface of the desk. He slapped her thighs further apart. With the fingers of his right hand he held apart her buttocks. Then, as she had expected, he used his other hand to inspect her little hole. As his fingers pressed and probed a wave of shame swept over her. There was nothing, she realised, that she would not let this man do to her. It didn’t matter how much or how little he cared for her, or if he cared at all. Her devotion to him was absolute, unconditional.
She gasped as his finger slid into her. He murmured, as if the ease of entry corroborated her story. A second finger worked its way alongside the first, and Jessica sighed. She realised that she had made another discovery about herself: she loved the feeling of having her anus penetrated. It was so perverse, so intrusive, so satisfyingly filling.
Matt’s fingers pushed further in, and Jessica wriggled her bottom.
‘You’re leaking,’ he said. It was true: she could feel the wetness seeping from her sex.
Without extracting his fingers from her, he spanked her again. Another six hard smacks, right in the middle of her bottom, his hand landing on the inside under-slopes, his fingers spanking her wet vulva.
Still his fingers remained inside her. His elbow, resting on her back, kept her pressed against the top of the desk. He sat on the desk beside her, with the notepad on his knees and his feet resting on the seat of his chair. ‘Continue your report,’ he said.
How was she supposed to remember what had happened earlier that day, when all she could think about was what might happen next? Each little movement of his fingers made her think she was about to come. And she didn’t want to come yet, even though she had been denied orgasms all day. First she wanted to submit to the harshest punishment he could administer, and then she wanted to lick his penis until the fountain of his semen flooded her mouth. Then, at last, she would masturbate for him, in any position he desired.
With many hesitations and pauses to catch her breath, Jessica completed her daily account.
‘Very interesting,’ Matt said. He pulled his fingers from her anus. ‘You seem to have enjoyed having a toy stuffed up your arse.’
She lifted her head and reached for his erection. ‘Yes, I did. And your fingers, too. I expect that’s very, very naughty.’
He watched her hand moving up and down his shaft, and then turned his blank gaze on to her. ‘You can’t get what you want by being nice to me,’ he said. ‘I’m not susceptible to bribery. After all, you have to obey me. I can have anything I desire from you. If you want something specific, you’ll have to ask for it.’
It was true. He knew exactly how and when to remind her of the lowliness of her position. ‘Please, Mentor,’ she said. ‘I just want you to punish me. Very hard, please. I’ve been thinking about it all day.’
‘But of course,’ he replied, smiling at last. ‘I rather enjoy disciplining you. And I think I can provide something appropriate, even with the limited resources here. Stand up. Go to the middle of the room. Adopt the “beg” position, as you’ve described it to me, but with your hands crossed behind your back.’
Jessica liked all the pet positions she had been taught. Every one of them was so indecent. ‘Beg’ she found particularly humiliating and exciting: once she was squatting, with her knees spread wide apart, it was difficult to move, so she felt very helpless. Putting her hands behind her back, instead of together in front of her, made the position even more difficult to maintain.
Matt advanced towards her. In one hand he was holding a metal cylinder welded to a square base; in the other a disappointingly small cane.
Jessica hoped that Matt would order her to suck his penis: she was at just the right height. But he placed the metal square, with the cylinder rising vertically from it, on the floor behind her.
‘This is part of one of the old machines from the gym,’ he said. ‘I retrieved it, as I suspected it would be useful again. I want you to lift your bottom up a little, move back, and then lower yourself on to the tip of the cylinder. I want it up your arse, of course. Don’t worry, the top is round and smooth. And I’ll put some of this lubricant on it. You’ll have to lean back a little. I’ll support you.’
Jessica wasn’t worried. From the moment she saw the cylinder she had hoped that she would be required to take it inside her. And Matt was going to hold her! She would have to be careful not to swoon in his arms.
The cylinder was wider than Matt’s two fingers; wider than the phallus that had been lodged in her anus for most of the day. But with Matt holding her steady she rested the funnel of her bot
tom on the tip of the thing, and she felt herself open, and a little of the cylinder was inside her. She couldn’t help crying out. It was stretching her, and hurting her. As with the phallus, however, the pain receded, leaving her with the familiar and welcome sensations of being stretched and filled. She was very conscious that her shoulder was resting against the hard muscles of his chest, and that his erect manhood was pressing against her thigh.
‘Keep your hands behind your back,’ Matt said. He was kneeling beside her, and although he moved away from her a little his strong left arm remained around her shoulders, holding her upright and preventing her from sliding any further on to the cylinder. ‘Shoulders back. Chest out,’ he said, and he began to whip her breasts with the cane.
For a moment Jessica hardly knew what was happening. The pain was so sharp that she couldn’t catch her breath, and so immediate that she wanted to curl into a ball to protect her vulnerable breasts. This wasn’t like any punishment she had taken on her bottom: it was crueller, more intimate, and the wristy flicks of the cane were like wasp stings.
But with Matt’s arm around her shoulders, and by clenching her hands around her arms behind her back, she succeeded in keeping still. She tossed her head from side to side, and heard herself uttering a succession of gasps and cries. She glimpsed Matt’s face beside her: he was frowning with concentration as he flicked the cane as rapidly as he could, giving her no time to recover her breath between the strokes. The tip of the cane caught one breast and then the other. He was aiming for the most sensitive areas, around and just below her nipples. Through the stinging pain she could feel her breasts jiggling and dancing as they were whipped.
