Discipline of the Private House (20 page)

She heard the sound of hooves. She was still too close to the edge. She needed to make her way quickly into the interior, where the undergrowth was thickest. A few scratches were a small price to pay to avoid being discovered.

She heard the Marshal's voice ringing out. 'Remember, ladies and gentlemen,' he said, 'only hits on the naked flesh of the prey will count towards your score. Make sure you're close enough to aim clearly for her arse or her tits. Markings on her costume will count against you, and if none of you achieves a clear hit on the target areas then the one with most hits off target will be tomorrow's prey.'

She would have'laughed, if the helmet had not been so tight. She had played this game before, and she had always ended the day as someone's prize. The hunters

never lost. But she would make them run a good chase. There was always a chance that she could evade them all.

'Each of you has a limited number of paint pellets,' the Marshal went on, 'and the pistols have a short range. That's two more good reasons to stalk quietly, and to get up close before trying a shot. You'll probably get only one shot in at a time: the pellets sting like crazy when they hit, particularly on the exposed target areas, and the prey will be off like a rocket. Finally, remember that the dye isn't permanent, so once she's been hit the prey will try to head for a stream or a pool to wash it off. You'll win her for the night only if she's still bearing your colour at the end of the hunt.'

The hoofbeats were receding now. She rolled over, and crouched on all fours. She knew she looked like an exotic beast: the helmet was shaped to resemble a panther's head, and the black rubber suit gave her the sleek lines of a large cat. Only her breasts, pendant through the two circular openings in the front of the suit, and her buttocks, divided by a strip of rubber and protruding from the surrounding blackness like pale balloons, revealed that she was human. Looking to right and left, she padded into the depths of the woodland.

'If you manage to corner the prey,' the Marshal's voice said from a distance, 'it's good strategy to get in very close and fire several rounds. Make sure she's peppered with your colour. Then all you have to do is to keep her away from water until you hear the sound of the horn that signals the end of the day's hunting. If she turns on you, which has been known to happen, or if you're close enough to herd her, you'll find your riding-crop is invaluable. So keep it with you when you dismount. You can tether your horse at any point on the perimeter of the forest. And remember, if you mark her on the target areas with your colour, she's yours for the night once she's been displayed at dinner. Good hunting!'

* * *

'Olena?'

Olena slammed shut the book. Barat was standing at the mouth of the alcove, his robes almost eclipsing the glow of the fire.

'Barat,' she stammered. 'I was just reading.' She couldn't help covering her breasts with her arms; she tried to move her thighs together without making the leather creak beneath her. She knew she was blushing.

'Of course,' Barat said. He smiled briefly, but his demeanour was serious. 'Nicole is here with me. She has your robe ready. It's time for a little lunch, and then we'll start testing you again. Master Robert has returned today, and he wants to see how you are progressing. So please, Olena,' Barat added, looking very earnest, 'do try to think pure thoughts today. I very much want to show him that you can be good. What have you been reading?'

'Oh, nothing much,' Olena said, hurrying to stand and escape from the booth. 'Several varied texts.'

Barat stood aside to allow Olena to pass. She found Nicole waiting, and struggled into the familiar protective cocoon of the robe. She turned, hoping to find that Barat had joined them and that they could leave the library quickly. But Barat was not in sight; he had entered the alcove in which Olena had been sitting.

During the ensuing silence Olena's heart sank. Barat would find the books she had been reading.

As she feared, Barat spoke from inside the cosy book-lined booth. His voice sounded strained. 'Nicole,' he called, 'I think you had better come here.'

Nicole pouted, gave Olena a conspiratorial look, and went to join Barat.

There was another silence. Olena was trembling with guilt. She heard Barat and Nicole speaking in low voices. She took a few steps towards the alcove, so that she could hear what they were saying.

'They're all like this,' Barat said. 'She's spent hours in here and she's read nothing but depravity and filth.'

'It's not just that,' Nicole replied. 'I am sorry to have to draw your attention to such a thing, but look at the condition of the seat. This was where she was sitting; you can see that plainly. The leather is still warm. And look -just here - you'll see it's darker. And it's still wet.'

Olena gasped, and started to sob silently. She felt bitter tears pooling in her eyes. She had guessed what mark of her sin Nicole had found on the seat. She felt as though she could shrivel into nothing, so complete was her shame. She wanted the floor to open beneath her feet and swallow her.

T don't know what to do,' Barat said, and the despair in his voice almost broke Olena's heart. T had no idea her sinfulness was this ingrained. She will have to be punished again before we can take the chance of testing her in the presence of Master Robert.'

'Of course,' Nicole said. 'We can see to that immediately. But don't worry, Barat. I am sure that Olena's heart is not entirely black. We may have to spend a very long time teaching her, but everyone in the Chateau will help you. Come; let's undress her again and spank her here. If we sit beside each other on one of these leather seats, you can hold her head in your lap and comfort her while I smack her bottom.'

'Very well,' Barat said.

The deportment class was one of the most basic taught in the Chateau. Those attending were newcomers: guests, staff and slaves who had been at the Chateau for less than a month. Nothing that was taught was new to Jem; however, she approved of the dedication of the instructor, and it was something of a novelty for her to find herself demonstrating the simple principles of carriage and behaviour.

The room was a barrel-vaulted cellar, hung with huge mirrors that left room on the walls only for lamps casting a red glow. The instructor was a tall, thin woman with bleached, cropped hair, a tightly fitting leather costume, and a long, flexible dowel that Jem assumed could be used both as a pointer and as an instrument of correction.

'Yes? What is it?' the woman barked as Robert pushed

Jem into the room and on to her knees. 'Ah, Master Robert. This must be the slave you promised me. You may unleash her. I'll take good care of her, I assure you.'

Jem felt Robert unclip the leash from her collar. 'She's all yours, instructor,' he said. 'Don't forget to pass her on to Kadif when your lesson is ended. And Teresa,' he added, 'don't forget this little slut is as cunning as a weasel. Don't make any allowances.'

Robert left. Jem was suddenly, and for the first time that day, acutely aware of her nudity. Everyone else in the room was wearing something; some of the guests were even fully dressed. She had only her collar, the Chatelaine's make-up, and the stripes on her buttocks. Nonetheless, she kept her arms crossed behind her back, her knees apart, her chest out and her head lowered. This was, after all, a deportment class, and Jem knew how to present herself.

'You're late,' the instructor said. 'We've been waiting for you. Stand, come to me, and prepare yourself in the position for an unsupported punishment.'

Now this, Jem thought as she rose to her feet, is doubly unfair. It's not my fault that I'm late, and I don't know precisely what position it is I'm expected to adopt, given that I haven't attended this class at the Chateau. It's a safe bet the Chatelaine does things slightly differently here from the systems I set up at the House.

It was, however, gratifying and exciting to feel all eyes on her as she went to stand beside the instructor. She positioned her feet well apart, crossed her arms behind her back and, with her legs straight, bent forwards from the waist until her torso was almost horizontal. She remembered to lift her head and look straight forwards, as she had seen the Chateau-trained hold themselves.

It was a difficult stance to maintain. Her bottom was perforce thrust back, in order for her to keep her balance, and thus made a perfect target for the purposes of punishment. Her vulva was exposed, her labia parted, and Jem knew that even a glance would disclose that she was aroused. She was leaning forwards enough to let her breasts hang unsupported; the continuous slight tug of their weight meant that she couldn't forget how vulnerable they were.

She was facing the dozen or so students in the class. They were of all ages and both sexes, although Jem knew that they were very far from a representative sample of the population of the world beyond the Private House. The Chatelaine's standards were high, and every person in the room was at the very least physically attractive, whatever other talents he or she might have. And every one of them deserved or desired the particularly strict brand of discipline that was the speciality of the Chateau.

They were all staring at Jem, and she stared back. She selected a young man, blond and tall, who was wearing only a singlet and a pair of tight shorts, and who was standing straight in front of her. She caught his eye, smiled, and then looked down at his crotch. She saw the bulge in his shorts begin to swell and become more clearly defined. She looked up at his face again, and pouted her lips at him.

Jem felt cool hands on her back, and then touching the insides of her thighs. 'Not bad,' the instructor said grudgingly. 'Remain in that position, and I'll give you three for being late. I want the rest of you to watch closely. If she moves, she'll get another three. As I'm sure you're all aware by now, this level of discipline is the custom at the Chateau.'

Jem heard the song of the instructor's rod as it sliced through the air, steadying herself just in time to receive a stinging stroke across both buttocks.

'When ordered to stand in this manner,' the instructor told the class, 'you can expect to be punished on your rear, as this position is rarely used for any other purpose. Its advantages are, first, that it requires no furniture, fixings or framework: you can be punished anywhere. Second, it is uncomfortable to maintain for any length of time, and thus allows you to demonstrate your discipline and fortitude. Third, in keeping your balance you are required to keep your rear end thrust well back, so that you cannot avoid presenting yourself well for the punishment.'

The second stroke landed unexpectedly, and Jem almost jumped up as she felt the sudden line of fire on her bottom.

There are disadvantages, however. As you can see, although this slave has clearly been trained well to keep her back arched downwards when presenting herself, her rear is nevertheless not as uplifted as is the case with most of the punishment positions. Therefore I have a less than perfect view of the area I am punishing, and I am obliged to ensure that I aim my strokes low and slightly upwards. Second, this position is not suitable for punishments using heavy implements or the bare hand, as the force of the stroke can cause the slave to lose her balance. Therefore, when in this position, you can expect to be punished with a thin-edged instrument such as a cane or a whip.'

This time Jem was ready for the blow and felt a glow of satisfaction as the stinging pain appeared exactly where she had expected it, across the tops of the backs of her thighs.

'Stand,' the instructor said. 'Turn. Adopt the position again.'

Jem did as she was told, taking the opportunity to stretch her muscles before bending over again.

'You can see the marks of the rod,' the instructor said to the class, 'here, here, and here, appearing on both buttocks.'

Jem felt the tip of the wooden dowel pressing into her flesh, six times, and suddenly felt a wave of embarrassment. She remembered, for the first time in what seemed like hours, that she was - she had been - the Supreme Mistress of the Private House. As she was poked and prodded, as if she were an inanimate model, she realised the distance that she had allowed herself to fall.

'A pretty little rear end,' the instructor commented. 'Kadif will enjoy it. Notice, everyone, the difference between the marks of a whip and those of a thin wooden rod. The whip marks are beginning to fade, but even when fresh they are less distinct. I imagine that a thin leather strap was used to produce these results.'

To Jem's relief the tip of the dowel ceased to nudge her sore buttocks. But then, to her horror, she felt it touch the inside of her thigh; then it was between her labia, parting them and probing upwards.

'Although it's not germane to this lesson,' the instructor said, 'it is worth noting that this slave is in a state of sexual arousal. I've been told that this one is helplessly sluttish. She's as promiscuous as she is incorrigible, I believe. You probably can't tell, from where you're standing, but she's dripping wet. I'll collect some of her disgusting slime on my rod so you can all see.'

This will stop now, Jem told herself, and she took a deep breath in readiness to turn and vent her anger on the instructor and everyone in the room.

Then she remembered, and let her anger escape as a sigh. She had to take this. She had to bear it for five days, or she would remain here as a slave for ever. Not only that, but she had to submit willingly, without any show of resistance.