Master of the House (28 page)

Even with the talc, donning the rubber dress was a struggle. Once it was on, I enjoyed the feeling of being held in tight and kept in place. It was so thin that my nipples showed through, and so figure-hugging that the contours of my pubic triangle and the cleft of my bottom could be clearly traced. But it was the least obscene option and I had to stick with it.

I put my hair into a tight bun and washed off my wedding make-up, replacing it with something infinitely sluttier. Wet red lips and cat’s eyes stared back from the grubby mirror. Did I look like him? Perhaps, a little.

I returned to the bedroom and Joss, fussing with belt buckles, looked up and gave a low whistle.

‘If I wasn’t so bloody nervous I’d have you up against the wall here and now,’ he said.

This was a good sign. Joss’s libido was still in fine fettle. It made me think everything might be all right.

‘I want to know what rubber and leather feel like against each other,’ I said, crossing the room towards him, but he hopped back, holding up a hand.

‘I’m not taking that risk. I’m not handing you over to your father smelling of red-hot sex, thanks. Let’s get the family bonding over with first. Once we’re back here, though, all bets are off.’

‘Like my knickers,’ I said.

He doubled over and moaned, ‘Shut uuuuup.’

I took pity on him and sat down on the bed.

‘Sorry. That was naughty of me.’

‘Yes, it was. And don’t think you’ll get away with it either.’

He finished with the belts and something about the way he pulled them tight gave me the distinct idea I might get to feel them on my bottom before the night was done.

The thought made my insides shiver with pleasurable fear. It was a lot better than the plain fearful fear I was feeling about meeting Voronov.

Joss, in his black silk shirt, tight leather jeans and boots shiny enough to see your reflection in was as mouth-watering as I’d ever seen him.

He went to the dresser and ran a comb through his hair with some gel, slicking it back, giving him a louche and disreputable look that made him even sexier somehow.

‘I wouldn’t care if it all came crashing down,’ I said, watching at him pouting at himself in the mirror. ‘As long as I was with you.’

He swivelled on his heel, looking for a minute as if he thought I was lying, his expression watchful and sharp.

‘Do you mean that?’

‘I absolutely mean it.’

He came to sit beside me, threading his fingers in mine.

‘I feel the same,’ he said. ‘I was thinking about it before you came tonight. What would I say if Voronov offered me the leasehold back, in return for you. I’d give him the house, lock, stock and barrel rather than let him … Not that it’s an option now, of course. But all the same. I would.’

‘It’s all that matters,’ I said. ‘You and me.’

‘“She’s all states, and all princes, I;/Nothing else is./Princes do but play us; compared to this,/All honour’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.”’

The clock showed five to ten.

We kissed, taking care not to smudge my lipstick, and sprayed each other with scent. Before leaving the room, Joss put on a pair of thin black leather gloves and stuck a riding crop in his belt loop.

At the door to the east wing, we stood, hand in hand. I was wearing some high-heeled black pumps that weren’t the easiest to totter about in. I’d practised, but the general wobbliness of my legs did little to help my poise. Joss kept his spine straight and stiff, his chin up high. He raised his hand and knocked, a rhythm that sounded like a signal.

His fingers tightened around mine, crushing them. His hand felt damp.

‘It’ll be OK,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t worry.’

We stood there like that until my knees were just about ready to give way, then footsteps were heard tapping along the corridor beyond, swift and light; a woman’s, I thought.

I was right.

The door was opened by a young woman with a mane of dark hair and very little in the way of clothing. A tulle tutu, a pair of sparkling nipple pasties and some ribbon-tied ballet shoes were about it. Oh, and a diamond collar round her neck.

‘Do I have the honour of speaking to Lord Lethbridge?’ she asked, and when he confirmed this, she dropped into a deep curtsy. She was so graceful I was sure she really was a ballerina.

‘This is Lulu,’ he said, putting a hand in the small of my back. There was no way I could curtsy in the rubber dress, or do much more than nod a greeting.

She nodded back, but there was distinctly less in the way of deference – almost a lip curl, in fact.

‘And you are?’ asked Joss.

‘When I am here, I am nameless,’ she said. ‘I am a thing to be used, sir.’

‘I see. Well, may I use you to lead us to your master?’

‘Of course, sir. For anything at all.’

She turned and I took the opportunity to give Joss a sideways raised-eyebrow look. I knew from the ball that the done thing was to appear unfazed by the most assumption-challenging sights and words, but I still found it hard at times.
A thing to be used.
Why would a person want to describe herself as such?

The east wing was in noticeably better condition than the rest of Willingham Hall. Voronov had had interior decorators in and everything was sharp and sparkly and pristine. The east wing was the house on top form – the rest of it was in a depressive slump. Just as Joss had been when I met him, I supposed.

Ballerina took us through a beeswax-smelling room and up some thickly carpeted stairs. Nothing was dusty, nothing threadbare. I could see the lower curves of her bottom through the layers of tulle. There was a tiny tattoo of some initials on both cheeks, with crossed canes above.

I couldn’t take my eyes off these and almost shoved into the back of her when she stopped suddenly and turned to a side door. Joss pulled me back to his side and put one hand at the back of my neck. Ready for formal introductions.

He was breathing fast and audibly. I kept my arms down by my sides, rigid with nerves.

Ballerina opened the door and stepped into the room.

‘Lord Lethbridge and his submissive,’ she announced.

I wasn’t even worthy of a name, apparently.

She scampered off somewhere to the side of the room, leaving us to try and make as stately an entrance as we could accomplish while trying to take in our surroundings.

We took three steps forwards, and I was in the midst of scanning the row of people in ornate wing-backed chairs, looking for Voronov, when Joss pushed the hand that was on my neck forcefully downwards, indicating that I should kneel.

I did so, clasping my hands instinctively behind my back and casting my eyes to the floor. All the same I tried to flick them upwards to fix the scene satisfactorily in my mind.

There were about half a dozen seated people, and a further four at their feet, kneeling in the same position as me. Of the seated people, four were men, two women. The submissives were three women to one man.

It was easy to work out which was Voronov. He sat in the centre, on the biggest, most ornate chair – more like a throne than anything domestic – wearing the sharpest suit and exuding the most compelling presence.

This was my father. It seemed impossible. He looked nothing like me, his colouring pale and arctic in contrast to my dark hair and eyes. My mother’s hair. My mother’s eyes. I could say now that I took after her – I’d never quite been able to do this with authority.

He was tall and very angular, in his late forties with distinguished silvering hair. He deflected all attention away from the others in the room, despite their more unconventional dress. He had effortless charisma. Of course, I knew that from the last time we had met, and my skin crawled at the thought of what might have happened that night. Thank God it hadn’t.

He was stunningly attractive now, so heaven knew what he must have been like as a young man. Beautiful, I thought, but in an unearthly kind of way. An angel. My poor mum would have stood no chance.

‘Thank you for joining us,’ he said. I remembered his voice, and especially his accent, not heavy but distinctive. I’d found it sexy at the time.

‘Thank you for inviting us,’ replied Joss politely.

I wondered if I should speak up now, or … The time didn’t seem right. And in front of all these people. No. I would wait until I could speak with him privately.

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘When I heard you had a new submissive, I was curious. I wanted to meet her, and to see you with her. I think it will be the highlight of our little party. What is her name?’

I trembled. Was he going to give my full name?

‘Lulu,’ he said.

‘She wears no collar,’ Voronov noted.

‘Not yet.’

‘But she will?’

‘Oh, yes. But she isn’t fully trained yet.’

‘I see. You will have to show us how far you have taken her. But not yet. We will leave it until later. Take a seat.’

He waved at one empty place at the end of the row.

I had to crawl after Joss which, taken together with the training comment, made me feel like a dog. I knelt between his knees, facing out into the room, while he kept a hand on my shoulder. If Voronov had recognised me, he hadn’t said so – but when we had met before I had been wearing a trouser suit, minimal make-up and my hair loose. It was perfectly possible that this unusual context for our meeting had rendered me unrecognisable.

‘Lord Lethbridge is not our only new member tonight,’ proclaimed Voronov. ‘Sasha, you have brought a new submissive with you. Introduce us, please, and Lulu can see what to expect when we put her through her paces.’

Sasha, a short, boxy woman in her mid-thirties with a dark crop of hair, strode out into the middle of the room, her grey skirt suit a little too tight for comfort. You’d think she had come for a sales meeting rather than a kinky night out, were it not for her numerous facial piercings.

‘This is Puss. Here, Puss.’ She clapped her hands to attract another woman, who crawled to her feet. The woman wore a fishnet body stocking with holes at the crotch, buttocks and breasts. She was collared, leashed and gagged with a shiny red rubber ball. The lead dragged behind her as she made her laborious way across the shiny floorboards.

She knelt up on reaching Sasha and waited for the next command.

‘How did you two come to meet?’ asked Voronov.

‘Oh, the usual,’ said Sasha, patting Puss’s head. ‘She joined Kinky Cupcake and begged me for a place in my stable. Begged long and hard. I was always going to take her, but I enjoy the begging, so I kept her on tenterhooks for a full month before I agreed to train her. Made her do all kinds of things to prove her commitment, didn’t I, Puss?’ Sasha loosened the gag.

‘Yes, mistress.’

‘What kind of things?’ Voronov wanted to know.

Sasha spoke in a flat, estuarine accent that seemed at odds with the highly spiced words coming from her mouth. She seemed altogether so
ordinary
that it made her stories all the more erotic somehow. Tales of sexual humiliation and debauchery as told by a London cabbie.

‘Well, there was one time,’ she began, ‘I made her come into the café with her shirt open and the word “slut” written on her boobs in black felt tip. That was nice, wasn’t it, Puss? And I made her go down to the vaults and offer a blow job to the first man she saw. She did it, no questions asked. Then, the night I took her on in the end, I invited her to a party at my place. She had to serve all the food and drinks, totally naked, then she had to lick everyone out, even the subs. Every last one of us. A good dozen girls, there were. She came through it, let us all spank her as well. I knew I had a good un.’

‘She sounds perfect,’ said Voronov. ‘And she is now fully trained?’

‘Oh, yeah. The business.’

‘Stand her up. Show her.’

‘Nine,’ said Sasha, and I almost got to my feet myself, so strong was my Pavlovian response to these numbers now.

But Joss’s hand kept me still and I watched Puss rise to a graceful inspection position instead.

Sasha made her open her mouth and show her teeth, cup her own breasts and pinch her nipples. This was what I would have to do, if I were truly here as a new submissive. The thought of doing it in front of all these people made me cringe, but I was also excited, for Puss and for the phantasmic me, ordered to abase myself.

I would only take such orders from Joss, though. The rest of the crew could forget it.

Puss was made to turn around and bend over for everyone to admire her bottom, and her spread lower lips. Nothing of her was hidden. She had become the sum of her sexual parts and any other facet of her was irrelevant.

Poor Puss. Lucky Puss.

My mind could not quite plump for one over the other.

‘Very nice,’ said Voronov. ‘And now we can inspect them more closely. Come over here.’

Puss approached his throne and stood, near impassive, while Voronov gave her a thorough touching up. He squeezed her breasts, rubbed her pussy, then turned her round and smacked her bottom once before sending her along the line.

Each dominant man or woman pawed Puss in every possible way. Some of them pushed fingers inside her, some of them spread her cheeks to take a long hard look at her anus, or even pressed their fingers up against it. No part of her was private – she was the property of Sasha and, by extension, the group.

This initiation was what they had planned for me, too. I felt a little faint at the thought.

Eventually, she arrived in front of Joss and me.

Her shaved pubic triangle was in front of my face. I could smell her juices, her arousal. She was definitely enjoying this, even though her expression was stony blank.

Joss’s gloved hand reached past my head to stroke her flank. I saw her give a little twitch, a quiver. Perhaps, like me, she loved the feeling of leather against her skin. He bent forwards and I heard his trousers creaking, so he could slip his hand around to cup a buttock. It made her totter closer to me, so my face was almost rubbing her crotch.

‘Mm, spread your feet a little wider,’ he said softly.

It was too much to process. Joss was paying sexual attention to another woman, but I didn’t feel at all threatened. I knew he was doing it to fit in, to keep the game going.