Free One Week in the Private House by Esme Ombreux Page B

approaching the edge of the estate. Better take off that silly jumpsuit you're wearing - not the right sort of get-up at all.'
    Jem was getting used to undressing on demand. She unbuckled her safety belt, tore apart the strips of Velcro, and wriggled out of the flying suit. Naked but for the crash helmet and a pair of sandals, she strapped herself into her seat, crossed her legs, and turned to look at the pilot. Her gaze met eyes as blue as hers. His face looked weather-beaten, and his thin lips were set in a half-smile that appeared habitual.
    'You're Terence Headman,' Jem exclaimed, the words blurting from her lips as soon as the idea had sprung into her mind.
    'As my guest, Jem, you have certain privileges,' said the amused voice in her ears, 'but at the Private House I am Mr Headman at the very least, and usually addressed simply as "Master". Is that understood?'
    'Sure. I mean, yes, Master. So is that the Private House?'
    The helicopter was swooping over the moss-encrusted slates of a Jacobean country house surrounded by a walled garden.
    'That is one aspect of the Private House, certainly. Don't cross your arms; I want to be able to see your breasts. That's better. That property is the health club known as the Private House; it occupies one corner of the estate. I believe it was once a gate-house.
    'So all of this is still your spread, er, Master?'
    indeed it is. It extends almost as far as you can see in all directions, and it includes woods, pasture, a few farms, various other buildings and, of course, the House itself. You can see the rooftops over that avenue of oaks.'
    'Are we going to land there?'
    'No, the airfield is further west. Jem, you must learn to sit properly. You are a delightfully attractive young woman, and clearly very talented, but I expect more than just a pretty face and a ready wit. You are here at my pleasure, Jem, and I expect you to take the trouble to look sexually provocative at all times. There is no turning back now. Understood?'
    'Yes, your Mastership.'
    'Very well then. Back straight; head up; hands together at the back of your neck. Chest out; tummy in; legs apart - more than that - and feet pointing down with toes touching the floor, so that your thighs are clear of the seat. That's much better. Now stay like that until we land. And no more talking!'
    The landing-strip was lined with aircraft and vehicles. Along one side of the tarmac, ranged in front of a complex of modern buildings, were several Land Rovers, a Porsche, various estate cars, two Cessna light aeroplanes, and commercial vehicles in a range of sizes; on the other, symbolically separated from the up-to-date machines and nearer to the site of the House, was a working museum of antique cars and lorries, including a 1930s Bentley sports car, a vintage Rolls-Royce, and a number of trucks that would have been obsolete in the Second World War.
    Jem was helped from the helicopter by a young man in chauffeur's livery who removed the crash helmet from her head. With some difficulty, because of the swirling winds caused by the still-spinning rotor, he wrapped a long black cloak around her, and led her into the glass-fronted reception hall and the waiting arms of Terence Headman.
    Jem, feeling suddenly very small and helpless, looked up into Headman's ice-blue eyes. He smells nice, she thought, and he's got strong arms and a very tasteful silk tie and black hair which is going a little grey at his temples which are attractively high and very white teeth . ..
    'Jem,' Headman said, 'kiss me.'
    Jem lifted her head anci pressed her open mouth against his lips. His tongue touched hers just as his left hand moulded itself round her right breast; she pressed her body against his, and shivered as his thumb flicked back and forth across her nipple. He raised his head and spoke to the chauffeur above Jem's tousled curls.
    'You received the fax? And the video transmission of Jem's audition?'
    For a fleeting moment Jem wanted to protest, but