The Contract (11 page)

Over her shoulder she could hear his laboured breaths. "There," he hissed, creeping closer, brushing her raw flesh with his belly and chest. He encircled her like a great bear. His fingers moved again, sending shards of pleasure through her as he started to move. She thought each thrust was going to tear her apart; her fear ebbing and flowing with the waves of pleasure he was creating with his fingers.

"Move with me." He thrust deeper and deeper. "Come on!" He suddenly grabbed hold of the harness around her waist and jerked her back onto his body, impaling her again and again. She mewled in pain. "Move," he gasped and she had no choice but to follow his orders.

Her body seemed to have a will of its own, pressing and surging with each movement. She could sense he was close to release, her own excitement hovering unfulfilled between her legs and he drove deeper still until she thought he might kill her.

He snorted suddenly and drove so deep that she screamed out in terror. Deep inside she could feel the throb of his orgasm and on her back his breath in red hot ragged snorts.

Slumping down across her, he fought to get his breath. She tensed as he slid out from inside her leaving a sensation of rawness and heat. She pressed her face into the pillow. Her body had been abused and yet her mind longed for her own release. She bit into the cloth, tears prickling up behind her eyes as the guard clambered off from bed. The unfulfilled excitement in her belly ached like a tooth.

"How was she?" said a familiar voice.

Emily flushed scarlet as she heard Kai making her way into the cell. She didn't move or look round, her embarrassment too overwhelming.

"Not bad. When's the auction?" said the guard without emotion.

"Noon tomorrow, the boss wants it done quickly." Emily felt Kai's softer feminine hands on her back. "You haven't split her have you?" she said, opening Emily's buttocks to examine her.

"No, you know me. She's so ripe and wet – shame we couldn't have made up a threesome, but I'm off duty now -" He laughed dryly. "Do you know who'll be here tomorrow?"

Kai said nothing. Instead she pressed Emily down onto the bed. "She ought to go to sleep," she said almost in Emily's ear. "Big day tomorrow."

Emily relaxed her hips, and let her belly sink into the mattress. She closed her ears to what else they said. She wanted them to leave and stop talking about her as if she wasn't there. She screwed her eyes tight shut and tried to conjure up Peter Howard's face and the sound of his voice.

When she opened her eyes again the light in the cell had finally gone out and she was alone. Between her legs her backside felt red raw and worse still was the ache in her belly – she needed satisfaction. Her hands where still secured to the frame above her head so that she couldn't even touch herself.

She had never felt the need before, but now more than anything else, she wanted to slip her fingers down into the wet hot confines of her sex and stroke the little pleasure bud that the guard had brought to the very brink of release. She sighed – and within a few seconds was asleep – the ache unfulfilled.

It was late. Peter Howard was sitting in the wheelchair beside the computers he had had installed. He watched the screens, letting his mind wander free. On the side table was Magenta, still encased in its water-proof wrappings. He didn't want to connect it up until he was absolutely certain he had a way in. It would be disastrous if they discovered Magenta's presence before he was set up and ready.

He was completely exhausted, but he knew that sometimes solutions appeared best in the grey still area before sleep claimed him.

Emily Lawrence was at Deuvar.

The knowledge appalled him, but he didn't know exactly what to do about it. He was far too weak to consider a one-man rescue squad. Surely Johnson wouldn't use her for the purposes Deuvar had been designed for? It had to be a bluff to draw him out. Emily might be a prisoner there, but even Johnson wouldn't stoop so low as to break a girl against her will. Deuvar had their precious contract that all the girls had to sign before they gave themselves into Leonora's clutches. He couldn't imagine that Emily would sign herself away.

Peter ran his fingers through his thick wavy hair. He really ought to be in bed. Angela had left – he glanced at the bedside clock – almost an hour earlier. He grinned. What an unexpected find she had turned out to be. He'd never realised that physiotherapy could be so much fun.

He had screwed her over his bed, gagged and pressed down amongst the sheets with their tight hospital corners. He'd held her by her harness and applied the delightful little nipple clamps he had ordered along with a few other things. She had whimpered and struggled as he had forced his way into her without prelude.

As he had pushed his cock home he had felt her waiting lips fold gratefully around him. When he had taken his pleasure he had turned her over and tongued her to her own release, making her beg him for more.

He yawned and looked at the screens one last time. He needed to sleep and the ideas and solutions eluded him. Carefully he pushed himself to the bed and eased himself onto the sheets; they still smelt of Angela's body.

Max Fielding had settled himself in the main bar at Deuvar, watching the evening's entertainment with his arm around one of Leonora's girls. On stage a slim blonde girl was tied, belly down, across an ornate plinth. Dressed in a low cut leather Basque that nipped her tight, her sex was tipped up for the attentions of her mistress, who's expert tonguing made Max quiver.

All eyes where on the masked dominant woman's hands, where a tiny crop nestled, its handle formed into a thick black dildo. As the girl struggled and writhed the woman alternately beat and fucked her with the device.

The girl's lightly tanned skin was suffused by a shimmer of perspiration, her breasts pressed flat against the plinth. Her face was flushed, wild screams reduced to groans by the rubber gag she wore.

Business in the bar was brisk. Several of the clients, Max knew, had arrived that evening purely for the auction of Emily Lawrence the next day. Leonora was circulating amongst them – the perfect hostess. Distinguished well known public faces mingled with the anonymous rich without a second thought.

Under Leonora's management Deuvar had rapidly become one of the best known open secrets amongst the world's wealthiest and most influential individuals. At Deuvar no pleasure was too extreme – and almost no secret too big to keep.

On stage, the girl on the plinth was sobbing behind her gag, a trickle of creamy juice sliding provocatively down the inside of her thighs as her mistress drove the dildo home. The girl shuddered. Max turned away and made his way up to his suite. He had an important phone call to make.

His female companion lifted an eyebrow in question. Max smiled and ran a finger over her full scarlet lips. "I won't be long," he said. At the door he lifted a hand in farewell to Leonora who was in deep conversation with a Greek oil magnate who had arrived by helicopter. She barely acknowledged him as he hurried upstairs.

Johnson was sitting at home considering what he ought to do next. In front of him was the latest faxed report from his man at the hospital. It made disturbing reading. He glanced at it, poured himself a scotch over ice and then picked up the phone.

Hospitals were large anonymous places. People and names got lost in the system. He shouldn't have to check the information he had received for himself, but Johnson was the kind of man who found it very, very hard to believe that anyone could do a job as well as he could.

He tapped in the number and after two rings a polite female voice answered. "Good evening, St. Leonard's Hospital, how may I help you?"

Johnson looked at the sheet in front of him. "I wonder whether you could put me through to Hansard ward?"

There was the sound of a phone ringing and then another bright cheery female voice. After the social pleasantries Johnson said, "I wonder whether I could speak to Sister Angela Ruskin please. The night sister -"

There was moment's hesitation at the far end of the line. "I'm very sorry," said the young voice. "I'm afraid you must have the wrong ward. We haven't got a Sister Ruskin working here. Are you sure she works nights?"

"Yes," said Johnson slowly. "She was looking after Jack Roberts, the man who survived the plane crash."

The girl coughed. "We did have Mr Roberts on our ward, but I'm certain we haven't got a sister Ruskin. Would you like me to get Sister Thomson for you? She's been on this shift for years. I'm sure she'd know."

Before he could reply the girl moved away from the phone. A few seconds later the information was confirmed. No-one called Sister Ruskin worked or had worked on that ward.

Johnson didn't listen to any more. His witness, the man in the plane crash, had last been seen with a nursing sister in reception. The same nursing sister who had signed the release papers for Jack Roberts; the last men to see Peter Howard alive. A nursing sister who, it now appeared, did not exist.

Johnson had always believed that Peter Howard was working alone, a maverick with a healthy degree of self interest, a man with an eye for anarchy – now he wasn't so certain.

He had arranged for a diving team to try and locate the crashed plane within hours of the crash – they had turned up nothing. What if Max Fielding was wrong? What if Magenta was in the hands of someone who understood exactly what Peter Howard had been doing?

Thoughtfully he put the phone back in its cradle and stared into his glass. The ice cracked as he lifted the tumbler to his lips. He would get someone to chase up the mythical nursing sister, some-one had to know who it was.

Standing in silence by the hearth was Johnson's slave girl. She watched him with those uncanny ginger eyes, totally motionless except for the rise and fall of her breasts. Tonight she was wearing a sheer white silk blouse and long skirt. Beneath he knew she was naked, the enticing curves of her dark breasts pressed invitingly against the blouse. The clothes did not disguise the fact that she was a wild creature; if anything they highlighted her feral nature, as if some narrow minded missionary had thrust her into them to attempt to hide her natural eroticism.

"Lift your skirt."

It was time for her evening beating. He would make it a good one tonight. He took another cigar from the box on his desk.

Wordlessly the girl's fingers began to work on the fabric, gathering it up to reveal more and more of her long muscular legs. Her sex seemed to crouch between her thighs, sprung and ready for what was to follow. She caught up the material in one fist and slipped her fingers into the coarse hair, opening the lips to reveal the scarlet interior – a gaping orchid that smelt of the sea and the sky. Her clitoris was large, an acorn that nestled amongst the tantalising petals.

He watched as she passed over it, circling and caressing. It flushed shades darker as the sensations coursed through her body.

As she worked, a delicate beading of sweat lifted on her top lip. Her nipples hardened dramatically and pressed through the sheer fabric of her blouse. All the time her eyes never left his. Her lips parted, tongue peeping out, as the waves of delight got closer and closer together.

The smell of female sex, musky and animalistic, floated towards him, making his mouth water. The girl's eyes glittered as her orgasm approached and she moaned softly…

"Stop," snapped Johnson as he sensed that she was teetering on the brink of total release. Her eyes flashed furiously for an instant.

"Come here!"

She approached the table with the grace of a big cat, the smell of her intensifying with every step.

When he had beaten her thoroughly, he indicated the desk and she lay across it on her back, holding tight to her skirt, revealing that wild place between her thighs.

He took a final glance at his whisky and then poured it, ice and all, over the open lips of her sex. She flinched as it flooded over her, the ice biting and chilling as it ran.

He snorted and lunged forward to bury his tongue deep inside her, his fingers plunging inside, forcing the remains of the ice into her feral arcane quim. She mewled as he found the pleasure places, lifting to encourage her master to make every use of her.

He drank in the fragrance and the juices, a heady cocktail of excitement and sharp bitter alcohol. It was a matter of seconds before he felt her orgasm, her sex flooding with a thick milky substance that electrified his taste buds. She began to tremble as he pulled away and wiped his mouth.

"Roll over!"

She moved without a word, her skirt still clutched into an untidy bunch. With her bottom tipped towards him, her sex gaping in anticipation of his cock as he took a hand full of ice chips from the bucket on his desk and pushed them up inside her. She snorted and writhed but did not deny him. The heat from her body began to melt the ice on contact. The moisture, combining with her juices, trickled down her scarified thighs.

Slowly he undid his trousers and guided his aching cock into her; gasping at the contrast of fire and ice he found inside.

She arched up to meet him and he forced her down onto the table, grabbing her breasts through the thin fabric of her blouse, ripping away the material until he found his prize. He tore at her erect nipples, twisting and gouging as she thrashed beneath him. As he felt the hot rhythmic pulse threatening deep in his groin he sank his teeth into her shoulder and let go of every thought except pleasure.

Angela brought a very late breakfast in on a tray.

Peter had slept all night and most of the morning. The sun was high. He finally felt rested and his body was beginning to feel more like the familiar machine which he knew, and if not exactly loved, then certainly less abused. After breakfast he did a little gentle physio, watched over by his resident nurse, rather fetchingly attired in a caftan that suggested she was naked beneath. When he'd finished she knelt at his feet and gently began to massage his aching legs. She pushed her hair back off her face and handed him a towel.