The Contract (19 page)

Behind the two way mirror the invited audience began to thin. The performance as far as they were concerned was over, there were other delights to be sampled and relished over at the main house.

Max Fielding stayed in his seat, however. He suspected, as he watched the girl allow Franz to re-collar her, that she had been completely broken. Her addiction to submission had begun. For Max this was almost better than the wild frantic threshings of her deflowering.

Without any prompting Emily Lawrence sank to her knees and pressed her lips to Franz's feet, the brand mark a livid terrifying reminder of her new found role. Behind her, Naomi Haroldson wore an expression of triumph on her stunning features.

The door to the mirrored room opened and two servants brought in trays and jugs. Max knew the next part of Naomi's favoured initiation and it was one which, he believed, revealed more about the new slave than almost any other.

Franz snapped a plaited leash into Emily's collar while Naomi laid a thick towel over the plinth. Franz lay back in comfort, bringing the new girl to heel beside him. He smiled and closed his eyes, awaiting the ministrations of the two women.

Naomi handed Emily a sponge and, without another word, the girl began to wash her new master, lovingly attending to every inch of his body. She soaped his chest, running her long fingers through the hair where it curled between his nipples. The soft sponge was followed by her lips, pressing kisses of obedience and submission onto his slick golden skin.

Unconsciously Max got to his feet, moving closer to the glass, and stared at the girl. She was worshipping Franz with every sinew of her body. When she came to his shaft she hesitated for an instant, as if afraid. She glanced towards Franz to be reassured and then began to soap the flaccid cock.

Working her hands back and forth, cupping his balls, gently taking the foreskin with its intimidating silver ring back and forth, she seemed totally absorbed. The beast began to stir in her fingers, swelling and blossoming as she worked it more confidently. Slowly, on her knees, she moved closer, rinsing the dark purple head lovingly.

Max held his breath as she planted an experimental kiss on its angry crown and then drew Franz's cock into her mouth. Her lips closed around him, sucking and tonguing eagerly. Franz smiled and lifted himself a little, relishing the girl's attentions. Even from behind the glass Max could hear Emily making soft noises of excitement. Franz tugged a little on the lead, instantly Emily pulled away, eyes bright.

"Give yourself to me," he said, in a voice barely above a whisper. Emily swallowed nervously, glancing at the meaty bulk of his pierced cock. Franz tugged the lead again and the girl climbed slowly across his narrow hips. The muscular Nordic giant cupped the base of his cock between his fingers, pulling it upright for the girl to mount. Max could sense Emily's apprehension as she eased herself, a fraction of an inch at a time, onto Franz's shaft.

From where Max stood he could see the stunning image of Franz's phallus gliding into the girl's open quim. The lips of her sex closed around him, a wet, glittering seal of excitement fastening tight around him. For a second or two she was still, holding herself almost unnaturally upright. Franz shortened the lead, wrapping it around his meaty fist, and lifted his hips, pressing himself deep into her. Emily let out a mewl that betrayed both her fear and her desire. Franz's face contorted into a grin of pleasure as, tentatively she started to move, grinding her sex into him.

Max hissed with delight. Emily Lawrence had surrendered.

Johnson's car purred into the drive at Deuvar. The night was dark, frost glistening in the headlights.

Johnson stretched. "All we have to do now is wait," he said, almost to himself. Beside him, his slave girl's face was impassive, her ginger eyes staring out into the darkness as if she could see beyond the shadows with those compelling cat's eyes.

He glanced at his watch. If everything had been going to schedule Emily had already been deflowered. A small price to pay for his betrayal. He was pleased that she had been so eager to take on Peter's imaginary debt. It would have been messy if they had had to abduct her.

Certain now that Peter was alive, convinced that he would eventually read his computer message, Johnson was confident that soon he would have Magenta back in his possession.

After all, he reasoned, a man who was sentimental enough to wait until his wedding night to deflower his girl friend was surely foolish enough to trade her for a piece of computer hardware.

When he had Magenta in his grasp – Johnson considered the possibilities as the chauffeur opened the car door – Peter Howard would offer no further threat. He would be no real risk unless he had had a chance to duplicate Magenta and Johnson's computer experts assured him that the system had not been breached.

Without Magenta, Peter would be totally expendable. But Johnson was not by nature a violent man; without the key to the computer system Peter Howard would be totally powerless. Perhaps he would be generous and let the two of them walk away.

Johnson stepped out of the car, pulling his coat tight around him. The only problem was that his associates, the dictators and invisible influential people he served, might not be so easy to appease.

The slave girl uncurled herself and fell into step behind her master. She was taller than Johnson by a head, dressed in a fine purple wool cape that covered her from head to foot. Beneath, he knew, she was naked except for a leather thong that ran around her waist and between her legs, pressing up into those wild inviting places that offered so much pleasure.

Johnson held a suite of rooms at Deuvar on stand-by, always ready for his use. Under the mansion's impressive portico Leonora was waiting for his arrival. She looked cold, as if she had been there some time. Johnson waited for her to greet him – after all, she was an employee. When the social pleasantries had been attended to, he looked over towards the Haroldson's cottage.

"How did it go with Emily Lawrence?"

Leonora smiled. "Very well, though I haven't seen the video tape yet."

Johnson nodded. "Perhaps you will be good enough to arrange for it to be sent to my suite when it's ready, and could you send up some supper for us?"

Leonora nodded. "Of course. Anything else?"

Johnson allowed himself a narrow smile. "I'm expecting a visitor. When he arrives please send him up."

"Anyone I know?" said Leonora, leading the way into the main hall.

"Peter Howard," said Johnson, flatly. "Please ring to let me know when he gets here." He saw the surprise register on Leonora's face.

"Peter – but I thought -"

Johnson dismissed her with a wave of his hand. "He's very much alive and I have every reason to believe he will soon be on his way to Deuvar."

He let Leonora guide him to his suite. His slave girl walked behind, as graceful as a jungle cat. He noticed the way the other guests glanced in their direction, surreptitious glances of admiration and envy. Johnson glanced at his watch, wondering how long it might be before Peter Howard appeared.

Upstairs in the opulent suite Johnson poured himself a drink from the tray in the sitting-room and settled himself in a leather armchair near the window. The curtains had been left open so that he could watch the night. Outside the moon was dark. Johnson sipped his scotch, wishing for an instant that he had his slave girl's cat's eyes.

She had disrobed, sloughing her cloak like an unwanted skin. Barefoot, she padded around the main rooms unpacking his clothes and briefcase into the appropriate places. He had planned to wait upstairs for Peter Howard but watching her – so unconscious of her breathtaking nakedness – made him consider another alternative. The admiring glances she had received in the foyer interested him. He toyed with the idea of joining the guests downstairs.

While he drank his coffee she glanced at him, almost as if she could read the way his thoughts were working. The thong she wore divided the lips of her sex, the plaited leather buried in amongst the dark nest of hair in her groin. He beckoned to her and slipped his hand into his jacket pocket to produce a matching leather leash. She moved closer, kneeling down so that he could snap it into her collar.

Her eyes glittered for an instant as she looked up at him, and there was fear in them.

Her evening beating was due, and he seemed unusually tense.

When he was tense he would use her to relieve his feelings…

"Can you tell me what it is you're doing? Can I help?"

Angela had made coffee and was watching whilst Peter ploughed his way through line after line of computer code. He heard her voice at a distance, all his consciousness on the act of breaking into Johnson and Fielding's well oiled computer system. Beads of sweat had lifted on his forehead as he got closer and closer to the centre of the complex puzzle.

Beside him, now attached by a series of wires, the lights on the front of Magenta's control console had begun to flash in time with a corresponding series of lights on the screen. The little box purred like a cat, occasionally breaking into bursts of staccato white noise.

Angela touched him on the shoulder.

"Peter?"

He glanced across at her. She was wearing a dressing gown, open at the front to reveal the dark outlines of the leather harness he had instructed her to wear.

"You've been at this for hours. You've got to have a break."

He snorted. "I thought this was what you wanted from me? Break Johnson and Fielding."

"You're not strong enough for this yet. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Peter accepted the coffee mug she offered him and took a long swig. The bitter taste helped to clear his head.

"I knew that once I'd got in I would have to keep going. I won't get a second chance. This has got to be done in one go." He glanced at the digital clock displayed in the top left hand corner of the computer screen. "It's night time, they'll probably only have a watchman crew on security. The real computer boffins will all be at home watching TV." He pressed another key and beside him Magenta began to hum again.

He could sense Angela's anxiety but dismissed it almost at once. She was so close that he could smell the compelling scent of her sex. He was tempted to dismiss the puzzle and turn his attentions to her instead. She was contrite, anxious to please. He let his mind toy with the possibilities.

He had always liked the smell of leather, and imagined Angela in a full body suit, the intense odour of the supple hide mingling with the scent of her sweat and her excitement. Her ripe body would look stunning outlined and constricted by the tight contours of the leather. In his mind's eye her nipples protruded like ripe grapes through the little apertures cut in the leather. He would close his teeth, biting down until he could hear her hot desperate sobs from behind the mask.

The legs of the imaginary suit were divided like chaps, exposing both her quim and the curving rise of her buttocks. He would take a lipstick, outlining the outer lips of her sex until they glowed with a carmine intensity. A mouth, a dark stunning mouth that compelled him to kiss and drink from it.

Peter could almost taste Angela's juices flooding his mouth, trickling down onto his chin. As she started to twitch he imagined pulling away and driving an ice phallus deep into her. She would throw back her head in a silent scream. She couldn't see him, could barely hear him. He grinned and in his imagination drove it further into her quim. Ice and fire -

As the fantasy took on a life of its own the distant computer terminal asked him for a password. He typed it in and smiled wryly. Passion would have to wait a little longer. He had successfully made it through another layer of the complex pattern which he had devised. The only thing that really concerned him was that once he was into the heart of the machine, Johnson and Fielding's team would be able to track him, and trace where he was working from.

Should he tell Angela that with every key stroke he was laying an electronic trail that Johnson and Fielding's men could trace?

He could still taste her body. He rubbed his eyes, took another mouthful of coffee and tried to concentrate on the complex puzzle the machine had set for him.

Just two more layers and he would be in the heart of Johnson and Fielding's secret business empire. This was the computer equivalent of a secure bank vault, where electronic safety deposit boxes held details of deals, bank accounts, illegal trading, naming names and potentially having the explosive political power to topple empires.

Behind the innocuous sequences of numbers, organised crime laundered its money and dictators bought and sold arms under the discreet window dressing provided by Johnson and Fielding's financial consortium.

Another screen unfolded. Peter typed in yet another password. Behind him he heard Angela gasp as a list of familiar names moved up across the screen; well known names, names of politicians and men in power. Peter ignored her and pressed towards the last level. In the final level he could recreate Magenta, create a second key. Finally the screen displayed the message he had been searching for. A simple little display message: "Reproduce Magenta?"

He pressed yes and keyed in the words that would begin the sequence. Magenta began to whirr beside him, sounding as if it was frantically trying to set the pace for the figures and codes on the machine.

Peter swung his wheelchair round. "We're in!"

Angela's colour drained dramatically. "But you said that if you copied it they would know. What the hell are you going to do? Cover your tracks? You said yourself Johnson and Fielding wouldn't exchange Emily for Magenta. Peter, what exactly are you doing?" She peered at the screen. "Will you send it to the people you work for?"

Peter drained the last dregs of the coffee in his mug. "This will have to be one of those moments when you trust me. We need to get to Deuvar."