The Contract

by Sarah Fisher

  He grinned at her discomfort. "We can do anything we like now. Leonora won't say a word, she'll be only too happy to let us loose on you. Trying to escape is going to get a lot of people into trouble. Do you know what Leonora will do to Kai? She trusted Kai."

  Emily bit her lip, imagining the Oriental girl's face. The guard stepped closer. She could feel the meaty bulk of his swollen cock pressing against her belly. He rubbed himself against her, rubbing his hardened phallus lower and lower towards the delicate silver ring. His gaze was steely.

  "She'll whip her until she can barely stand. Kai had earned herself a good position here. Thanks to you all that's gone out of the window. There are a few of the clients who think Kai's got too big for her boots. They've been waiting for a moment like this. Up until now she used her position to get out of having to service them, not now, they'll fuck her every way, baby. She'll hate you -"

  Emily started to sob, her arm muscles screaming as they strained against the manacles. "I didn't mean to," she whimpered. "I didn't want to get Kai into trouble."

  The guard snorted. "Talking too, breaking the silence rule. You're getting yourself into deep deep water, baby." He paused and ran a speculative finger down over one of her nipples. "Did you like what I gave you last night? I was telling my friend here how I had you baying for more. Wasn't I, Gus?"

  Wide-eyed, Emily looked over towards the other guard. The man leered at her and began to undo his trousers. Emily screamed as the first guard pulled her close and kissed her. His hands moved lower, jerking her buttocks apart.

  "Scream all you like. No one is going to come running to rescue you. I'm going to hold you open for my friend, Gus. By the way, my name is Birdie. You and I are going to be friends for a very long time. When the Haroldson's have done with you – and when they've done, you'll know all about it – I'm going make sure I'm the one who brings you back here and then I'm going to fuck you so hard -" He jerked her tight against him, pressing her breasts into his chest, pulling her forward so that her backside was pushed out.

  She felt the second guard moving round her, his hands dragging up the skimpy ragged shift. She froze as she felt something slick and warm glide over the cheeks of her bottom. The man's fingers stroked over the bud of her anus, rubbing lubricant into her most secret recesses. She screamed as she felt him trying to get into her without prelude and her mind went blank as he pressed his cock home.

  Birdie laughed and held her tight against him as she sobbed and struggled, smoothing her ruined hair with one large paw while he pressed his lips to hers. "Scream all you like, babe. no-one's going to come and rescue you."

  Chapter 8

  Two video tapes had arrived by special courier at Johnson and Fielding offices, marked for Johnson's eyes only.

  One was from Deuvar, an interesting compilation that showed Emily Lawrence's fate at the hands of a guard at Deuvar and of course her piercing and the auction.

  Johnson rewound it time and again so that he could savour the humiliation on the virgin who had been Peter Howard's darling. Her face delighted him with its subtle mixture of fear and expectation.

  The second tape came from St. Leonard's hospital and was from the security cameras in the main foyer on the day the man he sought was discharged. The film was grainy, much used and unclear. Johnson sighed as he watched the milling anonymous people moving back and forth across the screen. It had been a long shot… he stopped and stared at the monochrome image, pressing the pause button on the remote control.

  Almost straight in front of the camera was a man, hunched in a wheel chair, sitting by the reception desk, peering at the faces of the people who passed him by. Johnson leant closer and rewound the footage, re-playing it a frame at a time. He hissed. Despite the ill-fitting clothes, the face looked familiar. Very familiar. He pressed the intercom button on his desk.

  "Can you send someone up from the computer room. I need to have a video image enhanced."

  "Yes, Mr Johnson."

  Johnson let the images flicker past him again. Peter Howard! He was almost certain it was him. Frames passed until a nurse in a long cloak pushed the man away. A nurse who was fake. Johnson grinned and chose a cigar from the box on his desk.

  "You clever bastard, Peter, I knew you were alive," he hissed triumphantly. "I'm going to smoke you out of wherever you're hiding – and I know just how to do it."

  The computer picture seemed to bloom from a small centre, doubling the video image of the man in the wheel chair. Johnson moved to the computer operator's shoulder and peered at the screen. The technician slid the mouse across to a menu, selected a button, and the image sharpened.

  "Can you make it clearer?" He wanted to be one hundred percent certain, the hunch was not enough. The image blossomed again and he stepped back triumphantly.

  "Print it."

  He would have liked to see the face of the bogus nursing sister but it seemed that all he could get was a profile, in shadow, that didn't give him a clear indication of her features.

  When the image of Peter Howard unpeeled from the printer he handed the technician the second cassette. "I want you to transfer this on to the computer as well," he said flatly. "Load it up but don't look at it."

  The man at the desk nodded and slipped the cassette into the machine by his screen. When the images had been scanned into the computer, Johnson took the man's place at the keyboard and waved him away. He undid his filo-fax and took out a slip of paper. On it was written a single line of text and numbers. He had had Roderick Banyon's message to Peter Howard intercepted. He was certain now that Peter Howard had received it. Peter was a computer freak, there was no way he wouldn't try to find a way to pick up his messages. The single line of text was the computer equivalent of Peter's address: he could use it from anywhere, but he could not be traced by the person who received it.

  Johnson tapped in his message and then fed the video images in alongside the words. One image was of the enhanced picture of Peter Howard from St. Leonard's hospital, the second was the rather electrifying video sequence of Emily Lawrence at Deuvar.

  The pictures and his message would run along side each other as soon as Peter Howard picked up his computer mail.

  Angela had been gone a long time, thought Peter as he scrolled back and forth between the public home-pages of Johnson and Fielding's operation on the computer. He could have ordered stocks and bonds, life insurance – almost any financial service at the press of a button, if the fancy had taken him. He needed to delve deeper, get behind the public facade, but he was reluctant to begin.

  What he needed was patience. He had to be sure. Once he opened up the Pandora's box he would have committed himself to going on and on until he found the place in the system where he could replicate Magenta's complex patterning. Once he was in, it was possible that some sharp eyed programmer might detect his presence, sniff him out.

  At his contact's office in Switzerland it would have almost been child's play. All the technology he needed, the encrypting and encoding devices that would render his location an insoluble puzzle would have been in place. Breaking into the computer system in Angela Ruskin's cottage annex, with little more than the computer equivalent of a pen knife and a box of matches, was like tight rope walking without a net.

  He gnawed his thumb thoughtfully. Angela had left him some clothes for when he had had his shower. He felt nearly human again, dressed casually in sweat pants and a sweater. She had even provided socks. He grinned, bending slowly to pull them on.

  What if he waited until he was fit enough to travel?

  Switzerland was still an option. Angela would have some idea how long it would take him to regain his fitness. He glanced at the little dumb-bells and pulley she'd brought into help him with his physio. It might take weeks to get back to normal, but if he were just fit enough to travel it might be enough. He would be too conspicuous travelling in a wheel chair, and although he could walk he wouldn't trust his rogue legs to carrying him very far or be strong enough to get him
out of trouble.

  He was lacing up an oversized pair of trainers when the door to the annex opened. Angela, framed by a shaft of bright autumn sunlight, stepped into the room. The sun picked out her shapely frame in an enticing silhouette.

  "Where have you been?"

  Angela glided across the room. "Just making a few phone calls. I've sorted it all out. The hospital have given me leave of absence. So, Peter Howard, I'm all yours now."

  Peter patted the bed beside him. "Why don't you come over here, then?" he purred. She stepped over the threshold. He smiled and shook his head. "Take off your clothes first."

  Angela blushed. "What if someone comes to the door?"

  Peter shrugged and turned his attention back to the computer screens.

  "You said you wanted me to teach you."

  "I do," Angela whispered.

  Peter lifted an eyebrow. "So you say. You know the girls at Deuvar are broken for their masters. They are always available, always obedient." He glanced at Angela, her eyes betrayed a tiny glimmer of excitement. "Nothing is denied them. Nothing! Ever!"

  Angela's eyes flashed again and slowly she began to undo her blouse. When she undid her skirt and let it fall Peter shook his head.

  Angela blushed and glanced down at the lacy black panties she had on. She had added matching stocking and suspenders. Peter smiled; she was obviously keen to please.

  "I told you not to wear those!"

  "I thought – I'm sorry -"

  Peter looked out of the window. "It's a nice day out there," he said conversationally. "We shall go for a walk."

  Angela looked confused. "But I thought you were going to teach me?"

  Peter smiled. "Oh, I am. The fresh air will do us both good."

  Angela bent down to pick up her blouse and skirt. Peter shook his head. "You won't be needing those any more. Take your knickers off too."

  Angela stared up at him in astonishment. "But I can't go outside like this," she stammered.

  "Take them off!" He slid the short cane off the bedside cabinet.

  Angela's cheeks flushed scarlet as she looked at it. Then she hurried back into the main house and returned a few seconds later wearing a long black woollen trench coat that covered her down to the ankles. Around the shoulders she had wrapped a pale cream stole and buttoned the coat right up to the neck. She looked a vision of middle class respectability.

  Peter nodded his approval. "Undo it again and let me look at you."

  Without a word Angela unbuttoned the coat. It fell open to reveal her voluptuous body, her sex framed by the black suspender belt and dark stockings.

  Outside the afternoon was sharp and clear. Angela pushed him out into the little lane that ran past the end of the cottage drive. He smiled, imagining the way her body was warming from her exertions; the heat – the smell of her perspiration and sexual perfume mingling. The friction of her breasts against the silk lining of her coat. The day was glorious, the scenery breathtaking and at the same time heart-warming.

  As they rounded a bend in what Angela assured him was a circular walk, Peter spotted a large man sitting beside the bridge that traversed a flowing stream. He grinned as they approached. The man was corpulent, a cigarette dangling between flaccid lips as he cast his line into the water. His belly hung over the top of grubby jeans.

  Peter beckoned to Angela. "Undo your coat," he commanded in an undertone. "Show him!" He heard Angela gasp as he indicated the fisherman, who was now rooting in a knapsack for a can of beer. The man popped the ring pull and took a long draw on the can before belching.

  Angela reddened. "He's obscene -"

  "Go over and offer to warm him up. He looks frozen."

  Angela's eyes betrayed the mixture of apprehension and excitement that Peter understood so well.

  She bit her lip and looked at him. "What about you? What will you do?"

  Peter pointed towards the far bank of the stream. "Push me over there so that I can watch you. You can take him under the bridge. He won't mind his benefactor watching."

  Angela swallowed hard and then hunched behind his wheel chair. Her breathing had quickened. Peter sat back and let her guide him onto the grass on the far side of the bank. The fishermen looked up to see who was watching him. Angela, trembling slightly, stepped closer to the edge of the bank and slowly, slowly, unbuttoned her trench coat.

  Peter could see the fisherman's eyes widening in disbelief as Angela let the coat fall open. With proprietorial pride he ran his hand across her rounded belly, dipping his fingers into her wet open quim.

  He could feel her trembling.

  "Don't keep him waiting," he said.

  With careful deliberation she turned and retraced her steps over the bridge. Below her the fisherman watched every step with increasing excitement. His bulky jowls had reddened and the can of beer in his fist was forgotten as Angela got closer and closer to him. At the crown of the bridge she looked back at Peter – her eyes were glittering.

  She was far better than he could have ever possibly imagined. Now she was sliding down the bank toward her anonymous stud.

  Already the man's cock was jutting forward inside his jeans like a flag pole. As Angela approached he stepped forward and grinned.

  "I want you to fuck me," she said slowly, her low voice clearly audible from the far side of the bank. Peter couldn't have phrased it better himself.

  The man took a swig of beer and then drew a meaty fist across his damp lips. He didn't speak, instead he dragged her coat back off her shoulders and began to manhandle her heavy breasts. His lips drew one in while his fingers lunged clumsily between the glorious lips of her quim. Her magnificent nipples were engorged and stiff.

  The man explored her body like a farmer handling horse flesh, crude rough fingers pawing and pulling at her soft flesh. He leered up at her and planted a wet sour kiss on her lips; she flinched but he wouldn't be denied, instead he grabbed her hair and pulled her closer to kiss him again. As Angela pulled away a trail of saliva linked them.

  Peter could imagine the smell of the fisherman's body, acrid and rank, reeking of beer, tobacco and stale sweat; a sharp contrast to the delicate freshness of Angela's delightfully scrubbed skin.

  The man rubbed himself against Angela's body. It was an obscene earthy gesture. Without further prelude Angela took him by the hand and led him under the bridge. They were barely under cover when the fisherman yanked down his jeans, revealing a great white quivering arse. The shadows highlighted his pallor. He forced Angela up against the damp wall, spreading her legs by pushing her ankles apart with his feet.

  She closed her eyes, face contorted with revulsion and excitement.

  He snorted, wet lips and filthy hands working over her pale skin. She whimpered as his fingers opened her quim and then gasped as he plunged his cock into her.

  Angela squealed as the fisherman found the mark. He pulled up his sweater. His great belly rubbed against her, his hands jerking her compliant and submissive body closer to him, pawing at her breasts, pressing eager lips to hers.

  Peter moaned softly, feeling the eager press of his cock against his sweat pants. He watched Angela's face contort as the man thrust into her body again and again, each thrust garnished with a thick grunt of pleasure.

  Her eyes were closed, her fingers clawing at the rough bricks behind her as her anonymous lover thrust on and on towards oblivion. It seemed no more than a few seconds before the grunts became more guttural, the thrusts more frantic. The big man dropped his head forward and sucked in one of Angela's breasts, snorting and clawing as his orgasm overtook him.

  The instant he was finished he stepped back, pale skin flushed crimson. He dragged up his jeans, cramming his shirt back into his underpants.

  Angela was rooted to the spot. Her nakedness was breathtaking as a trickle of moisture slithered down over her thigh.

  "Do you do this sort of thing regular, like?" the man said breathlessly. "I'll be back here next week -"

  Angela looked down at the
bemused fisherman with an expression of total contempt and snapped her coat closed. It was all Peter could do to stop himself from laughing.

  Peter rather liked the look of disgust and self loathing on Angela's face as she made tea for them in the annex. She had taken off the coat at his instructions. Naked now, she moved with a deliciously compelling self-awareness.

  So she was ashamed of what she had done on the river bank. Her sense of guilt added an intensity to her expression, a little fear, a little repulsion, sharpening her stolid middle-class face. He flexed the cane. Between her legs the little trickle of moisture glistened invitingly; the fisherman's pleasure. She laid the tea tray down on a side table and turned towards him.

  "I want you to punish me," she said.

  Peter smiled thinly. She really meant it. She felt she deserved punishment.

  He nodded. "Come here."

  She turned slowly, face flushed, eyes refilling with tears.

  "Crawl!"

  Unable to contain the tears any longer she dropped to her knees and crept across the floor towards him. Her heavy breasts swayed as she moved. At his feet she faltered, resting her head against his legs.

  He stroked her like a cat. "Good," he whispered. "Now turn around very slowly so that I can give you what you deserve. Here -" he pointed to a spot on the floor with the cane where he could reach her without straining.

  She complied wordlessly, presenting her plump rounded backside to him. Between the heavy lips of her sex the moisture clung like dew on a winter cobweb. He stroked at the wet orifice with his fingers, drawing out her juices onto the heavy pink flesh. She shivered and just as he sensed her beginning to relax, he swung the cane back and brought it down with an explosive crack on the alabaster contours of her buttocks.

  She screamed, gasping for breath and control as he struck her again. The two blows brought up a criss cross of weals across her skin.

  She sobbed as he hit her again. "Please," she snorted between her tears – and he knew that she had no idea whether she was begging for more or for him to stop.