Sarah Fisher

The contract

Chapter 1

Roderick Banyon laid a sheaf of paper on his desk in front of Emily Lawrence. "So, you can see," he said slowly, indicating the top sheet, "Peter's financial position left a great deal to be desired. I suppose all this involvement is because you expected to marry him?"

"Involvement? What involvement? I really don't know why you sent for me. But yes, we were engaged!"

"Quite." He sat back and rested his fingertips together in front of his lips. "Most unfortunate." His eyes were alight with something that Emily realised with growing unease was an expression of grim satisfaction.

"I'm not sure that I understand what you are trying to say, Mr Banyon," she said.

Roderick lifted his eyebrows. "Really, Miss Lawrence? You must be aware that before his death Peter made you a partner in his company?"

"Oh that, the partnership! Yes but it wasn't important: I'm not expecting anything from it. Something to do with saving tax."

"Oh, but is is important! Oh yes! His death leaves you responsible for his debt to us."

Emily felt the breath catch in her throat, her stomach contracted sharply. "That's impossible," she gasped. "I've never had anything to do with Peter's business."

Banyon shrugged. "That may well be the case, but as a partner – in the eyes of the law -" His voice faded as if the rest was self explanatory.

Emily felt her colour draining. "What about life insurance – his other business interests, surely they would cover what he owes you?" She was trying hard to take in what the accountant was telling her.

"No doubt, had Peter Howard lived, Miss Lawrence, this debt would have been recouped. Peter, unfortunately, gambled and lost – and now he won't have the chance to make good what he owes us." Banyon's tone was cool, matter of fact.

For the first time since Emily had arrived at the offices of Fielding and Johnson she felt genuinely uneasy. She moved her chair closer and looked at the first page of one of the files. The total was astonishing; telephone numbers.

"My God," she whispered. "There's no way I can pay this amount."

Banyon's expression didn't falter. "I've drawn up a schedule of repayments if you'd care to take a look." He passed a sheet of paper across the desk.

Emily had the distinct impression that he was enjoying her predicament. She ran her eyes down over the column of figures, then glanced up at him.

"That's more per month than I earn in a year. You must know that. I'm sorry, Mr Banyon." She hesitated; there was nothing more she could say. Even if she sold the house Peter had bought for her family, their flat, the car – it would realise nowhere near the figure this man was demanding. She was suddenly furious; how could Peter leave her in such a muddle? He'd always played the markets, wheeling and dealing since she'd known him, buying low, selling high. One complex deal linked in a chain to the next and the next. He'd said adding her name as a partner was to help with his tax – nothing more than a formality – and she had believed him.

Across the table Roderick Banyon was watching her face.

"I'm afraid," she said after some deliberation, "I'm in an impossible position. You must know Peter's assets. My parents are elderly and living in the house Peter bought for us."

There was a distinct glitter in Banyon's mahogany brown eyes. They reminded her of something feral and wolf-like; he was enjoying this. She folded her hands into her lap as her inquisitor leant forward a little.

"Perhaps we can come to some other arrangement," he said evenly. "More time -"

Emily raised her eyebrows, fighting to retain her composure. "Even if I had twenty years to pay I couldn't clear this debt, Mr Banyon."

The accountant got to his feet, the movement stealthy and deliberate. He nodded and then smiled. "Perhaps I can offer you an alternative," he said, in a voice barely above a whisper.

Emily sensed danger; a baited trap. She swallowed. "What did you have in mind?"

Banyon circled the desk. "Our company has many interests internationally: clubs, casinos, bars, hotels, a whole range of social and business services." If he expected her to speak Emily disappointed him; she had no idea where the conversation was leading. He continued undeterred. "Perhaps you would be prepared to work off the debt? Shall we say -" he glanced at the sheet of paper on his desk "- a year."

Emily snorted without thinking. "A year? I couldn't possibly earn that kind of money in a year."

The accountant swung round, his eyes greedily drinking her in, lingering on the outline of her breasts where they pressed against the soft fabric of her cotton blouse. His expression was appraising, the veneer of disinterest fading rapidly.

"Oh, I think you can, Miss Lawrence," he purred, moving closer, so close that Emily could smell his after-shave and below that the subtle musk of his body. "We have an establishment in the country, a rather select retreat where I'm sure we could find a place for you – an opening – an opportunity for you to free yourself from these unfortunate commitments." He glanced back at the pile of manila folders.

"What exactly are you suggesting?" she asked uneasily.

Banyon ran his finger along the curve of her throat, his touch proprietorial and cool. "A way out," he murmured, "a simple business arrangement. A contract."

"A contract? I don't understand. I've just said I can't pay you."

Banyon smiled, his fingers still resting on her throat, stroking the throbbing pulse just beneath the skin. "You misunderstand me, this would be a contract of service – special service!"

Emily's fists tightened in her lap. "And if I agree?" she said softly.

Banyon let his fingers move lower, grazing the puckered outline of her nipple. "The debt is cleared, your parents' house is safe and you -" he smiled, glittering shards of amusement flashing in his eyes "- you, my dear, have an experience that will change your life forever."

Emily didn't trust herself to speak; she understood the implication in Banyon's offer very well. She certainly wouldn't be going to a country retreat as a secretary.

"I accept."

Had she said that? She must have done. But then anything had to be better than her mother being made homeless.

Banyon smiled wolfishly. "I thought you might." He indicated the files on the desk. "These documents will be shredded as soon as you've signed the contract. You may watch me destroy them." He opened the filing cabinet and took out a sheet of paper.

"What am I agreeing to?" asked Emily uneasily, glancing at the closely typed lines of print. She regretted it already, but she would not back out now.

Banyon's smile narrowed. "Absolutely everything," he said steadily, handing her the pen. "The minute you sign you are our property for a year."

Emily felt a flood of fear as she read the conditions.

"May I ring my parents to say I've got a job and have to go abroad immediately?"

"Of course."

She made her phone call and then, with a confidence she was far from feeling, signed the contract she feared so much.

Banyon gathered up Peter Howard's files from his desk and switched on the shredding machine.

"Right," he said, as soon as they had been destroyed, "now I would like you to undress."

Behind the two-way mirror over-looking Roderick Banyon's office in the huge headquarters block that the great multi-national company owned, the only two directors of Fielding and Johnson who really mattered watched the proceedings with intense interest.

Max Fielding poured himself a large scotch.

"Easier than we thought."

Johnson nodded. "With Emily Lawrence at Deuvar we'll be able to flush Peter Howard out of the woodwork."

Max swirled the ice in his glass. "Are you still convinced Peter Howard is alive? Why don't you let it go, Johnson? Magenta went down in the crash, it's lost with Peter and his plane."

Johnson shook his head. "I'm convinced that bastard is out there somewhere." He lifted his glass skyward. "And I intend to prove it. He will try and rescue her and I'll be waiting. No-one double crosses me. I'll get Magenta back."

Thoughtfully, Max looked through the glass at Emily Lawrence. She could be no more than twenty and delightfully self-assured for one so young. No wonder Peter Howard had been so keen on her. Small, with high up-tilted breasts and long legs accentuated by her carefully tailored skirt, her apparent composure was belied by the throbbing pulse in her long neck. Her grief was reflected in her delicate features. He understood Johnson's rage at Peter Howard's betrayal, but even so he couldn't help but feel that perhaps the turn of events hadn't been all together unfortunate.

Emily was beautiful and he knew from his carefully documented research that Peter was her first and only lover. To Johnson she was simply bait, but Max would take the greatest pleasure in stealing Emily away from Peter Howard – whether he was dead or alive. Possessing her wouldn't make up for what Howard had stolen, but Max Fielding would revel in it never-the-less. He felt a familiar stirring in his groin; he was going to enjoy Emily.

Their accountant, Roderick Banyon, had resumed his seat behind the marble-topped desk. Emily had placed the phone back in its cradle; her eyes were wide now, a flicker of fear in her face. Banyon's expression was cool, almost disinterested.

He rested his finger tips together lightly and spoke in a low voice. "I'm waiting, Miss Lawrence."

Slowly Emily's fingers fumbled with the top button of her blouse. She shivered as the material gave way; beneath she was wearing a delicate white bra. Her nipples – hard dark peaks – pressed against the lace. She slithered the skirt down over her rounded hips. The dark triangle of hair beneath the sheer fabric of her panties couldn't quite disguise the contours of her sex. She was hesitant; her reluctance adding an erotic frisson.

On the far side of the mirror Max moved closer to the glass. Only Peter Howard had seen Emily like this. Until now those subtle curves and plains had been the province of just one man, now she would share them with many, the first being Roderick Banyon. Emily bit her lip and began to struggle with the catch of her bra. Her pale face betrayed her anxiety, her lips trembled. The scrap of lace fell to the floor and instinctively she covered her naked breasts with long slim fingers.

Banyon shook his head. "Oh, no," he said softly, his voice clearly audible through the mirror's speakers. "Peter owes us far too much for you to be coy, my dear." He indicated her crotch with his hand. Flushing scarlet, Emily slipped off her knickers. Banyon nodded approvingly. "That's much better," he said on an outward breath. "Now come over here."

Emily took a tentative step towards the desk and he smiled. "From now on you will do exactly as you are told, do you understand?"

The girl nodded, her eyes never leaving Banyon's face. He opened his desk drawer and removed a studded leather collar, with metal links set into each side. "Lift you hair," he said, "and come closer."

She crept towards him, her expression betraying a mixture of fear and anticipation. Banyon smiled triumphantly as she knelt in front of him, her pert breasts brushing his knees. Glancing up towards the two-way mirror he fastened the buckle and then dropped his hands to her shoulders. "I want you to suck me dry," he said in a soft voice that did not disguise the command.

She hesitated, then dropped her head, nervous fingers seeking out the zip of his trousers, pulling it down, reluctantly exposing his throbbing cock. She moved slowly onto all fours, full buttocks exposed and slightly apart, revealing the delicate pink lips of her sex nestling between them.

Slowly, slowly, she took Banyon into her mouth, fighting her revulsion and fear. As her lips closed around him, Banyon caught hold of the thick collar and pulled her closer.

"Ah!" he gasped as the girl began to work on him with her tongue. His eyes closed as she wriggled closer.

In the pit of Emily's open sex was a glistening droplet of moisture, caught in the lamplight. Though her mind might deny the fact, her body couldn't lie – she was enjoying her unexpected submission!

Behind the glass, Johnson was already on his feet. He opened a cabinet in the little hidden room and removed a riding crop.

Max snorted and drained the remains of his scotch. "I thought you liked to leave that side of the business to Leonora?"

Johnson flexed the slim leather riding crop speculatively between his fingers.

"Normally, yes, but after all, Miss Lawrence has come to us under unusual circumstances. I'd like to let her know what to expect." He jerked the door open, flooding the room with light.

Through the glass the girl was sinking lower now, resigned to the task in hand. Each lapping caress, each hungry wet kiss around Roderick's cock, echoed through her slim body, her hips flexed, her breasts quivered as Roderick held her tightly by the collar.

Emily shuddered as Banyon's cock pressed deeper into her mouth. The smell of his excitement and the taste of his hard throbbing flesh flooded her senses. His grip on her collar was brutal as he moved closer and closer to the point of release. She could feel tears of fear and humiliation prickling behind her eyes. Could he tell she had never done this before? She shuddered as she tasted the first few drops of semen in her mouth.

Above her, Banyon began to grunt and writhe. His fingers tightened on the collar until she could barely breathe. Suddenly he thrust hard into her mouth and she tasted his warm salty offering; a great sea of excitement that took her by surprise and flooded down over her chin. She gasped, struggling for breath as he pushed her away onto the floor. Her tears couldn't be held in check any longer and trickled down her cheeks; salty water mingling with the salt of Banyon's semen.

"Well," said a male voice close by. "So this is how you spend your tea breaks is it, Roderick?"

Emily was so startled that she let out a thin mewl of panic, while in front of her, Roderick Banyon slowly slipped his exhausted cock back into his trousers. She was about to scramble to her feet when the same voice commanded her to stay were she was. She obeyed, crouching at Banyon's feet, not daring to raise her eyes. She was so embarrassed and self-conscious that it was almost a relief to stay on the floor.

"Miss Lawrence has signed the contract?"

Banyon, seemingly unfazed, nodded.

The man made a noise of approval. Emily allowed herself a glance across the room and realised there were not one but two men, standing in the office doorway. Both were dressed in expensive suits and they appeared to be distinguished business men in their late forties. One spoke, while the other – she shuddered – was carrying a slim leather object in his right hand…

A riding crop!

A chill flitted down her spine. He was watching her intently, like a cat might watch a mouse.

Over her head the other man was speaking.

"… down to Deuvar. We've already arranged transport. Mr Johnson thought he might come in and see what our newest acquisition has to offer." He moved across the room and touched Emily on the shoulder, his fingers were cool. "Get up," he said gently. "Mr Johnson would like to look at the you."

Unsteadily Emily clambered to her feet, eyes still downcast, cheeks flushed scarlet. The man referred to as Mr Johnson made a thick sound on the back of his throat. "Turn around," he grunted. Emily moved slowly, their eyes hot upon her flesh, making her shiver. She could feel the scarlet flush spreading down over her whole body and was aware of the remains of Banyon's excitement still on her chin.

Johnson stepped forwards and ran his hands over her with a cool appraising touch – almost as if he were dealing with horse flesh. He let the end of the riding crop tease over her breasts and then his fingers moved lower. She flinched and drew back as he splayed the lips of her quim, seeking entry.

"What's the matter?" he asked as she stiffened.

She tried to speak but the words caught in her throat, Johnson's fingers worked lower.

"Speak up!" he snapped.

"I'm a virgin," she said, in a voice barely above a whisper.

Peter had wanted to wait until they were married, and his kisses – so tentative and loving – had driven her wild with desire. So much older than she was, Peter had been delighted, almost shocked, that she had never made love. Once he knew, he had vowed to keep her chaste until they were married. She had often thought that her innocence had been part of her appeal – after all, what else did she have to offer the worldly-wise successful businessman that was Peter Howard?

She looked up to see if there was compassion on the faces of the three men. But what she saw was delight and amusement.

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen," she said flatly.

Johnson was delighted.

"All right. We'll have Leonora look at her. Arrange it, Banyon."

His fingers moved across her flesh with proprietorial ease. He didn't speak but bent her this way and that, making her quiver with embarrassment as his finger brushed the tight puckered bud of her anus. When he spoke again he was addressing the other man, apparently his junior colleague.

"Not bad," he said. "An added bonus if she's telling the truth." He stroked the dark curls of her pubic hair. "I want this off."

His companion nodded. "Leonora will take care of that." He glanced at Roderick Banyon. "Make sure you make a note so that it's done on arrival."

Banyon scribbled something on his pad, his eyes lingering on Emily as if recalling the sensation of her lips fastened hard around his cock. She shivered and bit her lip. What was unnerving her was that at some deep level – unrecognised until now – she found their attentions exciting. Her sex ached to be touched; she could feel the wetness gathering deep inside.

Johnson cupped her breasts thoughtfully, thumbs brushing over the pale peaks. They hardened under his rough caress. He smiled lazily and drew a line with the riding crop down over her torso. Where the head touched her, her skin tingled. She shivered and was rewarded by a thin smile. He looked beyond her to Banyon.

"You're getting sloppy, Roderick. Why didn't you put the cuffs on? Or were you just keen to get her sucking your cock?"

Banyon pushed himself to his feet and took two leather cuffs from his drawer. He didn't even look at Emily, instead he held out the restraints.

Emily didn't move.

"Give me you hands," he snapped crossly. She held her wrists out in front of her, hoping that they wouldn't tremble. He strapped the studded cuffs tightly around each wrist. In each broad leather band was set a small metal loop and a length of fine chain. He glanced across at Johnson. "What do you want me to do with her hands?"

Emily watched from the corner of her eye. He shrugged. "Behind her back I think, but keep them high."

Emily didn't resist as Banyon secured her hands, linking the chain through the loops, pulling them tighter until her hands lay in the small of her back. Turning her roughly he looped a leather band around the tops of her arms, jerking them back so that her breasts jutted forward. She flinched as the leather bit into her skin.

It wasn't until she felt the glitter of pain that she realised Banyon had rendered her totally helpless. The enormity of what she had agreed to suddenly hit her. Panic rushed up through her body, lifting beads of sweat on her top lip. Frantically she looked from face to face, trying to detect some hint that this was a game – a strange erotic joke. None of the three men moved; instead she could see the glint of pleasure in their eyes.

"Please," she whimpered.

Johnson pulled a face. "Did I hear a noise, Banyon?"

The accountant reddened. "Sorry, Mr Johnson." He stepped closer to Emily, pulled a paisley scarf from his pocket and tied it tightly over her mouth. Emily pulled away from him in panic only to feel Johnson's hands closing around her upper arms.

His strength astounded her. She started to fight in earnest, struggling and wriggling against his grip. Behind him the third man sighed and stepped over to an elegant cupboard by the door. What he produced from inside made Emily gasp behind the gag. He was holding a long metal pole, on each end of which was a leather cuff matching the ones on her wrists. He lifted an eyebrow and smiled. Her heart thundered in her chest and she renewed her fight with Johnson and Banyon trying to suppress the waves of excitement that built alongside the fear. Her breath was roaring through her as she tried to break away from them.

Johnson pushed her face down onto the desk with one sharp movement, pressing her breasts down onto the cold marble top, Banyon caught hold of her collar and held her head down while she felt Johnson force his leg between her thighs. The cold desk sucked the breath of her as she felt other hands jerking her legs open. Her head spun as the leather bit into her ankles, securing her open and vulnerable for whatever was to follow.

Johnson grunted. Even through her struggles and his clothes she could feel the hard press of his erection against her buttocks. She whimpered as he stepped away, unable to push herself upright. She tried to block out the image that she must present to the three men. She could also sense that her fear and bondage added something to their pleasure – and the sensation that was growing minute by minute between her legs. Something glowed there, a tight white hot desire that she had never experienced before.

She lay for a few seconds, trying to turn her head to see their faces. All she could see on the desk was a carbon copy of the contract she had signed so easily.

Behind her she could hear Johnson's breath quickening. "I think," he said in a low voice, "that we ought to show Miss Lawrence what she can expect."

Away to her right she heard the unearthly hiss of the riding crop cutting through the still air and the next instant a white hot pain, as clear and destructive as a pistol shot, flashed through her. Behind the gag she screamed out, the sound registering as a dull miserable moan. The pain from the whip spread out like a glowing red hot lava flow, suffusing her body with wild sensations. Before she had time to compose herself the second blow struck, echoing the path of the first, driving away all reason.

Tears flooded down her cheeks and she screwed her eyes tight shut, wishing she could block out the terrifying hiss of the riding crop as it swung back again. She shook uncontrollably as the next blow bit home -

Max Fielding watched with curiosity as Johnson struck again. His friend and associate had a curious bright-eyed stare as he beat the prone girl, and Max wondered if, secretly, Johnson imagined that it was Peter Howard who was tethered and at his mercy. Across the girl's pale buttocks three great livid weals had risen. She was wriggling instinctively to avoid the blows, revealing more and more of her plump slick sex.

Max sighed; it was a shame she had claimed to be a virgin – he would have liked to feel his cock sinking to the hilt in that moistly fragrant cradle of pleasure. Her breasts were splayed against the icy marble, her eyes squeezed great tears down onto her face; she looked wonderful.

Johnson laid the whip on again, four, five, six strokes – each as angry and effective as the last. The girl's screams were stifled to an unhappy tight noise forcing its way out around Roderick Banyon's ridiculous paisley handkerchief. She writhed frantically; seven, eight, nine – a trickle of urine ran down her thigh pooling in a steaming puddle on the floor around her feet.

Max glanced at Johnson's face; the grim look of determination had faded to a narrow smile. He drew the crop back again and cracked it with unerring accuracy across the ripe curves of Emily Lawrence's backside and then threw the little whip onto the desk alongside her with a strange finality.

"Get her taken down to Deuvar, now," he snapped as he turned on his heel. He glanced over his shoulder at Max Fielding. "I want to go over the details of Magenta's disappearance again." There was a significant pause before he spoke again. "We need to be ready -" he said.

When the other two had left, Banyon surveyed the girl. She was terrified and in shock, and seemed to have passed out. He took her coat from the stand where she had hung it when she'd arrived, and draped it over her naked body. He pressed a button on the intercom on his desk and asked for the chief of security staff to come and collect a package – with strict instructions that it was to remain 'unopened' on Johnson's personal orders.

When Emily was gone – unceremoniously bundled away like so much meat – he collected his coat and hat and left the office.

Outside, the night had begun to darken rapidly; the sky held the promise of snow. Banyon kept to the shadows, pulling his collar up around his throat. He didn't want to be seen: he dare not use the office computer.

Two blocks away in a public library he logged onto a public access computer and tapped in a message that he hoped would find its way to Peter Howard – if he was still alive…

Chapter 2

Peter Howard had been unconscious for five weeks, although he did not realise that yet.

When he did wake up it felt as if his head might just explode.

As at last he opened his eyelids, a fraction at a time, they felt as though they were scouring his eyeballs. Every other muscle in his body must be joined to them, because they screamed out in complaint as he tried to focus. He wanted to lick his lips but his mouth and tongue were as dry as sawdust. Bright sunlight cut into his skull like a knife.

A girl's face materialised above him; a pretty blonde with huge brown eyes, a nurse's cap added almost as an afterthought.

She smiled.

"So you're awake at last?" she whispered, in a gentle Scots brogue. "We knew you were coming to." His mouth was too coated and unwieldy to form the words. She laid a professional hand on his forehead. "Don't try and speak just yet. I'll go and get the doctor to come and take a wee peak at you, Mr Roberts."

Peter Howard screwed up his face. Roberts… of course!… memory flooded his mind with images… he had been on the run, they had swopped passports…

"My friend?"

"Peter Howard you mean, Mr Roberts?"

It sounded so strange. He nodded.

"Dead," she said. "It was bad. Mr Howard was unrecognisable." There had only been the two of them and the pilot. They crashed almost on take-off, they had got nowhere…

Her eyes were full of sympathy.

"Where are my things?" he muttered.

The girl smiled. "Everything that was brought in with you is safe and sound. Now you lie still while I go and get the doctor."

Peter Howard let his eyes scrape shut, listening to the nurse's shoes pitter-pattering across the hard floor, and tried to get a grasp of what it was he remembered.

Magenta!

He shivered as fragmented vivid images came like staccato gunfire – the drone of the engines, a burst of ear shattering static, a loud bang, voices raised in terror, a burning, terrifying sensation of cold water seeping through his clothes, strange unearthly screams of metal on metal, lights, noise – and all the time knowing, at some dark unfathomable level, that whatever else happened, he had to survive and save Magenta…

…he woke again, disorientated and sweating, and pressed the call bell. The little blonde nurse answered, smiling as she opened the door.

"I should think you're hungry?" she said, helping him up to a sitting position. Peter nodded even though it was a lie.

He couldn't help but notice the way her heavy breasts struggled against the thin fabric of her uniform. It didn't take much of a stretch of the imagination to visualise her naked. He breathed in her subtle perfume. He would tie her to the bed, watching those gorgeous breasts swaying as he arranged her on all fours for his pleasure. She would smile nervously over her shoulder as he tied the last of the restraints in place, suddenly aware how vulnerable she had made herself, with all her charms exposed. Her sex would taste so sweet as he parted her lips with his tongue; a sweet tantalising taste of the delights that would follow. His fingers would dip inside her; she'd be wet and would writhe deliciously at his touch. As she lifted to meet his fingers he would step back and slide the leather belt from his trousers, let the cool length play across her back and thighs. She would shiver and begin to moan softly.

He must be recovering…

In his imagination the nurse's face slowly changed to that of Emily Lawrence and the ache in his groin became almost unbearable. The hours he had fantasised about Emily's wedding night were incalculable. He had sensed how ripe Emily was the day she had first applied for a job in his office – so innocent, so gentle, with those flashing blue eyes.

As she had walked up to his desk he had imagined how she would crawl towards him on her hands and knees, naked and obedient to his every wish. He had wanted to be her master from the moment he had laid eyes on her – she would be his and his alone…

Emily convinced herself she must have been dreaming and opened her eyes. What she saw made the breath catch in her throat. She had woken up into her nightmare. Her arms were secured, feet splayed apart. Her naked body ached from cramp and cold, her buttocks still glowing from the kiss of the riding crop. With a growing sense of horror she realised she was in some sort of crate. Light filtered through circular holes just a few inches above her face.

One of her greatest fears was being confined in enclosed spaces. Her heart began to race and she longed desperately to be back in the strange sleep-state from which she had woken. She started to wriggle, trying to free herself from her bonds; her breath coming in tight hysterical gasps.

They had taken off the gag, but she was too terrified to cry out. Every movement brushed her body against the crate's rough sides, reminding her of Johnson's attentions.

At some stage someone had tied her hands tight across her belly, but the space was too confined for it to be of any advantage.

Finally she willed herself relax, closing her eyes to block out the terrifying image of the raw wood just inches above her face, and instead strained to hear what was going on outside. At first all she could hear were the laboured sounds of her own breathing – no voices – and the distant muffled hum and vibration of an engine. She bit her lip; what in God's name had she got herself into? Almost as the thought formed in her head the engine noises stopped and there was the sound of a vehicle door being opened.

People talking!

Emily concentrated on picking out the words; there was at least one male voice and a woman. She sighed with relief. Something must have happened. Someone must have found her – she was safe.

The feeling was short lived.

"Get it inside," snapped the female voice. "You're late. I have people waiting."

The man mumbled a reply. Emily realised that whoever the woman was, she was expecting Emily's arrival. This was no rescue but a delivery. She felt the crate being lifted; a rocking sensation that made her feel slightly sick and disorientated. Even through the wood she could feel the change in temperature as she was carried outside and the light from the air holes above her subtly changed.

Seconds passed and she strained to remain calm, trying to concentrate on the voices and sounds outside as she was carried back into some sort of building. She felt a jolt as the crate was placed on a floor and held her breath when she heard the catches being opened. Then her prison was flooded with brilliant white light, momentarily blinding her.

"Well, well," purred a deep female voice, "so this is Peter Howard's little virgin bride?"

Emily screwed up her eyes against the glare, her sense of fear and vulnerability returning like a tidal wave.

"Get her out of the box," commanded the voice. "I haven't got all night."

Emily peered out from behind half closed lids. Above her two uniformed men perused her nakedness with cool disinterest. She couldn't see the woman. The two men crouched, pulled her roughly to her feet and held her under the arms. The leg irons meant that she could barely move.

The room she found herself in was clinical, with a doctor's couch dominating the centre. Beside the couch stood a tiny Eurasian woman dressed in black leggings and a short grey silk sleeveless top. Her sleek dark hair was tied back in a pony tail. Emily shuddered; this was no rescuer. The woman's slanted almond eyes flashed with a cold cruel glitter. "Get her onto the table," she said again, as she snapped on a pair of surgical gloves.

As they carried Emily across the room she saw that one wall was entirely made up of thick glass panels – and behind it a host of shadowy faces watched the proceedings with interest. Emily whimpered miserably as the two men laid her on the couch and did not resist as they secured her wrist cuffs above her head. She tried to stay calm, taking one deep breath after another.

The Eurasian woman smiled thinly down at her. "I am Leonora," she said evenly. "I run Deuvar. That is where you are. What I say is law, do you understand?"

Emily nodded.

Leonora's hand closed tightly around Emily's chin. "Not good enough." she whispered darkly. "Tell me, do you understand?"

"Yes," Emily whispered miserably.

"Good," said the dark woman, relinquishing her grasp. "Now let's see if you were telling Mr Johnson the truth." She nodded to the two men. Emily felt them unbuckle the leg irons and guide her ankles into high stirrups that spread her legs wide, exposing the deepest recesses of her body. Glancing down she could see the unknown faces moving closer to the glass to get a glimpse of what lay between her thighs. Emily was so shocked that she began to struggle, although she knew it was pointless. She felt her shoulder joints crackle and scream in protest.

Leonora sighed and rested a gloved hand on Emily's exposed sex, her fingers sliding down over her clitoris; the woman's touch was both electrifying and at the same time, deeply threatening.

"Lie still."

Emily froze as Leonora began to examine her. Her tiny hands cupped Emily's breasts, squeezing them speculatively, before moving them down over her belly, touching and prodding as if she were meat. Finally Leonora moved between her legs, spreading the lips of Emily's sex open, watched by the audience behind the glass and also the two uniformed guards. Her fingers brushed Emily's clitoris again sending a shower of sensations through her prone body. Emily moaned and without thinking lifted her hips.

Leonora smiled narrowly. "You're going to be good," she murmured. "I can see that." She nodded towards one of the uniformed men. "Get me the wedge and bring the trolley closer."

Emily stiffened as she felt a roll of something cold and unwieldy sliding under her buttocks, tipping her pelvis so that she was totally exposed. Leonora pulled an overhead light down and slowly slid a single finger into Emily's quim.

Instinctively her muscles tightened around it and Leonora let out a humourless chuckle, "My God, this is so tight."

In spite of herself Emily could feel little crystals of expectation and desire building low in her belly. Leonora's finger worked a little deeper, her thumb brushing Emily's clitoris as she worked. The girl let out a thin mew of pleasure and fear. Leonora withdrew her finger slowly, and in its place Emily felt something stunningly cold; her whole body stiffened. Leonora glanced down at her and slid the cold metal in a little further. Emily's body resisted its intrusion.

"I have to look," Leonora said quietly. "And I won't break through – virginity is too valuable a commodity to waste on a lump of stainless steel."

Emily felt her face flush crimson as Leonora bent to examine what lay within her.

She was nodding as she came back up. "She's telling the truth. Nothing's been this way before."

Emily bit her lip. "I told Mr Johnson -" she began.

Leonora's face darkened like thunder. "Haven't you been told that you only speak when spoken to?"

Emily seeing the fury in the other woman's face nodded.

Leonora ran a finger casually down over Emily's belly. "Don't forget, you signed a contract, you're ours now. If you break the rules then you will be punished. Do you understand?"

Emily nodded again, too terrified to speak.

Leonora smiled thinly and slipped the chilly metal out. Emily let out a sigh of relief, but if she thought her ordeal was over, she was wrong. Leonora's gloved fingers worked lower, trickling something cold and slick down over the tight bud of Emily's backside. Emily instinctively tensed as she felt Leonora's fingers begin to work at it, seeking entry. She sighed and slicked a little more cream over her fingers tips. "Pant," she said coldly. "Let me in. We can do this one of two ways; trust me, it's much easier if you co-operate."

Leonora had seen many girls like Emily in her years at Deuvar; and had trained or broken them all. She relished the look on their faces when they first arrived; the compelling, tremulous look of fear and anticipation. The girl on the table was unconsciously resisting her with every sinew in her prone body; but she would be swift to learn. When it came to seeking entry into this tight bud, convention as much as anything else was what prevented the girls from relinquishing control.

Emily Lawrence snapped her eyes shut as Leonora gently eased her finger through the tight circular band of muscle. Emily's body tightened around it, seemingly sucking it deeper. She would need to be stretched – her anus was far too tight for most men, though it could be that she was just tense. A fluttering pulse throbbed in Emily's throat, betraying her fear.

Leonora casually stroked the ridge of the girl's clitoris. It had already stiffened to a tight scarlet peak. Emily moaned and twisted a little under the caress; she was going to be good, responsive – frightened at the moment, but quite obviously excited.

Leonora could smell the girl's excitement growing; her nipples hardening deliciously. She rubbed the little pleasure bud again and was rewarded by the girl lifting herself a little, seeking out Leonora's finger tips. As she lifted higher Leonora drove her finger all the way into her arse. Emily gasped.

After a few seconds Leonora withdrew her finger; there was more that had to be done before Emily was ready to be taken into the training house. Leonora nodded to her two male helpers. The thick dark wedge of pubic hair had to come off, and – she glanced at the tray on the trolley – Johnson had said he wanted her pierced. One ring through the thick outer lips of her quim and one in each nipple.

Leonora turned briefly, watching the appraising eyes of the clients who had been invited to view the evening's proceedings. They wouldn't be disappointed. Business would be good after tonight's little performance with Emily Lawrence. Her presence and her virginity would excite a lot more interest.

One of the uniformed guard pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and began to swab the delicate pink aureole of Emily's nipples. The girl's eyes snapped open in sheer terror. Leonora stepped away. She always enjoyed watching her helpers at work.

Emily began to writhe as the second man moved down to rub something between her legs; the cream they used would dissolve away the thick dark hair and leave her sex as naked and vulnerable as a ripe plum. Emily let out a thin squeal of terror as the first guard pressed the cold metal piercing gun against her breast. He adjusted the head so that jaws nipped the skin tight

"No," Emily hissed. "Please!"

The second word was cut short by the explosive sound of the tiny bolt biting through the delicate flesh. The little silver ring that the piercing gun delivered flashed like a darting fish in the brilliant clinical lights. When the guard positioned the gun for a second time all that could be heard was a soft breathy sob.

Leonora smiled. The nipple rings looked superb and linked together with a fine silver chain would be a great aid to bringing Emily to heel. The room was now silent except for the soft unhappy sobs of the prone girl. Leonora looked at the clock on the clinic wall; a few more minutes and the second guard could swab away the remains of pubic hair.

Leonora glanced at the long sprung instrument that would deliver the third ring. It was already primed. All she would need to do was gather up the delicate skin and press it through. It would be over in seconds.

Emily felt the brush of the cold steel against her inner thighs and froze. The room was ominously silent. She dare not imagine what was to follow – except that at some level she had already guessed. Her nipples felt hot now; aching deep inside, and she had felt the cold rings against her flesh for a few seconds until her body heat had warmed them.

"Lie very still," said Leonora on an outward breath. The sensation that followed a split second later was abstract; white heat – accompanied by a strange hissing sound. Emily screamed out as she felt the ring pass through the lips of her sex. Tears of pain and terror blinded her. Standing between her legs Leonora made a low noise of satisfaction. "There," she said patting the girl's thigh, "all done."

Emily mewed in terror as something cold snaked over her belly. Glancing down she saw the glitter of a narrow chain and heard the snick of the catches as her nipples and sex were joined in an unnerving triangle.

Leonora leant over her, almond eyes alight. "You look very beautiful," she purred. "Why don't you let me show you?"

Emily felt her arms and legs being freed and then she was helped to her feet by one of the men. Her steps were unsteady, faltering. Ahead of her was a full length mirror. What she saw reflected there stunned her. The delicate chain linked the rings through her nipples before dropping down to the pink naked mound of her sex, creating a V shape that drew her eyes to the silver ring that nestled in the bare swollen flesh of her outer lips. Around her neck was the studded collar Roderick Banyon had put on her, and her wrists and ankles were still circled by leather straps.

Leonora smiled behind her and gently lifted Emily's dark hair back off her face. "You're nearly ready to begin your year with us," she said. "We will start your training tomorrow."

She snapped her fingers and the uniformed men approached and took hold of Emily's arms. She was too stunned to resist.

Leonora glanced at the men. "You may do the rest. Put her in 27 when you've finished." A second later she peeled off the surgical gloves, dropped them on the floor and vanished through the exit. Emily swallowed hard and looked from face to face of her two guards. What else was there they could possibly do to her?

They took her over in front of the thick glass wall. She could see and feel the eyes of the observers. "Kneel down," said the first guard. Shaking Emily complied.

The second took something from the trolley. Emily flinched; what in god's name was going to follow? There was a humming sound and the first guard jerked her backwards; they were going to shave her head. The clippers droned as they bit into her soft golden brown hair, the first shoulder length tress fell to the floor in front of her. Her humiliation complete, Emily tried to close her mind to the sounds. Tears were trickling down her pale unhappy face.

When they were done the first guard pulled her to her feet. His expression was blank and unfeeling.

"One last thing," he said and pulled something from his jacket pocket. It was a thin rubber hood that fitted like a second skin over her skull and down over her eyes and ears, shaped to leave her mouth and nostrils uncovered. It was almost a relief not to be able to see. Emily took a deep breath. Anonymous hands led her away; she was too shocked, too lost in her own private fears, to do any more than go where they guided her.

The walk seemed long, turning left and right, the floor cold and unforgiving beneath her bare feet. Finally she heard a key turn in a lock and was led into what she sensed was a smaller room. Her guards guided her onto a narrow bed, fixing something through the wrist cuffs so that her hands were secured above her head, with a little slack so that she could just about turn over.

"Don't try to take off the mask," were the final words she heard before the door slammed shut. Alone she curled into a tight ball and started to sob, great hot miserable tears that clung to the inside of the mask. The chains cooled and warmed as they brushed again the peaks and curves of her body. The pierced places felt hot, bruised and swollen.

Behind the mask she could see the compelling image of Peter Howard. Why had he left her in such a mess? Surely he must have known what sort of men he was dealing with!

Max Fielding had driven down to Deuvar to witness the initiation. He had not been disappointed – nor had any of their other clients who had paid to see the spectacle. He was sorely tempted to put a bid in to be the one to deflower her.

While the other gentlemen and ladies who had watched Emily's preparation had now gone off into other parts of the house to find gratification, he had come to visit what was jokingly called 'The Stock Cupboard'. At the rear of the secluded mansion were three tiers of small cells where the girls of Deuvar were kept ready for their masters' use.

He walked slowly along the galleried landings; most of the girls were out in the mansion, on display, though some of the privately 'owned' girls were still chained up and waiting in their cells. He grinned to himself. Sometimes it felt as if he was running a very private livery stable.

He peered through the open hatches. As a director he had a master key. Not too much was said about what went on in the stock cupboard. The male staff could avail themselves of whatever was on offer and some of the regular members, he knew, bribed the guards to have special privileges with particular girls.

In one cell was a heavy limbed Negress, trussed up on all fours, ready for the attentions of her particular owner. An ornate silver dildo had been skilfully inserted into her anus; apparently she was too tight for the man who regularly serviced her and who preferred the delights which a boy might better offer. Below the dildo Max could see, glittering, almost buried amongst her oily black hair, the row of silver studs that her master had had inserted into her labia. A thin plaited whip hung on the wall above her. The girl was making soft throaty sounds and Max wondered if perhaps one of the guards had used her – the pale lips of her sex glistened like jewels.

In the cell next door was a Junoesque red head, secured spread eagle against the wall. Max knew that she belonged to a particularly interesting female financier, who relished the chance to lay on the whip. He had watched them once, enjoying seeing the submissive Titian giantess crawl on her hands and knees to service her mistress with her long pink tongue. The memory made him shiver with pleasure. Perhaps he ought to make a point of watching them again -

In cell 27 crouched the reason for his late night visit. Emily Lawrence was curled into a fetal ball, her naked sex peeking shyly between the curve of her thighs. The silver ring was just visible under the harsh overhead light. He watched for a few seconds, trying to guess whether she was asleep or awake before fitting his master key into the lock.

Her body stiffened as she strained to hear his approach. On cat-like feet he moved alongside her bed. The thin hood picked out her distinctive features, rendering her face to an ebony sculpture. He stroked her thighs gently. "Straighten your legs," he whispered. "I want to look at you."

Slowly she complied, her lips trembling below the edge of the mask. Laid out for him under the unforgiving eye of the lamps she was a feast. "Open you legs," he murmured as he circled her nipples, delighted that they hardened under the merest touch. The rings looked superb; Johnson had been right in his decision to pierce her. He bent closer and took one between his lips, sucking the little fleshy peak and the cool ring into his mouth. She shuddered, obviously afraid that the flesh would tear.

As he kissed and sucked each peak in turn he moved his hands lower to stroke her sex; so tempting but as yet unavailable. He parted the lips gently above her clitoris and then kissed a soft moist route down over her belly until the little peak nestled between his lips.

Beneath him the girl began to moan – at once both afraid and excited. As his tongue worked faster she lifted up to meet his caresses. Her sex tasted of the sea, of a dark ancient ocean that compelled men to seek it out.

God, he would like to fuck her, feel his cock buried in that tight wet tunnel. The ring was just a gesture, a symbol, if he'd wanted to he could have slipped inside her…

Instead he pulled back, as the girl's pleasure began to drive him out to the edge of recklessness. He stood up and undid his trousers, guiding his stiff angry cock towards her trembling mouth. As she felt it brush her lips she shuddered and then opened for him.

"Carefully," he said in a low voice. "If you bite me, Leonora will take the greatest pleasure in pulling you teeth."

The girl stiffened momentarily and then began to lap and suck at him; a terrified puppy who sought only to please. Max Fielding smiled to himself and slipped his finger back towards her sex; after all there was no need to be stingy with pleasure.

Chapter 3

"And just where do you think you're going?" said a crisp, efficient female voice.

Peter Howard was almost relieved to be caught trying to make his way to the nurses' station. The corridor floor was spinning up to meet him as he leant breathlessly against the wall outside his room. A strong pair of arms caught him under the armpits.

"I just wanted to get my things."

The corridor lights seemed to be darkening around him and his voice was disappearing down a distant echoing tunnel. He clutched frantically at the smooth walls.

"If you can just hang on for a split second," said his rescuer, "I'll grab a wheel chair and we'll have you back in your bed in no time. You should have rung if you wanted anything."

Peter was looking up into the eyes of a statuesque strawberry blonde dressed in a crisp navy blue dress. The uniform did nothing to disguise the fact that she had a figure that would drive most men insane. She smiled coolly at his appraising and appreciative stare. "I can see you're on the mend," she said with amusement. "So what was it you were looking for?"

Peter focused on her name badge. "Sister Ruskin?" he said in surprise.

She nodded and took hold of his wrist. "My, my, but your pulse is racing, Mr Roberts. I think we'd better get you back into bed."

Peter nodded. "I wanted to see the things they'd brought in with me – when they fished me out of the water?"

She gave him an indulgent look. "Did you try looking in your bedside locker?"

Peter blushed. "I never thought -" he began but the Sister's expression stopped him in his tracks.

She winked at him knowingly and wheeled him back into his room. As she helped him into bed Peter could detect a tiny but unmistakable hum of desire in her touch. He glanced across at her; her pupils were dilated and glittered darkly like jet. He didn't want to betray his ignorance and waited whilst she crouched to retrieve what was in the bedside locker.

His heart leapt as he saw the familiar contours of his hold-all – it appeared unscathed – but there was something else. The sister placed a large white envelope alongside the leather bag. It was sealed with the hospital's official stamp and marked 'Private' in a round distinctive hand.

"The doctors wanted to try and find out more about you, whether you had a family, or were on any medication – that sort of thing."

Peter picked up the envelope and turned it thoughtfully between his long fingers. It felt thick, like a magazine or – he smiled as comprehension dawned – a brochure. Johnson had given him a sample brochure for their company's flagship retreat, Deuvar. He'd got no idea it had been in his holdall. The brochure was an elegant maroon-bound book whose tasteful and discreet cover belied its torrid contents.

"Did you take a look inside?"

The woman nodded and bit her lip. "Yes," she replied softly. "I never dreamt such places existed."

Peter peeled open the flap of the envelope. "And did it excite you?"

She nodded, her face flushing crimson, "Oh yes," she said. "I'm rather afraid it did!"

Peter Howard smiled. "Perhaps I can help you then," he said softly.

He watched as Sister Ruskin tucked him carefully into his bed, her hands moved rapidly, her face was still flushed from her confession.

"What I really need is access to a computer," he said when she finally looked at him. She was so close that he could detect the smell of her perfume and beneath it the scintillating hint of perspiration. His fingers moved to her ample breasts, seeking out the tight buds of her nipples. She hesitated as he began to undo her uniform.

"Have you any idea," he said in a low, barely audible voice, "what it feels like to be at a man's beck and call? Always to be available for his every wish, his every desire?" One hand snaked lower to gather up her skirt as he pressed his lips to her cleavage. She shivered and moaned softly, the colour draining from her face, as she pressed her body closer to him and he found the swollen mound of her sex between meaty muscular thighs.

"I could teach you so much, Sister Ruskin," he said darkly. His touch was more brutal now, probing amongst the fabric to find an entry. Instinctively she opened her legs to give him greater access, and let out a throaty gasp as he tore the fabric aside and plunged his fingers into her sopping quim.

"My God, you're so wet, so ready." He pressed wet kisses to her warm fragrant skin. "I would like to fuck you, tied on all fours; push deep inside you as you lay bound and gagged for my pleasure." He let one finger toy with her anus. "No place is too secret, no pleasure too wild. Would you like that, Sister? Or perhaps you would prefer to be beaten first?"

He slipped his fingers out of her, letting one hand cup her plump cool arse. "The kiss of a belt here, making your skin sing, making you beg for mercy and more in the same sweet breath. Would you like that?"

Desperately she pulled herself away from him, eyes flashing diamond bright as she re-buttoned her bodice. "My God!" she hissed breathlessly. "Will you take me to this place, to Deuvar?"

"The question is," Peter said, "will you help me to get my hands on a decent computer?"

The sister tugged her uniform straight and then nodded. "They've got a computer on the ward, in the clerk's office. Do you think that would be all right?"

"I have to see it."

Sister Ruskin glanced at her watch. "When the staff go for their break I could come and get you in the wheel chair." She looked anxiously over her shoulder towards the door. "I really ought to go now."

Peter smiled. "Of course… what's you name?"

"Angela."

"An angel? I've found an angel? How very appropriate. One thing before you go; lift up you uniform. I want to see what's hidden down there."

Angela blushed furiously, but then she slowly lifted her skirt. Her thighs were thick and meaty, strong and pale, whilst between them was an expanse of coarse white cotton hiding away her sex. Her belly and hips were full and rounded.

Peter tilted his head on one side as if with disapproval. "Such a shame to keep something so beautiful hidden away. Take those off!"

Angela stiffened as if she was about to protest and then after a few seconds hesitation rolled the plain cotton briefs down over her wide hips. Her sex was surrounded by a stunning corona of red blonde hair. Peter smiled and lifted the fingers that had so briefly explored her secret paces to his lips; they smelt musky, like the warm animal scent of the stable.

Angela's colour deepened as she watched him slip his fingers into his mouth. "Stay like that," he said. "I want to be able to touch you whenever I want."

Angela bit her lip, eyes alight with unspeakable desire. She bent hastily to pick up her panties and stuff them into her pocket before hurrying back into the corridor. Peter smiled and lay back amongst the pillows; this was an ally he certainly couldn't have anticipated. Once he was certain she had gone he turned his attention to the hold-all on the bed and unzipped it carefully. The interior smelt of rank dampness – the sea.

Inside, carefully wrapped in a double layer of polythene, was the thing that had almost cost him his life. It was a simple metal box with adapter leads carefully wound around it like the umbilical cord of a new-born child. In the bag, untouched by the sea water, was the thing for which he was certain Johnson and his partner Max Fielding would be prepared to die or kill for: Magenta.

Carefully he unpeeled the water proof wrapping – it certainly looked undamaged but he couldn't be sure until he had access to a computer. Magenta was a computer hard disk, a huge archive of information that held within it the destiny of nations and powerful men. He sighed and lay back exhausted amongst the pillows, finger tips resting on his prize. Magenta was the twentieth century's answer to the Holy Grail and he still possessed it.

In cell 27 in Deuvar, Emily's unseen visitor had left. She could still taste the salty offering of his seed in her mouth. Against all the odds she knew she was falling asleep, exhaustion and hunger driving her into unconsciousness. She rolled onto her side, careful to avoid the loops of chain that joined her most sensitive and vulnerable places.

Between her legs she could still feel the dull satisfying glow of her orgasm. Her unseen lover had guided her to the edge of oblivion as she had drawn him deeper and deeper into her compliant mouth. At the very second when she believed she would die under his knowing caresses she had heard him gasp. His movements had become more ragged and instinctive and, as her own pleasure had drowned out all fear, he had flooded her mouth with thick salty semen. He had slumped over her, teasing one raw pierced nipple into his mouth, gently sucking on the cold silver ring.

She had almost wept as she heard him leaving; she wanted to feel his lips and fingers on her again. Her quim ached to be filled. She shivered at the memory and tried to relax.

The last thing she imagined before sleep claimed her was Peter's face. Her grief at losing him was mingled with a measure of pure rage and a bitter sense of frustration.

In her luxurious office suite in another wing of Deuvar, Leonora Ti Chung poured Max Fielding a scotch, and a mineral water for herself. "Emily has generated a lot of interest already," she said, handing her employer his drink.

Max nodded. "Anyone I know?"

"Vernier the Frenchman, Mustapha the Arab, Colbart -" She lifted her glass as if to encompass the whole mansion. "Let's face it, Max, how often do we get our hands on a white virgin?"

Max sipped his drink. "So do you think Emily Lawrence will give you any problems?"

Leonora laughed dryly. "No. All she needs is a little basic training to make sure she does as she's told. It shouldn't take too much."

Max smiled to himself. After all, hadn't he seen Emily's movements and the pierced delights of her ripe fragrant sex first hand? "And, of course, the right buyer," he added to disguise his expression.

Leonora nodded and then picked up a sheet of paper from her desk. "I would have agreed with you, but apparently your friend Johnson has other ideas." She handed Max the typed fax. "As you can see, Mr Johnson only wants the auction to include the actual deflowering. He doesn't want her owned by one man. My instructions are that she is to be made available to anyone who wants her."

Max pulled a face. "But she would be perfect as a slave for one of our regulars."

"It appears that Johnson has other ideas. He wants her to be well used."

Max snorted. "What he wants is to get his hands on Peter Howard and he thinks this is the way to do it."

Leonora drained her glass in one mouthful. "And revenge for stealing Magenta?"

Max nodded and offered his own glass for a refill. "Some revenge, to beat a live woman for revenge on a dead man!"

In his London town house, Johnson laid the phone back in its cradle. Emily had arrived safe and sound and his instructions had been carried out to the letter.

On the computer screen on his desk was the message that his treacherous accountant had sent into the world-wide computer net for Peter Howard. Peter was once Banyon's best friend, but now Banyon had played right into his hands. Johnson had wondered how to ensure that Peter Howard knew that Emily was at Deuvar. This way Howard would get the information from a source that he trusted implicitly.

Johnson was convinced Peter Howard was still alive. It was too damned convenient that he had died and Magenta had been lost with him. Too neat, too easy to be true.

The door to his office opened slowly to reveal his own personal body slave, so painfully trained to his particular tastes.

The girl was tall; supposedly a warrior princess, who had been given to him as a gift during a business deal with an Arab prince. Johnson had no way to check her pedigree, but her natural bearing and stance certainly suggested that she had once been of some great importance.

Her lithe muscular body bore the magical marks of ritual scarification, patterning her exquisite golden skin into complex silver and blue whorls and glyphs. The intricate designs led the connoisseur's eye back and forth across the oiled movements of the sleek muscles. Her breasts were small high peaks with large exotic nipples – and her sex…

He smiled, a cruel smile.

Her sex was like a wild animal, heavily covered in a rough musky pelt that extended up from the usual V shape in a narrow line up to her navel and beyond, finally fading in the hollow beneath her breast bone. She looked barely tame, dangerous – like a leopard who wore a leash only because she respected and feared the master who controlled her. Possessing her was pure illusion.

He had seen her first at the Prince's summer palace. She had been tied into an astonishing erotic arc, thumbs clamped to her toes; a fighting snarling she-cat that obviously terrified the two men appointed as her keepers.

Her muscular body had glistened with sweat as she fought against her bonds, breasts jutting forward, nipples bullet hard, a low threatening growl trickling from between her bared teeth. Seeing her writhing and fighting against her restraints had brought a flush of heat to his face.

She presented the ultimate challenge – a truly untamed woman.

He stared at her sweating tattooed body as she struggled desperately to free herself.

The Prince lifted a hand towards her. "This creature, rather like our Arab horses, is truly the province of an expert, Mr Johnson. I will not be offended if you decline my gift. I know your tastes. My harem is full of women who would satisfy your every whim."

Johnson smiled thinly, eyes never leaving the contours of the dark girl's straining body.

"Rest assured, Prince Assim, she will meet my needs perfectly. I am deeply flattered by your generosity."

The Prince smiled and gave a little bow. "Would you like my men to secure her so that you can try her?" He nodded towards the uniformed guards who stood either side of the girl. Johnson saw fear in their faces.

Across the room the girl let out a banshee scream of pure loathing, rattling the chains that secured the clamps to her toes and thumbs to the floor. She struggled to turn, turning her head as best she could to try and see who was speaking.

Johnson shook his head. "I would prefer to have her home first." He stared at the guards. "It is not my habit to take my pleasure in front of servants."

The Prince laughed. "Here we hardly notice them, my dear Mr Johnson. They know better than to be indiscreet. Perhaps after dinner I can interest you in sharing a rather attractive European girl who recently joined my stable." He paused, eyes alight with mischief. "The man who supplied her says she moves exquisitely under the lash."

Johnson smiled. He had brought the girl over himself as a little oil to grease the wheels of commerce.

"My pleasure, Your Royal Highness."

Their exchange of pleasantries concluded, Johnson left the Prince and went back out onto the terrace, where the sirocco wind rippled through the trees around the palace. Eyes on the desert beyond the whitewashed walls, his mind returned again and again to the fascinating wild creature who was now his.

The following day he had Leonora and his four most trusted security men flown out. He had the tattooed girl shipped to England in a crate aboard his private jet and delivered to Deuvar by his most experienced handlers, with no water, light or food on the journey.

By the time she arrived she was exhausted and, despite continued resistance, obviously terrified. Dark circles stained the skin beneath her wild-cat eyes.

Even then Johnson didn't relent. He and Leonora understood only too well what was needed. The strange wild tattooed girl was hung, spread eagled, in one of the cells. Leonora ensured she was kept in almost total darkness and beaten every day with a thin whip that lifted raw weals across her muscular shoulders.

She saw no-one except for her masked tormentor, who never spoke, and Johnson, who came in to feed her where she hung. If she fought or resisted he left her hungry. Later he took delicacies, feeding herby hand, talking to her in low but commanding tones – the voice of her master.

After a fortnight the unnerving glint in the wild girl's eyes began to fade and the sleek gloss of her golden skin faded to an unhealthy grey. It was only then that he sensed they were close to breaking her.

Like a cat, she tried to rub herself against him when he visited, seeking some crumbs of comfort from his touch. Another week and she let him touch her, exploring her exotic curves and folds with knowing fingers. The beatings continued every day. She stank. Unwashed, her hair clung to her face in filthy ribbons, but Johnson continued his regime of pleasure and pain, rewarding her compliance and obedience with gentle caresses, treats handed out by his own fingers.

When she was wild or disobedient she was whipped by her masked tormentor. Reward and punishment – a heady and effective method of bringing even the wildest of beasts to heel.

When he finally cut her down – a month after she had arrived at Deuvar – she clung to him like a child, sobbing frantically, rubbing her filthy body against his.

He oversaw her washing, inspecting every inviting orifice of her strange tattooed body – and then he took her to his rooms. He lay back on his bed, naked, and let her show her gratitude. She mewled like a kitten and crawled over to the bed, her body eager to worship him.

He remembered it still, her tentative movements, her fear at displeasing him in case her punishments began again. And when – exhausted and raw from pleasuring him – she had curled at his feet like a beaten dog, he had never forgotten the expression on her face.

He knew then, as she had looked up at him with those strange eyes, that he hadn't broken her, just bent her instinct to survive into a shape that would serve him almost as well. Even now he sometimes watched her, aware that just below the surface the wild beast still lingered, no more that a heart beat away.

Every day he took a whip to her oiled intimidating body, a salient reminder of what would befall her if she ever disobeyed him.

She never smiled, instead her gingery brown eyes watched the world coldly; she had the eyes of a predator. He beckoned her closer. She dropped to her knees and crawled across the floor towards him. Even with those bewitching feral eyes downcast her posture did not quite disguise her arrogance. At his feet she bent lower still, resting her forehead on the floor near his feet.

Her scarred oiled flesh glowed in the lamp light. He took a thin switch from his desk and flexed it thoughtfully. He let his imagination roam free; there was nothing he could not do to this girl, nothing he had discovered yet…

The phone rang, breaking his concentration. It was his private line so he must answer it. Angrily he plucked the receiver from the stand.

"Yes?" he snapped.

"St. Leonard's hospital here. May I speak to Mr Johnson?"

Immediately he got a grip on his tone, spoke more softly, but it was only skin deep.

"Ballard Johnson speaking. How may I help you?"

"I hope you don't mind me ringing so late but you asked me to contact you when Mr Roberts regained consciousness? Well, I'm sure you'll be delighted to hear that he came round this afternoon."

Johnson smiled thinly. "Really, well, that is marvellous news," he said. "When will he be able to receive visitors?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps."

"I shall come."

He hung up and looked at the warrior slave girl. Tomorrow he would know for certain what had happened to Peter Howard from this eye witness, Roberts, whoever he was. At the thought of Peter Howard he felt the fury low down in his gut, burning up through him in a wild bush fire.

The girl at his feet felt his anger. She was trembling slightly, a delicate veneer of perspiration lifting across her shoulders and in the small of her back. He let the head of the switch draw a line from the nape of her neck to the boney prominence between her flat well muscled buttocks. She got up slowly, uncurling herself like a sleek cat. As she drew back her shoulders he brought the length of the switch sharply across her dark cinnamon coloured nipples. Caught off-guard she let out a wild throaty roar and threw back her head, eyes flashing furiously.

"Come to me!" he commanded.

Though he was never certain that she understood his words she understood what was expected of her. She pressed her head to his chest, nuzzling him. He stroked her beaded hair and guided her down over his desk, fingers working along her spine. She dropped her hips, opening her sex rhythmically like a wet pink mouth. Even here, on the skin closest to her most private parts, the tattooist's art was visible. He drew back the switch and struck her low, where the crease of her buttocks joined her thighs.

The second blow was higher. He began to rain a flurry of blows down on her blue and silver scarred flesh. She threw back her head and howled like a dog as the redness flushed through her skin, turning her golden skin to colour of a stormy sunset.

Finally he threw the whip down onto the floor, dropped his trousers and plunged his raging bulbous cock into the dark stormy recesses of her anus. She snorted madly and bucked against him, while his hands circled round to cup her slick glistening breasts. He nipped and twisted her long distended nipples.

She gasped, matching him stroke for stroke as he plunged deeper and deeper into the stunningly tight orifice nestling between her buttocks. He felt her hands slipping down between their legs, one palm cupped the root of his cock, nipping and pressing in time with their thrusts. The fingers of the other, he knew, would be buried to the hilt in her sex, a thumb rubbing her clitoris. He sensed the rhythm of her fingers through the thin membrane that divided her two electrifying orifices. She beat out a steady counterpoint, driving them both over the edge to the white heat of oblivion.

With one final thrust he surrendered control, letting her stunning body close around him, driving away all reason, sucking every last drop from his cock. He felt her orgasm hot on the heels of his own and was dragged back to the brink to take one final look into the pit of pleasure as her body drew him in hungrily. It felt as if she might be able to swallow him whole, consume him in the wild beast that throbbed between her legs.

Snorting, breathless, sweat pouring down his face, he withdrew and collapsed back into an armchair. She turned round slowly and murmured the one word he understood from the all the year's they had been together.

"Maestro."

She dropped to her hands and knees and crawled onto the mat alongside the hearth. In front of the last embers of the fire she stretched out and closed her ginger eyes; a sleek wild cat exhausted and well fed after a long day's hunt. Johnson smiled to himself and picked up the report he had been reading.

Peter Howard looked at the computer screen in the ward clerk's office and cursed. 'Access denied.' It seemed as if everyone really did believe he was dead. He tapped in another code sequence; he wanted to connect up to a relatively secure corner of the computer network before he dared to try and open Magenta. His body complained, he was exhausted. He leant back and rubbed his eyes as Angela Ruskin appeared with a mug of coffee.

"Someone will be coming soon." She handed him the mug. "How's it going?"

Peter snorted as the computer denied him again. "I can't do it," he said, tapping in another access code. "There are other ways in but I need the time to chase around, back track, find a back door – shit – how long before I can leave hospital?"

Angela pulled a face. "Four or five days I guess."

Peter groaned. "Oh well…" He stopped mid sentence as a message scrolled up onto the screen. "Oh, my god!"

Angela read the message over his shoulder. 'They have Emily' She leant closer. "Emily?"

"My girl friend," he said flatly. He looked at her and decided upon honesty. "We plan to get married."

Angela didn't bat an eyelid. "And who has her?"

Peter sighed and ran his fingers back through his dark hair. "Some people who could do her an awful lot of harm. They want something I have. I have to get out of the hospital, I just have to! Can't I just walk out?"

Angela snorted. "Don't you mean just wheel out? Your body isn't much up to walking yet." She paused thoughtfully. "You basically just need rest and recuperation, you could discharge yourself into a nursing home."

Peter looked thoughtful. "Would that take long to arrange? I'd need computer access, arrange for some funds -"

Angela grinned. "Actually, I had a better idea. There are dozens of nursing homes in this area. No-one would be that interested in checking up on you. To be honest they'd be pleased to have the bed back. Why don't you come home with me? I could help you cook up a fictitious nursing home place for the forms -" She paused, eyes alight.

It was Peter's turn to grin. "And?"

She lifted her skirt slowly to reveal the ripe red hair around her quim. "Perhaps you will do me a favour. Didn't you say you would teach me discipline, like at Deuvar?"

Peter nodded. No harm in that!

Angela placed a form in front of him. She had been well prepared, it seemed. "Better fill this in then, Mr Roberts."

"Are you serious about taking care of me?"

"I've got a fortnight's holiday due to me. I'll ring in tomorrow night and say my mother is sick."

Peter lifted an eyebrow.

Angela grinned. "Well, all the others do it. About time I had some too."

Peter slid his hands up her thighs; they were warm to the touch. "Some of what?" he whispered darkly.

She wriggled around so that his fingers slid effortlessly into the thick matt of hair around her quim. He pressed deeper, sliding inside her, feeling the wet compelling pull of her sex.

"Whatever you have to offer me."

Chapter 4

Emily Lawrence was woken by a gentle touch on her shoulder; the merest fleeting caress.

Instantly conscious, she needed no time to collect her thoughts or struggle to remember what had happened to her. As she woke to the fearful darkness created by the thin mask she knew exactly where she was. She remembered the command to remain silent unless spoken to and struggled to stop herself from asking who was there, instead she strained to listen for clues. Her face and head felt desperately hot and uncomfortable under the rubber and her nipples and sex felt raw and vulnerable from being pierced.

After a few seconds she felt gentle hands undoing her wrist restraints, the movements accompanied by soft tuneless humming. A hand stroked her collar, there was a clicking sound, and then a soft tug.

"Come with me. We'll wash you now," said a foreign sounding female voice. The unseen woman re-enforced her invitation with a sharp tug on the collar.

Emily unfolded her body and put her feet on the floor. Her full bladder ached. The tug came again and she guessed that it was perhaps a leash fixed to the loop in her collar. Gingerly she took two small steps, hands in front of her.

Her companion laughed. "We'll never get there if you go so slowly. Here -" Emily felt a small cool hand linking though her arm. "I'll show you. I'd forgotten you can't see."

They walked arm in arm out into what sounded like a corridor, where Emily had walked the night before and then – still at a snail's pace – into another room. With every step Emily was conscious of the chains, afraid to snag or catch them, she walked as if she were on broken glass. Firm small hands guided her onto a bench and she heard another snick of metal on metal.

"Close your eyes." said the voice. "It will be very bright when I take this off." Emily complied as the mask was rolled back off her face. The cold air hit her moist sweating skin like a soft kiss. She moaned with relief as the pressure was relieved and instantly wondered if she was going to be punished. Opening her eyes she looked straight into the face of a small oriental girl, dressed in a clinical smock. Her companion smiled.

"Better?"

Emily nodded, unsure whether the question demanded an answer. They were in a large white-tiled bathroom. By the door was a man in uniform who was watching the two women without interest. Ahead of her were shower cubicles and open lavatory stalls – neither had any doors. Beside her, snaking away from the collar on her neck, was a long length of chain that was secured into a large ring complete with a small lock. It was so high on the wall that she could only assume her diminutive walker had given the security guard the chain as they came in – she certainly wouldn't be able to reach it herself.

The girl smiled again. "My name is Kai. You can wash and then I'll do these -" Her tiny quick silver hands cupped Emily's nipples, touching the silver rings. Emily flinched. The girl pulled a face. "It's all right. I'll make them feel better. Lie back a little." Carefully she removed the chain that linked each ring. As the links moved through rings Emily bit her lips, praying that they didn't snag.

Emily's body chain removed, Kai indicated the shower and the toilets. Emily glanced at the impassive face of the guard, wondering whether she could bring herself to use the lavatory while being watched. The neck chain was long enough to allow her to move freely around the room. Finally she realised that she had no choice and walked into the toilet stall, averting her eyes until she was done.

The warm water in the shower was sheer bliss. She let it course down over her, draining away the aches and pains of the previous day. It seemed almost impossible that her life could change so dramatically in less than twenty four hours. She was reluctant to climb out of the cubicle until finally Kai switched off the water.

"If you lie here -" Kai pointed towards the bench, now covered with thick cream towels. Emily climbed onto it. Kai secured her hands above her head, slipping short straps through her wrist cuffs, and then unfastened the neck chain. Emily glanced at the guard's rugged unsympathetic face; resistance would be pointless.

Kai looked at Emily's body appreciatively before patting her dry. The Oriental girl slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and poured something from a bottle onto a ball of cotton wool. She tended to each piercing with gentle thoroughness; the cool spirit of the cotton wool burned like fire and brought tears to Emily's eyes. Kai made tender clucking sounds in her throat, finger lingering on the sensitive peaks of Emily's nipples. As her fingers moved lower Emily held her breath. Kai grinned. "It will sting but it will feel better."

One finger slid down between the lips of her sex, caressing her clitoris. The knowing touch sent a flurry of unexpected pleasure through Emily's body, so unexpected that she let out a little squeal.

Kai looked pleased. "Feels good, doesn't it?" she said, repeating the move. The touch made Emily shiver. Kai stroked her clitoris again as she applied the spirit soaked cotton wool to the lips of Emily's quim; the contrast of the two sensations was breathtaking.

Kai stood back a little to admire her handiwork. "Now I'm going to oil you. It'll feel wonderful." She took another bottle from a small table and poured a pool of liquid into her palms to warm it before spreading it on Emily's belly. Emily found it hard to relax at first, although Kai's gentle rhythmic movements did feel good.

All the time, behind Kai's shoulder, Emily could see the dark eyes of the guard. His expression was subtly changing from one of disinterest to open excitement as the little oriental girl skilfully rubbed the oil into every inch of Emily's flesh. When she had finished with the front she tapped Emily on the shoulder for her to turn over. Now her touch was more positive, firmly kneading her back muscles, slipping knowing fingers over the swell of Emily's buttocks and into the sensitive flesh between them.

In spite of herself, Emily could feel her excitement growing with every kneading movement. She could sense Kai's pleasure and a growing sense of expectation.

Kai's caresses where awakening a part of her nature she had never known existed. The girl's hands lifted to run along her waist, stroking the sensitive areas under her armpits before sliding down to the small of her back. She began to work on the muscles of her thighs. Emily moaned and opened her legs, gasping as Kai's fingertips slid over her anus, a finger teasing at the little closed bud. Kai made soft throaty noises of encouragement, and in spite of herself Emily felt a tight glittering spiral beginning to build within her.

Behind her she heard a noise, but was too excited to care, flexing her muscles so that her sex and backside were open, lifting a little clear of the bed for the girl's touch.

What she felt next took away her breath. Something cool and smooth on the very rim of her backside. Before she had time to resist she felt something being pushed into her, cold and invasive, opening her backside in its path. She squealed and began to struggle, fighting the invasion, but too late. Strong fingers held the dildo in place, while others flipped her unceremoniously onto her back, snapping tight a triangular leather harness that held the dildo tight inside her.

Emily sobbed, staring up into the eyes of not just Kai, but the heavily built guard. He wore a lascivious grin. He hunched over her, pressing his thick lips down onto her's.

"I'm going to be the first to fuck you there," he said as he pulled away, thrusting his hand between her legs to drive the dildo deeper into her backside. "Tossed a coin for it." His flinty eyes glittered. Beside him, Kai was smiling. Emily felt a desperate sense of betrayal. The head of the object nestling deep inside her made her feel sick. She glanced down – the heavy straps around her thighs and belly were a stark and unnerving contrast to her pale skin. The guard surveyed her body with barely concealed desire.

He looked at Kai. "How long before she'll be ready?"

Kai smiled, snapping off her rubber gloves. "I'd say any time at all. She's aching for satisfaction. I'd let you have her now if it weren't for Leonora's orders."

The guard bent forward and pressed his face into Emily's groin; a long snaking tongue opening up the lips of her sex. Emily stiffened as his rough mouth caught the silver ring that linked her sex lips. Her fear was tempered by the white hot electric plume of pleasure that his kiss lit in her belly. She was stunned by her body's reaction. She could feel an urgent surge of need. The guard pulled back a little, sniffing at her naked sex like a dog.

Kai held out her hand. "Time we went to see Leonora."

Emily climbed unsteadily from the couch, feeling the anal insert move in her with every step.

Kai smiled encouragingly.

The guard helped Kai to secure Emily's hands behind her back; all the time his fingers moved over her body with something akin to possession. She shuddered as his fingers moved across the crease of her buttocks.

He made a thick guttural noise and then beckoned to Kai. She stepped towards him with total obedience. Grabbing hold of Emily's arms, he forced her onto the floor. He was so quick that Emily didn't have a chance to think, let alone act. Kai did nothing to assist her. She screamed out in desperation as he pulled a short length of chain down from the table and snapped it into her wrist cuffs.

"Be quiet," he snorted, as she tumbled backwards onto the cold marble floor, her weight pinning her arms behind her. He bent down and grabbed hold of her collar, jerking it upwards until she was kneeling. All the time Kai stood behind him, eyes downcast. The guard grinned at Emily. "Can you feel that thing up inside you? Imagine what it will feel like when it's me!"

Emily felt her colour draining.

"Now, get yourself comfortable and open you knees nice and wide," he said with a leer. He glanced over his shoulder at Kai. "Get that overall off. I want to see you two together – seems to me that the pair of you were enjoying your massage. After all, I've got to wait for her -" he nodded towards Emily. "So I'll have you instead."

Kai said nothing. Instead she slipped the pristine white smock over her head. Beneath she was wearing a dark green leather Basque. It fitted her like a second skin, pressing her full breasts up in an open invitation. Her nipples seemed unnaturally dark, as if stained with something, and hardened instantly in the cool air.

The guard groaned appreciatively and circled the oriental girl, as Emily watched them in terror. He ran his hands over Kai's narrow elongated waist. The leather Basque was tight, nipping her skin slightly so that her flesh seemed to swell out from under it; she was an erotic masterpiece. Below the lower edge of the Basque, which was shaped to frame her belly, Kai's sex was naked and glistening with oil. At the lowest point between her legs hung a large ring on which was a tiny glittering bird.

The guard grinned and drew a finger between the outer lips. Her clitoris peeked seductively between the flushed pink labia. "I want to see you on all fours with your tongue between her legs," he said softly. "I know that's what you want, Kai. I've seen you before when you've been in here with the other girls."

Kai knelt slowly and caught hold of Emily's collar, pulling her close. Her lips brushed Emily's cheek and then her mouth. Her kisses made Emily whimper; so gentle, so soft – mixed feelings of revulsion and fear rose in Emily's gut. She gasped and tried to pull away as Kai's lips opened and her tongue sought entry.

The oriental girl's hands lifted to her breasts, teasing at the engorged peaks with great care, tracing the line of the rings. Her head moved lower, kissing out a wet trail of desire on Emily's tingling excited flesh. Beside the bench the guard watched with a grin on his face. "Does she taste good?" he murmured, fingers on the fly of his uniform trousers.

Kai moaned and moved lower still, pushing her pert bottom up towards the guard, who turned and locked the door to the bathroom.

Emily was so stunned that she was frozen to the spot. Kai's cool oily hands worked along her open thighs. Emily gasped. A few second later they were followed by a tongue, as warm and compelling as the heat of summer. Kai hissed softly and Emily felt Kai's tongue persuading the lips of her sex to part.

Emily whimpered as Kai's fingers slipped beneath the leather of her harness, and pulled her onto her exploratory tongue. She wriggled to try and free herself. Emily had never been touched by a woman, nor ever in her darkest, most erotic dreams imagined what it might be like.

Kai's expert kisses were electrifying. Emily's mind screamed in revulsion while her body begged for more. Her legs opened spontaneously, pressing the anal dildo deeper as she felt Kai locate the tender swelling peak of her clitoris. As the oriental woman's mouth closed around it Emily knew she was lost.

Behind them the guard grunted and dropped to his knees. Emily caught a fleeting glance of his thick meaty phallus as he manoeuvred himself into position. Kai gave a wild shriek as the man plunged into her open waiting body. Emily had no idea which orifice the man had chosen, her mind full of the wild suckings and lappings of her female lover.

The guard thrust forward, leering at Emily, his fingers playing with her peaked nipples. He set a furious pace, matched now by Kai's hot wet tongue.

Emily thought she might faint as the flurries and waves of pleasure grew and grew with each new sensation. The stunning crystal waves seemed to come closer and closer together until suddenly her mind was filled with a brilliant white light and a pleasure of such intensity that she could barely breath.

The guard gave one tremendous final thrust and then fell sated across Kai's leather clad back. All Emily could feel now was the roaring glow of satisfaction deep in her belly and the soft breaths of Kai on her thighs. Slowly the guard pulled away, pressing his wet flaccid cock back into his trousers. He looked at the women, crouched on the floor for his pleasure, with total disdain.

Kai pulled herself upright and looked down at Emily. "I'll take you to see Leonora now – and then you will eat. No mask, but you'll have to be blindfolded." Her voice sounded remarkably normal, whereas Emily was trembling so much that she didn't think she would be able to stand.

Kai unlocked her hands from the couch and helped her to her feet. She signalled to the guard who took a long silk handkerchief from his pocket and covered her eyes.

He leant forward as he tied the knot tight. He was so close that Emily could feel his breath on her skin, "Keep an eye out for me. Don't forget, I'm going to be the first," he murmured threateningly. As he spoke he slipped his hand between her buttocks and pressed on the strap that held the dildo in place.

Kai sighed theatrically. "Let me take her, pass me the leash."

Emily heard the guard leave and then felt the gentle tug as Kai directed her to move. This time the leash was far shorter so that as they moved forward she felt Kai's knuckles brushing against her shoulders. Finally she could stay silent no longer. "How can you let him treat you like that? Are you a prisoner here?"

Kai's reply was a short barking laugh. "A prisoner? Don't be ridiculous. I signed a contract. We all have."

Emily nodded miserably, thinking about standing at the desk in Roderick Banyon's office with her hand poised over the contract that had brought her to Deuvar. "So the contract is genuine then?"

"Yes, of course, we all sign up for a year at a time. I came over here on the recommendation of my sister."

Emily was stunned. "You chose to come here?" she said incredulously.

Kai snorted. "It offered a better life than the one in my village. Another year, maybe two, and I'll leave. Most girls stay five or six years. When we decide to leave, Leonora arranges for us to have suitable papers, money -" she paused. "And freedom to do what we like. Some of the girls choose to go with their masters, but it isn't compulsory. You should have read the contract."

Emily shivered. "But the way they treat you? That guard? It was awful."

Kai laughed. "The clients who come to Deuvar are connoisseurs; they understand the electric combination of pleasure and pain."

"And the guards?"

Kai tugged her lead so that Emily followed her around a corner. "It's in your best interests to keep them sweet. They have the power to control who goes where, who can get in to see us and who can't. Don't ever underestimate the advantages of doing what they want."

A porter pushed Peter Howard to the front foyer of the hospital. Outside, beyond the plate glass doors, the new morning was grey and unpromising. It reflected the way he felt almost perfectly. A male staff nurse had managed to find him a bizarre assortment of second-hand clothes from the charity box – but no socks.

The staff had barely commented on his request to discharge himself, too exhausted from the night shift to have much fight left in them. Sister Ruskin and an overworked young houseman from Accident and Emergency had signed his discharge forms in the office with hardly a second glance – and so now Peter was waiting alone in reception for a fictitious taxi that had been booked to take him for two weeks of rest and recuperation.

On his lap, Peter cradled Magenta, carefully re-wrapped in polythene in his hold-all and the thick white envelope that some-how had managed to offer him a way out of his predicament. He grinned, wondering what Johnson would say if he knew that it had been Deuvar that had been Peter's ticket out of oblivion.

Staff meandered around the foyer waiting for the change of shift. Finally, Angela appeared through the noisy throng, pale and heavy eyed, swathed in a full length navy cape. She lifted a hand in greeting. "Well, don't you look quite the bon viveur?" she snorted, glancing down at his charity shop outfit.

He lifted an eyebrow and waved the white envelope in her direction. "Appearances can be very deceptive," he said with good humour. "Can we get out of this bloody place now?"

Angela nodded and took hold of the wheelchair. "No problem. I've got my car parked just outside. Another half an hour and we'll be sipping tea in front of a roaring fire."

Peter grinned. "I'd prefer you naked for that," he said.

Angela poked him playfully. "If I don't get home soon I'll be asleep before we get to that part. Come on -"

Outside, the change in temperature hit Peter like a body blow. He winced as the wind cut through his charity-box coat and made a bee-line for his aching ribs. He hunched miserably and let Angela guide him toward her large, if somewhat ancient, estate car.

"Nice car," he gasped, as she manhandled him into the front seat. He was stunned that his legs refused to bear his weight or obey his commands. By the time he fastened his safety belt he was shaking from the effort and bathed in sweat.

Angela let herself into the other side after stowing the wheelchair in the boot. "It was my father's. He died a couple of years ago, it was his absolute pride and joy. He'd be horrified that I don't polish it lovingly after every trip."

Peter watched the countryside unravel as they made their way out from a small town through into rolling wooded hills. It struck him that he didn't actually know where he was.

Angela caught his eye. "Are you enjoying the scenery?" she purred.

He nodded dumbly. "Yes. Where are we?"

Angela snorted. "Kent."

When he glanced down he saw that she had pulled her skirt back over her thighs. The scenery was indeed quite scintillating. He regretted missing her clue. He could just make out a wisp or two of coppery hair, glinting in the watery sunlight.

"So, is this what they call the garden of England?" he said, letting his eyes linger on the top of her thighs as she wriggled lower to expose the plump ripe prize that lay beneath her uniform.

"No, actually we're just outside Anchorbridge," she laughed.

Peter nodded and grinned a reply. The motion of the car was slowly lulling him to sleep. Angela's words barely registered as he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again with a start, he was completely disorientated. Ahead of him, set amongst a profusion of greenery, was a large cottage, rendered cream – a comforting rural image against a slate grey autumn sky. He rubbed his eyes and tried to remember exactly what was going on. Things fell into place slowly as he turned to look at Angela, her nursing uniform now demurely re-arranged to cover her plump thighs.

He stretched. "Sorry," he murmured. "I must have fallen asleep. I really need to use a phone."

The sister snorted. "You really need to go to bed and so do I."

Peter pulled a rueful face.

Angela giggled. "To go to sleep, you fool. I'll get the wheelchair out of the boot. You won't have to worry about stairs. We had a ground floor conversion done – Dad had problems before he died. You'll have your own little self-contained fiefdom – and yes, there is a phone."

Inside, Angela's cottage was as inviting as its exterior. Wheeling Peter up a ramp she opened large French windows into an open sitting area – from the ease of access it was obvious it wasn't the first time a wheel chair had been used to transport its occupants around the place. Beyond the comfortable sitting-room was a huge farm-house style kitchen. Angela kicked off her shoes, plugged in the kettle, and stoked an ageing stove into life. Within seconds the room was filled with a soft warm glow. She wheeled Peter up to the hearth to take advantage of the heat and made them tea.

He wanted to say how grateful he was – express some kind of heartfelt thanks. Instead he watched the hypnotic glow of the coals, cradling Magenta in his arms, feeling his eyelids falling even as he heard the tea being poured. Even Angela wheeling him into the annex at the back of the house and gently helping him onto the bed did little more than add to the changing pattern of his dreams.

"What the hell do you mean, he's discharged himself? Where's he gone? Or didn't you have the brain to find out?" Johnson roared down the phone. At the far end of the line his appointments secretary made noises of apology. She had only rung the hospital to confirm the visiting times and make sure Mr Johnson's car would be there on time. Johnson stubbed out his early morning cigar in the ashtray on his desk.

His secretary was a tiny pale mouse of a woman, who he had often considered introducing to the delights of Deuvar. She was one of life's natural submissives. Now, as she twittered on about making enquiries and apologising with every other word, he longed to call her into his office and rip that stupid frilly blouse she wore for work off her narrow pallid back, together with the navy suit that she thought gave her an air of efficiency. He'd bend her over his desk and take his belt to her thin insipid body, making her scream out for mercy – and then, when she lay sobbing, he'd bugger her there amongst the trophies of his success. The fantasy brought a smile to his face.

"Ring me when you have something concrete. I need to know where this man Roberts has gone -" He spoke grimly and hung up.

He needed to know what Roberts knew about Peter Howard. After all, he reasoned, as he took another Havana cigar from the box, they flew together, surely they must have talked about something. All he needed was some hint, some clue, however obscure, as to what Howard had done with Magenta. A lot of people – important people – were waiting to find out what had happened to it. Although there had been no overt threats as yet, Johnson knew that without Magenta or unless he could assure his 'friends' that it had been destroyed, his life wouldn't be worth the cigar that he was presently rolling between his fingers.

Max Fielding had spent the night at Deuvar and joined Leonora in her private office after breakfast. Close circuit television cameras were installed in every one the mansion's numerous rooms. A set of screens were arranged along one wall of a small room behind Leonora's office. It was with some interest that Leonora and Max watched the goings-on in the bathroom that adjoined the landing of cell 27.

Leonora had ordered the insertion of the little dildo; Emily needed to be stretched. The incident with the guard and Kai were an added bonus. Leonora watched the womens' progress down the corridor, eyes moving from one screen to another as they got closer to her office. Kai was one of her most trusted girls.

Leonora heard the knock on her door at the same time as she saw it on the screen on the wall. She smiled and pulled her kimono belt tight, glancing at Max before going to let the girls in. Against the background of the oak panelled office Kai looked magnificent in her leather Basque, leading the wary new girl. Emily's walk was ungainly, announcing the presence of the slim insert in her backside.

Leonora nodded to Kai and took the short leash herself, jerking it tight so that Emily stumbled forward. She fell face down unable to save herself because of the restraints high up on her arms. Leonora pulled the leash tight so that she was held on her knees, her head resting against Leonora's thighs. The guards had made a good job of her hair, clipping it back so that it was no more than half an inch long all over her skull.

The girl was still now, straining to hear what was going on in the room.

"What is the first rule I taught you, Emily?" Leonora said in a low voice. Emily stiffened but said nothing. Leonora jerked the lead again, snapping the head back. "Well? I'm waiting."

The girl was shivering, her breaths coming in tight, unhappy gasps. "Don't speak unless you're spoken to," she whispered after a few more seconds.

"That's correct." said Leonora coolly. "A rule I think that you've recently broken while you were with Kai on the landing. Am I right?"

Emily nodded. Leonora ran a perfectly manicured finger over Emily's lips. "Once upon a time we used to cut out the tongues of girls who refused to obey the rule of silence. Some of our clients still prefer it -"

Emily whimpered; a light beading of sweat rising on her top lip. Leonora smiled. The right balance of fear and reward and punishment was essential if a girl was to be suitable for a place at Deuvar. Emily's nipples looked wonderful; the tremble of fear making the little rings glitter in the lamp-light. Leonora undid the restraints at the top of the girl's arms and fixed her wrist cuffs to the side of her collar – this effectively pinned her hands while exposing her back. There was no resistance.

Max Fielding watched from the doorway in amused silence. He was used to such spectacles. Kai stood demurely by the hearth, eyes downcast, while Emily, shivering, terrified, waited for whatever was to follow in uneasy silence.

Leonora circled her thoughtfully. She would offer the virgin goods on sale by fax as soon as she had metered out Emily's punishment. Johnson wanted Emily working and at the beck and call of the clients as soon a possible. A shame really. With the right training she could be a superb body slave.

Leonora took a short flexible whip from the rack on the wall. It was one of her favourites. Made by an old fashioned saddler to her own specifications, the end was split into fine leather fronds. It was designed to inflict pain without damaging the flesh. Leonora ran her fingers through the split end pieces. The leather was so soft that it almost tickled. She turned it thoughtfully in her fingers, judging the weight before laying it at full tilt across the girl's exposed back.

Emily screamed and instinctively hunched, throwing herself forward. Leonora wasn't put off; with deadly accuracy she struck again, lifting a second red weal across the girl's spine. Emily sobbed, trying to roll out from under the whip's scorching kiss. As she moved she exposed her newly pierced breasts. The whip's hot tongue exploded across their peaks, wrenching a gut curdling scream from the writhing creature.

Leonora glanced at Max. His eyes were bright with expectation. Kai was still looking down but her rapid breathing announced her own excitement. Emily began to try and crawl away – the whip exploded again across her back.

"What is the first rule?" said Leonora coldly.

Emily's answer was a miserable sob.

The whip cracked again. "What is the first rule? Answer me or I will give you a dozen more strokes."

Emily froze. "Silence," she whimpered, the word barely coherent through her sobs.

"Good," said Leonora, placing the whip back in the rack. "Kai will arrange for you to eat and then take you into the main hall to begin work." She paused. "Don't forget, Emily – silence. Think of being at Deuvar as joining a convent. We demand total obedience, the only thing we don't expect is chastity." Leonora allowed herself a smile.

Chapter 5

While Emily Lawrence, sobbing and terrified, was led away by Kai to eat and begin her first full day at Deuvar, and Johnson tried to trace the mysterious disappearing patient, Peter Howard slept like a baby. When he woke in the middle of the afternoon he found that Angela had left a phone on the bedside table, together with a stack of directories, pens, and a note pad. He grinned and tapped in the first number that came into his head.

The man at the far end of the line was stunned when he heard Peter's voice. Peter's requests were simple and straightforward. The voice read back his list and then hung up. Peter yawned and lay back amongst the pillows.

He felt much better already. Angela – practical nursing sister to the last fibre of her body – had left a walking frame alongside the telephone table. With some chagrin Peter used it to propel himself to the little bathroom where – without too much difficulty – he showered, shaved and dressed himself in a pair of clean pyjama bottoms and dressing gown, thoughtfully provided by his hostess.

When he re-appeared some time later he felt much more like his old self. Five weeks inactivity might have rendered his body weak, but his mind was as sharp as broken glass.

Another phone call and he had arranged to have funds made available to him. When he'd finished he picked up a local directory and thumbed through the business pages. It was while he was making a final call that he heard the door to the annex open, and looked up.

Angela stood in the doorway wrapped in a sheer, almost translucent, robe that gift wrapped her ample curves from chin to ankle. Her hair, which had been tidily arranged in a bun while she was at work, now curled in tumultuous auburn waves onto her broad shoulders.

"I thought I heard you moving around," she said. "How was your shower?"

"Wonderful. By the way, I've arranged for some equipment to be delivered here." He glanced at the bedside clock. "They've said they can have it here later today."

Angela lifted an eyebrow. "You really must have some clout, Peter. Usually you can't get a pizza delivered this far out in the sticks."

Peter watched her moving around the room. The woman was a banquet. As she pulled the curtains open her heavy breasts moved with fluid grace inside her wrap. As if sensing his interest, her nipples hardened, pressing themselves into an erotic relief. She had called him Peter! He was not Peter to anyone at the hospital… but it seemed so right…

Such great tits…

He was still a bit woozy…

"Are you hungry?"

"What?"

"Hungry?" she repeated. "Are you hungry?"

He lowered himself back onto the bed. "Rather depends what's on the menu -" His tone didn't suggest he was expecting an early supper.

Angela turned and let the wrap fall open. Beneath she was naked. Her body reminded him of the models used by the old masters – Reubens or Rembrant. She was sumptuous, heavy breasted, with a narrow angular waist that rolled out over capacious hips. Her belly was softly rounded and her skin – complementing her rich strawberry blonde hair – had a porcelain lustre to it.

Peter smiled. "Take it off," he whispered, "and turn around slowly. I want to look at you."

Angela let the sheer fabric slither down over her muscular arms. For a woman of her size she moved with the grace of a ballet dancer. From the back her silhouette accentuated the impression of an hour glass figure and her ample buttocks were plump and dimpled. Peter let out a low whistle of admiration.

Angela peeked provocatively over her shoulder, eyes glittering. "What next?" she murmured.

Peter considered. He would like to find something to bring a red flush to her pale glowing skin, something that wouldn't rob him of the meagre supply of energy that his normally robust body had to offer. He glanced around the room; he wanted to give her a taste of the pleasures she so obviously craved. A familiar shape caught his eye amongst the fire-irons, standing in an old shell case in the hearth.

"Was your father a teacher?"

Bemused, Angela nodded.

Peter pointed towards the fire. "Was that his cane?"

Angela blushed crimson. "He used it to hook his slippers and things off the floor when he was ill."

"Bring it to me."

He could see her hands trembling as she slipped the cane from its nest amongst the innocent pokers. Peter could already feel a tight ache in his groin as he imagined how many tight frightened arses the little cane had kissed.

Nervously, Angela made her way to the bed, the cane held out in front of her like a holy relic. He took it and bent it, testing its flexibility. Beside the bed Angela watched with open-eyed wonder.

He patted the eiderdown. "Lie across the bed. You can't expect a sick man to stand for his pleasures."

The flush in Angela's face spread slowly down over her shoulders, but she didn't move. Peter's face grew stern. "Don't keep me waiting, girl."

Angela eased herself slowly over his legs. Her weight almost made him tell her to stop, but the prospect of her ripe backside, exposed and ready, gave him the strength to continue. When she was across his thighs he pushed a pillow under her hips, tipping her up to expose the delicate contours of her buttocks.

He grinned and swung the cane back. It cut a swathe though the air and exploded across her backside. She wailed and leapt forward while her porcelain skin lifted in a slim blood-red ribbon. He struck again. Six of the best, he calculated, was probably all that he would be able to manage. With each blow Angela let out a shriek of pain and ground her body into his thighs. Between each stroke her body opened like a ripe flower, fragrant and compelling. He smiled. Angela Ruskin's education was going to be a real pleasure.

When the final blow was struck he pulled himself up and leant forward to kiss each stripe in turn. She mewled with pleasure as his tongue traced the criss-crossed weals. Easing his hands lower he opened her legs; between her thighs was a white hot, sopping crucible of pleasure. She was so excited that her juices were trickling down onto her legs. He guided her so that she was kneeling across his lap and looked up into her face.

Her cheeks were tear stained and flushed, eyes still flickering with desire and need. His fingers trailed back to her sex, dipping – almost swimming – in her excitement. He opened his pyjamas and ran his hands, wet from her sex, over the engorged purple head of his cock. Slicking it back and forth over his foreskin, he got hold of her neck and pulled her closer.

She shivered as she bent forward to service him with her mouth. He imagined the pleasure as she tasted her own juices mingled with his. The image was so compelling that Peter wondered if he would be able to hold back.

Her mouth seemed alive, drawing him in between her lips like a hungry beast. She sucked harder, her large hands lifting to cup his balls and tease along the length of his shaft. Her breath on his belly, hot and wet, was alone almost enough to drive him to the point of no return. Locking his fingers into her long hair he jerked her closer, driving into her again and again.

Gasping, at the very moment of release, he pulled her away. As she sat up she looked surprised, denied her final prize. Peter took a deep breath, bringing himself skilfully back from the brink – avoiding looking at her heavy pink tipped breasts, over which it would be so tempting to spurt his thick shimmering semen. He held the base of his cock in both hands.

"I want to feel this inside you," he murmured. "Buried to the hilt inside your cunt."

Angela shivered and slowly crept up to take him into her. Her sex dragged him in, its slick throbbing walls closing around him like a tight hot fist. He snorted and burying his hands in her hair jerked her hard back so that she was forced into an erotic arc, her breasts jutting towards him, her mouth open as they struggled to set a frantic rhythm.

She matched him stroke for stroke, mimicking his wild brutal thrusts. She screamed as he jerked her head back further still and writhed deliciously as he closed his teeth around her swollen engorged nipples.

He felt the first contraction of her orgasm in the same white hot second that he felt the unstoppable throb of his own. He pressed his teeth tighter, trapping her tender flesh, as they both thrashed and thrust their way to oblivion.

At Deuvar, Emily was being led in silence back to her cell by a burly guard after her first day as a member of Fielding and Johnson's elite contract girls. She had been allowed to return without a blindfold but even so her eyes were downcast.

At the cell door the guard snapped a short chain into her wrist cuffs, linking them so that they touched. A second longer chain joined them from above the bed frame, which meant that she would be able to move around the cell. Alone, she stared unseeing around its confines and thought about the events of the day.

Outside Leonora's office Kai had removed her blindfold and then led Emily gently downstairs into the main hall and there… Emily could hardly bear to think about it.

The guests at Deuvar had free access to all the public rooms as well as a number of private suites. Well dressed men and women had been taking breakfast in an exquisitely furnished dining room over-looking a magnificent formal garden. Emily had been acutely aware of her nakedness and, worse still, of the thick leather harness that secured the device into her anus.

Eyes turned toward her as she'd walked in, unashamedly assessing her, and then looked away as their owners continued with their meals and conversation. Before leaving her with the restaurant manager, Kai had reminded Emily she must do as she was told – anyone could command her. Emily sensed that Leonora wanted her to be seen before she was sold off. Humiliated beyond all belief Emily had been ordered to clear tables, her body at everyone's disposal.

Men ran their hands over her breasts, teasing at her nipples with desultory interest. One ran a tentative finger over her quim, sniffing it afterwards. Those who didn't touch stared and examined with their eyes; their gaze was almost more invasive than the fingers and lips. Emily bit her lip as she imagined the open curiosity and desire she had seen on the faces of the guests.

In the far corner of the dining room a tall distinguished looking man and his woman had been sitting at a secluded table. The man had beckoned her over and made her turn slowly for his appraisal. He turned to his companion, who Emily suspected was another of Leonora's girls, as if to seek her approval. The girl had said nothing but slid her perfectly tailored white dress up over her waist to reveal her nakedness beneath. Her sex was fringed by a careful clipped triangle of dark hair. Emily remained unmoving. The man stared at her and lifted an eyebrow. "Haven't you been told that you have to do what you're told?" he said coolly.

Emily nodded. The man sighed theatrically. "My friend requires you to service her."

Still Emily didn't move, unsure what was required of her. Behind her the hubbub of the dining room faded away as she had blushed crimson. The girl opened her legs and let her fingers tease at the open flushed lips of her quim. Her scarlet nail polish looked bizarre nestled amongst the soft downy curls.

The man's expression was stony. "On you knees, bitch, and fuck her with your tongue. I want to watch you. Or would you prefer me to report you to the management?"

Emily shivered, unable to believe what she had heard. She could feel her colour intensifying, and with it the white heat of Leonora's whip marks on her back. She dropped slowly to her knees, her heart hammering between her breasts. Slowly, slowly, she crept forward, praying that the woman would close her legs, praying the man would change his mind. She was so close now she could smell the rich aroma of the woman's sex; an oceanic salty perfume and with it mingled – she shuddered as she remembered the smell – with it mingled the white trickling remnants of her lover's semen. She flinched as the man grabbed the back of her head and ground it into the woman's exposed dribbling sex.

Tears of revulsion and humiliation coursed down Emily's cheeks as she tasted the remains of his lovemaking. The woman writhed closer, pressing herself onto Emily's lips, moaning softly as she ground her quim against Emily's mouth.

Emily had licked and tongued and kissed, the woman getting more and more excited with every passing second, lifting herself up, opening herself for Emily's inexpert caresses. Beside her she heard the man's breath quicken as he watched them. Beneath her the woman started to moan frantically and thrash from side to side. At first Emily thought it was a plea for her to stop until she suddenly realised that the woman was having an orgasm.

Her male companion dragged Emily away then, and slipped his straining arcing cock from his trousers. Pulling the woman further off the bench he thrust his cock into her compliant writhing body.

Emily was so stunned that she knelt beside them, staring in astonishment at the sight of his shaft sliding in and out of the woman's slick gaping quim. But it wasn't over – the man grabbed Emily's collar and thrust her face back towards the moist fragrant junction of their two bodies.

The woman's writhing and moaning renewed. Her juices flooded Emily's mouth with an intense rich taste and below that there was the dark threatening contrast of the man's cock, a steam hammer that Emily's tongue lapped and serviced with every heaving thrust.

Suddenly the man shuddered and began to snort, driving deep into the woman in the white dress, pinning Emily between them. His flaccid slick penis was the last thing that passed across Emily's lips as he pulled himself out of his lover.

Sitting back on his heels he pulled Emily to him and kissed her, his tongue searching her mouth for the flavours of their love making. Emily was stunned and horrified. The man got to his feet, adjusted his clothing and waved towards the restaurant manager who had given Emily her tasks in the dining-room.

"Tell Leonora I'll double my bid for this girl," he said, without looking at Emily.

Emily threw herself back onto her bed in her cell, hot tears of shame and fear coursing down her face. She hadn't thought about Peter since the previous night, but now his distinctive features filled her mind. What on earth would he think of the way she had behaved since she arrived at Deuvar?

They had met first the previous summer – just over a year ago – when she'd applied for a job with his import and export firm. He had explained he had several business interests and freelanced for big companies alongside his own commitments. What he really needed some-one competent to run his small office. Even as he'd been interviewing her she had sensed a little crackle of expectation in the air.

She might still be a virgin, but she wasn't completely naive. She'd just finished college, coming out top of her group for reception and secretarial skills and had been a popular girl with several regular dates. It was just that some part of her had refused to go that extra yard; she had maintained her virginity against all the odds. She wanted to give it as a pure white shining gift to a man she loved – and in her mind that man had become Peter Howard.

Crouched on the bed at Deuvar it seemed now as if all that had happened to another person. It certainly didn't feel as if that girl, clutching her diplomas and references, was the same miserable, naked, whipped creature who had lay between the legs of an unknown couple, sucking and lapping at their bodies as they had made love.

She shuddered, trying to recapture the face of Peter Howard. He had invited her out to lunch the first week she had been working for him, after that is was a dinner date, then the theatre. He seemed so confident and at ease wherever he found himself. It had seemed like a fairy tale – some-how unreal. When he had kissed her, hands circling to caress her breasts, she had felt a flurry of excitement and desire like nothing she had ever experienced before. When she told him, after he had invited her to spend the weekend in Paris, that she was a virgin, he had grinned – and embraced her – and taken her to Paris anyway.

He had proposed to her on a little boat as they explored the Seine by moonlight. She had been astounded and touched when he suggested they buy her parent's a house as an investment. As the months had passed the fairy tale had continued and with it her sense of unreality.

Even when the police had come to tell her he had been killed in the plane crash, somehow it had been in keeping with the rest of their relationship. It was as if they had something magical and impossible -

A dark miserable sob wracked her naked body. They were the first true tears of grief she had had since she'd been told Peter was dead. Peter wouldn't ever be coming back to rescue her, he had gone forever and she was trapped at Deuvar. Peter Howard had cherished her for her naivete and her innocence – Now, as Leonora was arranging to auction off her virginity, Emily realised, with a chilling start, that her innocence had already been lost.

Johnson had sent one of his men to the hospital and was fuming. He had spent all day trying to trace a man who should be extremely easy to trace. He knew his witness was barely able to walk, would need nursing and physiotherapy to recover his strength. But this man had managed not only to get out of the hospital, but then had promptly vanished. Johnson stared at the telephone, willing it to ring.

Max Fielding had always been entranced by Deuvar, even before its conversion into a pleasure palace without equal.

Set in magnificent grounds, the house dominated the landscape for miles in every direction. Autumn was his favourite time of the year and today the weather was balmy; bare trees in the long ride to the mansion thrown into relief by the golden sunlight. He had spent the day walking and exploring with one of Leonora's more articulate and intelligent girls for company.

He planned to have dinner, check on Leonora's arrangements for Emily's auction, take his pleasure with a girl or two and then, having spent another night at Deuvar, drive back to London the following day.

By late evening he had fulfilled his plans for dinner and tasted the delights of one of Leonora's more experienced girls; now he would have a drink and then return for second helpings of ripe female flesh.

As he leant comfortably at the bar he thought about Peter Howard – what a terrible shame Peter had never seen Emily at work. By all accounts the day had been an eventful one. Max wished he had been there to witness Emily's performance in the dining room.

In the heart of the Kent countryside, Peter Howard was re-arranging Angela's annexe to take the computers that had arrived just as night was falling. She had found him a desk and extension leads and brought in the wheelchair so that as fatigue hit him he could still manoeuvre around the growing bank of sophisticated technology. Peter had just managed to get the computer system on line and working when the final delivery arrived; a motor bike courier carrying a large gift-wrapped box. Angela carried it into Peter's room. "This just came. I assume its something else for you?"

Peter glanced over his shoulder as he slid another screen into position. "Actually," he said, without a hint of guile, "it's a little something I ordered for you."

Angela laughed. "What?" but even as she spoke she was tearing off the elegant wrapping. What was inside made her gasp and then giggle. Peter had turned his attentions back to the computer screen when he heard the noise. "Well," he said without looking up. "What do you think?"

Angela made a soft excited sound in her throat. "My god," she hissed. "It's absolutely wonderful."

Peter turned to watch Angela holding up the leather body harness against herself. It was set with links so that the wearer could be secured for her lover's pleasure. Straps criss-crossed back and forth across the body, designed to divide and accentuate the breasts, while others went between the legs and round the thighs.

Peter grinned. "You'll look superb in it. Here, bring me the box; there should be a few other little surprises hidden away in there."

Angela pulled a face. "Can't I look?"

Peter carefully took the box out of her hands. "They wouldn't be a surprise then, would they?"

Angela giggled and spun away from him, still holding the body harness up against herself. "Would you like me to put it on?"

Peter nodded as the screen he was working on flashed into life and a logo appeared.

Angela glanced at it. "Can I ask you what all this is about?"

Peter grimaced. "I'm not sure it's such a good idea, the less you know the less danger you're likely to be in."

Angela was working on the buckles on the body harness as he spoke. "I really would like to know," she said, running her fingers over the fine tooled leather thoughtfully. She read the words at the centre of the screen as they formed themselves into a perfect arch. "Johnson and Fielding? Who are they?"

Peter slipped a disk into the computer. "The bad guys," he said. "And I'm going to nail their arses to the mast." His tone was distracted and distant. It was vital that he got into Johnson and Fielding's main system without being traced. What he had got on the screen at the moment was their front door – their shop front onto the computer network. What he really wanted was to find an unlocked back-door or maybe the electronic equivalent of an open skylight.

Behind him Angela was making muffled noises as she struggled to get into the harness. He'd had to guess her size, which was one of the reasons he had chosen the harness – a Basque or a leather body suit would have required a far more accurate guess.

When he turned again she was slipping the shoulder straps over her alabaster flesh. The harness fitted her like a glove – a very tempting glove. The straps circled her heavy breasts, the black leather accentuating their fullness and pallor. Lower straps framed her sex and either side the thigh straps… Peter smiled, already the harness was working its magic on his cock. She reddened at his appreciative glances and the obvious bulge in his pyjama trousers as he helped her fasten the buckles.

"Isn't this -" she paused, as if to find the right word, "obscene?" she whispered uneasily.

Peter snorted. "Don't be silly. You look magnificent. The real obscenities in life are cooked up by bastards like this -" He pointed towards the intriguing spiralling graphics of Johnson and Fielding's logo. "To the outside world they appear totally respectable, while under the umbrella of their respectability they're selling arms, toppling governments to increase their market shares – and scurrying round to buy up cheap grain destined for aid convoys. That's real obscenity." His tone was so intense that Angela stepped back.

Peter lifted a hand in apology. "Sorry, I'll climb down off my soap box. I've been chasing this organisation for years. They're so well established they thought that no-one would ever dare -" He stopped suddenly, aware that he was doing exactly what he had tried to avoid. If he told Angela anything he would be putting her at risk. Not only her, but himself as well.

Angela nodded. "I understand, but why are you doing it? I mean, what has it got to do with you?"

Peter leant back in his wheel chair. "It's my job," he said flatly.

"Your job?" she repeated.

"That's right." In front of them the computer images curled and swirled seamlessly into a 3D satellite picture of the world.

Instead of satisfying her, his explanation obviously intrigued her more. She moved closer, her ripe body garnished temptingly in the leather harness.

"What do you do?" she said. She was so near that he could see puckering around her nipples and catch the warm intriguing perfume of her skin mingled with the smell of the new leather.

He groaned in surrender and pulled her to him. "I'm a policeman," he murmured as he cupped her breasts in his palms.

He felt her tense and then pull away. "A policeman?" she stammered.

He nodded, catching hold of her shoulders and pulling her back towards him. "A very special type of policeman. Poacher turned gamekeeper. Don't worry I'm not going to charge you with anything other than being the sexiest woman I've laid hands on in years."

His lips brushed hers as he slid his fingers through metal rings set in the waist band of the harness and jerked her sharply onto his lap, biting down on her bottom lip until he tasted the rich coppery heat of her blood. She rubbed herself against him.

"Why don't we leave the computers to talk to themselves for a little while. I think we ought to have a look through the box of tricks I ordered," he said slowly.

Angela was trembling as she got to her feet and wheeled him back towards the bed. "Anything you say," she whispered unsteadily. "Anything you say."

Chapter 6

Max Fielding took his phone call from Johnson in reception, watching the glamorous couples moving through to the music room, the restaurant, the bar – and of course the private suites that Deuvar boasted on the first floor.

A casual observer might have thought he had stumbled upon a luxurious country hotel, but small things suggested otherwise to the trained eye. Firstly the girls were all magnificent and all unnaturally deferential to their partners. Against the elegant evening dress a knowing eye might detect the faint outline of the nipple rings of the girls that were pierced. Finally, of course, there was the distinct air of expectation; the atmosphere hummed with a subtle but unmistakable eroticism.

Max's jovial and relaxed state of mind was broken by Johnson's icy tone.

"They can't locate that bloody chap. Vanished. I've had a man down at the hospital all day," he growled.

"He'll turn up."

Johnson snorted. "I damned well hope so. How's it going with that bastard Howard's girl?"

"Wonderfully. You should have come down yourself. You've missed quite a show. Leonora has high hopes for her. The auction will be…"

"I don't want anyone to have high hopes for her," Johnson snapped, stifling the words in Max's mouth. "I want her broken. I want to get my hands on Peter Howard. If he's alive he'll come to get her. I want -"

"Gently, gently," soothed Max. "If he's dead the item in question is lost. Nobody else would realise its significance. And we'll know if anyone tries to use it."

"If they try to use it, it'll be too bloody late. Besides how do we know he was working alone?"

"For God's sake calm down. Haven't we talked about damage limitation? Why don't you come down here and…"

Before Max could finish his sentence Johnson slammed the phone down on him.

Max sighed. From the open doors of the restaurant came the restrained sounds of a string quartet. He brushed the lapels of his dinner jacket and adjusted his cummerbund. Leonora had promised to join him for a drink. He glanced around to see if she had arrived.

Close to the main entrance, two men dressed in immaculately tailored evening suits watched the comings and goings with equal interest. They looked as distinguished and affluent as any of the other guests, though Max knew they were part of the security force that Leonora employed. Each wore a tiny silver button in his lapel, connecting him by radio to the main office. After a few seconds one moved away from the door towards the main stair case. Max glanced at his watch. The shift was changing bang on time.

Upstairs in cell 27 Emily lay on her back staring at the ceiling.

The overhead light in the windowless room was gradually dimming. Emily felt immeasurably tired. Kai had said she would visit to remove the anal stretcher. Emily shivered as the thought crossed her mind. Removal would be bliss, but she suspected that the next day it would be replaced. At present it nestled like an invasive finger between the cheeks of her backside.

The cell was gradually receding into shadows, not that there was much to see. The little room was furnished clinically, in white tiles, with a central bed screwed to the floor, complete with a built in mattress. A single blanket and pillow had been folded on the bed when she had returned from her day downstairs. Other than that, the only objects were a lavatory and hand basin against one wall. The floor was cold unforgiving marble. She blinked, hardly able to keep her eyes open, hoping that Kai would arrive soon…

The sound of a key in the lock!

She looked up, trying to focus sleepy eyes, and then froze in horror. Framed in the doorway was the guard she had seen that morning. His long hair was pulled back into a pony tail, accentuating the hard contours of his face. He had changed from the daytime uniform of blue shirt and charcoal grey trousers into elegant evening clothes which were skilfully tailored to highlight his impressive musculature.

He grinned as he stepped into the cell.

"Kai's coming," Emily hissed in a terrified voice. "She won't be very long."

The guard shrugged. "Doesn't really matter does it? She isn't going to try and stop me."

Emily clutched the thin blanket up over her body, aware of the harness biting into the flesh her between her legs as she instinctively clenched her muscles. Her arms were still linked together at the wrist, connected to the overhead chain. She struggled to pull them apart, knowing that it was useless.

There was nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. The man walked slowly across the room towards her, eyes glittering in the fading light. She glanced around in desperation and without thought leapt off the bed, trying to get away. She dropped to the floor against the wall, crouching like a cornered mouse.

Her tormentor smiled lazily. "Run all you like," he said softly, undoing his jacket. "The fight excites me. I love it when they struggle."

Emily sobbed as he circled the bed. His progress was slow, unstoppable. For a few seconds he stood over her watching her face. She shivered; his eyes flickered with desire. She felt the tension ease in her body as the seconds ticked away. Just as her breathing had slowed, he lunged forward and grabbed hold of her wrists, jerking her to her feet.

She whimpered.

One hand dropped and tugged at her harness. He pulled her closer to him, running his lips against her cheek, pressing hot wet kisses into her flesh. The man licked her throat, then lower, touching his tongue to the metallic rings through her nipples, stroking her belly with long fingers.

In spite of herself, to her horror, Emily felt his touch light a beacon in her belly. The brush of his tongue sent a shard of silvery sparks through her mind. As he tipped her face towards him and pressed his lips to hers she was stunned to realise she was relishing her forced submission. His kisses were tender and exploratory, like a real lover. She moaned as his fingers stroked the delicate skin where the lips of her sex met.

The guard pulled away sharply, his face contorted into a lecherous leer. "Don't tell me you don't want me to touch you. Look at yourself."

Emily blushed and dropped her gaze. Her nipples had swollen and hardened, flushed crimson with need – and her sex – she shivered. She knew she was getting wet but knew that it didn't matter how wet she was – the guard had other plans. He pushed her toward the bed and rolled her over onto her belly, securing her hands to the bed frame. She began to tremble, unable to fight him. Her mind was a mass of contradictions. She didn't want what was going to follow – or did she? Her body was telling her something else, part of her was aching to feel his touch, his lips – she cried out as he ran a finger along her spine.

"Get up on all fours," he said flatly.

If she expected him to be quick and furtive about his plans she was wrong. He moved around her, cupping and touching her breasts, stroking her belly with cool invasive fingers. She closed her eyes.

His clinical appraisal was exciting her beyond all belief and knowing that he was looking, touching, exploring, made her flesh quiver. She had no choice, she had to submit to whatever he had planned and the knowledge excited some dark submissive creature that lurked in her mind.

He turned his attentions to her sex, rubbing a finger into the groove of her lips, sliding beneath the ring, seeking out her pleasure bud. She let out an excited sob as he brushed it, tempered with fear that he would dislodge the ring.

She gave a throaty gasp as he climbed onto the bed behind her, fingers fiddling with the straps that held the dildo in place.

She had expected him to take the harness off but instead she just felt the relief as the stretcher slid out. She sighed as her muscles eased. Behind her the guard grunted softly. She felt him moving closer, his breath on her back and lower still on her buttocks.

What happened next astonished her; his tongue slid darkly between the gaping lips of her quim. He dipped into her, lapping and sucking, fingers lifting to join it.

Emily was stunned. She felt her body respond, moving with his touch, seeking out his attentions. She eased herself back to chase his tongue, pushing herself back to meet him. She began to shiver, praying that he wouldn't disappoint her.

The man chuckled. The sound was softened and distorted by her flesh. When she felt his fingers moving back to stroke the tight bruised bud of her anus she resisted, stiffening, suddenly afraid.

"Don't fight me," the man whispered thickly. "Remember, lady, I won you, and I'm going to have you. I'm going to bury my cock so deep in you, make you scream out for more." His finger slid into her and she gasped as her body closed gratefully around him.

"Please," she begged, "No, please I'll do anything -"

He laughed. "Too right you will." His finger eased out slowly. Over her shoulder she heard the sound of him climbing down off the bed – and the unnerving muffled sounds of clothes being removed.

She could sense his eyes on her body and imagined what the pictures were that he was seeing. Her sex was gaping, slick and hungry, her breasts were flushed and her back was striped with the mark of Leonora's whip. She had seen the way the ring between Kai's legs glittered as she moved. Was that what this man could see; the flash and glitter of invitation?

She swallowed hard as he moved closer. She could feel the heat of his body, smell his musky male odours. Something trickled down over the crease of her backside, cold and oily. She shuddered as he worked it into her, dipping now and then between her legs to smear her juices there too.

"You look so good," he whispered as he moved closer. "You know they're all going to want you? They'll take you every way they can once you've been sold and broken in. There's an Arab here likes to fuck woman in company – one cock up your arse, another in your cunt, maybe a third in your mouth. They'll whip you till your skin is raw and then make you beg them for more -"

Emily let out a strangled terrified sob.

"And you'll love it, because some hungry part of your body wants it all, doesn't it? You'll thank me then for being so gentle – I've seen women split if they're too tight and the client wants it like this -"

As he spoke Emily felt the dark unnerving press of his shaft at the very entry to the most secret parts of her body. His fingers pressed down on her clitoris, rubbing it knowingly, circling the engorged hood, encouraging her to come with him, to accept what he was offering.

She gasped and then screamed as he opened her, pressing his cock slowly into the tight closure between her buttocks. The sensation was of pain and fullness, a tight terrifying progress that stunned her.

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.

Chapter 7

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.

"How does that feel?" To his surprise her voice was throaty and excited.

He glanced down at her. A fine line of perspiration had lifted on her top lip and she was glowing with pleasure.

"Do you enjoy waiting on me?" he asked casually.

She bit her lip and nodded. "Yes. Yes, I do."

He smiled, as she turned her attentions back to manipulating the muscles in his calves.

"Take off your caftan."

She flinched and then glanced up as if she had misheard him. "What?"

"I prefer my masseurs to be naked."

Angela's hands lifted slowly to the neck of her robe. Her fingers trembled as she struggled with the tie and then pushed the fabric back over her shoulders. Her heavy breasts fleetingly brushed his legs as the material slithered to the floor.

It was obvious that the role of body slave came naturally to her. He stroked her face and without another word she bent lower and pressed her lips to his toes. Her kisses lifted higher, ankles, calves, knees, thighs – she pushed aside his dressing gown and traced a line of wet kisses to the hard arc of his cock. Peter leant back and moaned softly. His lessons were paying unexpected dividends. Her lips closed around him almost gratefully, sucking his cock deep into her warm compliant mouth.

Her breasts pressed onto his thighs as she worked on and on. Her lips and her kisses drove away the pain in his body as he was caught up in the compelling spiral of pleasure. She worked him skilfully, her fingers tightening rhythmically around the base of his cock while her lips worked around its sensitive crown. The moment of release was so close; Peter's breaths came in hot desperate snorts as Angela's tongue and fingers worked a wicked dark magic.

Finally, just before the white hot crystals flooded his mind, he jerked his cock out from between her lips in time to splash her breasts and face with hot steaming semen. She gasped, stunned by the liquid exploding in glittering plume across her. He cupped her breasts, twisting her nipples. She let out a little mew of pain. He grinned and dipped his finger into the slick trail of pleasure where it trickled down over her skin. Slowly he traced patterns back and forth, marking her with his pleasure, making her his. She began to writhe, his touch seemingly driving her wild with desire.

"Please," she whispered desperately. "Please."

He drew a trail of semen up over her throat to her waiting lips. Her mouth seized upon it, drawing his finger deep into her mouth, lapping at his excitement.

He smiled, watching her face. Her eyes were closed, her features suffused with pleasure as if the taste of his delight had evoked rapture. Her ripe breasts were flushed with excitement, the intricate spirals of semen adding a strange exotic glisten to her flesh.

"What do you want?" he said quietly.

Angela's eyes snapped open.

"What do you want?" he repeated more slowly.

She blushed crimson.

Peter's face hardened. "Tell me, I won't ask you again."

"I want you to – to -" she looked at him, eyes alight with need. "I want you to fuck me," she said desperately. "I need you to make me come, please."

He laughed dryly. "Stand up," he said, straightening his dressing gown to cover his exhausted cock. "Open you legs."

Angela's face was scarlet, her nakedness raw and almost uncanny. He slipped a finger inside her, and grunted with satisfaction. Her quim was so wet that she was dripping. Her juices ran down over his fingers. His thumb brushed her clitoris and she quivered with pleasure. Slowly he circled the engorged peak, each touch rewarded by Angela letting out a little eager whimper of delight.

She came in seconds, impaling herself again and again on his fingers, her sex clutching and tightening around him until finally he pulled out from inside her and she collapsed back at his feet in a sobbing gasping heap. He smiled, wiping his fingers on a towel she had given him.

"Get up," he said. "I'm going to have a shower and then get back to the computers."

Angela, still red faced, glanced up at him.

"Thank you," she muttered thickly and began to drag her caftan back on.

Slowly she got to her feet and started to tidy away his breakfast tray. He noticed that she hadn't re-tied the neck of the robe and the curve of her heavy breasts was clearly visible. She was learning. At the door she turned.

"By the way, who is Magenta?"

Peter stiffened. "What?"

"I came in to check on you last night. I thought I heard you moving around. You were talking in your sleep. The only word I could make out was 'Magenta'."

Peter tried to retain his composure, but couldn't resist glancing at the carefully waterproofed box beside his bed. Angela was still watching him.

"You really don't want to know," he said flatly.

Angela stood the tray down and crept closer.

"Oh, but you're wrong. I really do want to know. Look, Peter, if you're in some sort of trouble maybe I can help. For God's sake, I'm helping you already. You say you don't want to put me at risk, but surely, just by being here, you're putting me at risk already? I want you, I want…" her voice faded, the colour returning to her cheeks.

Peter leant back in the wheelchair. She was right. He glanced back at Magenta.

"If I tell you -" he began.

Angela nodded. "When you tell me, then I'll help you all I can. I used to operate a computer."

Peter glared at her as she stepped towards the key board. "Don't touch any of this. I have to get in unnoticed. Magenta is my way in."

Angela grinned. "Like a key?"

Peter blew out a long stream of air. "No, not a key, THE key."

He would need Angela to do things which he couldn't do whilst he was still so weak; driving, fetching, carrying. He would have to tell her. He sighed and switched on the computer. Johnson and Fielding's logo appeared out of the gloom. He touched the screen like a talisman.

"All right. Magenta is the key to a huge computer network. There is no way to lock Magenta out. Each time the combination changes Magenta is programmed to change with it. The system and the key, Magenta, were created at the same time."

Angela crouched beside him, listening with obvious interest. Her eyes were alight. His eyes lingered on the inviting shadowy curve of her breasts.

With determination he dragged his mind back from her enticing body and keyed in an opening sequence.

"This is the front door." The design on the computer screen changed seamlessly into a menu page. "All lovingly designed by the same man."

Angela stared at the screen and then across at Peter Howard. "You?" she whispered. "You designed Magenta, didn't you?"

Peter nodded. "Yes, it was me. I designed the whole package. Magenta is the only key into a huge business network. A corrupt business network. Johnson and Fielding are involved in manipulation on a global scale. With Magenta I can unlock their system and give the information to anyone who wants it: Interpol, the Fraud Squad, MI5, FBI, CIA, DPP -"

Angela reached forward and stroked the waterproof wrappings of Magenta. "How many are there?"

Peter grinned. "This is the only one – at the moment. That's what I was doing when the plane crashed. Taking it to Switzerland to get a friend to give me a back way into this system." He indicated the computer screen.

Angela pulled a face. "This is the only one?"

Peter nodded again. "That's right. I'm good. I made it fool proof. The only way we can get a copy, is to let it -" he grinned – "the term I used was to let them was mate with the master computer. It will then make a copy which I can then transfer off from the main system."

"You mean like a baby?"

"More or less, I'd intended to make a copy and put Magenta back before anyone knew it was gone. Trouble is, since I've been in hospital, someone seems to have closed off the back doors I left open."

Angela glanced at the second screen. Roderick Banyon's message still hovered in the top left hand corner.

"And what about your girl friend?" she said flatly. "What about Emily? Are you going to trade Magenta for her?"

Peter felt a gut wrenching pain. It was the question he couldn't bring himself to face. Magenta was too big to trade for… he stopped the train of thought, snatching it back. "Even if I traded Magenta I'd undoubtedly lose her anyway. There has to be some other way. The people who are interested in this machine are totally unscrupulous."

"Johnson and Fielding?"

Peter shook his head. "A lot of people are interested in who has access to this knowledge. Organised crime, Dictatorships -" he stopped. "Look, I've told you enough, probably too much. Emily is the bait in a trap to draw me out into the open. If they know I'm alive, if they know where I am, none of us are safe."

Angela pushed herself to her feet. "I'll make us some coffee. Is there anything else you want?"

Peter grinned, leaning forward to plant a kiss on the curve of her shoulder. "Oh yes," he murmured. "I want a lot more."

Angela wriggled away from him. "Shower first. I've got to ring in to let the hospital know I won't be in this week. I won't be long."

Watched by a different guard and Kai, Emily showered in the bathroom at the end of the landing. The events of the previous night weren't mentioned as Kai dried and oiled her body. Emily's backside still glowed from the attentions of her late night visitor. She was relieved when Kai undid the harness that had held the anal dildo in place. After tending to Emily's nipple and quim rings Kai removed the fine covering of stubble that had grown over the lips of her sex and rubbed a soothing lotion into the delicate flesh. Emily surrendered totally to the other woman's attentions. What other choice did she have?

When Kai was finished she looked appraisingly at Emily. "I'll take you to Leonora now. She wants to see you before today's auction."

Emily tensed. Kai grinned, running a finger gently over the girl's throat. "Relax, you haven't broken any of the rules today, have you? You'll be fine."

She snapped a leash through Emily's collar and led her through the maze of corridors. On the next floor Kai directed her towards a room which Emily instantly recognised as the clinical room she had been taken into on her arrival at Deuvar. When they reached the door she hesitated; Leonora and another guard were inside, preparing a trolley beside the clinician's couch.

The tiny hard-faced Eurasian women looked up at the sound of their approach. Her eyes had no warmth in them. "Good," she said to Kai. "Bring her over here."

Emily swallowed hard and climbed onto the couch, shivering as the guard fixed her arms above her head.

Leonora glanced down at her. "I'm going to check you're in the same condition as when you arrived – our clients appreciate our honesty. And then -" she glanced at the trolley. "I'm going to give you a contraceptive injection, it will be renewed three monthly whilst you are with us." She paused. "Normally we wait until our girls are sold off, so that their new owners can make the decision. Some of the overseas clients prefer their women to be fertile. Fertility confirms their status; any children born from liaisons at Deuvar are taken and raised in their own homes -"

Emily felt her colour draining as Leonora continued. "Some men prefer women who they can suckle from -"

Emily flinched as the guard lifted her legs into the stirrups for the examination. Leonora's touch was cold and perfunctory. When she had done she pulled off her rubber gloves and smiled narrowly. "Good, everything is still in order. You will remain here until we are ready for you. Kai will help you dress. Remember, we demand obedience. You already know the punishment for disobeying the rules. I would have preferred to have trained you for longer before you were auctioned off, but the powers that be have decided otherwise. Whoever buys you will have exclusive rights to your body for twenty four hours only. After that your training with us will resume whilst you earn you keep."

Emily considered the words with a growing sense of apprehension as Leonora left.

As soon as she had gone, Emily strained experimentally against the ties that held her wrists. Remembering the night she had been brought to Deuvar, she was certain that the medical room hadn't been far from the outside – and freedom. Her body was well oiled; if she could just slip the leather straps down over her wrists. She strained a little harder, wriggling on the leather couch.

Kai sighed theatrically. "Take my advice. Don't even think about it. There's no escape. Deuvar stands in its own grounds; we're miles from anywhere. The security guards have trained dogs. Even if you make it outside you won't get past the first fence."

Emily bit her lip and tried to relax as Kai unfolded a dress from a box. It was a simple shift made of thin white cotton, so finely woven that it was nearly transparent.

"Here," said Kai, leaning over her. "We've got work to do." Emily felt the tension in her stomach return as Kai cupped one of her breasts.

Kai let another deep sigh. "For God's sake, don't make it worst for yourself. I'm going to make you look lovely." As she spoke she smeared something cold over Emily's nipples; glancing down she could see it was staining her nipples scarlet. The little peaks hardened as the skilful fingers worked the oily dye into them. Next she rubbed gel into Emily's short crew cut, spiking it. Moving lower she snapped a short length of chain between the cuffs Emily wore around her ankles, effectively hobbling her. Finally she unlocked the wrist restraints and helped Emily into the shapeless transparent shift. In one corner of the room the guards watched impassively. Emily glanced right and left wondering whether she had the courage to try and escape.

As if reading her thoughts Kai shook her head. "Don't," she said quietly. "I've told you already. You wouldn't stand a chance -"

Emily caught sight of herself in the full length mirror set in one wall. She truly looked like a slave – broken – as good as naked in spite of the dress. Her oily sleek skin stuck to the thin fabric, revealing every curve and plain. The transparent dress was like a delicate gift wrapping. She shuddered as Kai moved around behind her and slipped a blindfold over her eyes.

"There," the Oriental girl whispered. "All done."

Behind her, Emily could hear the door opening. Kai locked her wrists together above her buttocks, so that her shoulders were pulled back and her breasts jutted forward, brushing their swollen scarlet tips against the sheer cotton. Emily felt someone approaching and then hands snapping leashes into the rings either side of her collar.

"Good," said Kai softly, "I think we're ready."

Emily walked slowly, the ankle restraints slowing her progress. Her mind flickered with wild terrifying possibilities about events that might follow. She tried to stay calm. After all, she had seen Deuvar, seen the faces of the guests and the girls when she had worked in the dining room. Surely nothing that Leonora could arrange for her could be any more humiliating than clearing tables, naked except for the harsh leather harness.

She thought about the way the diners had looked at her, eyes moving across her body like invasive fingers. She began to blush, longing for whatever was to follow to be over and done with, confused by the strange mixture of feelings she was experiencing. Deep in thought, the unseen guards lead Emily through the rabbit warren of corridors and passages. She didn't even take notice of which way they turned.

Finally there was the sound of doors opening and subdued voices close by. As she moved along under the guidance of the guards, the voices faded to an expectant hush.

"And today's final lot, ladies and gentleman -" Emily heard Leonora's distinctive voice. "Lot 27, a Caucasian female, 19 years old. This lot comes with a certificate of virginity. The sale price is for exclusive rights for a twenty four hour period to be agreed post sale."

Emily was guided up onto a low step. The voices rose again.

"Turn around, let them look at you -" said a male voice close to her.

Slowly Emily circled – even behind the blindfold she could sense the eyes. Eyes that explored and roamed freely over her almost naked body, assessing her worth, her capacity for compliance. She shivered, imagining the images the bidders could see. Her nipples had hardened in the cold. Their scarlet peaks pressed against the thin cotton, silver rings glittering as she shivered. Her naked sex, barely veiled by the wisp of transparent cotton, offered an untested pleasure.

She bit her lip, trying to hold back the fear, and the tears – and, more disturbing, the little dark glimmer of pleasure that curled low in her belly. She shuddered again, trying hard to quell the bubbling sense of panic that was growing inside.

From amongst the subdued hubbub came the first bid. The size of it took Emily's breath away. She thought miserably about Peter Howard's debt; at this rate she would clear it in a single day.

A single tear soaked into the blindfold as a voice on her left raised the bid. She recognised it as the voice of the man she had met so briefly in the dining room, when she had knelt beside him and his lover.

"We've barely had a chance to view this lot," said another voice from the room. "What are we getting for our money?"

Emily flinched. Rough hands closed on the neck of her shift and she let out a thin unhappy shriek as the fabric was ripped down over her shoulders. Cool hands lifted her breasts.

"Plump, ripe and ready," said an unnerving masculine voice.

"And the rest," snapped a voice nearby.

The unseen man laughed dryly and jerked the thin shift up around her waist, fingers splaying the lips of her quim amongst the flutter of rags. "As I said, all ready. Turn around. Let the punters see you."

Emily flushed scarlet as the unseen porter splayed the cheeks of her backside. "Open an' eager," he said brushing the bruised bud of her backside. "This is a prime lot, nicely stretched for your pleasure, gentleman." He slid a finger into Emily's backside making her tremble.

"Now," snapped Leonora. "The bid is on my left, any advance?" Leonora kept the bidding brisk, the sum rising every few seconds, the voices rising in a clamour of excitement. Emily tried to block out the voices until finally she heard the unnerving sound of the hammer falling and Leonora's voice.

"Sold to Mr and Mrs Haroldson -"

Emily thought she might faint as she felt a strong jerk on the leash.

Close by, Kai whispered. "Come on, it's over now." She jerked the lead again. Dumbly Emily fell into step, the sound of her heart beat thumping out a calypso rhythm in her ears.

Kai led her into a back room; it was quiet there. Emily couldn't hold back the tears any longer. They coursed down her face soaking the blindfold. She had been sold. Her virginity, the prize she had held onto for so long as a gift to a treasured lover, for a wedding night, was forfeit to an unseen buyer.

Instead of a wedding dress she was wearing a garment designed to make her look like a slave – a possession. It wouldn't be Peter whose loving hands undressed her, whose body moved across hers. She let out a miserable wail. Sobs wracked her body as she curled into a ball on the floor. 'Peter,' she whispered on a thick breath. 'Oh, Peter…'

Upstairs in the impressive offices of Deuvar, Leonora was writing a receipt for the cheque that had purchased Emily Lawrence for a day, while Max Fielding looked on. He had delayed his departure to watch the sale – and, in view of the fact that it had been the Haroldson's that had been the successful purchasers, he was wondering whether it might be worth staying on a little longer.

The Haroldson's rented a particularly nice guest house in the grounds of Deuvar. Set back amongst a stand of mature copper beeches, their house was on one of his favourite walks through the park.

But, of course, it wasn't the scenery that was persuading him to stay. George Haroldson was an ageing socialite and his wife… Max smiled as the stunning six foot blonde folded the receipt into her handbag. Dressed in haute couture, her shoulder length hair cut into a gleaming bob, Naomi Haroldson's tastes were legendary.

She glanced at Max and ran her tongue around her wide perfectly painted lips.

"Would you care to join us, Max?" she purred.

Max raised an eyebrow. "Very kind, Naomi, I thought you'd just spent a small fortune securing exclusive rights to our little friend."

Naomi pouted. "Oh, Max, I don't want you to play. I just thought you might appreciate a front row seat."

Max nodded. "I'd be delighted."

Naomi's reply was a bright tinkling laugh. "It's time we had another playmate for Franz. Such a shame Leonora won't consider selling the girl with slave rights. I should have liked to have trained her myself."

Max grinned and opened the cocktail cabinet. "We all need a hobby," he said.

Naomi snorted. "Max, you are such a fool. Shall we say eight for eight thirty?"

He nodded and lifted a glass in her direction. Naomi Haroldson shook her head. "Not for us, we need to get home to organise everything for this evening." She turned on her spiked black heels. Her diminutive husband followed in her wake without a word.

When the door had closed, Leonora laid the cheque on the desk. "Showing the video tape of her with the guard last night was master stroke. Do you think Johnson will be satisfied with the price we got for her?"

Max shook his head. "The only thing Johnson wants is Peter Howard and Magenta. Twice that amount wouldn't be enough." He looked up at the office clock. "You'd better ring him and let him know what she made. Oh, and don't tell him I'm still here -"

Leonora smiled. "Or that you'll be staying another night?"

Max snorted.

Emily lay very still. The floor beneath her was carpeted and soft. The tears had dried on her face and she had lost all sense of how long she had been lying there. Since the auction it seemed as if she had been forgotten. Her arms ached from being secured so tightly behind her and the leg chains meant that she could barely move. Even if she stood up, blind folded, she would probably injure herself if she tried to walk. She strained to pick up some sound, any sound. All that she could hear with any certainty was the whisper of the wind.

She hesitated; if she could hear the wind then she must be close to a window or a fireplace. Wriggling she tried to get her bearings, wishing she had taken more notice as she had been led into the room.

They had come downstairs – most likely the ground floor. The dining room overlooked the grounds, but this room seemed too small to be a dining room and she was certain that if it was she would be able to hear voices. She rubbed her face against the floor, trying to slide the blindfold up a little.

"What are you doing?" snapped a male voice. Emily froze; she had assumed she was alone. Lying still, she heard the muffled sound of feet crossing the carpet.

"I want to use the bathroom," she said lamely, wriggling a little to add emphasis.

The man snorted. "You'll have to wait for a bit longer. I'll ring for someone to come and take you." Footsteps receding. Rubbing the mask a little more, lifting it fractionally, she could peer down over her cheeks. She struggled to look round and get her bearings, moving very slowly so that the guard wouldn't suspect she could see.

She spotted him by the door, cradling a phone. Peering left and right, straining to take in as much detail as she could, she discovered they were in a small panelled room.

In one wall, adjacent to the door, was a window that extended from the ceiling to a foot or two above floor level, flanked by rich drapes. The room was empty except for a single chair by the door, where presumably the guard had been sitting whilst she had been lying on the floor. She twisted slowly round, arching her head around. Behind her was an ornate fire place with a painting above it. There was nowhere to hide even if she could get her hands free.

The guard mumbled something into the receiver and a second or two later Kai appeared, neatly dressed in a tailored suit. She glanced at Emily.

"Help me get her on her feet," she said to the man. "I'll ask Leonora if she can go back to her cell. The Haroldson's don't want her delivered until tonight. No point in her lying about down here -"

Emily flinched. Delivered like a gift wrapped package, she thought miserably. Suddenly more than anything else she wanted to get away, contract or no contract. As she was helped to her feet she stumbled and moaned theatrically.

"What's the matter?" asked Kai.

"My arms," Emily said unhappily. "I can't feel my arms. I've got cramp."

With a little noise of frustration, Kai turned her round and undid the wrist cuffs. What followed next seemed to take place in a split second. The instant her hands were free, Emily pushed up her blindfold and stooped to unsnap the chain that linked her ankles. Before Kai or the guard had time to react she made a lunge for the door, jerked it open, and dashed headlong into the main hall that lay beyond.

There were very few people around and they were all stunned by the sight of Emily, still dressed in the ragged transparent cotton shift, running across the elegant hallway. Ahead of her the main door was flanked by two guards. Emily saw with horror that one of them was the man who had visited her the previous night. He looked up, recognised her, and immediately gave chase. Emily gasped, turning sharply to avoid his outstretched arms and ran back into the corridors that led away from the entrance hall.

In the far distance she could see light – an open door. She swerved to avoid a couple standing in the shadows, dropped her head, and ran towards it. Close on her heels the guard followed, barking information into the radio on his lapel. The breath roared in her chest, pulse crackling in her ears as she ran headlong towards the exit. It seemed to get further and further away. She let out a thin high pitched wail and put on a spurt, sensing the man behind was rapidly gaining ground.

Finally she was there and hurtled outside into the cold morning air. The change in temperature took her breath away. She was at the top of a short flight of stairs that led down into a service area. Glancing up she could see a Deuvar van, door open, parked near a cellar door. She took the steps two at a time and made her way across the Tarmac, praying that the keys would be in the ignition.

"Stop!" commanded a female voice.

In spite of herself, Emily slowed down and glanced over her shoulder. Leonora was standing at the top of the steps, her face pale and furious. Turning threw Emily off balance and she stumbled, tried to regain her footing, and fell straight into the arms of the Deuvar security man whose van she had intended to steal.

"Let me go," she screamed. "Let me go!" Fighting and clawing to get free, she turned and twisted in his arms. His grip closed tighter grabbing her wrists, while behind her she heard Leonora and the guard heading towards them.

"Well done," said Leonora breathlessly as the man relinquished his grip and Emily fell into the first guard's arms. She spun round, flailing wildly, desperately trying to escape. The night guard, eyes glinting, grabbed her hands, snapping a short chain into the links on the wrist cuffs. Another man arrived hot on the heels of Leonora and the guard and made a lunge for her legs.

Emily bit and kicked, wriggling, the shift dress tearing her shoulders as they tried to hold her tight. Finally one of the guards caught her round the throat with his forearm. She staggered back and felt a second guard grab her legs. An instant later he caught hold of her ankles and snapped a rigid pole between them, holding her legs open.

Emily was still struggling when Leonora stepped closer, rubbing her cheek where Emily had caught her as she had been fighting to escape.

Leonora smiled thinly and slapped Emily hard across the face. "Total obedience," she hissed, as Emily's head snapped back.

Emily was breathless, her face stinging and flushed, her heart still ricocheting against her ribs. She could taste blood.

Leonora watched her coldly. "I ought to let them fuck you here," she said, nodding towards the guards. "You signed a contract or have you forgotten. You're ours -"

Emily shivered. "I don't care about your precious contract!"

Leonora laughed dryly. "You'd better – you're Johnson's revenge for Magenta! You're paying for Peter Howard being a…"

"Hush, hush," interrupted a cultured male voice from across the courtyard.

Emily glanced up. It was the man she had seen at Johnson and Fielding's office the day she had signed the contract. He smiled pleasantly, taking in her dishevelled appearance with obvious delight.

"Well, well, Miss Lawrence, we meet again. I don't think I introduced myself the last time we met. My name is Max Fielding."

Leonora snorted. "This is hardly the moment for formal introductions, Max."

The man laughed. "On the contrary, Leonora, as I'm to watch Miss Lawrence this evening, I thought it was the perfect opportunity." He glanced sharply at Leonora. "And also, my dear, I would prefer it if we kept the other matter to ourselves."

Emily looked at Leonora in time to see the Eurasian women drop her gaze and redden. Magenta, Emily thought, holding onto the name, and Peter Howard – something I'm not supposed to know about. Leonora's expression confirmed her suspicions.

The guard snapped a leash into her collar, and between them they picked her up, carrying her back towards the door of Deuvar.

"Put her in the detention cell," Leonora said coldly. "And don't let her out until it's time for her to go across to the Haroldson's. Do what you like with her but don't fuck her. The Haroldson's have paid a lot for the privilege of being first."

The guard nodded. They carried her away in silence, her heart still racing, her eyes downcast. Upstairs they manhandled her past cell twenty seven towards a barred door.

Emily stiffened; inside she could see manacles hanging from a beam in the ceiling and below on the floor, ankle restraints. She began to struggle in earnest as the guards dragged her inside.

The man who had abused her the previous evening seized her feet and snapped her ankles into position. When he was done they both took her wrists and lifted them above her head.

Spread-eagled she was barely able to move; totally helpless. The guard she knew caught hold of her chin and kissed her roughly, tongue forcing between her lips.

"You should really learn to co-operate," he whispered. "Things will go so much better if you do as you're told."

Emily whimpered as he let his hands move down over her body, tugging at the shift – now reduced to barely more than a rag – that partly covered her body.

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.

Six of the best, laid on with wicked intent and Angela Ruskin fell face forward onto the rug, weeping loudly. Peter poked her with the end of the cane.

"We haven't finished yet! Get up!"

She glanced back over her shoulder. "What do you mean?" she said, stifling back the sobs.

He lifted the cane. "Get up."

Stiffly she clambered to her feet.

"I want you to tell me about your fisherman. Tell me how it felt."

Angela's face reddened. "I can't -"

He nodded. "Oh yes you can. And while you tell me I want you to touch yourself. Stroke yourself -" He traced the outline of her sex with the tip of his cane.

"Touch yourself here, and here." The cane lifted to score a cruel line across her full nipples. "Touch yourself the way he touched you."

"Peter," she stammered. "I don't think -"

He sat back a little and folded his hands into his lap, the cane still wrapped into his closed fist.

"I'm waiting," he snapped, watching her face. "Why don't you tell me how he felt when he was inside you. What did his hands feel like on your breasts? How did he smell?"

Angela shuddered, her fingers sliding down over her belly towards the fragrant pit of her quim, still sopping from her unknown lover's touch.

"He smelt awful, and when he kissed me I felt sick -" she began haltingly. As she spoke her fingers parted the lips and sought out the pleasure bud that nestled between. Peter smiled thinly.

"Good. What else?"

"His tongue sucked at my nipples, as if he were suckling me. He made little noises of pleasure and all the time there was this smell. He made me feel so dirty."

She came quickly, her face and body flushing scarlet as her fingers worked frantically inside her quim. Peter cradled his cock in his fingers. "Come here, I need that dirty mouth of yours -"

Angela dropped to her knees and crawled over to his wheelchair. Without hesitation she took him into her mouth, sucking at him hungrily, worshipping his body with her lips and tongue. Peter groaned and surrendered to her caresses, letting her work off her guilt and shame in pure twenty four carat pleasure.

At the point of release he pulled her head away, spurting thick foaming semen over her chin and throat. A trickle ran down over her breasts. He smiled and leant forward, brushing his lips with hers. This time there was no after-play, no drawing of his mark on her body. There was no need. She had proven she would do as she was told.

"Go and have a shower," he said. "I need to work."

Johnson sat watching the computer screen in his office. His message was very clear. He wondered if he would be able to sense the instant when Peter Howard received his little invitation. It was pleasing to watch it, knowing that somewhere Peter would be seeing it too.

Finally he glanced at his watch and then got to his feet. He wanted to be at Deuvar when Peter made contact. He picked up the phone and rang his home number; he would take his slave girl with him.

Before he left the office he turned off the computer, using a code that Peter Howard had given him to secure the information from other prying eyes. Ironic, he thought, as he pulled on his Cromby coat and switched off the lights.

Angela had regained her composure when she re-appeared from the shower. Warmly wrapped in a long towelling robe she walked over to Peter, eyes downcast.

"I've just got to make a phone call and then I'll get us some supper."

Peter nodded. "Great, are you cancelling a heavy date?" he joked.

Something about Angela's reaction set a tiny alarm bell ringing in his head. A fleeting glance, a fractional change of expression, he couldn't exactly explain what it was. Whatever it was, Angela instantly covered it with a wide smile.

"Actually it's a friend of mine who was coming over tomorrow. I thought I'd better stall them -" as she spoke she hurried towards the door, leaving Peter with an uneasy feeling that wouldn't go away.

He sat for a few minutes in silence. Straining, he could just about hear Angela moving around in the hall. He wheeled the chair slowly towards the door and struggled to pick out the words. It was impossible, her tone was soft and guarded. After a little while the voice ceased.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He couldn't identify his fears but he knew that it was a mistake to ignore the gut feeling.

Carefully he wheeled himself out into the hallway beyond the annex. Angela was not in sight. As he made his way over to the phone on the hall stand he smiled bleakly. The phone was modern with a liquid crystal display panel above the key pad. It showed the caller the number they were ringing. He pressed the last number recall button and then scribbled the number as it appeared on the display.

He turned, went back to the annex and keyed a password into one of the computers. The screen suddenly flashed into life with reams of numbers, scrolling past his eyes like a flowing river. He glanced at the number on Angela's telephone pad and tapped it in.

All he had to do now was wait. Finally, the sorting and re-sorting completed, an information box appeared in the centre of the screen. He let out a little hiss of dismay, glancing over his shoulder toward the open door of the annex. It was a private Kensington number; Johnson's private Kensington number. Peter's stomach did an unpleasant back flip.

Chapter 9

Emily hung from the chains that imprisoned her in the detention cell. Her whole body ached, her face was stained with tears. She had never felt more alone or desperate in her life. From somewhere in the half light outside her cell she could hear subdued voices and laughter. Life at Deuvar carried on, oblivious to her punishment.

She was hungry, her bladder ached – but she knew that the guard outside the barred door had been instructed to ignore her, whatever her requests. A cold breeze whipped along the corridors, making her shiver. She had all the time in the world to think but didn't dare let her mind run free in case she couldn't drag it back from the brink of total and utter panic.

She moved a fraction to try and ease the burning pain in her shoulders. The sound of the chains moving attracted the guard's attentions.

He leered at her. "Won't be too long now," he said thickly, glancing down at his watch.

Emily shuddered. Below her, between her legs, was an open grating. She shivered, wondering whether she could bring herself to urinate into it. The smell coming up from the floor would suggest it wasn't the first time it had been used as a lavatory.

"I need the bathroom," she whispered.

The guard shrugged. "Nothing to do with me. You heard Leonora."

Two more minutes and she had no option but to pee where she stood. The guard watched with barely concealed amusement whilst Emily's face flushed crimson.

Time passed slowly. Emily was aware of every muscle in her back and arms. As the light outside her cell darkened, soft wall lights began to fade up, throwing the bars of the cell into uncanny shadows. With every passing second she began to feel more apprehensive. The guard outside was getting restless, shifting from foot to foot.

She heard footsteps in the distance in an abstract way on the periphery of her hearing. They sounded like marching feet. When the noise stopped she looked up. Leonora was outside the bars and Birdie, the guard, was with her. He stood close to Leonora's shoulder, his cruel face split into a salacious grin.

Leonora stared at her coldly, taking in the details of her undress.

"Time to go." She nodded towards Birdie who had unlocked the door. Leonora wrinkled up her nose. "She stinks."

Birdie shrugged and then turned. Behind him the second guard unrolled a hose from the wall and turned on the tap. Leonora stepped out of the cell.

Emily braced herself as the guard walked towards her with the hose and switched it on full blast. Nothing could prepare her for the electric explosion of cold water as it hit her body. She screamed, writhing against her chains, oblivious to the pain in her shoulders and legs as the icy blast thundered on her chest. sucking the breath out of her body. The thin dress offered no protection. Emily twisted, trying to avoid the torrent. From the corner of her eye she could see Leonora smiling with satisfaction. The guard walked around her, playing the hose up and down until every inch of her flesh was wet and frozen. Emily's teeth began to chatter, her skin rising in goose bumps.

After a few minutes Leonora nodded and the man switched off the water. Emily was frozen through to the core, any last shred of resistance trickling away as the remains of the water dripped off her. She wondered if she might pass out from the shock and the cold.

Birdie stepped into the cell with a set of keys and undid the manacles and leg irons. She was so cold and stiff that she fell helplessly into his arms.

Peter Howard stared at the computer screen and then rechecked the number against the pad in front of him. There was no doubt about it. Angela had rung Johnson's home number. To double check he tucked the extension she had left him under his chin and tapped in the number.

"Hello?" said a female voice.

Peter cleared his throat. "Good evening, may I speak to Mr Johnson?"

There was a few second's hesitation before the cultured voice replied. "I'm afraid he isn't available at the moment. May I take a message?"

Peter hung up. He realised now that Angela's appearance at the hospital had been remarkably fortuitous. She had been careful to avoid the other staff. Things that had not registered before tumbled into place; she was a plant. Shit, he thought, staring at the evidence on the screen in front of him, I've delivered myself straight into a trap.

He glanced at Magenta, wondering what it was that was keeping Johnson and his henchmen away. Johnson knew how Magenta worked. There was no obvious reason for waiting before they reeled him in. Unless, of course, they thought that he had copied the key already, in which case perhaps Angela had been hired to find out whether he had made a duplicate before the plane crash. He sighed. He'd already told her he hadn't got as far as making a copy. He glanced around the comfortable room; it didn't quite make sense.

If Johnson knew where he was, why had Angela brought him home to the cottage? Why hadn't she just relieved him of the box that Johnson wanted? He would have been at their mercy in the hospital. And why…

As his thoughts spun away he heard Angela opening the annex door.

He turned the wheelchair slowly, wanting to catch her expression. In the top left hand corner of his computer screen a small light flashed, announcing the arrival of a message. He was torn between clicking to read what had been sent to him and watching Angela.

Angela won.

"Here," she said, "I hope you like chicken casserole." She stood a tray on the table by the window. "Would you like me to wheel you over here or are you going to try walking. You ought to at least -" The words died in her throat as she approached him.

Peter hadn't cleared the screen which showed Johnson's phone number. Her colour drained dramatically.

"So, when is he coming to get Magenta?" Peter said softly, watching her face like a hawk. "And what was all this about?" He lifted his hands to encompass the room. "Johnson certainly knows how to bait a trap, I'll give him that."

Angela took a deep breath. "This isn't how it looks, Peter."

As she spoke he noticed the way her nipples, stimulated by some deep animal fear, hardened and pressed against the material of her dress. For an instant he felt a flicker of an ancient hunger to take her where she stood, slap her lying face and screw her until she could do nothing but follow him blindly. He wanted to make her scream with pleasure, wail with pain.

He snorted, controlling the fury in his voice. "Oh really, well from where I'm sitting it all looks pretty convincing. Why did you want to know about Magenta? Or was it that your friend Johnson didn't let you know what you were trading your pretty little arse for?"

Angela looked furious. "How dare you!"

Peter grabbed hold of her wrists, jerking her close to him. She shrieked as his fingers bit into her skin.

"Because you've been paid to stitch me up, haven't you? Why the hell did you bother rescuing me at all when you could have taken Magenta while I was unconscious? Any half decent hacker would have known that I hadn't made a duplicate key."

She struggled, turning to try and get away from him.

"Stop it, Peter," she said. "It isn't like that at all." Her fear made the lights inside his mind flash. She was afraid of him. Her body arched against him, stoking the dark need to take her.

"So how is it?" he snapped, his fury growing alongside the lust which glowed white hot in his belly. "And what have you done with Emily?"

Angela stared at him in astonishment. "I haven't done anything with her. I'm not working for Mr Johnson, you have to believe me. Peter. Please -"

"Who then?"

Angela shook her head. "I can't tell you."

Peter laughed furiously. "Oh right, you can't tell me. Why not?"

She shook her head. "Isn't it enough for you to know that I'm on your side? If I'd been working for Johnson, you're right, you wouldn't have got out of the hospital. We could have easily taken Magenta from you then, who would have known? You have to trust me."

"And what was all that crap about ringing in for leave? You didn't even work at the hospital. Did you?"

Angela trembled. "No, but it had to look convincing. I'd done some relief work there a long time ago. I knew my way around."

Peter glared at her. "As Angela Ruskin?"

The woman shook her head. "No, that isn't my real name. But you do need my help."

Peter released her with a disgust. "Give me one good reason why I should trust you?" he snapped furiously.

Angela straightened her dress, struggling to get back into control. "You can barely walk. You need me. I promise you, I'm not working for Johnson. What choice do you have but to trust me?"

Her voice was so soft, so compelling that he had to remind himself how vulnerable he was. He snorted, meeting her bright, sparkling eyes. Angela was wrong. He did have one other option, the option to call in the organisation he was working for. They would have pulled him out, brought him in – and taken Magenta, and Johnson and Fielding operation away from him. He looked across at his rescuer.

"Are you going to tell me why you were ringing Johnson's private number?"

Angela shook her head. "I can't."

"You really can keep a secret," he said dryly.

Angela nodded. "Yes. Do you want to eat now?"

Peter glanced over at the steaming casserole on the table. "What? The condemned man ate a hearty meal?"

"If that's how you want to think of it. But I'm not condemning you. Peter. I told you before. I want to help you." She pushed him towards the table; the food smelt delicious.

"If you won't tell me who you are working for, will you tell me why you're doing this? Johnson and Fielding and the guys they work for play hard ball."

Angela fluffed a napkin across his lap. "I just want what you want."

Peter laughed without humour. "And what's that?"

"For Johnson and Fielding to lose the power they have now. We want you to bring them down."

"We?" said Peter, as she began to dish the meal up.

She nodded. "Yes, we."

Emily didn't resist as Birdie carried her, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He was a big man and she weighed barely eight stone. Her mind was dazed from the shock of the cold water and the long wait in the detention cell. She felt distant and removed, almost as if what was happening to her was a bad bad dream. Her teeth chattered, she closed her eyes.

At the back door of Deuvar a van was waiting. Birdie slung her into the back onto a padded mattress, and then took his place in the passenger seat beside the driver. She stayed very still, cold, dazed, listening to the wheels crunching over the gravel. It wouldn't be long. Leonora said they were waiting for her.

Max Fielding took a glass from the tray brought by a uniformed footman and glanced around the elegant sitting-room of Naomi Haroldson's Deuvar guest house. Canapes had been arranged on trays, the distinguished guests circled and smiled, exchanging polite social chit chat. A log fire glowed in the grate. It could have been the prelude to a family dinner party.

Naomi Haroldson circulated, exchanging a few words here and there, looking suitably gracious in a beautifully cut red cocktail dress. Her elderly husband, George, watched the proceedings from the comfort of his armchair, fortified by a large glass of brandy.

Naomi smiled at Max and then glanced up at the clock.

"They should be here soon. Have you tried the smoked salmon?" she nodded towards a tray on one of the side tables.

Max laughed. "You are really quite remarkable, Naomi. I see all the regulars are here. How's Franz?"

Naomi smiled broadly, revealing a row of perfectly shaped shark-white teeth. "Oh, he's very well, very eager."

From outside came the sound of a vehicle arriving. Naomi flashed him the icy smile again. "If you'll excuse me, I think my little present has arrived. The footman will show you to your seat."

In one wall of the sitting-room a servant had opened a pair of double doors, discreetly disguised amongst the wealth of oak panelling. Inside was a luxurious room set with sofas, low chairs and side tables – once again replete with canapes and bottles of champagne.

Opposite the double doors the whole of the far wall was made of glass, giving the small audience a compelling view in the room beyond. Max took a seat near the door, giving himself a broad view of the events that were about to unfold. He helped himself to a glass of perfectly chilled champagne and waited.

George Haroldson joined him a few seconds later. Max nodded to his host. George Haroldson had a penchant for voyeurism – he had no stomach to take part, but revelled in his young wife's exhibitionism. Silently he pulled up a chair beside Max and lit a cigar.

A door into the softly lit room beyond the glass opened and Emily Lawrence appeared. She was on a short leash, led by Naomi Haroldson. The girl was cold, dishevelled, the ragged remains of her shift clinging damply to every fold. She watched Naomi's face like a frightened rabbit as Naomi unlocked her wrist cuffs. Even through the glass Max could sense her fear – and more compelling yet, a tiny glittering flame of expectation.

The girl's eyes flashed as she took in the details of the room. It was softly lit, almost bare. In the centre was a low plinth, padded, with restraints set in each corner. Emily's eyes widened as Naomi led her towards it.

Above, hanging on the panelled wall, were a selection of corrective devices: a riding crop, a two finger tawse, a small plaited whip, a flat leather paddle. The girl shivered, holding back, her eyes bright with terror. Naomi jerked the leash tight. Emily strained against her.

It struck Max that she didn't realise she was being observed. He leant forward in his chair, watching as the girl turned and tried to jerk the lead out of Naomi's hands, twisting back and forth to free herself, tugging this way and that until finally the leash was ripped from Naomi's fist.

The frightened girl lunged towards the door, threw it open and then froze in terror. Framed in the doorway was Naomi's special play mate, Franz.

Franz was a great bear of a man in his mid twenties, dressed in cream jodhpurs and a sleeveless leather waistcoat. More disturbingly, his face was hidden by a full leather helmet. The helmet rendered his strikingly handsome Nordic feature into a torturer's mask. Emily backed away in terror, oblivious now to Naomi Haroldson. Franz stepped into the room, his great barrel chest oiled and gleaming in the lamp light. His eyes glittered behind the mask.

"Get on the plinth," he said softly, in a voice that brooked no contradiction. "Now, all fours."

The girl let her gaze drop to the floor and without a word crept up onto the padded bench. Naomi smiled and locked the girl's hands and ankles into position. The lamp light glowed through the ragged shift Emily was wearing, outlining her delicate body, revealing her deliciously uptilted breasts, her flat belly, her small rounded buttocks -

Franz moved around her thoughtfully. Emily whimpered, her breaths coming in great laboured gasps. The big man's hand caught hold of her shift and ripped the remains of the material away, making the girl quake and whimper.

Slowly, he drew a thick leather belt from his jodhpurs and let it trail along her exposed spine, making her tremble visibly.

In the corner of the room, Naomi Haroldson was snaking out of her beautiful evening dress. Beneath she was wearing a tight black leather Basque that revealed every curve of her carefully sculpted body.

On the plinth Emily began to sob, soft throaty sounds of terror bubbling behind her lips as Franz stepped behind her and folded the belt in two. The first cracking blow across Emily's naked buttocks made Max Fielding flinch. The girl shrieked, lunging forward to escape the belt's sharp tongue.

"Get up," hissed Franz, drawing the belt back again. Slowly, stiffly, Emily got back onto her hands and knees in time for Franz's second blow to explode across her reddening skin. This time she stayed on all fours, tears flooding down her face.

Three, four – five. Max murmured the number of strokes under his breath as the girl sobbed and writhed. Behind them, Naomi Haroldson watched the spectacle with growing excitement. Her eyes had darkened, her nipples pressed eagerly against the soft tight leather of her Basque.

Six, seven – Emily's movements were subtly changing as Franz laid on the belt again and again. Yes, she was afraid, yes, each blow hurt, sending ripples of pain through her chained body – but there was a certain eagerness and expectation in her movements now.

Max smiled to himself. She was enjoying it or, at least, some part of her was, some part he had recognised the first afternoon in the office.

He held his breath. If only Emily would surrender herself totally, relinquish control, let Franz and Naomi possess her completely. Sweat was dripping off her face and belly.

Nine, ten – her buttocks were scarlet, her body moving as if controlled by the crack of the belt. Behind her, Franz seemed mesmerised, his huge cock pressing against the soft cream fabric of his jodhpurs.

Eleven, twelve – Max could almost feel the strange dark excitement rising from deep inside the girl as she was beaten. She was still trembling but it was an electric pulse; a pulse of desire. Between her legs the delicate lips of her sex had flushed scarlet, a slick of her juices already trickling out onto her smooth soft thighs. Her breasts were flushed, nipples erect and glistening with a covering of sweat. She seemed to glow, every fibre, every molecule of her slender body straining for release.

In the little hidden observation room the watchers were all entranced; this was far better than they could have ever hoped for.

Franz dropped the belt to the floor and began to undress, Emily could not see him but every one of the watchers could sense the girl straining to hear, trying to detect what was to follow.

Naomi undid the restraints. Emily didn't move, held by the dark expectation of what was to come. Franz stroked her hips. "Turn over," he murmured. Wordlessly, the girl complied, laying on her back, eyes closed.

"Look at me." Franz hissed. "I want you to watch me take you -"

Emily's eyes snapped open, flashing wildly in the lamp light. The man was naked now. Behind the mask his eyes glittered and for an instant she thought she detected compassion, wildly at odds with the aggressive image of the leather helmet. Her back and buttocks screamed red hot, the pain and the heat suffusing her whole body. The glow of fear and anticipation had risen into a raging torrent. She knew her sex was wet, ready, throbbing with the need for satisfaction. She looked up at her seducer.

His body was stunning, slabs of beautifully sculpted muscle, a triangle of blond hair glistening in the centre of his chest. He was magnificent. She shivered as she looked further down. His great cock arched eagerly out toward her, and at the very end, through the foreskin, was a small ornate silver ring. She shuddered as he stepped closer. He caught hold of her under the knees and jerked her up towards him, pressing his mouth into her sex, eating her alive, biting and nipping at the raw excited flesh.

His teeth and tongue played with the silver ring that secured her sex lips, making her flinch and quiver by turns. As he lapped at her clitoris she started to sob with pleasure, writhing as he pressed on and on, driving her out towards oblivion. Something brushed against her thighs and she glanced down. To her astonishment Naomi Haroldson was crouching between the man's legs, servicing him with her mouth. Emily was so stunned that the breath caught in her throat.

Naomi Haroldson was worshipping the man with her body, giving him pleasure. She was another slave – another submissive. Emily gasped, riding the wild thread of pleasure out, out… She was so close to release that every part of her felt as if it was on fire. Her lover seemed to sense the approach of her orgasm and pulled away.

She gasped as he laid her back onto the plinth. "Please," she whispered, oblivious to the rule of silence. "Please -"

The man above her laughed. "Soon enough," he said softly, "soon enough."

Naomi slipped out from between his legs and clambered to her feet, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The atmosphere in the room was electric. The huge man pushed his finger gently into Emily's sex, catching hold of the ring that linked the lips of her sex. He teased the ring open. She held her breath, letting out a gasp of terror as he slipped the ring out through the delicate flesh.

"I don't think we need this," he said and threw it onto the floor. "Now watch me."

He lifted her up again, rubbing the head of his cock between the outer naked lips of her sex. She shuddered, her whole body cried out for him to take her while her mind was filled with terror that his great craning cock would split her open. His progress was unnervingly slow. He eased inside her a fraction at a time, the icy cold kiss of his cock ring marking his progress with a chilling caress. There was pain and pleasure, a dark feeling of tearing and heat as he breached her – and more compelling still, the aching need of her body. Suddenly he plunged home, driving his cock and the icy cold ring deep into her.

She screamed in fear while her rogue body instinctively lifted to meet his. She felt her body closing gratefully around his shaft, sucking him in, taking him deeper still. Suddenly she was moving with him, trying to suppress the pain and the terrifying tightness. She heard the sound of wild excited sobbing and was stunned to realise the voice was her own.

Naomi smiled down at her and then slowly climbed onto the plinth, straddling Emily's chest. The older woman held open the heavy lips of her own blonde fringed quim.

"Kiss me," she said thickly and lowered her sex onto Emily Lawrence's face.

The taste of the woman's excitement flooded Emily's mouth. She had no choice but to comply and was horrified to realise that she wanted to submit – to obey. She pressed a tentative kiss to the junction of Naomi's lips and breathed in the woman's erotic perfume. Naomi moaned, whispering words of pleasure and encouragement.

Emily began to lick, to kiss, while between her legs the man drove home and her desperate body matched him stroke for stroke, driving them both out towards the white hot lights of orgasm. Above her Naomi writhed and gasped, clutching at Emily's hair, her breasts, the thick collar she still wore around her neck. Suddenly Naomi began to snort, grinding her pelvis, dragging Emily's face closer and closer.

At the same instant Emily felt the man deep inside her begin to thrust madly, wildly, and she was swept away by a glittering, all engulfing sensation of such intensity that she thought she was going crazy -

The small crowd in the viewing room was silent as the girl began to buck and thrash, sucking every last drop of pleasure from Franz. At the height of his orgasm the blond giant dragged off his mask, threw back his head and gasped his way towards ecstasy. Naomi Haroldson was arched back, grinding and writhing.

Max realised he had been holding his breath as the threesome fought the last few steps of the way towards release. He let out a long shuddering breath as their climax finally crashed across their sweating bodies like a tidal wave. Finally, sated, they collapsed down onto each other.

George Haroldson touched Max's arm. The old man's eyes were alight as he held out a glass of champagne towards Max.

"Here, old chap, I think you might need this."

Max nodded dumbly.

George smiled. "Stunning, isn't she?"

Max nodded, wondering whether he meant Naomi or Emily. "You took the words right out of my mouth," he said, sipping the icy champagne.

Beyond the glass Naomi Haroldson was slithering down off the exhausted girl's torso. Slowly she crept around to between the girl's legs and began to tongue her gaping sex.

Emily snorted, trying to resist, wriggling. Franz clambered to his feet and grabbed Emily's thighs, holding her open for Naomi's attentions. Max guessed what was to follow, marvelling at Franz's stamina and powers of recuperation. Max had seen him in action before. It wouldn't take the great Nordic stud too long before he was ready for the next round.

They pulled the hapless girl onto her hands and knees, though she was so consumed by passion that Max suspected she barely knew what was happening to her. Franz and Naomi fastened her wrists, working wordlessly. When they had done Franz slipped something out from under the plinth – a dark shape that reminded Max of the floor show with the two girls in the main bar.

Naomi knelt in front of Franz and ran her tongue over the object – a large black double ended dildo, Naomi's particular favourite. She slithered gracefully under Emily, who still crouched on all fours, head hanging down. Franz slipped one end of the dildo into Naomi's compliant eager body with gentle hands, stroking it where it nestled into Naomi's body.

Emily, sensing something was going on, looked down into the face of the woman who lay beneath her – and then stiffened as she felt the brush of the rubber cock against her thighs.

At first Max thought she might resist – but he had reckoned without Franz. The tall man laid one hand on the small of Emily's back, stroking a finger along the livid reminders of the belt's caress.

"Stay still," he murmured. "Let Naomi feel what I felt, let her have you -" As he spoke he guided the thick phallus into the girl's quim. Max could sense her resistance, her revulsion, but she was no match for Naomi and Franz. Naomi began to move, screwing the dear little Emily with her dark rubber cock, moaning with pleasure as if she could truly feel the tight confines of the girl's body around her.

In spite of herself, Emily began to move, encouraged by Franz's voice and his caresses. He slipped his fingers into the deep recesses of her body, seeking out the sensitive creases, the hard swollen peak of her pleasure bud, the wet junction where her body closed around the rubber phallus -

Max downed his champagne in a single gulp. If there was ever a couple who could convert Emily Lawrence to the compulsive, addictive pleasures of submission, the heady cocktail of pain and passion, it was Naomi Haroldson and her stunning friend, Franz.

Already the huge man's passion was beginning to rekindle, his exhausted member rising and thickening. Franz worked his fingers over Emily's sex, smearing the juices back toward the other secret orifice, and with infinite care pressed his newly revived cock into her arse.

Emily bucked, snorting, as he sought to move deeper. The blond giant's fingers were compelling her on towards oblivion,stroking, teasing. And like a well trained dog Emily responded, stretching, arching back to accept the attentions of her two lovers.

Max wished Leonora and Johnson could have been there with him. Particularly Johnson. If he had seen Emily's compliance, her eager movements under Franz and Naomi's tuition, perhaps he could have seen her as something other than a tempting scrap to catch Peter Howard.

Beyond the glass, the girl arched her back, dropping her hips. Franz slipped his fingers under her collar, securing her into an exciting erotic bow, pulling him onto her and Naomi. Max hissed his approval, wishing he had brought one of Leonora's girls with him to satisfy the hungry ache in his own groin.

Through the glass Emily was pushing her mind and body out towards the stars as Max shuddered and refilled his glass.

Chapter 10

Peter didn't taste the chicken casserole Angela had cooked for him. His mind was on her change of position. They ate in silence while he tried to think his way around the trap he'd found himself in. Angela served the dessert, desperate to catch his eye.

"Please," she said in a low voice. "This doesn't change anything. I'm not going to turn you over to them."

Peter snorted. "Do you expect me to believe that?"

"Yes."

He had an uncanny feeling that she was telling the truth, but how could he be certain? "What did you bring me here for?"

Angela pointed to the bank of computers he had had set up close to the bed.

"To do exactly what you're doing now. Johnson was kept away from the hospital by confirming you were definitely Jack Roberts, even though we knew you weren't. We – you have to bring them down, Peter, set your plan for Magenta into action. That's all. I told you, we only want what you want."

He watched her face. She was sincere, he was almost convinced of it.

"Why?"

Angela shook her head. "I can't tell you. If you knew, you might be able to guess who I was working for. If you knew that they could be in danger. You said yourself that the men Johnson and Fielding work with are ruthless."

"What about our little educational package?" As he spoke he glanced at the cane that sat amongst the debris on his bedside cabinet.

Angela smiled and stood up, lifting her elegantly tailored skirt. She was naked beneath.

"A bonus," she whispered. "It's something I'd only ever dreamt of until now." She blushed as she spoke.

At least Peter was completely convinced that she was telling the truth about that. She turned very slowly; the marks of the cane still ribboned across her white skin. He shuddered, thinking about the way she had writhed, opened herself for his pleasure. He tried to hold his thoughts on track.

"Are you really a nurse?"

She nodded, still holding her skirt high up over her thighs. Her fingers teased at the moist outer lips.

"Yes, or at least I was until my father became ill. All that part is true. I nursed him for years." She paused, looking steadily at Peter. "My employer knew about Magenta for a long time. They'd been watching you, waiting for an opportunity to sound you out. When it was stolen they tried to make contact, but it was too late. Then, once they knew the plane had gone down it seemed as if it everything was lost. When they realised you had survived it seemed the perfect opportunity. I started going onto the ward, watching, waiting, so people wouldn't think it strange to see me there. My job was to bring you out, to help you if I could."

Peter blew out a thoughtful breath, trying to guess who it might be, struggling to double guess his unknown benefactors. "How did you meet this mysterious employer?"

Angela shook her head, letting her skirt drop. "No more, Peter. You have to get Magenta up and running."

Peter beckoned her closer and slid his hands up under her skirt, her sex was moist and compelling. She opened her legs to give him greater freedom. The mixture of fear, fury and white hot desire were a heady combination. He wanted to make her pay for her deception.

"Bring me the box," he hissed. She stepped away from him, eyes downcast. The box he had ordered which had contained the body harness still held other delights, things he had anticipated sharing with Angela. But this punishment was in earnest.

He took the harness out of the box and threw it to her.

"Put this on," he commanded, "wear it all the time from now on."

Angela reddened, but wordlessly began to undress. He watched her with cold eyes, his mind racing. He tried hard to detect if she was lying, even though all his senses told him otherwise.

He beckoned her closer when she had the harness in place. Cruelly he tightened the straps, making the new unwieldy leather bite into her delicate thighs, nipping her pale skin. She bit her lips, tears forming in her eyes. He indicated the bed.

"Lie down."

She clambered onto the bed, scurrying as if she were afraid of him. He wheeled himself beside her and took a thin piece of cord from the box and pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. Then he tied her arms above her head, knotting the cord through the metal bed frame. All the time she watched him with a haunted glassy expression. When he was done he looked down at her. She was as ripe and full as summer fruit. He jerked her legs apart, cursing himself for feeling so weak and shaky, and tied them at the ankles to the foot of the bed.

Angela was pale now, straining slightly against the ropes as if testing them. Roughly he gagged her.

"You want to know what it feels like to be at Deuvar. I'll show you!"

From the box he produced the little nipple clamps they had used in fun the day before. She whimpered in pain as he clamped her nipples tight, turning the tiny screws until the puckered tips flushed scarlet from the pressure. Her eyes flashed in terror as he moved away.

He wanted to make her pay for his confusion and it seemed that she could sense his change of attitude. Her body lifted, writhing away from him as he took a small two fingered tawse from the box. The first blow across her swollen flushed breasts made her sob, struggling away from the pain.

She was his now, he thought triumphantly, any advantage she had was lost by her eager submission to his orders. He laid on the tawse with anger-fuelled intensity, striking her breasts, her white belly, her thighs, the swollen rise of her sex. The little leather straps stung, a sharp waspish sting that wouldn't break the skin but instead brought up an intense flush of colour.

Angela writhed miserably, hot tears streaming down her face, but he knew that even in her fear she was revelling in her punishment. Her eyes betrayed her excitement, her gaping sex was wet and eager. Behind the gag her little cries of pain excited him beyond all measure. He laid into her again and again, glorying in the pain he was inflicting. The strokes exploded and crackled across her reddening flesh like lightening strikes. His body screamed out at the effort, arms aching as he lay on a final flurry of strokes.

He threw the tawse onto the floor and climbed onto the bed and, jerking down his sweat pants, rammed his cock into her, dragging her hips up to accept him. Her scream was stifled by the thick material in her mouth. He forced into her, deeper and deeper, letting his frustration and his anger guide him.

She lifted herself to meet his stroke, her tight hot sex seizing his cock like a mouth. On and on he pressed, almost oblivious to the woman beneath him. Suddenly he felt the twitching sucking heat of her quim, and realised how close Angela was to the point of release. Close to coming himself, he tore his cock out of her, and began to stroke his shaft.

Denied her prize, Angela began to moan frantically, rubbing herself against him, eyes alight with need. His cock was wet and oily from her passion. He watched her face as he slid his foreskin back and forth, bringing the white heat and the madness closer with every stroke.

He had an image of her in his head, being fucked by the fisherman, her majestic form abused by the dishevelled man, and suddenly he was lost. A great throbbing stream of semen exploded out over her, splashing onto her belly and breasts.

Peter collapsed forward, his fury gone, earthed by his pleasure. Slowly he lowered his head to Angela's sex, wet, ripe, fragrant. He moaned and began to tongue her, biting and nipping fiercely at the enticing gold fringed mound. She lifted her body, giving herself over entirely. Her surrender was complete, an act of atonement.

Within seconds silvery oceanic juices flooded his mouth, her ample curves writhing and juddering with the outward signs of her climax. On her belly the droplets of his semen shimmered.

Finally, breathless, Peter lay down beside her, and undid her gag. They didn't speak but he could see the plea for understanding in her eyes. Stiffly he untied her, taking off the sharp little clamps that had imprisoned her nipples, sucking and lapping at the swollen bruised skin. When she was free of the ropes she curled up against him, her breath warm on his body.

"I need to talk to you," she whispered at last.

Peter shook his head. "No, I have to work, that's what you want, isn't it?" He felt dizzy, exhausted, but knew it was finally time to set a new plan in motion.

In amongst the wild chaotic anger he had seen an answer. He climbed unsteadily from the bed, almost afraid to look back at Angela. In all the dark erotic games he had ever played, he had never feared losing control, but with Angela Ruskin he had been as close as he had ever come. He'd wanted to make her pay.

He looked at the cane on the bedside table. Thank God he had had enough control to use the tawse. If he'd used the cane he could have cut her delicate flesh to ribbons. He eased himself back into the wheelchair, uncertain that his legs would carry him over to the computers.

He glanced at the screens. The little electronic mail message still flashed. He wheeled himself over to the desk, clicked the collect option on the menu and waited. The electronic letter opened from the centre, like a rose bud unfurling.

Peter scanned the first line of text. "Sweet Jesus!"

Angela looked up. "What is it?"

He didn't need to beckon her over. She clambered off the bed and read the lines of text over his shoulder. The message was from Johnson.

"So, there you are, Peter. How very nice to see you looking so well," it read. Alongside the words was a still photograph of Angela pushing the wheelchair towards the exit of St. Leonard's hospital.

"It's only a matter of time before I find you and your accomplice. Contact me. You know where."

Set in amongst the words on the computer screen was a small square which Peter recognised as the logo for Deuvar, Johnson and Fielding's secret pleasure palace. It flashed another invitation. Reluctantly he clicked on the button and instantly the screen filled with a stunning video image that took his breath away.

Emily!

"My God!" he hissed.

Beside him Angela gasped.

Peter turned his attentions from the main screen and moved toward the second computer, frantically keying in a sequence of numbers. Johnson and Fielding's logo appeared within seconds on the second screen.

"What are you doing?" asked Angela, her attention riveted by the stunning erotic images that filled the first screen.

"Engaging Magenta," he said breathlessly. "I've got to get Emily out of there."

On the screen Emily Lawrence sobbed as a guard moved closer, his cock glistening with lubricant as he crept towards her. Strapped on her belly for his pleasure, she began to whimper. The sounds of her fear welled from the multi-media computer and filled the little annex room.

Peter swung round in his wheelchair and pressed the mute button. The brief video sequence repeated, as hot and disturbing as before, but now it was muted, Emily's open mouth silent, only her face revealing her pain and misery.

Angela was transfixed.

"Are you going to trade Magenta for Emily?".

Peter was totally immersed in the frantic search for a way into the system. It hardly mattered now if someone detected him. They knew he was alive. It was, as Johnson had said, only a matter of time before they found him. The screen he was working on unfolded again, taking him deeper into the bowels of the computer's programming.

"Emily? Are you going to trade Magenta for Emily? I have to know."

Peter looked up. "Maybe, but not quite in the way they expect. I suppose you want to ring your puppet master? Pass me the box before you go, will you?"

Angela looked uneasy. "You mean Magenta?"

Peter nodded. "Did you say you know something about computers?"

Angela nodded. "My father taught computer studies."

"Right, plug Magenta into the port in the back of this machine. I've marked the connection -"

Angela unwrapped the box with care and then slid the flex out. Peter smiled thinly. "When I've got this done I need you to take me somewhere."

Angela looked up, unfurling Magenta's leads. "Deuvar?"

He nodded and then turned all his attentions back to the mass of figures and letters that slowly rolled up across the screen.

"Yes," he said flatly. "Deuvar!"

Emily crouched on the plinth, exhausted. Her body ached, her sex, opened and raw, burnt deep inside. There was a smear of blood on her thighs. Naomi Haroldson and her blond lover had awakened a creature in her that she had never suspected existed.

Emily was shocked to realise that she had enjoyed her compliance – relished the act of surrender, felt a strange freedom in submitting totally to the needs of her partners.

Naomi Haroldson slithered slowly out from under her, withdrawing the intimidating bulk of the dildo. Her parting gift was a delicate kiss on the open lips of Emily's aching quim. Behind her the great blond giant sighed with pleasure and slipped out from the dark secret places.

Emily slumped forward. Surely they were done now. Franz walked around her, stroking along her spine with his fingers. His touch made her shiver. He moved on the balls of his feet like a sleek big cat. Emily watched him as if mesmerised; the man who had finally taken her, the man who should have been Peter Howard. He turned, eyes alight with something she couldn't fathom.

Behind him Naomi danced attendance, turning towards something on a heavy table for Franz to inspect. Emily stiffened, her lips forming into a silent terrified scream as she realised what was in the woman's fingers. Naomi pulled away a metallic shield and a tiny, intense blue flame illuminated the dimly lit room.

As Emily shrunk back in horror, Naomi smiled almost apologetically.

"After all my dear, you are ours," she murmured. "Even if it is for only a short while. We need to mark you."

The scream broke from Emily's lips as Franz took the handle from Naomi. In the gas jet on the table was a long handled iron, the end plate glowing red hot. In the shadows the brand glowed like starlight, throwing a circled letter H into sharp relief. Emily felt the terror rising and began to struggle against the chains that held her, bucking back and forth, fear giving her renewed strength.

"No!" she screamed, as Franz moved towards her holding the branding iron his huge fist. "No!" Naomi Haroldson's eyes were alight with expectation as Franz circled Emily. Emily screamed out in terror, feeling the heat of the brand approaching.

She tried to drag herself away from him, trying to curl up protectively but it was impossible to escape. Franz punched the brand onto one of her buttocks. The explosion of pain made her feel sick to the pit of her stomach. An instant later she could smell burnt flesh and tendrils of poisonous mind-destroying agony flooded up through her.

"No-o-oo-oo," she gasped as unconsciousness drowned out the sensations, darkness closing over her like stormy waters. Beyond the darkness she could hear Naomi and Franz's voices as if they were miles way.

Naomi spoke her name, dragging her back from the oblivion of unconsciousness, and carefully undid the chains that held her. Emily trembled, collapsing down onto the plinth. She let out a desperate sob as she felt something icy cold brushing over the scouring heat of the brand.

To Emily's surprise Naomi smiled down at her.

"You were good," she whispered in an undertone. "A shame that you can't stay with us. Franz is a delight. We could teach you so much." As she spoke she glanced in the direction of the tall blond man, who now stood with his arms crossed over his chest, face devoid of emotion. She offered Emily her hands. "Get up," she said softly. Emily bit her lip and took the hands of her mistress.

As Emily regained her balance Franz beckoned to her. She approached him slowly, unsteadily but with deference, eyes downcast. He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up so she could look at him. Gently he undid the collar that she had worn since the afternoon in Johnson and Fielding's office and from a side table took another. It was almost identical, with rings set either side in the leather, but whereas the first had metal studs this one was made of finely tooled leather set with glittering diamond chips. He fastened it tight around her neck, dragging her close to him so that her breasts brushed his muscular body.

The movement made the brand bite into her mind and she shivered in spite of the pain. His hot oiled flesh re-ignited the dark flash of desire in her belly.

Franz smiled down at her and she knew at once that her desire, her obedience and submission had pleased him.

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…

Chapter 11

"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."

Angela stared at him incredulously. "Tonight?"

"Tonight! Right now! So far, nobody seems to have spotted any abnormalities in the computer programming. If they had, they'd have tried to shut me out by now. I've got no idea how long we've got before someone cries for help." He glanced up at the computer screen; a little flashing bar told him that Magenta was busy following his commands.

"How long before you want to leave?"

On the screen the bar flashed again. Peter shrugged. "If no-one sees this going on, then maybe half an hour, an hour at the most."

A great shame really. His groin still ached from the after-effects of his fantasy. They had very little time left for Angela's education. Beside him the tiny lights on Magenta's display screen began to go out one by one. Peter wheeled himself carefully round to the back of the computer and pulled out the lead that connected it to Magenta.

Angela was obviously muddled, her confusion showing on her face and the intense way she was watching him.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked again.

Peter grinned. "The people you work for don't know a great deal about Magenta do they? Or was it that they didn't trust you with their secrets?"

Angela grimaced. "They only told me what I needed to know."

On the screen behind him two other questions appeared alongside the flashing bar. Peter watched for a few seconds before typing in his reply, slowly, one considered letter at a time. When the messages were complete he pressed the send key and began to retreat out of Johnson and Fielding's computer system, closing doors and electronic alleyways behind him. Finally, all that appeared on the screen was the Johnson and Fielding corporate logo. His shoulders slumped and he rubbed his hand across his eyes. He was exhausted.

"Is that it?" Angela asked breathlessly.

Peter glanced at the digital clock once again. "Not quite. Maybe you could go and make some more coffee."

Angela moved to pick up the mug he had stood alongside the keyboard. As she stretched Peter grabbed hold of her wrist. "And while you're out there, maybe you'd like to ring your boss and let them know what I've done?"

Angela froze. "Well, what exactly have you done?"

Peter smiled. "If they know that much about Johnson and Fielding's business they'll soon find out."

Angela pulled away, extricating her wrist from Peter's grasp. "What about Emily?" she said without meeting his eyes.

Peter nodded towards the now inert box beside the computer screen. "I'm going to try and exchange Magenta for her," he grinned. "What choice do I have?"

Angela looked puzzled. "But you've just made a copy? Surely they'll know you've double crossed them?"

Peter sat back in the wheelchair. His body felt as if he'd run a marathon. "Let me worry about that," he said slowly. "Now, are we going to have coffee before you drive me to Deuvar?"

Angela nodded reluctantly and Peter wheeled himself across to a book case and pulled out a road atlas.

"Coffee first."

When she had left, Peter carefully re-wrapped Magenta and then tapped in a short message to Johnson's electronic mailing address.

Johnson was about to leave his suite at Deuvar when the phone rang. A disembodied voice gave him the information he had been waiting for.

Peter Howard was breaking into the computer system! He was reproducing Magenta at that very moment!

Johnson sighed. "So predictable. Have you managed to trace his location?"

"It shouldn't take us too much longer to pin point his exact whereabouts."

Johnson smiled, letting his eyes wander over the intoxicating curves of his slave as she waited, with her eyes downcast. "Good," he whispered. "Let me know how the trace goes. Can you tell me where he has stored the copy of Magenta?"

"I'll contact you as soon as we know… wait… there's a message that's just coming in for you, sir… 'on my way.'"

Johnson put the receiver back in its cradle. He had won. He glanced at his watch. It would surely be some time before Peter arrived. He knew that the plane had taken off from their private landing strip and had barely reached the coast before it crashed. He tugged on the slave girl's lead. She looked up at him with her disturbing ginger eyes.

"Maestro," she murmured.

He pulled her closer, relishing the sensation of her breath on his face. She smelt of the byre. He stroked her cheek and let his fingers slide lower to the curve of her breasts. She shivered as he nipped distractedly at the dark peaks.

Time to celebrate.

It was obvious to Johnson that Peter Howard had made a copy of Magenta to increase his bargaining power. Magenta was a devious and tricky little device. When a copy was made, the original computer key, the old Magenta, became obsolete, only the new Magenta could open up Johnson and Fielding's complex computer system.

Johnson had a sneaking admiration for his adversary. No doubt Peter would come to Deuvar and negotiate safe passage for himself and Emily Lawrence, in return for which he would reveal the whereabouts of the new copy of Magenta.

Peter would have copied the new Magenta and sent it down the phone lines into the vast world-wide computer network, hiding its complex codes in some obscure distant electronic backwater. It was a strategy Johnson would have used himself if the situations had been reversed.

The girl rubbed herself against him, tempting him away from his thoughts, trying to make him forget the daily beating which he gave her to remind them both who was in control. She opened her mouth, running that tempting cat pink tongue around her lips. Her face held an erotic invitation. He ran a hand down over her shoulders. Beneath his finger tips her muscles rippled like a race horse in prime condition.

"Get the whip," he said flatly.

She shivered out from under his touch. Johnson smiled as he let go of the leash.

Later, when the situation with Peter Howard was resolved, he would ensure she received the full benefit of his attention, but now there was only time to release the growing tension he felt in his belly. He loved the chase. He wanted nothing more now than to confront Peter Howard and come away the victor.

The girl was back, cradling the riding crop like an ancient relic. He flexed it thoughtfully between his fingers and drew back the head. He saw her stiffen in expectation and smiled.

"Bend over the table." His voice brooked no contradiction. It was a token beating, barely raising weals on her exotic hide, but it would be enough to raise her expectations of what would follow later. He could see her sex, open, expectant – he sometimes wondered, in the moments like these, when she laid her needs so bare, where the Prince had got her from, this intriguing barely domesticated slave of his.

She looked back over her shoulder. Her undisguised passion made him shiver. A familiar not unpleasant ache was growing in his groin with every passing second. How very tempting it would be to forget serious matters that drew him away from her and lay on the whip with genuine fervour, bring a wild glittering flash to her strange eyes.

Did she ever pine for whatever distant place had been her home? She didn't move as he struck. Her sex, like an open ripe flower, wafted its compelling perfume towards him, making his mouth water.

"Get up," he said thickly. A few more seconds and he would be powerless to resist the compelling voice of his own desire.

But Peter was coming. He was too restless for this. It was time to go down…

At the top of the stairs his eyes focused on the social gathering, but his mind was elsewhere. The mansion was the culmination of a life-long dream, a place where his business contacts could discreetly indulge their passions with a stunning selection of the world's most beautiful – and most submissive – girls. Those who were less than beautiful were masked. Johnson had often noticed on his travels that the less attractive girls were those most eager to please.

Deuvar's chef was French, they held a wine cellar second to none. The fixtures and fittings had been chosen from auctions all over the world from the house of the gracious rich. Johnson's attention was drawn once again to the scene below. In the main hall some of Deuvar's resident girls were naked, or dressed in harnesses or other more exotic costumes.

The air was filled with the soft hum of conversation. The bar was filling up, dinner was still being served. Johnson smiled; this was his secret domain. It seemed rather fitting that he should resolve his problems with Peter Howard at Deuvar. He had first met him here, in the bar, when Peter had been a guest of another client.

"You must know Peter," the influential contact who had introduced them had said. "Computer genius."

Their mutual interests had sparked a conversation that had ended with Johnson offering Peter a contract to create a foolproof computer security system. They'd cemented their deal the Deuvar way, sharing a submissive blonde beauty in the sauna, Peter buried to the hilt in the girl's quim while Johnson had let her suck him dry. Her narrow sun-tanned back had been laced with the weals of the whipping Peter had inflicted on her.

Johnson shivered, remembering the pleasure, and imagined Peter heading through the night towards him with details of the whereabouts of the new Magenta and wondered for an instant how it would be resolved. His fury at Peter's betrayal was tempered with a healthy respect for his skill and his cunning; both were qualities he admired.

Below him the guests where oblivious to his state of mind. Leonora, champagne glass in hand, was exchanging pleasantries with one of the guests, when, as if sensing Johnson on the landing, she looked up and made her way towards him.

"Your – er – your guest hasn't arrived yet," she said quietly, surveying the hallway. "I hope you meal was to your liking."

Johnson nodded. "Wonderful as always. I thought I might socialise a little."

Leonora nodded. Johnson noticed that she still retained the air of respectful deference that had first encouraged him to appoint her head of Deuvar. He had found her in a back street in a North African port, tied across a filthy bed, gagged and subdued, eyes blackened from the beating her slave master had inflicted to break her spirit. Her tiny pert breasts had been marred by livid bite marks. Her owner, a belligerent ageing Turk with foul breath and a great pot belly was preparing to have her cut; slice away her pleasure bud and lips of her quim so that she would appeal to Eastern tastes – a final cruelty to break a girl who was obviously too spirited for the local market. The Turk seemed to think it was the only answer, the only way to make her saleable and controllable.

It had been her spirit that had endeared Leonora to Johnson. The Turk had assured him she was unbreakable and had insisted on bringing out the rest of his slave stock for Johnson's perusal. This, he had assured Johnson, was the way that women should behave. Real women, women who understood what was expected of them. In the cramped confines of the Turk's house Johnson had inspected a string of broken women, including one mental defective who it was obvious had been trained from childhood onward to see her whole life only in terms of the pleasure her body could give to the Turk and his customers. The Turk was proud of her, rubbing her heavy pendulous breasts like another man might pet a dog. She had responded by rubbing her thick odorous sex against him, whining pitifully while her mouth worked at the bulge beneath the Turk's great belly.

All the time the Turk paraded his mongrel bitches, Johnson had surreptitiously watched the girl on the bed, so unhappy, but resolutely awaiting her fate. She was quite obviously far above the Turks's normal standard of girls, though he was reluctant to explain how he had come by her.

When, finally, the Turk had exhausted his supply of slaves, Johnson had turned his attentions again to the Eurasian girl on the bed. He had explored her gently, touching the delicate almost hairless lips of her sex, opening her thighs, exploring the tight confines of her backside with an oiled finger tip whilst across the room her master had stood by, eyes on his girl, mouth slack.

When Johnson had her untied she had scurried across to him like a saviour, pressing her bruised lips to his fingers. Her Turkish master had been stunned and only too eager to close a sale.

Johnson had bought her the same way he had many of the other girls; a willing commodity only too eager to escape from a closed oppressive culture to the heady opportunities of Deuvar. A great shame he couldn't have been more discerning with his male employees.

Now Leonora indicated the guest lounge. "We have a floor show this evening, or music in the ballroom. Would you like me to arrange a table?"

Johnson shook his head, thinking about the way Leonora seemed now; a queen, in command, an employee with unshakeable loyalty. "I don't think so. Has the video tape arrived of Emily Lawrence yet?"

"I'm afraid not." Leonora paused, looking slightly ill at ease. She glanced over her shoulder. "Would you like me have one of the girls bring you some champagne? I don't wish to appear rude, but I do have another matter to attend to."

Johnson lifted an eyebrow in rebuke. "What other matter is so important that you have to run away from me, Leonora?"

The Eurasian woman bit her lip. "It is Kai, one of our most trusted girls. She was involved in Emily's escape attempt."

Curiosity awakened, Johnson encouraged her to continue. "Intentionally?"

Leonora shook her head. "No. Carelessness, but really she should have known better. She's earned a position of trust here and I think, perhaps, let it go to her head."

Johnson smiled. "I see." He considered the possibilities for an instant. "A disciplinary matter then?"

Leonora, immediately following his train of thought, nodded. "Perhaps you might like to ensure the punishment is correctly administered?" She indicated the corridor that led to her offices. "I really would like to get this over as soon as possible."

Johnson smiled. "My pleasure," he said under his breath. Still leading his own slave girl, he fell into step behind Leonora. He paused for a second mid-stride. "Have you heard from the Haroldsons?"

Leonora shook her head. "No. But, after all, they did have sole rights to Emily for a full day. I imagine they are fully occupied."

"Perhaps," said Johnson, ignoring her comment, "you might like to contact them and invite them to join us. It wouldn't do Emily any harm to understand what happens when one of our girls breaks the rules."

"Of course," said Leonora.

Naked, Emily Lawrence crouched in the footwell of the chauffeur driven car. Naomi Haroldson was dressed once again in her stunning evening dress, and had added a full length mink coat. She sat arm in arm with her husband. Beside them both sat Franz, his hand casually slipped through the leash to Emily's collar.

Emily's mind was muddled, still full of hot feverish images of Franz's body and Naomi's caresses. Between her legs her sex was throbbing; a dark heady mix of pleasure and an aching tenderness. On her buttocks the sting of the brand mark made every movement uncomfortable.

Her rational mind couldn't quite grasp what had happened to her, but the instinctive animal half knew only too well. She had been taken, she had submitted – and she relished it. There was a peculiar sensation of elation deep inside her. Her body was no longer hers, owned instead by the masters of Deuvar.

She had expected to stay at the Haroldson's guest cottage until the following day and was surprised when Naomi had announced they had been invited to the main hall.

The car moved slowly up the drive. Outside, the frost gave everything a strange magical quality, echoing the odd feeling Emily had in her belly. At the elegant main entrance to the mansion the car pulled to a halt and the occupants climbed out into the starlit night. Emily was hardly aware of the cold or the sensation of the gravel beneath her feet.

Franz tightened his hold on the leash and she wondered if he thought that she might try and make a run for it. If he did, he had wildly underestimated the effect he had on her. Instinctively she fell behind, letting Naomi, her husband and Franz take the lead. With eyes downcast, she followed them into the warm confines of Deuvar.

She shivered when she saw that the guard on duty was Birdie. He eyed her speculatively, grinning. She wondered if he could sense the change in her.

Naomi Haroldson barely glanced at him. "We have been invited up to Leonora's office," she said flatly, as she handed her coat to an attentive doorman.

Birdie nodded. "They are expecting you, Mrs Haroldson. If you'd like to follow me."

The little group walked in silence through the opulent house up to Leonora's rooms. Outside the panelled door, Birdie glanced at Franz and then Emily.

"Would you like me to take her for you, sir?" Birdie said, extending his hand, glittering eyes lingering on Emily's body.

Franz nodded.

An instant later Leonora opened the door for the party and signalled to Birdie. "Get Kai for me."

Emily noticed that the Eurasian woman didn't even look in her direction.

When the door closed again Birdie grinned. "Back early," he sneered. Emily bit her lip. Birdie continued, "You know why they've brought you back, don't you? They're going to punish Kai for your little escapade. I reckon they think it'll teach you a lesson. I told you what she can expect."

Emily shivered and then looked up at him. "I'm sorry," she said on a whispered breath.

Birdie looked at her quizzically, ignoring the fact that she had broken the rule of silence. It was quite obviously not the response he had expected. "Sorry?"

Emily nodded. Her mind had been racing since she had been to the Haroldsons. "Peter Howard used to come here, didn't he," she said flatly, the words spoken as a statement, not a question.

Birdie was still eyeing her suspiciously. "Yeah, he did. He was the guy you were engaged to, right?"

"Yes." She paused for a second, thinking about Peter's face and the bright flame of desire she had seen in his eyes when they had first met. Peter's features merged and changed slowly into those of Franz, Naomi Haroldson, even Johnson's. She glanced up at Birdie. Her voice was unsteady and full of emotion.

"Peter saw something in me that I didn't know was there. It's almost as if he meant me to come to Deuvar, if I hadn't come here, then he would have trained me in the same way. Peter wanted to be my master as well as my husband." A single bright crystal tear rolled down her cheek. "He understood me better than I did myself."

Birdie coughed, his expression unfathomable. "I've got to fetch Kai," he said.

Emily nodded. "If I'd understood I wouldn't have tried to escape," she said in a voice so low that she might almost have been speaking to herself.

Birdie said nothing, instead he turned and pulled her towards the stairs that led to the cells.

Emily sniffed miserably. Peter had recognised her natural instinct for submission. Her only regret was that it had been Deuvar and not Peter who had shown her. With Peter she would have willingly complied, without the need for Leonora's harsh introduction to the pleasures of obedience.

At the door to the detention cell Emily let out a long muffled sob as she saw Kai inside. Kai was hanging from the chains set in the ceiling. Her elegant dress was in shreds, hair tangled, face streaked with tears. A thin trail of glistening semen trickled down her thighs. Her lithe body was covered in bruises and scratches. When Birdie had told Emily that a lot of people wanted to see Kai fall she hadn't realised quite what he meant.

As Birdie unlocked the cell door Emily broke free of him and ran inside, pulled up short a split second later by a sharp tug on her leash.

"I'm so sorry," Emily murmured to Kai, lifting her hand to stroke the other girl's face.

Kai looked up at her and smiled grimly. Her lips were swollen, cheeks criss crossed by deep purple bruises.

"I told you it wasn't worth trying. You should have believed me." Her voice was cracked and uneven. Emily glanced at Birdie, who was unrolling the hose from the wall. She stared at him in horror, remembering the cutting, stinging icy blast.

"Please," she began. "Don't!"

Impassively, Birdie carried on. "Leonora will want her clean." He looked her up and down. "You of all people should know the importance of obeying the rules. Don't you remember the first one is supposed to be silence?"

Before Emily could reply he turned the tap on full blast, not just drenching Kai but Emily as well. Struggling in her restraints Kai screamed as the water roared over both girls. Birdie grinned lasciviously as Emily spun round to try and avoid the worst of the freezing torrent.

"So, you think you're a natural do you?" he snorted, above the roar of the water. "Well, so much the better, downstairs here they only play at it. Wait until after dark when the guards get their chance. You're up for grabs now you're broken in. They'll all want a piece of you. Clients and staff."

Emily twisted away from the jet as he played the water over her frozen skin. Dropping to her knees, she cowered on the floor, trying to cover herself.

Birdie laughed. "Your precious Peter might have kept you for himself, but at Deuvar they've made it very obvious that you're anybody's." He snapped the water off. "Come here."

She looked up at him in disbelief. "You've got to get Kai," she whimpered, shivering uncontrollably.

Birdie's expression hardened. "Don't tell me what I've got to do. You're the slave here, not me."

Standing over her he undid his trousers. "They'll be having drinks upstairs, having polite little conversations, and while they're having their fun, I'm going to have you. I told you I'd be the first after the Haroldsons. Get up and face the wall. I'm just gonna have a little slice of what they had. Get up!"

Emily shook her head, glancing at Kai, who still hung, shivering in the chains. "But -" She was cut short by Birdie yanking her roughly to her feet. His open hand exploded across the side of her face, filling her mind with flashes of light and pain.

"I said get up, bitch," he snarled. He pushed her legs apart with his feet, forcing her breasts and face against the sodden brickwork. Roughly he explored her body, splaying her bruised sex with his hands. She whimpered as his fingers sought entry, plunging into her.

"How did it feel? Did Franz and that bitch Naomi Haroldson do the job real well? Did she fuck you too, the Dyke bitch? Did she get her tongue right up inside you, make your little cunt hum?"

Emily flinched as he slid his cock between the cheeks of her bottom, holding herself rigid as she felt him trying to find a way into her.

"I see they got around to marking you," he whispered thickly.

Her wet flesh was icy cold, clammy in contrast to his hot eager body.

"Put me inside," he said thickly. Emily swallowed and closed her fingers around his meaty throbbing shaft.

"Now!" Birdie snarled. Emily eased the raging head between the delicate inner folds of her sex and an instant later he pushed home.

He filled her to the brim, his progress more painful, more invasive than either Franz's strange ringed phallus or the dark compelling contours of Naomi's dildo. His hands slid down to her hips, dragging her frozen body onto his.

Without thinking she began to move, compelled by the dark need to give herself to his desire. Her body almost seemed to work without her conscious instruction, bending, moving, drawing Birdie deeper and deeper. Behind her she heard him moan, and thrust her pelvis back so that he could work himself deeper, oblivious to the raw ache deep inside her. Birdie snorted and jerked her back even harder.

She was stunned to feel her body responding, a warm glittering glow that begun deep in her belly. She began to lose herself in the sensation of his movements and the feeling of his desire pounding deep inside her quim. Shuddering she threw back her head, rolling her hips against him, brushing her buttocks against his crotch, driving him – and herself – out towards oblivion.

Birdie let out an excited gasp, pulling her closer still. Every tiny compelling sensation was echoed through them both until was on the brink of orgasm. She moaned, relishing the fullness inside her, the hot invasive sensation of his shaft pumping into her. Lost in surrender, her body and her mind suddenly exploded in a great white wave of ecstasy that snatched her breath away.

Behind her Birdie roared. Emily felt the electric throb of his own climax coursing through her, a stunning counterpoint to her own pleasure. For a second or two, when the waves receded, he leant against her to catch his breath, the heat of his body seeping into hers.

"My God!" He was resting his head against her shoulder. "You would have been wasted on just one man."

He stepped away from her, running his fingers through the trail of his excitement between her legs. The after-shocks of pleasure made her tremble. She stood still for a few seconds, trying to regain her composure, listening as Birdie unlocked Kai.

This was Deuvar. By coming here she had placed herself at the beck and call of any man who wanted her. Any man who wanted to use her, take her, and the realisation excited some part of her mind in a way she was almost too afraid to contemplate.

Birdie slipped his fist back through her leash and jerked it tight. "Come on," he snapped, still breathing unevenly. "There'll be time for more later." He fingered his leather belt. "Time maybe to teach you a few more lessons before the other guests get to take a share of your sweet little arse."

Kai walked silently beside them both, the remains of her dress plastered against her slim body. Her long hair dripped onto her shoulders and her eyes were downcast. She was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to sense the change in Emily. Emily longed to touch her, try and do something to make amends, try and explain that she understood. Instead, they fell into step and headed back towards Leonora's office.

Chapter 12

Peter Howard hunched uncomfortably in the passenger seat of Angela's ageing estate car.

Outside, through the winter darkness, he didn't recognise the countryside or any landmarks. The country roads were almost empty, winding back and forth between dense woodland and small villages. He glanced down at the map on his knees. It was too dark to read but he was certain that in another mile or so they would join the motorway.

They had barely spoken since he had turned off the computers, though he was convinced she had phoned her employer. He wondered if her contacts would be waiting for him too. In spite of the dangers erotic possibilities filled his exhausted mind.

If only they had had more time to explore the dark side of her nature. He would like to have her pierced. Her broad pink nipples would look magnificent topped with little silver rings, with tiny bells that would announce her arrival or her excitement. He imagined them pressed against her dark blue cotton nurses uniform.

And he would shave her quim, revealing the plump contours of the delicious meaty sex that crouched between her heavy thighs. Yes, Angela was a banquet. He shivered, feeling the familiar press in his groin. He imagined her tied across a table with soft leather thongs, lit by the soft glow of candles as he laid a studded tawse across the naked mound, making the delicate skin flush crimson with heat and pain.

In the headlights of a passing car Peter glanced across at his silent companion. Her face was drawn and pale, her fingers gripped the steering wheel.

"Are you still wearing the harness?"

Angela groaned. "You're totally incorrigible."

"Answer me!"

"Yes. I am wearing it!"

He closed his eyes and imagined her again secured for his pleasure, the harness biting into her delicate flesh, a pillow beneath those heavy thighs as he ranged over her body with a tawse and his lips. She would sob as he cracked the leather down on her breasts, writhing and twisting away from the stinging delicious heat. Between her legs, between her naked glowing lips, he would see the slick silvery juices of her excitement, encouraging him on, driving him towards release.

He could almost hear her begging him to stop as he mounted her and forced his cock into her hot wet mouth. His shaft would silence her words as she drained him dry, sucking, desperate to pleasure him. Finally he would untie her and she would crawl towards him, slide down from the table and curl herself up at his feet, awaiting his command.

A picture of Emily Lawrence formed slowly in his imagination, her slim lithe frame a stunning counterpoint to the heavier curves of Angela. In the shadows he would sit watching the women, sensing their excitement as Angela spread her legs and Emily moved closer, her mouth open, tongue peeping provocatively between her full lips. He stroked a finger idly across her belly.

"Open yourself for me," he whispered in his imagination, or was it sleep? Emily blushed deliciously and then slid two fingers between the lips of her sex, revealing the moist pink flower within. He smiled, relishing the sense of power. "Angela," he said in an undertone, "kiss my sweet love, make her beg for more."

Beside him Angela climbed reluctantly onto her knees, eyes alight with apprehension and revulsion – but she wouldn't refuse him. She kissed the wet fragrant crease, shivering when she tasted Emily's excitement. Emily moaned and threw back her head as the older woman began to lick her in earnest, her plump pink tongue tracing the delicate contours of Emily's engorged clitoris. Peter slid onto his knees behind Angela and plunged his raging angry cock into her dripping sex, impaling her again and again, encircling her pierced breasts with his hands, dragging her back onto him while above them Emily sobbed with pleasure.

It seemed no more than a few seconds later that he woke from the tantalising dream, sprung from sleep by the sound of a motor horn. Images of Angela and Emily lingered for an instant in the erotic tableau that was hard to tear himself away from. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was and a second or two longer to realise that they were now stationary. His cock ached. Beside him, Angela had her hands wrapped around a steaming plastic beaker of coffee and looked totally exhausted.

Across the car park, a motor-way service area was doing a roaring trade. Peter stretched and then winced as half a dozen rogue vertebra snapped back into position. Angela passed him a lidded cup of coffee from a plastic tray.

"I just couldn't go any further without a break," she said. "I was afraid I might fall asleep."

He nodded and sniffed, trying to beat his tired mind back into shape. "How much further?" he said thickly, voice still throaty from sleep.

"About an hour, the traffic at this time of night is fairly light. All except for the lorries." She grinned. "Your instructions are pretty good." The words were followed by a stifled yawn. He noticed she was wearing the long coat she'd worn when they'd taken a walk together.

He stroked her face. "Are you wearing anything under that?"

"It's to damned cold out there to go naked."

Peter leant closer. "Pity."

Angela yawned again behind her gloved hand. "Why? What had you got in mind?"

He smiled, recalling the fragments of his dream. "A million and one possibilities for a woman of your calibre." He glanced at the car clock. "Why don't you have a nap? If we're only an hour away from Deuvar we've made good time."

Stiffly he turned round, pulled a rug off the back seat and handed it to her.

She looked at him curiously. "And what are you going to do?"

"Drink my coffee, stretch my legs and by the time I get back I'll have decided which of those million and one possibilities we've got time for before our little show down at Deuvar."

Angela smiled sleepily. "Do you want me to get the wheelchair out for you?"

Peter shook his head. "I'll be fine. I'm much stronger now."

Without a word of protest Angela pulled the rug up around her shoulders. Within seconds her eyes were closed and before Peter had finished his coffee her soft steady breathing informed him that his chauffeur, rescuer and betrayer was sound asleep. He let himself out of the car and took a deep breath. The night air was like broken glass, ripping into his lungs. Head bowed against the icy wind he made his way unsteadily towards the service area.

Max Fielding hurried upstairs to Leonora's office at Deuvar. He had walked back from the Haroldson's cottage, replaying the images of Emily's seduction. He wasn't altogether surprised to be informed by the doorman that Ballard Johnson had arrived with his body slave.

Upstairs, Leonora opened the door to her office before he had the chance to knock. Inside, the Haroldsons, their friend Franz, and Johnson, accompanied by his slave girl, were drinking and talking.

Leonora handed him a glass of champagne, and nodded towards Johnson.

"Peter Howard is on his way here," she whispered under her breath, "and he has Magenta with him."

Max suppressed a gasp of surprise as Johnson came over to greet him.

"Well?"

Max smiled. "Nice to see you too, Ballard. You missed a fine show over at Naomi's cottage. Emily Lawrence was magnificent."

"Naomi has been telling me. I don't need her to be magnificent. I need Magenta."

"Where is Emily now?" said Max, scanning the room.

Johnson lifted his glass towards Leonora's video security cameras. "On her way here with Kai and a guard."

Max glanced up towards the screens. The two women and the guard were no more than a few seconds away. Max settled himself in a comfortable leather armchair; it seemed as if he had arrived just in time.

There was a discreet knock on the door. When the party came into the room Max watched Emily with some interest. She had subtly changed since they had first met at his offices. She seemed less self assured, but now he could detect a heightened sense of her own sexuality. She might well have been shaved, pierced, beaten, humiliated, but all these things had combined to awaken her, not crush her. Max allowed himself a smile, he knew that Johnson had had no such plans for Emily when he had cooked up the plan to flush Peter out from his convenient grave. She had been merely a pawn in the game, but, at Deuvar she had quickly developed into something far more interesting.

From behind her desk, Leonora stared at the two girls with disdain. Her small features hardened. Sold or not, Emily was still the butt of her fury. Emily's actions had compromised Kai and, potentially, the reputation of Deuvar. She looked from face to face.

"Well," she said at long last to Kai. "What have you got to say for yourself?"

Kai glanced up nervously. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I told Emily that escape was impossible."

Leonora snorted. "You should have said something to me. Surely you must have realised if she talked about escape she might seize the first opportunity to try and get away. You should know better than this."

Leonora nodded towards Birdie. "Take Kai next door and secure her. And get the rest of those rags off her." She turned back to Emily. "You," she said steadily, "have disobeyed the two rules I told you are paramount; obedience and silence. You have to be taught what is expected of you."

As she spoke she turned towards a cupboard and removed a vicious looking whip. She held it out towards Emily. The girl drew back, eyes filling with tears.

"Take it," Leonora snapped. "Your punishment for disobeying me will be to discipline Kai. Twenty five strokes. If you're too timid or try to spare her she will get another twenty five. Do you understand me?"

Emily, trembling, nodded. Stepping forward she took the whip from Leonora's hands. Her face was ashen.

"I didn't mean to," she spluttered unhappily. "I'm sorry."

Leonora sighed. "Go into the room next door. Kai is waiting for her punishment."

Reluctantly Emily did as she was told. Leonora glanced back at her guests and then flicked a switch on her desk. A panel in one wall silently glided open, revealing a large two-way mirror overlooking the room beyond. Behind the glass Kai had been manacled, wrists bound together, to a low cross beam in the ceiling.

Birdie had gagged her and was just fastening ankle restraints to the floor; Kai was total exposed. Emily Lawrence stood behind her.

Even through the glass it was possible to see the way Emily's hands trembled as she drew back the head of the whip for the first stroke. Her inexperience made her aim inaccurate. She caught Kai around the waist, the snaking head of the whip raising a vivid scarlet line.

The crack echoed around Leonora's office. Kai screamed out behind her gag, eyes flashing with terror and pain as Emily laid on the second blow. This time it landed squarely across the shoulders making Kai twist around. Emily was too late to hold back on the third stroke which caught Kai high on the breasts.

Tears of guilt and remorse flooded down Emily's face as she struck again. Kai's screams slowly subsided to a muffled miserable sob as the whipping continued. Her body instinctively spun away, twisting and writhing to avoid the whip's unnerving bite. Each shuddering desperate turn revealed the secret places of her body; the pale glistening lips of her sex, soft curves of her ripe open buttocks, the sensuous up-tilted contours of her breasts.

Max Fielding watched with growing excitement as each blow cracked across Kai's delicate flesh. He counted the strokes under his breath, aware that Emily, though doing as she had been instructed, was desperately trying to hit Kai across the buttocks where the thicker flesh would absorb the blows. Beside Emily, Birdie the guard watched without emotion, ensuring the punishment was exacted as ordered.

Kai's slim body was flushed scarlet, her flesh criss-crossed with narrow welts. At twenty strokes Emily began to falter. Her whole body trembled with the effort to sustain the rhythm and continue in spite of her obvious reluctance. Leonora stepped up to the glass and pushed an intercom button.

"Finish it," she growled. "Or I'll have Birdie give her twenty five more."

…twenty one, twenty two. Kai's eyes were glassy as if her consciousness had retreated to some distant corner of her mind to escape the kiss of the whip. Sweat glistened on Emily's body, a trickle running down between her breasts as she completed the final three strokes. When she had done she seemed to freeze, dropping her head, hanging onto the whip like a staff. Birdie eased it from between her fingers and then turned his attentions to Kai.

Before Kai was cut down Leonora pressed a button and the panelled screen slid silently back into position, blocking off the view from her invited audience.

Johnson was already on his feet, his heavy features flushed with excitement. "Bring them back in here," he said thickly.

A few seconds later Emily stumbled into the room, followed by Kai, who, despite the severe beating, already seemed to be regaining her composure. She walked stiffly as if considering every step. Both girls stood in front of Leonora's desk, looking down, both subdued, both exhausted.

Johnson stepped forward and ran his hands over Emily, examining her like so much horse flesh. The girl was trembling, her face puffy from crying. Johnson let his fingers linger on the rings that pierced her nipples and she flinched.

He looked at Leonora. "I wanted her pierced too," he said, running his fingers down over the naked lips of her sex.

Franz spoke before Leonora had a chance to reply. "I took it out. I wanted her open."

Johnson nodded. "Put it back in tomorrow," he said to Leonora. He eased his finger deeper, sliding inside the girl's quim. "She's wet," he murmured appreciatively.

"Turn around, so that Mr Johnson can look at you properly." Leonora snapped.

Wordlessly Emily turned to face Johnson. She was still trembling.

"What would you like me to do with the two of them now?" said Leonora.

Johnson's fingers lingered, working around the naked folds with practised skill. "Send Kai back to her room," he said. "And if Naomi has no objection I'd like Miss Lawrence to stay here with me for a little while." He glanced at Leonora. "After all, we are expecting a guest who might be rather interested to see her."

Naomi Haroldson got to her feet and pulled her dress straight.

"No objection at all, though perhaps when you've done with her you would be so good as to send her back over to our cottage." She glanced at her watch teasingly. "After all we've several more hours owing to us. I'd hate Franz to forgo his promised treats."

Johnson nodded. "Of course. Thank you for your indulgence."

When the Haroldsons and Franz had gone Max clambered to his feet and poured himself another drink. All this time, Emily stood frozen to the spot whilst Johnson continued to caress her, exploring every inch of her skin. The girl seemed too afraid or ensnared to move a muscle.

"The Haroldsons paid a lot of money to have her for the first twenty four hours," said Max.

Johnson snorted. "It's in their best interests to do as I ask. Besides, they know I won't sell them short. They can have her back when I've done." He slipped his fingers once again into the compelling spot between the lips of her sex.

"Get me a crop," he said softly, without removing his fingers or changing his tone of voice.

Leonora turned and selected a short riding crop from her cupboard.

"Bend over the desk," whispered Johnson, his face no more than a few inches away from her ear. Emily did not hesitate. She bent forward, taking her weight on her hands.

Max Fielding was struck again by how different the girl had become. The pose accentuated her shapely hips and narrow waist. He knew Johnson would beat her now, excited by the spectacle of Kai's punishment. As the crop was raised the girl shivered; not with fear but with expectation. Her pale skin was suffused with a delicate glow, her nipples hardened, pink buds accentuated by the glitter of the silver rings.

As the crop exploded across her buttocks Emily's hips flexed, opening her sex, exposing the pale orchid-pink lips within. The fragrant slit was wet, sopping, an open invitation, newly breached, desperately needy, writhing wildly under Johnson's vicious strokes.

She gasped at the pain, her whole body drinking in the humiliation and red hot explosions like some strange erotic elixir. It was all Max could do to stop himself from getting up and plunging his cock into her. With every stroke of the crop the inner lips of her sex darkened like a compelling stormy ocean, flooding with scarlet, opening, grasping…

Max was certain that Johnson would be able to sense the girl's growing excitement. It was almost as if she was giving her whole consciousness over to the pain, drinking it up, drawing it into her. Deuvar had unleashed her. Max took a deep steadying breath, painfully aware of the throbbing in his groin.

From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Johnson's majestic slave princess. Her scarified and tattooed body had always fascinated him and he could see she was excited. Her skin was gleaming, her hands betraying a slight tremor, as across the room Johnson laid the crop on Emily with renewed vigour.

Emily slumped forward as the punishment continued. Her breath came in ragged gasps and it seemed to Max that she was glowing white hot with expectation and excitement. Finally Johnson cast aside the crop. The atmosphere was heavy with expectancy; his audience silent, trying to anticipate what might follow.

"Get up," Johnson hissed.

Emily uncurled herself like a cat, slowly with unconscious sensuality. Max held his breath; every sinew, every cell of the girl's body voiced an unspoken invitation. Emily turned slowly. Even with her eyes downcast Max could see the electric glittering passion in her face. Without a word Emily sank to her knees in front of Johnson and pressed her face to his groin.

For an instant she looked up, seeking approval. It was the same look Max had seen her use on Franz. Johnson made a thick guttural noise deep in his throat and then nodded. Emily's small hands worked at his fly, sliding his cock seamlessly from within the material into her mouth. She planted a kiss on the end, circling his foreskin with her tongue before taking him deeper, sucking and caressing with a ferocity that took Max's breath away.

As if suddenly realising they were not alone, Johnson slid his hands in Emily's collar and jerked her head away.

"Enough," he said breathlessly and then glanced across at Max. "Will you take her back to my suite?" he said, nodding in the direction of his own slave.

Max nodded.

Leonora, who had been standing behind her desk watching the proceeding with barely concealed excitement, spoke quietly. "Would you like me to leave too?"

Johnson nodded, and they left him alone with Emily.

Upstairs in Johnson's suite Max sat for a while, whilst Johnson's beautiful slave served him and Leonora drinks.

"Not like Johnson to be so coy," said Leonora, taking a glass from the proffered tray.

Max snorted. "I don't think he was being coy. I think having Emily Lawrence at his beck and call is one last pay back to Peter Howard for Magenta. Do you honestly think Peter will leave her here once they've struck a deal?"

Leonora shrugged. "Unlikely." She paused for a few seconds. "I was certain Peter was dead."

Max grinned. "Me, too. Slippery bastard. He and Johnson were cut from the same cloth. I should have realised that if Johnson thought he'd got out of the plane crash alive his hunch was probably right."

As they spoke Johnson's slave-girl stood by the door, silently awaiting their command. She always seemed almost disconcertingly attentive and Max – though he would never have admitted it to anyone – found her glittering dark eyes unnerving. It was as if she could see into his very soul. In the years that she had served Johnson, Max had never attempted to touch her, though he had often been tempted and knew she would not have denied him.

She was trained to obey. They knew that Johnson beat her every day, harder if he was not a hundred percent pleased with her docility. Harder still if he was in a bad mood. He had not broken her yet, he regarded her as a challenge.

Max let his eyes move over her lithe muscular frame, with its strange ancient markings. Perhaps tonight would be the night to take her, while Johnson exacted his own final revenge on Peter Howard by punishing Emily.

After a drink Leonora excused herself, leaving Max to contemplate the idea a little longer. Finally he beckoned her to him. She padded towards him like a faithful dog and crouched at his feet. When she looked up at him, he shivered.

"On all fours," he said in an unsteady voice, averting his gaze from her disconcerting eyes as she obeyed him.

Back in Leonora's office Johnson watched Emily Lawrence with a mixture of disbelief and astonishment. It was hard to credit this was the girl he had delivered to Deuvar. Her transformation was astounding. No wonder Peter had been so taken with her. The girl waited on the floor for his command. He could still feel the wetness of her lips around his cock, the heat of her breath, the look of total obedience she had given him.

He smiled and stroked the side of her face. She leant into his touch. Perhaps he ought to ring for Max to come back. There was a video camera in the office. How satisfying it would be to take her together and record the event for Peter's entertainment. Max with his cock in the girl's open willing mouth, himself buried to the hilt in her tender wet cunt. He glanced at the phone; fulfilment of his fantasy was just a call away.

The girl hadn't moved. She awaited his pleasure, her body trembling with expectation. The silver rings through her nipples glittered as her fear and anticipation grew. The air was still, heavy. Johnson picked up the riding crop and walked behind her.

Her sex was slick and open, a trickle of moisture seeping down onto her thighs. Her pert breasts hung down, nipple rings glittering still. He knew then that he couldn't wait for Max Fielding.

Kneeling between her legs, his fingers dipped into the engorged depths of her sex. She shivered, her quim hungrily tightening around him. Above, between the rounded curve of her buttocks, her anus twitched invitingly. Smearing the juices from her quim up over the forbidden tight bud he guided his cock into it, gasping as the muscular sheath snatched at him, drawing him deeper. He struggled for control as he took the riding crop and slid it into her sex, pressing it home. Emily let out a little mewl of terror as the leather handle slid inside her.

He grinned, easing his cock deeper still until he thought that he might drown in the heat of the girl's compliant body. The head of the crop brushed against his thighs as he worked it slowly in and out. As he set the rhythm, Emily began to move under him, lifting herself in response. In his mind's eyes he imagined the crop between her legs, a stunning tableau of pleasure and pain.

He grabbed hold of her collar and dragged her back against him. She let out a long soft wail of fear as he began to drive into her, on and on, pressing deep inside the most secret depths of her body.

He let his hands trail over her soft breasts, relishing their movement as they echoed his wild dark thrusts. Down over her waist and hips, pulling her closer and closer. She sobbed, impaling herself on him.

He knew he was close to the point of no return, the compulsive rhythm igniting wild forest fires in his mind. By the end of the night he would have everything, Magenta, Emily Lawrence and Peter Howard, but now there was only the heady urgency of taking his pleasure.

A raw brutal spiral of ecstasy rose up in him until every sane thought was washed away on its tide. On and on it went, wave after wave, until breathlessly he slumped over Emily's body.

The girl was trembling. The riding crop, still inside her, ran with the juices of her unfulfilled pleasure. Without a word he slipped his cock out of her and rolled her onto her back. Pushing her legs apart he ran his tongue along the engorged ridge of her clitoris. She tasted divine. The crop adding a strange animalistic taste of raw leather to her flavour. She moaned as she felt his tongue and lifted herself up towards him, offering herself like some exotic delicacy.

He worked on her, guiding the riding crop in and out, tonguing and biting on the delicate flesh that would trigger the explosive roar of her orgasm. She writhed and twisted, totally absorbed in her race for release, opening her legs wider and wider for his tongue. Finally she began to shudder, her whole body convulsing and twitching with the sheer magnitude of her delight.

He slid the crop out from inside her.

This was the ultimate victory over Peter Howard, its taste even sweeter than Magenta…

Upstairs, Max Fielding had finally allowed himself to sample the delights of Johnson's Princess. Lying beside her on the floor of the elegant sitting room, exhausted, drained dry, he felt as if he had barely escaped being eaten alive by her ferocious sexuality. For the first time ever he had encountered a woman who he truly believed needed to be beaten to be held in submission.

Beside them on the floor was the paddle he had thrashed her with. Every blow, every red hot weal that had lifted on her magnificent body seemed to add to her fervour when finally he had plunged into her. He still had the taste and smell of her on his body; a strange feral odour, a feline musk that clung to him. She appeared to be asleep, curled into a fetal ball on the hearth, but he had no doubt that if she wanted to she could spring up, perfectly alert and ready.

The intimacies he had shared with her had done nothing to dispel his apprehension of her. Quite the reverse. He trusted her less. She was a far wilder and more savage creature than he had ever reckoned and he wondered that Johnson would have something so untamed so close to him.

On the edge of sleep himself it sounded as if her breaths were closer to purring than human respiration. Slowly, but certain that she was aware of every movement he made, Max dressed and left, glad when the door was closed and he was out of range of the strange tattooed Amazon.

It was late. Max's body craved sleep but he knew that Johnson would be waiting for Peter's arrival. There was no way he could let his partner wait alone. Slowly he made his way towards Leonora's office where he had no doubt Johnson would be ready and very much awake.

When he opened the office door for an instant he had a strange feeling of deja vue. On the hearth rug a naked woman lay curled into a ball, her shoulders gently rising and falling as she slept.

Sitting on the elegant leather sofa, Johnson raised a hand to quieten him. "Let her sleep," he whispered. "It will make rather a touching spectacle for our friend when he arrives, don't you think?"

Max glanced back at Emily. Her pale buttocks were criss-crossed with a lattice of weals, a glittering crystal of moisture sparkled in the enticing crevice between her thighs, while the newly burnt brand mark glowed like an angry jewel on her delicate flesh.

"Well," said Johnson, loosening his tie. "Did you enjoy her?"

Max reddened. "I'm sorry?"

Johnson chuckled. "Come on, don't tell me you didn't fuck my body slave. I know you too well. How was she?"

Max spluttered a little. The experience was too new and far too disturbing to discuss with the tattooed girl's master.

As if reading his mind, Johnson stared into the flames of the dying fire. "She's terrifying, isn't she? I sometimes feel like one of these people who keeps a venomous snake or a wild cat for a pet. It's almost as if you are constantly challenging fate, defying the creature to turn on you."

Max looked at his friend incredulously. "You feel that about her?"

Johnson nodded. "Is there a man who wouldn't?" He glanced at his watch. "I wonder where our friend Peter Howard is?"

Max shrugged. "Do you really think he will come tonight?"

Johnson nodded emphatically. "Oh yes. I'm certain of it." He let his gaze rest on the girl peacefully asleep on the hearth rug. "If I was him I'd be hard pressed to resist such enticing bait."

Chapter 13

It took Peter Howard some time to cross the car park at the motor-way service station. He knew he was recovering from the plane crash, but his progress seemed unnervingly slow. He was relieved to finally install himself in a booth in the rest area and order more coffee. He was shaking from the effort of the walk and prayed that Johnson and Fielding had taken their usual softly softly approach to trouble. He certainly wasn't up to any kind of rough stuff.

Even though it was late the restaurant was busy. In one area a group of rough looking men, obviously lorry drivers, laughed as they swopped stories and cigarettes. As one walked over to the counter Peter beckoned to him and made a proposition. The man grinned and nodded, shaking on the deal with one large tattooed paw.

Two strong coffees and a meal later Peter made his way out to the bank of phones near the toilets and reluctantly tapped in the number to his office. He would have to call on them to back him up, to get him out if everything went the way he anticipated at Deuvar. If he survived the meeting he would need to get out of the country, then there was the matter of Emily. He shuddered, recalling the images of her naked vulnerable body on the video he had been sent.

The pictures in that short sequence, reasonably clear and painfully vivid, created a paradox in his mind. He had fantasised a thousand times about making love to her, breaking her, making her his. He closed his eyes and steadied himself against the wall as his call was answered. His feelings about the video made him question whether his desire for her was purely lust or was it really love?

If he didn't love her, why was he going back to Deuvar when his plan could so easily be unravelled from the far end of a telephone wire? The answer came like a soft white heat; because whatever had happened to her at Deuvar he still wanted Emily for himself. He didn't care that he hadn't been the first, what mattered more was that she was safe and free – but most of all that she was with him.

He coughed to clear his throat and his mind and in a few curt sentences arranged for a safe passage for himself and Emily to South America. He didn't tell the officer at the far end of the line what he had done with Magenta. The organisation he worked for, along with everyone else, would find out soon enough. He just hoped there would be enough time to get Emily out safely before the shit hit the fan.

An intense memory of the final screen of Johnson and Fielding's computer system flitted across his brain again: 'Recreate Magenta'? flashing like a beacon in his mind. He had typed 'yes' and as he had done so two further questions had appeared: "When? Where?"

He glanced down at his watch. Just a little while longer and Magenta would have recreated herself. Even so there was still time to spare for one more game with Angela and then it would be time for the show down, the last grand finale, with Johnson and Max Fielding. A final game which if he misjudged a single move might cost him and Emily their freedom.

Through the glass partition of the cafe he saw the lorry driver watching him with interest. He raised his fingers to signal five minutes, then laid the phone back in its cradle and glanced across the car park to Angela's car. The distance between the cafe and the car looked like a marathon. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the effort, and headed off into the darkness.

By the time he got back his legs felt like damp straw and he was sweating like a horse. Steadying himself against the roof he jerked the door open and called Angela's name. She blinked,unfocused in the half light.

"Are you ready to leave now?" she said thickly, struggling to sit up.

Peter grinned. "Almost." He extended a hand towards her. "First of all there is someone I would like you to meet."

Angela rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "Is this one of your million and one possibilities?"

Behind him Peter could hear the sound of approaching footsteps. "Get out of the car," he said in a low voice that invited no contradiction.

He saw Angela stiffen, suddenly wide awake. "I thought you meant you and I were going to…" her voice faded away as she spotted the men that Peter sensed standing at his shoulder.

"Oh, my God," she said unsteadily, eyes widening.

Peter stood back. "These gentlemen are looking for a little company. It's a cold lonely night."

Under the jaundiced car park lights he could see Angela's colour draining. "Get out of the car." he said again. Slowly she did as she was told, eyes never leaving his.

"Come around this side into the shadow. My friends are very busy men."

Angela crept towards them like a terrified rabbit amongst a pack of hounds. The lorry driver had brought a friend with him. The pair of them were great muscular men, dressed in donkey jackets and jeans, hard faced and rough. Angela stood stiffly against the side of the car, her hands clenched in tight fists.

Peter smiled. "Undo your coat and lift up your skirt. I want to show my friends what's on offer."

Angela swallowed hard, her pupils reduced to bright pin pricks in the yellow lights. "Peter…" she began.

"Do it," he snapped coldly, relishing the way she flinched.

Her hands trembled as she undid the buttons and raised her skirt. Her thighs were milky white, the dark leather harness framing the golden corona of hair around her quim. Behind him one of the men let out a thick guttural snort of pleasure.

Peter glanced at them. "Well?"

The first man nodded. "Not bad," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his fist. He pulled out a roll of crumpled notes and peeled off the top two. "She'll do." He stepped closer to Angela, eyes drinking in her exposure. "Yer said twenty, didn't yer?"

The man grinned lewdly and spat onto to the Tarmac before handing Peter the money without a backward glance. All his attentions were focused on Angela, who shrank away from him, trembling. He reached out, pawing the soft recesses of her sex, seeking entry, almost prising her open. Even in the half light his hairy, tattooed hands were in sharp contrast to the alabaster whiteness of Angela's skin. She flinched as he found his way, gasping as his fingers vanished inside.

His companion moved behind her, arms snaking up around her torso to explore the voluptuous contours of her breasts. He jerked at the buttons of her blouse, dragging aside the fabric so the heavy curves were exposed. He groaned as he cupped them, meaty fingers teasing at Angela's already erect nipples.

The first man, uninterested in anything but the quim his fingers had spread and forced their way into, slid his cock from inside his jeans. His shaft was muscular, arching menacingly towards Angela's soft belly. He wrapped his hand around the base, tugging the foreskin back from the angry head.

Angela seemed rooted to the spot. Her face was devoid of emotion, jaw set. Peter stepped back to watch. The driver's burly companion held Angela tightly against his chest, spreading her thighs with his huge hands, taking her weight so that his friend could take her with ease.

The first man spat into his hand, wiping the saliva over his cock before moving between her open legs. His face was contorted into a tight unpleasant grin.

"Like a little bit a rough, do you, then?" He pressed his slick cock close, a menacing weapon, wet and unnerving.

Angela gasped as the lorry driver forced himself home, bracing herself against her captor as her unknown lover buried himself to the hilt with a dark hot moan of pleasure. He leant closer, kissing her crudely, a trail of saliva trickling down onto her chin. His strokes were ragged and invasive, uncontrolled, as if he were trying to thrust his whole body into her.

Peter shivered. This was better than he had anticipated. The man's face flushed scarlet. "Shit, she's hot," he gasped, sliding his hands down over her backside to drag her closer. As he worked his lips sought hers again, pressing wet kisses against her throat and face.

Angela threw back her head, trying to evade the lorry driver's lips while behind her the thickset man ground his crotch against her buttocks, rubbing and thrusting as if he too were making love to her. She whimpered, struggling, writhing, but even so Peter could sense her growing excitement. Her breasts were flushed, her body held uncomfortably as if she were struggling to unseat her rider, who plunged on, oblivious to her pain.

The man kissed her again, seizing her chin so that she couldn't escape his aggressive lips. Suddenly, as if instinct overtook her revulsion, Angela started to move with him. She arched her hips forward, drawing the lorry driver deeper.

He gasped and renewed his efforts, jerking her towards him, driving on and on until with a wild wolfish howl he crashed his way into orgasm. He snorted as the waves of pleasure engulfed him, twitching and shivering, a gob of saliva clinging to his unshaven face. Finally, breathless, he slithered out of her.

Angela's head slumped forward. Released by the great bear of a man who held her, she stumbled and folded down onto all fours. This was too much for the bear, already excited by the efforts of his friend. He crouched behind her and pulled up her coat. He worked wildly, exposing the ripe pale orbs of her backside. Before she had time to recover or protest, he plunged his great arching phallus into her quim, so recently abandoned by his companion.

Angela let out a high pierced wail, and arched back as if to try and push him out. Instantly the great bear grabbed her neck, impaling her with a single devastating stroke. With one hand he groped at her breasts, rubbing her already engorged nipples, pummelling the soft flesh with filthy fingernails.

After no more than a dozen stunning thrusts that drove Angela face down onto the ground, the bear's passion was spent. She screamed miserably as he rammed home for one final gut wrenching push.

Sliding out, he clambered to his feet and pulled a couple of notes from his back pocket.

"Here," he said thickly, handing the money to Peter. Without another word, he turned and headed back towards the cafe. The first lorry driver followed, lifting a hand in salute as he went after his friend.

Angela, sobbing softly, crouched beside the car. She was shivering, blouse in tatters, her naked backside smeared with dirt. Peter walked over and lifted her chin. Her eyes were bright, her pale face heightening the impression of her vulnerability.

"Peter," she whispered, unsteadily and laid her face against his thigh. He could feel tears soaking through onto his skin. Tenderly he stroked her hair.

"Was that it?" she murmured.

He undid his trousers. "Not quite."

Her eyes flashed momentarily and then she took his throbbing cock between her lips, cradling his balls gently with her fingers. Her tongue slithered over his shaft, lips working at him, sucking him deeper. He moaned and lay back against the car as she crept closer, ragged and dirty. Her breasts pressed against him, her whole body compliant and needy.

"Touch yourself," he murmured. "Give yourself the pleasure they denied you."

He caught a fleeting glance of her hand snaking down over her belly, seeking out the pleasure bud. She stiffened momentarily as her finger tips connected and began circling the tight little peak. He felt as much as heard the little moan of pleasure that trickled out around his cock. Locking his fingers into her dishevelled hair he pulled her closer, relishing the ancient act of worship that took him to the edge of heaven.

She sucked him dry while her fingers drove her own pleasure on and on. As his own orgasm engulfed him he felt her shudder, her breath ricocheting around his cock and belly in compelling little gasps. When they had done he took her hand and helped her to her feet.

"Deuvar," he said in an undertone.

The road ahead seemed unnaturally dark after the motorway. Peter peered out into the darkness to get his bearings.

"Not more than ten minutes." As he spoke his stomach contracted sharply. Ten more minutes and he would be at the gates of Deuvar. Ten more minutes and he would see Emily again. A cold finger of apprehension slithered down his spine.

"Turn there, on the left," he indicated a narrow road that lead to the iron gates of the country mansion. Deuvar stood alone in acres of parkland. As they passed through a stand of trees Peter caught sight of the building, far in the distance, its lights like stars in the darkness.

At the gate house a security guard eyed their car suspiciously. Peter unwound the window.

"Mr Howard," he said in a carefully controlled voice. "I am expected."

The uniformed man nodded and opened the electronic gates. Peter's fear was receding to be replaced by a sense of relief. Finally it would be over. He glanced at Angela. She was stony faced, tense. He grinned.

"Well, we're here."

Angela snorted. "Yes, but are we likely to be able to get out again?"

Peter shrugged. "You, most certainly, I'm not so sure about me."

On the hearth rug, Emily had rolled onto her back. She was still asleep, her face relaxed and almost child-like. Her legs were slightly apart. Between them Max could see her quim was bruised, a livid dark purple stain spreading over the pale flesh bore witness to her surrender. The heavy outer lips were smeared with moisture which glistened silvery in the lamp light. Her breasts were soft, nipples distended in the last heat from the fire. She looked at once both totally vulnerable and totally desirable.

Max stroked the mug thoughtfully. Had it not been for Johnson and Peter Howard he might had asked Naomi Haroldson if he could have sampled the girl's compliant little body. Instead he had seduced the wild woman. The pungent feral smell of her tattooed body still lingered on his fingers and lips. It would be fitting for her scent to be wiped away by the sweet smell of Emily's tender little frame. As he toyed with the idea he felt a familiar stirring in his groin.

Leonora grinned at him, as if she could read his mind. "Do you want me to wake her? When Peter gets here it will be too late."

Max snorted to cover his growing excitement. His fantasy was rapidly taking shape. He would tie Emily's hands above her head and have her there on the hearth. Open those long legs with his knee, bury his tongue in her fragrant depths as she writhed beneath him. He would slip his hands under her backside, lift her up to him, drink from that cunning compelling slit. When she was within seconds of reaching her climax he would screw her, in, out, deeper and deeper.

She would rub herself against him, seeking fulfilment of the sensations he had ignited in her. Moaning, she would open her mouth, let him slide his tongue, still suffused with the taste of her sex, into that other delicate pink orifice. Her tongue would tease around his, drinking in the taste of her own delight. She would lift her hips, begging him to take her further, higher… He shivered as he imagined her cunt closing around his cock like tight wet fist.

When he looked up he realised Johnson and Leonora were watching him with amusement.

Johnson shrugged. "Why don't you wake her?"

Leonora poked the girl with her foot. Emily blinked and then her eyes widened in surprise. Instinctively she tried to cover herself, her hands moving over her breasts and quim. Max smiled to himself, her natural modesty added a certain frisson to his fantasy.

Leonora nodded towards Max. "Mr Fielding wants you," she said coolly.

Unsteadily Emily clambered onto all fours, eyes sleep bright. Without another word she crawled over to Max and laid her head in his lap. She was warm and sleepy and smelt divine. Her face brushed into the heat of his groin sending sparks of pleasure up into his belly.

Max sighed and stroked her head. "It's all right," he murmured, imagining the raw bruised flesh between her legs and the dark glow of her beating. He would wait. He was certain there would be another time.

"Go back to sleep."

The girl blinked again and then curled up against him, her warmth seeping through his clothes, her soft breath electric on his thighs.

Across the room a light flashed on the telephone. Leonora picked up the receiver and then looked up. "He's here. Security just let him through the main gate."

Johnson uncurled himself from behind the desk and straightened his jacket. Max carefully slid out from under Emily. She made a little throaty moan as she repositioned herself and then was silent.

The atmosphere grew tighter and more strained with every passing second. All eyes were on the bank of security screens. They watched Peter Howard and a tall elegant woman come in together through the front doors. Under his arm Peter was carrying a familiar package.

Magenta.

The unknown woman glanced at Peter and then sat on one of the sofas. She touched his hand before he moved slowly across the hallway toward the stairs.

Peter's almost glacial progress from screen to screen was watched with hawk-like intensity. Max could see the effort of climbing the stairs was all but too much for him. Peter's face as he reached the landing was ashen. Max could pick out the beads of sweat on his forehead. If Johnson noticed Peter's physical state he didn't comment, instead he stared at the screens, jaw set tight.

A split second before Peter knocked on the door of the office Johnson let out a long sigh and signalled for Leonora to let him in.

Angela stared into the shadows. Finally she was at Deuvar. It was a place she had fantasised about. Peter's initiation of her body into the delights of submission had only wetted her appetite for more. Something moved in the darkness. She stiffened, every nerve ending alight. From the darkness Johnson's body slave slipped across the room, her magnificent scarified body glittering in the fire light.

Angela swallowed hard, feeling her heart skip a beat as the woman approached, with her dark eyes turned towards Angela. She held out a hand in invitation. Unsteadily Angela got to her feet.

Behind her stood one of Deuvar's clients, an anonymous man whose cold flinty eyes belied his desire. Slowly, almost without thinking, Angela slipped off her coat and the thin dress she wore beneath, they slithered to the floor unnoticed. The man smiled as he drank in the details of the harness that Peter Howard had bought for her.

She bit her lip and then stepped towards him, her heavy curves accentuated by the fire light. He stroked her breasts, weighing them in his cold palms, thumbing her already erect nipples. With practised skill his fingers moved lower, fingering her sex with almost professional disinterest. If he noticed the slick wetness within his expression did not reveal it. Now he turned her, an icy finger slipping across the tight dark bud of her anus. He grunted and tapped her on the shoulder. She stood still, trembling slightly.

"On you knees," he snapped. "Have you been taught nothing?"

Angela complied without protest. He eyed her speculatively and then turned towards Johnson's slave. "She'll do." He held out his hand.

The dark woman handed him a slim crop. The man smiled thinly and flexed it into an arc. Angela felt a tremble of expectation as the man stepped behind her. The crop cut through the night air like a knife, exploding across her buttocks. She let out a wild sob, her whole body electrified by the heat of the crop's caress. Her whole soul responded, opening herself, surrendering as the man lay on a barrage of mind numbing blows. Tears of pain and pleasure ran down her face. She flexed her body, dropping her belly so that her sex opened, inviting her unknown master to take what she was so willing to give. He ran a hand over the glowing flesh between her legs and grunted with satisfaction.

"Bring her up to my suite," he said thickly. "Half an hour. Have Leonora arrange for her to be shaved." His fingers dipped again into the wet pit between her legs.

Angela shivered; she had obviously passed whatever test he had set. She slumped forward as she heard the man's footsteps receding.

"Deuvar," she mumbled thickly. Johnson's body slave helped her to her feet. She embraced the strange woman. "I can stay?"

The woman nodded. Angela's stomach contracted; now she just had to see Peter Howard.

Chapter 14

It hadn't occurred to Peter that they might have Emily in the office. For an instant he hesitated in the doorway, taking in the detail of the naked girl, huddled asleep against the sofa. It hit him like a body blow when he realised the tiny naked creature was Emily. The quips, the confident words he had intended using as a greeting, faded and died on his lips.

"Emily?" he whispered incredulously.

His voice was enough to wake her. She looked up, disorientated, barely conscious. Recognition blossomed on her face a split second later.

"Oh, Peter," she gasped, half sobbing, her body flushing. She scrambled unsteadily to her feet and rushed towards him.

Peter felt tears of anger and regret as he closed his arms around her.

"My God," he said in an undertone. "What have they done to you?"

Her reply was a single tear.

"Yes, yes, very touching," snapped Johnson. "You know damned well what we've done to your precious little Emily. What I need to know is what you've done with Magenta."

Peter tried to get a grip on his thoughts. Magenta was slipping through his mind as he studied Emily. They had pierced her nipples, shaved her, on her buttocks was the angry kiss of a brand mark. He shivered. They were things he would have done himself, games they would have played. He wanted to touch her, taste her, reclaim her for himself. He felt his desire rekindling.

"Magenta!" Johnson hissed coldly.

Peter fought to regain his composure and centre his thoughts. He glanced up at the office clock. Half an hour was all he had left before his plan clicked into action.

He coughed to clear his throat, aware that his legs were unsteady, longing to sit down. He leant against Emily, trying to disguise his weakness as a clumsy embrace, all the time clinging to the Magenta. He looked up at Johnson.

"Firstly, you have to agree to let us both go."

Johnson snorted. "Oh, for God sake, Peter, why begin with melodramatics? You and I both know that you can't escape the people we work for. There's nowhere in the world that will be safe. Unless of course you co-operate and give me back Magenta." He paused. "If you do, I'll see what I can arrange."

Peter stepped forward, hand outstretched and offered Johnson the box he was carrying.

Johnson stared at him disdainfully. "You must think I'm totally stupid. We know you've already copied it. I want the new key. I need to know where it is."

Peter nodded. Johnson was saying all the things he had anticipated. "You're right. There is a new Magenta, but I won't let you know where it is until I and Emily are out of here."

Johnson pulled a face. "Oh really. What if I were to keep Emily here to persuade you? She rather likes it here. You certainly have an eye for quality, Peter. We have a contract she signed, agreeing to stay with us for a year and to be honest I don't think she would take that much persuading. Look at her, she is a perfect body slave. Did you receive my little video. Magnificent, wasn't it?"

Peter bit his lip. He had to stay in control. He forced a grin, trying hard to retain an air of bluff confidence.

"That's my deal. We leave, and you get the whereabouts of the new key." He flicked his eyes over the clock again; time was ticking by. "Less than half an hour and you'll have all the information you want."

Johnson sat down at the desk. "Half an hour?"

"That's right."

Johnson rested his finger tips together thoughtfully. "And then, I'll know where you've hidden the new key?"

"Yes. Look, I've left the key in the door for you. It'll be impossible to miss."

Johnson nodded slowly. "All right. Take her," he said dismissively, indicating Emily with his eyes. "But let me remind you, Peter, if I haven't got Magenta in half an hour you are in deep deep trouble. The world is not big enough to hide you or her. Do we understand each other?"

"Absolutely."

"Go then."

Peter turned, with Emily in the crook of his arm, and closed the door behind him.

Leonora let out a long low breath. Max stared at the closed door in disbelief. "You let him go?"

Johnson nodded. "Where the hell are they going to run to in half an hour? I'll have someone from security follow them. Whatever happens they won't get very far."

On the landing Peter grabbed Emily by the arm. "We've got to get out of here," he said.

She looked up at him with large moist eyes. "I'm so sorry," she began.

He shook his head. "Not your fault. I should have come for you sooner."

Emily sobbed. "I thought you were dead. I thought…"

Peter pressed his lips to hers. "Shush. I'm here now. everything is going to be alright."

The feeling of her slim body in his arms made him shiver. She was a feast, delightful. Feelings of love and desire bubbled up from low in his gut until eventually he had to pull back from her embrace. They had to get away. Time ticked by. They need to be out of Deuvar before his plan came together.

He pulled her towards the stairs. "You're going to have to help me. I'm still very weak. We need to get out into the grounds. Do you understand? We can talk about all this later."

Still Emily hung back. "This is how you wanted me to be though, isn't it?" Her voice unsteady and emotional.

Peter stared at her. "What do you mean?"

She bit her lip. "A slave? Yours to command. My master?"

Peter shivered, there was no point in lying.

"Yes," he said thickly. "I wanted to show you so much, give you everything -" He stopped. "And I still do. Let's just get out of here and then we can start again. There are so many things we can do together. A million and one possibilities." He paused. "You look beautiful."

She blushed and he wondered what she had already seen and done. He would take great pleasure in making her tell him about it – and punishing her for it. A million and one possibilities. Her eyes were alight now with a subtle mixture of desire and love.

"Come on," he said firmly and taking her hand they made their way down stairs. He didn't look back, every second was precious. He forced his uncooperative body to obey him.

Below them the hall was silent. Through the windows the first light of a winter dawn began to break through the trees. In the distance he could make out a familiar sound that reassured him that they had a chance to get clear of Deuvar. His office had obviously sent the help he'd requested.

At the main door Peter hesitated. He couldn't take Emily outside without clothes, and he was so bitterly cold himself that he wondered how far he could get across the grass if he gave her his overcoat. There was no time to go back into the main house to find something to cover her with.

As he considered what to do, a figure stepped out from the shadows. Angela Ruskin, naked now except for the harness he had bought her. She was smiling.

He was speechless. She looked totally at ease as if she had been at Deuvar all her life.

"So, you're leaving?" she said slowly.

He nodded, stuck once again by the sensuality of her glorious ripe body.

"I thought you wanted to leave, too?" He glanced out of the window. "Our transport will be here in any second."

Angela ignored him and stared at Emily. "I hope you realise what a lucky girl you are," she said. "Here." She walked over to the sofa by the stairs and brought back the full length coat she had worn to drive Peter to Deuvar. "You'll need this. It's bitter outside."

Peter glanced out into the morning and then back at Angela. "Are you sure you want to stay? You can come with us. I'll make certain you'll be okay."

Angela held up a hand to silence him and laughed. "I've already decided this is the perfect place for me. Where will you and Emily go?"

Peter shook his head. "Far better if you don't know. One thing though, who were you working for?"

Angela looked past him into the velvety shadows of the hall. "For Magenta, who else?" she said softly.

Peter was about to protest but turned instead to follow her gaze. Almost invisible in the darkness was a second figure; tall and majestic. Johnson's magnificent tattooed body slave stepped out into the subdued light.

Peter gasped.

The scarified woman smiled. The expression seemed bizarre on her normally impassive features. "I am Magenta. That's my name," she said quietly in a deep, cultured voice. The same voice, he realised with a start, he had heard when he'd rung Johnson's home number. "A secret key to a mystery."

"But," Peter began, "you were intending to betray Johnson?"

The tall woman shrugged. "I'll never leave him, but he and his organisation were destroying my father's country, tearing it apart like hungry wolves over the carcass of a lamb."

Peter looked back at Angela, more confused than before.

"It's the truth. I'm working for Magenta," she said and brushed her lips against his cheek. "Years ago I used to work, as a nurse, for an aid organisation. I met Magenta's father at one of the hospitals during an official visit. He is the crown prince. He asked me to visit her when I got back to London. We've been in contact ever since."

Peter was still rooted to the spot, looking from one to the other. Never in a million years would he have connected the statuesque nurse with the wild savage who walked a respectful pace behind her master on a silver leash.

"We have to go," he said at last.

Angela nodded and walked into the shadows, arm in arm with the disconcerting Magenta. At the foot of the stairs she turned back. "Peter?"

"Yes?"

Angela Ruskin smiled and blew him a kiss. "I never said thank you for my education."

Peter grinned. "My pleasure."

Johnson picked up the metallic box that had once been Magenta, leant across the desk and switched on the computer. Max poured them another mug of coffee. "So, what happens now?"

Johnson snorted. "How far they get very much depends on how wily Peter Howard really is. But it doesn't matter, we've got what we want." He tapped at the keyboard. "Damn," he sighed under his breath.

"What is it?" said Max.

Johnson shook his head. "The main screen hasn't come on."

Max peered over his shoulder. The computer screen was blank except for a few random flashes. Johnson switched the machine off and on again.

"What the hell is this?" he said crossly, and picked up the phone from Leonora's desk.

"This is Johnson," he snapped into the mouth piece when the phone was answered. "I can't seem to get the computer at Deuvar on line. Are you having any problems that end?"

The voice that replied sounded frantic. "Mr Johnson, I had intended to ring you when we got to the bottom of this. Our machines have crashed at the main office. We've got nothing here but blank screens. I don't understand what's happening."

"What do you mean you don't understand?" asked Johnson with increasing fury.

The man coughed. "Well, it would appear sir, that we've been locked out of the computer system. It started a few minutes ago."

"Locked out? What the hell do you mean locked out?"

As he spoke Johnson tried to remember what Peter Howard had told him about the whereabouts of the new copy of Magenta. He felt his colour draining. "I've left the key in the door, you won't be able to miss it." Peter Howard's voice echoed inside his head.

He sat down heavily in his armchair. Peter Howard had copied Magenta and then left the copy somewhere inside the computer system. The effect was like leaving a key on the inside of the door. They couldn't get back in. The new Magenta was effectively locking them out. The new key had become operational and had at once begun to encrypt the information in the computer system into a new code. A code that you needed the key to break – a key that was safely hidden inside the code which couldn't be used unless you had the key. It was a perfect, infuriating, impenetrable loop. Johnson rested his head in his hands.

"Conniving bastard," he hissed between clenched teeth. There was no point going after him. Without the new Magenta Peter Howard was as powerless as they were. No-one could get into the computer system. Every scrap of information, every record, every deal, every contact and connection was lost inside a maelstrom of machine code.

Johnson suddenly realised that the man was still waiting for an answer at the far end of the telephone line.

"Pour yourself a stiff scotch and then go home," he said wearily. "I'll be back first thing tomorrow morning."

Outside he heard the disturbing thud-thud-thud of a helicopter landing on the lawn. It seemed he had underestimated Peter Howard.

Peter clambered unsteadily into the back of helicopter, dragging Emily in behind him. The passenger compartment was empty. Gratefully Peter slumped into one of the seats and slammed the seat belt across him and Emily did the same. It seemed like only an instant before the chopper was airborne.

A disembodied voice rattled mechanically over the intercom. "Hold tight, Peter, we'll have you at the airport in no time; debriefing on the plane. Alright?"

Peter closed his eyes. "Too damned right," he said quietly.

He glanced across at Emily. Her eyes were bright with tears. The coat she had hastily dragged around her was pulled apart, temptingly revealing the delicate plains and curves of her body. She glanced at him for a second; it seemed that she could read his mind. Slowly she unbuckled her belt and slipped the coat back over her shoulders.

He examined her, taking in the details of the bruises and marks on her vulnerable body. "Come here," he commanded. She looked down, her small features flushing in the strange light of the helicopter as she crept towards him.

"Master," she murmured, dropping to her knees at his feet.

He smiled and ran his finger through her short spiky hair, letting one hand toy with the glittering rings that pierced her tight nipples. He eased himself back in the chair, spreading his legs so that he encircled her. She shivered deliciously and then bent closer to press a kiss into his groin. He shook his head.

"All fours," he hissed darkly. "I'm going to take back what is rightfully mine."

She turned, revealing the delicious lips of her sex peeking out between the heavier curves of her buttocks. He undid the seat belt and dropped to his knees behind her. She moaned, opening instinctively for his explorations. He slid a finger into the wet creases that he had denied himself during their courtship, relishing the heat and tightness. Beneath him she mewled nervously. He grinned and undid his flies; she would be his whatever had gone on at Deuvar. He guided his cock into her, pressing deep until she gasped with fear. His fingers moved to cup her breasts, teasing and tugging at the silver rings. She arched back towards him, drawing him, compelling him to possess her. He sensed her submission. There was nothing she would ever deny him again.

"Tell me -" he said as he forced her down hard onto the filthy oily floor. "Who am I?"

"Master!" she gasped and ground herself onto his cock. "My Master!"

"Do you think you're going to like your new contract?"

Emily groaned softly. "Yes, master," and rubbed herself against him so that he could dip his fingers into her. A new contract, she thought, as Peter toyed with the glistening folds of her sex – and one that she hoped would last a lifetime.

Content

Sarah Fisher
The contract

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14