The Contract

by Sarah Fisher

  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. Fi
nally 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?"