by Sarah Fisher
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."
<
br /> 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.
