by Sarah Fisher
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. Emi
ly 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 di
stinguished 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.
