by Sarah Fisher
"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 gir
l'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.
