The Contract

by Sarah Fisher

  "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 progra
mming. 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 ai
r 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.