by Sarah Fisher
The girl hadn't moved. She awaited his pleasure, her body trembling with expectation. The silver rings through her nipples glittered as her fear and anticipation grew. The air was still, heavy. Johnson picked up the riding crop and walked behind her.
Her sex was slick and open, a trickle of moisture seeping down onto her thighs. Her pert breasts hung down, nipple rings glittering still. He knew then that he couldn't wait for Max Fielding.
Kneeling between her legs, his fingers dipped into the engorged depths of her sex. She shivered, her quim hungrily tightening around him. Above, between the rounded curve of her buttocks, her anus twitched invitingly. Smearing the juices from her quim up over the forbidden tight bud he guided his cock into it, gasping as the muscular sheath snatched at him, drawing him deeper. He struggled for control as he took the riding crop and slid it into her sex, pressing it home. Emily let out a little mewl of terror as the leather handle slid inside her.
He grinned, easing his cock deeper still until he thought that he might drown in the heat of the girl's compliant body. The head of the crop brushed against his thighs as he worked it slowly in and out. As he set the rhythm, Emily began to move under him, lifting herself in response. In his mind's eyes he imagined the crop between her legs, a stunning tableau of pleasure and pain.
He grabbed hold of her collar and dragged her back against him. She let out a long soft wail of fear as he began to drive into her, on and on, pressing deep inside the most secret depths of her body.
He let his hands trail over her soft breasts, relishing their movement as they echoed his wild dark thrusts. Down over her waist and hips, pulling her closer and closer. She sobbed, impaling herself on him.
He knew he was close to the point of no return, the compulsive rhythm igniting wild forest fires in his mind. By the end of the night he would have everything, Magenta, Emily Lawrence and Peter Howard, but now there was only the heady urgency of taking his pleasure.
A raw brutal spiral of ecstasy rose up in him until every sane thought was washed away on its tide. On and on it went, wave after wave, until breathlessly he slumped over Emily's body.
The girl was trembling. The riding crop, still inside her, ran with the juices of her unfulfilled pleasure. Without a word he slipped his cock out of her and rolled her onto her back. Pushing her legs apart he ran his tongue along the engorged ridge of her clitoris. She tasted divine. The crop adding a strange animalistic taste of raw leather to her flavour. She moaned as she felt his tongue and lifted herself up towards him, offering herself like some exotic delicacy.
He worked on her, guiding the riding crop in and out, tonguing and biting on the delicate flesh that would trigger the explosive roar of her orgasm. She writhed and twisted, totally absorbed in her race for release, opening her legs wider and wider for his tongue. Finally she began to shudder, her whole body convulsing and twitching with the sheer magnitude of her delight.
He slid the crop out from inside her.
This was the ultimate victory over Peter Howard, its taste even sweeter than Magenta…
Upstairs, Max Fielding had finally allowed himself to sample the delights of Johnson's Princess. Lying beside her on the floor of the elegant sitting room, exhausted, drained dry, he felt as if he had barely escaped being eaten alive by her ferocious sexuality. For the first time ever he had encountered a woman who he truly believed needed to be beaten to be held in submission.
Beside them on the floor was the paddle he had thrashed her with. Every blow, every red hot weal that had lifted on her magnificent body seemed to add to her fervour when finally he had plunged into her. He still had the taste and smell of her on his body; a strange feral odour, a feline musk that clung to him. She appeared to be asleep, curled into a fetal ball on the hearth, but he had no doubt that if she wanted to she could spring up, perfectly alert and ready.
The intimacies he had shared with her had done nothing to dispel his apprehension of her. Quite the reverse. He trusted her less. She was a far wilder and more savage creature than he had ever reckoned and he wondered that Johnson would have something so untamed so close to him.
On the edge of sleep himself it sounded as if her breaths were closer to purring than human respiration. Slowly, but certain that she was aware of every movement he made, Max dressed and left, glad when the door was closed and he was out of range of the strange tattooed Amazon.
It was late. Max's body craved sleep but he knew that Johnson would be waiting for Peter's arrival. There was no way he could let his partner wait alone. Slowly he made his way towards Leonora's office where he had no doubt Johnson would be ready and very much awake.
When he opened the office door for an instant he had a strange feeling of deja vue. On the hearth rug a naked woman lay curled into a ball, her shoulders gently rising and falling as she slept.
Sitting on the elegant leather sofa, Johnson raised a hand to quieten him. "Let her sleep," he whispered. "It will make rather a touching spectacle for our friend when he arrives, don't you think?"
Max glanced back at Emily. Her pale buttocks were criss-crossed with a lattice of weals, a glittering crystal of moisture sparkled in the enticing crevice between her thighs, while the newly burnt brand mark glowed like an angry jewel on her delicate flesh.
"Well," said Johnson, loosening his tie. "Did you enjoy her?"
Max reddened. "I'm sorry?"
Johnson chuckled. "Come on, don't tell me you didn't fuck my body slave. I know you too well. How was she?"
Max spluttered a little. The experience was too new and far too disturbing to discuss with the tattooed girl's master.
As if reading his mind, Johnson stared into the flames of the dying fire. "She's terrifying, isn't she? I sometimes feel like one of these people who keeps a venomous snake or a wild cat for a pet. It's almost as if you are constantly challenging fate, defying the creature to turn on you."
Max looked at his friend incredulously. "You feel that about her?"
Johnson nodded. "Is there a man who wouldn't?" He glanced at his watch. "I wonder where our friend Peter Howard is?"
Max shrugged. "Do you really think he will come tonight?"
Johnson nodded emphatically. "Oh yes. I'm certain of it." He let his gaze rest on the girl peacefully asleep on the hearth rug. "If I was him I'd be hard pressed to resist such enticing bait."
Chapter 13
It took Peter Howard some time to cross the car park at the motor-way service station. He knew he was recovering from the plane crash, but his progress seemed unnervingly slow. He was relieved to finally install himself in a booth in the rest area and order more coffee. He was shaking from the effort of the walk and prayed that Johnson and Fielding had taken their usual softly softly approach to trouble. He certainly wasn't up to any kind of rough stuff.
Even though it was late the restaurant was busy. In one area a group of rough looking men, obviously lorry drivers, laughed as they swopped stories and cigarettes. As one walked over to the counter Peter beckoned to him and made a proposition. The man grinned and nodded, shaking on the deal with one large tattooed paw.
Two strong coffees and a meal later Peter made his way out to the bank of phones near the toilets and reluctantly tapped in the number to his office. He would have to call on them to back him up, to get him out if everything went the way he anticipated at Deuvar. If he survived the meeting he would need to get out of the country, then there was the matter of Emily. He shuddered, recalling the images of her naked vulnerable body on the video he had been sent.
The pictures in that short sequence, reasonably clear and painfully vivid, created a paradox in his mind. He had fantasised a thousand times about making love to her, breaking her, making her his. He closed his eyes and steadied himself against the wall as his call was answered. His feelings about the video made him question whether his desire for her was purely lust or was it really love?
If he didn't love her, why was he going back to Deuvar when his plan could so easily be unravelled fro
m the far end of a telephone wire? The answer came like a soft white heat; because whatever had happened to her at Deuvar he still wanted Emily for himself. He didn't care that he hadn't been the first, what mattered more was that she was safe and free – but most of all that she was with him.
He coughed to clear his throat and his mind and in a few curt sentences arranged for a safe passage for himself and Emily to South America. He didn't tell the officer at the far end of the line what he had done with Magenta. The organisation he worked for, along with everyone else, would find out soon enough. He just hoped there would be enough time to get Emily out safely before the shit hit the fan.
An intense memory of the final screen of Johnson and Fielding's computer system flitted across his brain again: 'Recreate Magenta'? flashing like a beacon in his mind. He had typed 'yes' and as he had done so two further questions had appeared: "When? Where?"
He glanced down at his watch. Just a little while longer and Magenta would have recreated herself. Even so there was still time to spare for one more game with Angela and then it would be time for the show down, the last grand finale, with Johnson and Max Fielding. A final game which if he misjudged a single move might cost him and Emily their freedom.
Through the glass partition of the cafe he saw the lorry driver watching him with interest. He raised his fingers to signal five minutes, then laid the phone back in its cradle and glanced across the car park to Angela's car. The distance between the cafe and the car looked like a marathon. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the effort, and headed off into the darkness.
By the time he got back his legs felt like damp straw and he was sweating like a horse. Steadying himself against the roof he jerked the door open and called Angela's name. She blinked,unfocused in the half light.
"Are you ready to leave now?" she said thickly, struggling to sit up.
Peter grinned. "Almost." He extended a hand towards her. "First of all there is someone I would like you to meet."
Angela rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "Is this one of your million and one possibilities?"
Behind him Peter could hear the sound of approaching footsteps. "Get out of the car," he said in a low voice that invited no contradiction.
He saw Angela stiffen, suddenly wide awake. "I thought you meant you and I were going to…" her voice faded away as she spotted the men that Peter sensed standing at his shoulder.
"Oh, my God," she said unsteadily, eyes widening.
Peter stood back. "These gentlemen are looking for a little company. It's a cold lonely night."
Under the jaundiced car park lights he could see Angela's colour draining. "Get out of the car." he said again. Slowly she did as she was told, eyes never leaving his.
"Come around this side into the shadow. My friends are very busy men."
Angela crept towards them like a terrified rabbit amongst a pack of hounds. The lorry driver had brought a friend with him. The pair of them were great muscular men, dressed in donkey jackets and jeans, hard faced and rough. Angela stood stiffly against the side of the car, her hands clenched in tight fists.
Peter smiled. "Undo your coat and lift up your skirt. I want to show my friends what's on offer."
Angela swallowed hard, her pupils reduced to bright pin pricks in the yellow lights. "Peter…" she began.
"Do it," he snapped coldly, relishing the way she flinched.
Her hands trembled as she undid the buttons and raised her skirt. Her thighs were milky white, the dark leather harness framing the golden corona of hair around her quim. Behind him one of the men let out a thick guttural snort of pleasure.
Peter glanced at them. "Well?"
The first man nodded. "Not bad," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his fist. He pulled out a roll of crumpled notes and peeled off the top two. "She'll do." He stepped closer to Angela, eyes drinking in her exposure. "Yer said twenty, didn't yer?"
The man grinned lewdly and spat onto to the Tarmac before handing Peter the money without a backward glance. All his attentions were focused on Angela, who shrank away from him, trembling. He reached out, pawing the soft recesses of her sex, seeking entry, almost prising her open. Even in the half light his hairy, tattooed hands were in sharp contrast to the alabaster whiteness of Angela's skin. She flinched as he found his way, gasping as his fingers vanished inside.
His companion moved behind her, arms snaking up around her torso to explore the voluptuous contours of her breasts. He jerked at the buttons of her blouse, dragging aside the fabric so the heavy curves were exposed. He groaned as he cupped them, meaty fingers teasing at Angela's already erect nipples.
The first man, uninterested in anything but the quim his fingers had spread and forced their way into, slid his cock from inside his jeans. His shaft was muscular, arching menacingly towards Angela's soft belly. He wrapped his hand around the base, tugging the foreskin back from the angry head.
Angela seemed rooted to the spot. Her face was devoid of emotion, jaw set. Peter stepped back to watch. The driver's burly companion held Angela tightly against his chest, spreading her thighs with his huge hands, taking her weight so that his friend could take her with ease.
The first man spat into his hand, wiping the saliva over his cock before moving between her open legs. His face was contorted into a tight unpleasant grin.
"Like a little bit a rough, do you, then?" He pressed his slick cock close, a menacing weapon, wet and unnerving.
Angela gasped as the lorry driver forced himself home, bracing herself against her captor as her unknown lover buried himself to the hilt with a dark hot moan of pleasure. He leant closer, kissing her crudely, a trail of saliva trickling down onto her chin. His strokes were ragged and invasive, uncontrolled, as if he were trying to thrust his whole body into her.
Peter shivered. This was better than he had anticipated. The man's face flushed scarlet. "Shit, she's hot," he gasped, sliding his hands down over her backside to drag her closer. As he worked his lips sought hers again, pressing wet kisses against her throat and face.
Angela threw back her head, trying to evade the lorry driver's lips while behind her the thickset man ground his crotch against her buttocks, rubbing and thrusting as if he too were making love to her. She whimpered, struggling, writhing, but even so Peter could sense her growing excitement. Her breasts were flushed, her body held uncomfortably as if she were struggling to unseat her rider, who plunged on, oblivious to her pain.
The man kissed her again, seizing her chin so that she couldn't escape his aggressive lips. Suddenly, as if instinct overtook her revulsion, Angela started to move with him. She arched her hips forward, drawing the lorry driver deeper.
He gasped and renewed his efforts, jerking her towards him, driving on and on until with a wild wolfish howl he crashed his way into orgasm. He snorted as the waves of pleasure engulfed him, twitching and shivering, a gob of saliva clinging to his unshaven face. Finally, breathless, he slithered out of her.
Angela's head slumped forward. Released by the great bear of a man who held her, she stumbled and folded down onto all fours. This was too much for the bear, already excited by the efforts of his friend. He crouched behind her and pulled up her coat. He worked wildly, exposing the ripe pale orbs of her backside. Before she had time to recover or protest, he plunged his great arching phallus into her quim, so recently abandoned by his companion.
Angela let out a high pierced wail, and arched back as if to try and push him out. Instantly the great bear grabbed her neck, impaling her with a single devastating stroke. With one hand he groped at her breasts, rubbing her already engorged nipples, pummelling the soft flesh with filthy fingernails.
After no more than a dozen stunning thrusts that drove Angela face down onto the ground, the bear's passion was spent. She screamed miserably as he rammed home for one final gut wrenching push.
Sliding out, he clambered to his feet and pulled a couple of notes from his back pocket.
"Here," he said thic
kly, handing the money to Peter. Without another word, he turned and headed back towards the cafe. The first lorry driver followed, lifting a hand in salute as he went after his friend.
Angela, sobbing softly, crouched beside the car. She was shivering, blouse in tatters, her naked backside smeared with dirt. Peter walked over and lifted her chin. Her eyes were bright, her pale face heightening the impression of her vulnerability.
"Peter," she whispered, unsteadily and laid her face against his thigh. He could feel tears soaking through onto his skin. Tenderly he stroked her hair.
"Was that it?" she murmured.
He undid his trousers. "Not quite."
Her eyes flashed momentarily and then she took his throbbing cock between her lips, cradling his balls gently with her fingers. Her tongue slithered over his shaft, lips working at him, sucking him deeper. He moaned and lay back against the car as she crept closer, ragged and dirty. Her breasts pressed against him, her whole body compliant and needy.
"Touch yourself," he murmured. "Give yourself the pleasure they denied you."
He caught a fleeting glance of her hand snaking down over her belly, seeking out the pleasure bud. She stiffened momentarily as her finger tips connected and began circling the tight little peak. He felt as much as heard the little moan of pleasure that trickled out around his cock. Locking his fingers into her dishevelled hair he pulled her closer, relishing the ancient act of worship that took him to the edge of heaven.
She sucked him dry while her fingers drove her own pleasure on and on. As his own orgasm engulfed him he felt her shudder, her breath ricocheting around his cock and belly in compelling little gasps. When they had done he took her hand and helped her to her feet.
