"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 programming. 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 air 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.
It had been her spirit that had endeared Leonora to Johnson. The Turk had assured him she was unbreakable and had insisted on bringing out the rest of his slave stock for Johnson's perusal. This, he had assured Johnson, was the way that women should behave. Real women, women who understood what was expected of them. In the cramped confines of the Turk's house Johnson had inspected a string of broken women, including one mental defective who it was obvious had been trained from childhood onward to see her whole life only in terms of the pleasure her body could give to the Turk and his customers. The Turk was proud of her, rubbing her heavy pendulous breasts like another man might pet a dog. She had responded by rubbing her thick odorous sex against him, whining pitifully while her mouth worked at the bulge beneath the Turk's great belly.
All the time the Turk paraded his mongrel bitches, Johnson had surreptitiously watched the girl on the bed, so unhappy, but resolutely awaiting her fate. She was quite obviously far above the Turks's normal standard of girls, though he was reluctant to explain how he had come by her.
When, finally, the Turk had exhausted his supply of slaves, Johnson had turned his attentions again to the Eurasian girl on the bed. He had explored her gently, touching the delicate almost hairless lips of her sex, opening her thighs, exploring the tight confines of her backside with an oiled finger tip whilst across the room her master had stood by, eyes on his girl, mouth slack.
When Johnson had her untied she had scurried across to him like a saviour, pressing her bruised lips to his fingers. Her Turkish master had been stunned and only too eager to close a sale.
Johnson had bought her the same way he had many of the other girls; a willing commodity only too eager to escape from a closed oppressive culture to the heady opportunities of Deuvar. A great shame he couldn't have been more discerning with his male employees.
Now Leonora indicated the guest lounge. "We have a floor show this evening, or music in the ballroom. Would you like me to arrange a table?"
Johnson shook his head, thinking about the way Leonora seemed now; a queen, in command, an employee with unshakeable loyalty. "I don't think so. Has the video tape arrived of Emily Lawrence yet?"
"I'm afraid not." Leonora paused, looking slightly ill at ease. She glanced over her shoulder. "Would you like me have one of the girls bring you some champagne? I don't wish to appear rude, but I do have another matter to attend to."
Johnson lifted an eyebrow in rebuke. "What other matter is so important that you have to run away from me, Leonora?"
The Eurasian woman bit her lip. "It is Kai, one of our most trusted girls. She was involved in Emily's escape attempt."
Curiosity awakened, Johnson encouraged her to continue. "Intentionally?"
Leonora shook her head. "No. Carelessness, but really she should have known better. She's earned a position of trust here and I think, perhaps, let it go to her head."
Johnson smiled. "I see." He considered the possibilities for an instant. "A disciplinary matter then?"
Leonora, immediately following his train of thought, nodded. "Perhaps you might like to ensure the punishment is correctly administered?" She indicated the corridor that led to her offices. "I really would like to get this over as soon as possible."
Johnson smiled. "My pleasure," he said under his breath. Still leading his own slave girl, he fell into step behind Leonora. He paused for a second mid-stride. "Have you heard from the Haroldsons?"
Leonora shook her head. "No. But, after all, they did have sole rights to Emily for a full day. I imagine they are fully occupied."
"Perhaps," said Johnson, ignoring her comment, "you might like to contact them and invite them to join us. It wouldn't do Emily any harm to understand what happens when one of our girls breaks the rules."
"Of course," said Leonora.
Naked, Emily Lawrence crouched in the footwell of the chauffeur driven car. Naomi Haroldson was dressed once again in her stunning evening dress, and had added a full length mink coat. She sat arm in arm with her husband. Beside them both sat Franz, his hand casually slipped through the leash to Emily's collar.
Emily's mind was muddled, still full of hot feverish images of Franz's body and Naomi's caresses. Between her legs her sex was throbbing; a dark heady mix of pleasure and an aching tenderness. On her buttocks the sting of the brand mark made every movement uncomfortable.
Her rational mind couldn't quite grasp what had happened to her, but the instinctive animal half knew only too well. She had been taken, she had submitted – and she relished it. There was a peculiar sensation of elation deep inside her. Her body was no longer hers, owned instead by the masters of Deuvar.
She had expected to stay at the Haroldson's guest cottage until the following day and was surprised when Naomi had announced they had been invited to the main hall.
The car moved slowly up the drive. Outside, the frost gave everything a strange magical quality, echoing the odd feeling Emily had in her belly. At the elegant main entrance to the mansion the car pulled to a halt and the occupants climbed out into the starlit night. Emily was hardly aware of the cold or the sensation of the gravel beneath her feet.
Franz tightened his hold on the leash and she wondered if he thought that she might try and make a run for it. If he did, he had wildly underestimated the effect he had on her. Instinctively she fell behind, letting Naomi, her husband and Franz take the lead. With eyes downcast, she followed them into the warm confines of Deuvar.
She shivered when she saw that the guard on duty was Birdie. He eyed her speculatively, grinning. She wondered if he could sense the change in her.
Naomi Haroldson barely glanced at him. "We have been invited up to Leonora's office," she said flatly, as she handed her coat to an attentive doorman.
Birdie nodded. "They are expecting you, Mrs Haroldson. If you'd like to follow me."
The little group walked in silence through the opulent house up to Leonora's rooms. Outside the panelled door, Birdie glanced at Franz and then Emily.
"Would you like me to take her for you, sir?" Birdie said, extending his hand, glittering eyes lingering on Emily's body.
Franz nodded.
An instant later Leonora opened the door for the party and signalled to Birdie. "Get Kai for me."
Emily noticed that the Eurasian woman didn't even look in her direction.
When the door closed again Birdie grinned. "Back early," he sneered. Emily bit her lip. Birdie continued, "You know why they've brought you back, don't you? They're going to punish Kai for your little escapade. I reckon they think it'll teach you a lesson. I told you what she can expect."
Emily shivered and then looked up at him. "I'm sorry," she said on a whispered breath.
Birdie looked at her quizzically, ignoring the fact that she had broken the rule of silence. It was quite obviously not the response he had expected. "Sorry?"
Emily nodded. Her mind had been racing since she had been to the Haroldsons. "Peter Howard used to come here, didn't he," she said flatly, the words spoken as a statement, not a question.
Birdie was still eyeing her suspiciously. "Yeah, he did. He was the guy you were engaged to, right?"
"Yes." She paused for a second, thinking about Peter's face and the bright flame of desire she had seen in his eyes when they had first met. Peter's features merged and changed slowly into those of Franz, Naomi Haroldson, even Johnson's. She glanced up at Birdie. Her voice was unsteady and full of emotion.
"Peter saw something in me that I didn't know was there. It's almost as if he meant me to come to Deuvar, if I hadn't come here, then he would have trained me in the same way. Peter wanted to be my master as well as my husband." A single bright crystal tear rolled down her cheek. "He understood me better than I did myself."
Birdie coughed, his expression unfathomable. "I've got to fetch Kai," he said.
Emily nodded. "If I'd understood I wouldn't have tried to escape," she said in a voice so low that she might almost have been speaking to herself.
Birdie said nothing, instead he turned and pulled her towards the stairs that led to the cells.
Emily sniffed miserably. Peter had recognised her natural instinct for submission. Her only regret was that it had been Deuvar and not Peter who had shown her. With Peter she would have willingly complied, without the need for Leonora's harsh introduction to the pleasures of obedience.
At the door to the detention cell Emily let out a long muffled sob as she saw Kai inside. Kai was hanging from the chains set in the ceiling. Her elegant dress was in shreds, hair tangled, face streaked with tears. A thin trail of glistening semen trickled down her thighs. Her lithe body was covered in bruises and scratches. When Birdie had told Emily that a lot of people wanted to see Kai fall she hadn't realised quite what he meant.
As Birdie unlocked the cell door Emily broke free of him and ran inside, pulled up short a split second later by a sharp tug on her leash.
"I'm so sorry," Emily murmured to Kai, lifting her hand to stroke the other girl's face.
Kai looked up at her and smiled grimly. Her lips were swollen, cheeks criss crossed by deep purple bruises.
"I told you it wasn't worth trying. You should have believed me." Her voice was cracked and uneven. Emily glanced at Birdie, who was unrolling the hose from the wall. She stared at him in horror, remembering the cutting, stinging icy blast.
"Please," she began. "Don't!"
Impassively, Birdie carried on. "Leonora will want her clean." He looked her up and down. "You of all people should know the importance of obeying the rules. Don't you remember the first one is supposed to be silence?"
Before Emily could reply he turned the tap on full blast, not just drenching Kai but Emily as well. Struggling in her restraints Kai screamed as the water roared over both girls. Birdie grinned lasciviously as Emily spun round to try and avoid the worst of the freezing torrent.
"So, you think you're a natural do you?" he snorted, above the roar of the water. "Well, so much the better, downstairs here they only play at it. Wait until after dark when the guards get their chance. You're up for grabs now you're broken in. They'll all want a piece of you. Clients and staff."
Emily twisted away from the jet as he played the water over her frozen skin. Dropping to her knees, she cowered on the floor, trying to cover herself.
Birdie laughed. "Your precious Peter might have kept you for himself, but at Deuvar they've made it very obvious that you're anybody's." He snapped the water off. "Come here."
She looked up at him in disbelief. "You've got to get Kai," she whimpered, shivering uncontrollably.
Birdie's expression hardened. "Don't tell me what I've got to do. You're the slave here, not me."
Standing over her he undid his trousers. "They'll be having drinks upstairs, having polite little conversations, and while they're having their fun, I'm going to have you. I told you I'd be the first after the Haroldsons. Get up and face the wall. I'm just gonna have a little slice of what they had. Get up!"
Emily shook her head, glancing at Kai, who still hung, shivering in the chains. "But -" She was cut short by Birdie yanking her roughly to her feet. His open hand exploded across the side of her face, filling her mind with flashes of light and pain.
"I said get up, bitch," he snarled. He pushed her legs apart with his feet, forcing her breasts and face against the sodden brickwork. Roughly he explored her body, splaying her bruised sex with his hands. She whimpered as his fingers sought entry, plunging into her.
"How did it feel? Did Franz and that bitch Naomi Haroldson do the job real well? Did she fuck you too, the Dyke bitch? Did she get her tongue right up inside you, make your little cunt hum?"
Emily flinched as he slid his cock between the cheeks of her bottom, holding herself rigid as she felt him trying to find a way into her.
"I see they got around to marking you," he whispered thickly.
Her wet flesh was icy cold, clammy in contrast to his hot eager body.
"Put me inside," he said thickly. Emily swallowed and closed her fingers around his meaty throbbing shaft.
"Now!" Birdie snarled. Emily eased the raging head between the delicate inner folds of her sex and an instant later he pushed home.
He filled her to the brim, his progress more painful, more invasive than either Franz's strange ringed phallus or the dark compelling contours of Naomi's dildo. His hands slid down to her hips, dragging her frozen body onto his.
Without thinking she began to move, compelled by the dark need to give herself to his desire. Her body almost seemed to work without her conscious instruction, bending, moving, drawing Birdie deeper and deeper. Behind her she heard him moan, and thrust her pelvis back so that he could work himself deeper, oblivious to the raw ache deep inside her. Birdie snorted and jerked her back even harder.
She was stunned to feel her body responding, a warm glittering glow that begun deep in her belly. She began to lose herself in the sensation of his movements and the feeling of his desire pounding deep inside her quim. Shuddering she threw back her head, rolling her hips against him, brushing her buttocks against his crotch, driving him – and herself – out towards oblivion.
Birdie let out an excited gasp, pulling her closer still. Every tiny compelling sensation was echoed through them both until was on the brink of orgasm. She moaned, relishing the fullness inside her, the hot invasive sensation of his shaft pumping into her. Lost in surrender, her body and her mind suddenly exploded in a great white wave of ecstasy that snatched her breath away.
Behind her Birdie roared. Emily felt the electric throb of his own climax coursing through her, a stunning counterpoint to her own pleasure. For a second or two, when the waves receded, he leant against her to catch his breath, the heat of his body seeping into hers.
"My God!" He was resting his head against her shoulder. "You would have been wasted on just one man."
He stepped away from her, running his fingers through the trail of his excitement between her legs. The after-shocks of pleasure made her tremble. She stood still for a few seconds, trying to regain her composure, listening as Birdie unlocked Kai.
This was Deuvar. By coming here she had placed herself at the beck and call of any man who wanted her. Any man who wanted to use her, take her, and the realisation excited some part of her mind in a way she was almost too afraid to contemplate.
Birdie slipped his fist back through her leash and jerked it tight. "Come on," he snapped, still breathing unevenly. "There'll be time for more later." He fingered his leather belt. "Time maybe to teach you a few more lessons before the other guests get to take a share of your sweet little arse."
Kai walked silently beside them both, the remains of her dress plastered against her slim body. Her long hair dripped onto her shoulders and her eyes were downcast. She was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to sense the change in Emily. Emily longed to touch her, try and do something to make amends, try and explain that she understood. Instead, they fell into step and headed back towards Leonora's office.