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. Emily 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 distinguished 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.
The girl's eyes flashed as she took in the details of the room. It was softly lit, almost bare. In the centre was a low plinth, padded, with restraints set in each corner. Emily's eyes widened as Naomi led her towards it.
Above, hanging on the panelled wall, were a selection of corrective devices: a riding crop, a two finger tawse, a small plaited whip, a flat leather paddle. The girl shivered, holding back, her eyes bright with terror. Naomi jerked the leash tight. Emily strained against her.
It struck Max that she didn't realise she was being observed. He leant forward in his chair, watching as the girl turned and tried to jerk the lead out of Naomi's hands, twisting back and forth to free herself, tugging this way and that until finally the leash was ripped from Naomi's fist.
The frightened girl lunged towards the door, threw it open and then froze in terror. Framed in the doorway was Naomi's special play mate, Franz.
Franz was a great bear of a man in his mid twenties, dressed in cream jodhpurs and a sleeveless leather waistcoat. More disturbingly, his face was hidden by a full leather helmet. The helmet rendered his strikingly handsome Nordic feature into a torturer's mask. Emily backed away in terror, oblivious now to Naomi Haroldson. Franz stepped into the room, his great barrel chest oiled and gleaming in the lamp light. His eyes glittered behind the mask.
"Get on the plinth," he said softly, in a voice that brooked no contradiction. "Now, all fours."
The girl let her gaze drop to the floor and without a word crept up onto the padded bench. Naomi smiled and locked the girl's hands and ankles into position. The lamp light glowed through the ragged shift Emily was wearing, outlining her delicate body, revealing her deliciously uptilted breasts, her flat belly, her small rounded buttocks -
Franz moved around her thoughtfully. Emily whimpered, her breaths coming in great laboured gasps. The big man's hand caught hold of her shift and ripped the remains of the material away, making the girl quake and whimper.
Slowly, he drew a thick leather belt from his jodhpurs and let it trail along her exposed spine, making her tremble visibly.
In the corner of the room, Naomi Haroldson was snaking out of her beautiful evening dress. Beneath she was wearing a tight black leather Basque that revealed every curve of her carefully sculpted body.
On the plinth Emily began to sob, soft throaty sounds of terror bubbling behind her lips as Franz stepped behind her and folded the belt in two. The first cracking blow across Emily's naked buttocks made Max Fielding flinch. The girl shrieked, lunging forward to escape the belt's sharp tongue.
"Get up," hissed Franz, drawing the belt back again. Slowly, stiffly, Emily got back onto her hands and knees in time for Franz's second blow to explode across her reddening skin. This time she stayed on all fours, tears flooding down her face.
Three, four – five. Max murmured the number of strokes under his breath as the girl sobbed and writhed. Behind them, Naomi Haroldson watched the spectacle with growing excitement. Her eyes had darkened, her nipples pressed eagerly against the soft tight leather of her Basque.
Six, seven – Emily's movements were subtly changing as Franz laid on the belt again and again. Yes, she was afraid, yes, each blow hurt, sending ripples of pain through her chained body – but there was a certain eagerness and expectation in her movements now.
Max smiled to himself. She was enjoying it or, at least, some part of her was, some part he had recognised the first afternoon in the office.
He held his breath. If only Emily would surrender herself totally, relinquish control, let Franz and Naomi possess her completely. Sweat was dripping off her face and belly.
Nine, ten – her buttocks were scarlet, her body moving as if controlled by the crack of the belt. Behind her, Franz seemed mesmerised, his huge cock pressing against the soft cream fabric of his jodhpurs.
Eleven, twelve – Max could almost feel the strange dark excitement rising from deep inside the girl as she was beaten. She was still trembling but it was an electric pulse; a pulse of desire. Between her legs the delicate lips of her sex had flushed scarlet, a slick of her juices already trickling out onto her smooth soft thighs. Her breasts were flushed, nipples erect and glistening with a covering of sweat. She seemed to glow, every fibre, every molecule of her slender body straining for release.
In the little hidden observation room the watchers were all entranced; this was far better than they could have ever hoped for.
Franz dropped the belt to the floor and began to undress, Emily could not see him but every one of the watchers could sense the girl straining to hear, trying to detect what was to follow.
Naomi undid the restraints. Emily didn't move, held by the dark expectation of what was to come. Franz stroked her hips. "Turn over," he murmured. Wordlessly, the girl complied, laying on her back, eyes closed.
"Look at me." Franz hissed. "I want you to watch me take you -"
Emily's eyes snapped open, flashing wildly in the lamp light. The man was naked now. Behind the mask his eyes glittered and for an instant she thought she detected compassion, wildly at odds with the aggressive image of the leather helmet. Her back and buttocks screamed red hot, the pain and the heat suffusing her whole body. The glow of fear and anticipation had risen into a raging torrent. She knew her sex was wet, ready, throbbing with the need for satisfaction. She looked up at her seducer.
His body was stunning, slabs of beautifully sculpted muscle, a triangle of blond hair glistening in the centre of his chest. He was magnificent. She shivered as she looked further down. His great cock arched eagerly out toward her, and at the very end, through the foreskin, was a small ornate silver ring. She shuddered as he stepped closer. He caught hold of her under the knees and jerked her up towards him, pressing his mouth into her sex, eating her alive, biting and nipping at the raw excited flesh.
His teeth and tongue played with the silver ring that secured her sex lips, making her flinch and quiver by turns. As he lapped at her clitoris she started to sob with pleasure, writhing as he pressed on and on, driving her out towards oblivion. Something brushed against her thighs and she glanced down. To her astonishment Naomi Haroldson was crouching between the man's legs, servicing him with her mouth. Emily was so stunned that the breath caught in her throat.
Naomi Haroldson was worshipping the man with her body, giving him pleasure. She was another slave – another submissive. Emily gasped, riding the wild thread of pleasure out, out… She was so close to release that every part of her felt as if it was on fire. Her lover seemed to sense the approach of her orgasm and pulled away.
She gasped as he laid her back onto the plinth. "Please," she whispered, oblivious to the rule of silence. "Please -"
The man above her laughed. "Soon enough," he said softly, "soon enough."
Naomi slipped out from between his legs and clambered to her feet, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The atmosphere in the room was electric. The huge man pushed his finger gently into Emily's sex, catching hold of the ring that linked the lips of her sex. He teased the ring open. She held her breath, letting out a gasp of terror as he slipped the ring out through the delicate flesh.
"I don't think we need this," he said and threw it onto the floor. "Now watch me."
He lifted her up again, rubbing the head of his cock between the outer naked lips of her sex. She shuddered, her whole body cried out for him to take her while her mind was filled with terror that his great craning cock would split her open. His progress was unnervingly slow. He eased inside her a fraction at a time, the icy cold kiss of his cock ring marking his progress with a chilling caress. There was pain and pleasure, a dark feeling of tearing and heat as he breached her – and more compelling still, the aching need of her body. Suddenly he plunged home, driving his cock and the icy cold ring deep into her.
She screamed in fear while her rogue body instinctively lifted to meet his. She felt her body closing gratefully around his shaft, sucking him in, taking him deeper still. Suddenly she was moving with him, trying to suppress the pain and the terrifying tightness. She heard the sound of wild excited sobbing and was stunned to realise the voice was her own.
Naomi smiled down at her and then slowly climbed onto the plinth, straddling Emily's chest. The older woman held open the heavy lips of her own blonde fringed quim.
"Kiss me," she said thickly and lowered her sex onto Emily Lawrence's face.
The taste of the woman's excitement flooded Emily's mouth. She had no choice but to comply and was horrified to realise that she wanted to submit – to obey. She pressed a tentative kiss to the junction of Naomi's lips and breathed in the woman's erotic perfume. Naomi moaned, whispering words of pleasure and encouragement.
Emily began to lick, to kiss, while between her legs the man drove home and her desperate body matched him stroke for stroke, driving them both out towards the white hot lights of orgasm. Above her Naomi writhed and gasped, clutching at Emily's hair, her breasts, the thick collar she still wore around her neck. Suddenly Naomi began to snort, grinding her pelvis, dragging Emily's face closer and closer.
At the same instant Emily felt the man deep inside her begin to thrust madly, wildly, and she was swept away by a glittering, all engulfing sensation of such intensity that she thought she was going crazy -
The small crowd in the viewing room was silent as the girl began to buck and thrash, sucking every last drop of pleasure from Franz. At the height of his orgasm the blond giant dragged off his mask, threw back his head and gasped his way towards ecstasy. Naomi Haroldson was arched back, grinding and writhing.
Max realised he had been holding his breath as the threesome fought the last few steps of the way towards release. He let out a long shuddering breath as their climax finally crashed across their sweating bodies like a tidal wave. Finally, sated, they collapsed down onto each other.
George Haroldson touched Max's arm. The old man's eyes were alight as he held out a glass of champagne towards Max.
"Here, old chap, I think you might need this."
Max nodded dumbly.
George smiled. "Stunning, isn't she?"
Max nodded, wondering whether he meant Naomi or Emily. "You took the words right out of my mouth," he said, sipping the icy champagne.
Beyond the glass Naomi Haroldson was slithering down off the exhausted girl's torso. Slowly she crept around to between the girl's legs and began to tongue her gaping sex.
Emily snorted, trying to resist, wriggling. Franz clambered to his feet and grabbed Emily's thighs, holding her open for Naomi's attentions. Max guessed what was to follow, marvelling at Franz's stamina and powers of recuperation. Max had seen him in action before. It wouldn't take the great Nordic stud too long before he was ready for the next round.
They pulled the hapless girl onto her hands and knees, though she was so consumed by passion that Max suspected she barely knew what was happening to her. Franz and Naomi fastened her wrists, working wordlessly. When they had done Franz slipped something out from under the plinth – a dark shape that reminded Max of the floor show with the two girls in the main bar.
Naomi knelt in front of Franz and ran her tongue over the object – a large black double ended dildo, Naomi's particular favourite. She slithered gracefully under Emily, who still crouched on all fours, head hanging down. Franz slipped one end of the dildo into Naomi's compliant eager body with gentle hands, stroking it where it nestled into Naomi's body.
Emily, sensing something was going on, looked down into the face of the woman who lay beneath her – and then stiffened as she felt the brush of the rubber cock against her thighs.
At first Max thought she might resist – but he had reckoned without Franz. The tall man laid one hand on the small of Emily's back, stroking a finger along the livid reminders of the belt's caress.
"Stay still," he murmured. "Let Naomi feel what I felt, let her have you -" As he spoke he guided the thick phallus into the girl's quim. Max could sense her resistance, her revulsion, but she was no match for Naomi and Franz. Naomi began to move, screwing the dear little Emily with her dark rubber cock, moaning with pleasure as if she could truly feel the tight confines of the girl's body around her.
In spite of herself, Emily began to move, encouraged by Franz's voice and his caresses. He slipped his fingers into the deep recesses of her body, seeking out the sensitive creases, the hard swollen peak of her pleasure bud, the wet junction where her body closed around the rubber phallus -
Max downed his champagne in a single gulp. If there was ever a couple who could convert Emily Lawrence to the compulsive, addictive pleasures of submission, the heady cocktail of pain and passion, it was Naomi Haroldson and her stunning friend, Franz.
Already the huge man's passion was beginning to rekindle, his exhausted member rising and thickening. Franz worked his fingers over Emily's sex, smearing the juices back toward the other secret orifice, and with infinite care pressed his newly revived cock into her arse.
Emily bucked, snorting, as he sought to move deeper. The blond giant's fingers were compelling her on towards oblivion,stroking, teasing. And like a well trained dog Emily responded, stretching, arching back to accept the attentions of her two lovers.
Max wished Leonora and Johnson could have been there with him. Particularly Johnson. If he had seen Emily's compliance, her eager movements under Franz and Naomi's tuition, perhaps he could have seen her as something other than a tempting scrap to catch Peter Howard.
Beyond the glass, the girl arched her back, dropping her hips. Franz slipped his fingers under her collar, securing her into an exciting erotic bow, pulling him onto her and Naomi. Max hissed his approval, wishing he had brought one of Leonora's girls with him to satisfy the hungry ache in his own groin.
Through the glass Emily was pushing her mind and body out towards the stars as Max shuddered and refilled his glass.