Slaveduties BDSM Blog of a 24/7 slave

Chapter 1

Roderick Banyon laid a sheaf of paper on his desk in front of Emily Lawrence. “So, you can see,” he said slowly, indicating the top sheet, “Peter’s financial position left a great deal to be desired. I suppose all this involvement is because you expected to marry him?”
“Involvement? What involvement? I really don’t know why you sent for me. But yes, we were engaged!”
“Quite.” He sat back and rested his fingertips together in front of his lips. “Most unfortunate.” His eyes were alight with something that Emily realised with growing unease was an expression of grim satisfaction.
“I’m not sure that I understand what you are trying to say, Mr Banyon,” she said.
Roderick lifted his eyebrows. “Really, Miss Lawrence? You must be aware that before his death Peter made you a partner in his company?”
“Oh that, the partnership! Yes but it wasn’t important: I’m not expecting anything from it. Something to do with saving tax.”
“Oh, but is is important! Oh yes! His death leaves you responsible for his debt to us.”
Emily felt the breath catch in her throat, her stomach contracted sharply. “That’s impossible,” she gasped. “I’ve never had anything to do with Peter’s business.”
Banyon shrugged. “That may well be the case, but as a partner - in the eyes of the law -” His voice faded as if the rest was self explanatory.
Emily felt her colour draining. “What about life insurance - his other business interests, surely they would cover what he owes you?” She was trying hard to take in what the accountant was telling her.
“No doubt, had Peter Howard lived, Miss Lawrence, this debt would have been recouped. Peter, unfortunately, gambled and lost - and now he won’t have the chance to make good what he owes us.” Banyon’s tone was cool, matter of fact.
For the first time since Emily had arrived at the offices of Fielding and Johnson she felt genuinely uneasy. She moved her chair closer and looked at the first page of one of the files. The total was astonishing; telephone numbers.
“My God,” she whispered. “There’s no way I can pay this amount.”
Banyon’s expression didn’t falter. “I’ve drawn up a schedule of repayments if you’d care to take a look.” He passed a sheet of paper across the desk.
Emily had the distinct impression that he was enjoying her predicament. She ran her eyes down over the column of figures, then glanced up at him.
“That’s more per month than I earn in a year. You must know that. I’m sorry, Mr Banyon.” She hesitated; there was nothing more she could say. Even if she sold the house Peter had bought for her family, their flat, the car - it would realise nowhere near the figure this man was demanding. She was suddenly furious; how could Peter leave her in such a muddle? He’d always played the markets, wheeling and dealing since she’d known him, buying low, selling high. One complex deal linked in a chain to the next and the next. He’d said adding her name as a partner was to help with his tax - nothing more than a formality - and she had believed him.
Across the table Roderick Banyon was watching her face.
“I’m afraid,” she said after some deliberation, “I’m in an impossible position. You must know Peter’s assets. My parents are elderly and living in the house Peter bought for us.”
There was a distinct glitter in Banyon’s mahogany brown eyes. They reminded her of something feral and wolf-like; he was enjoying this. She folded her hands into her lap as her inquisitor leant forward a little.
“Perhaps we can come to some other arrangement,” he said evenly. “More time -”
Emily raised her eyebrows, fighting to retain her composure. “Even if I had twenty years to pay I couldn’t clear this debt, Mr Banyon.”
The accountant got to his feet, the movement stealthy and deliberate. He nodded and then smiled. “Perhaps I can offer you an alternative,” he said, in a voice barely above a whisper.
Emily sensed danger; a baited trap. She swallowed. “What did you have in mind?”
Banyon circled the desk. “Our company has many interests internationally: clubs, casinos, bars, hotels, a whole range of social and business services.” If he expected her to speak Emily disappointed him; she had no idea where the conversation was leading. He continued undeterred. “Perhaps you would be prepared to work off the debt? Shall we say -” he glanced at the sheet of paper on his desk “- a year.”
Emily snorted without thinking. “A year? I couldn’t possibly earn that kind of money in a year.”
The accountant swung round, his eyes greedily drinking her in, lingering on the outline of her breasts where they pressed against the soft fabric of her cotton blouse. His expression was appraising, the veneer of disinterest fading rapidly.
“Oh, I think you can, Miss Lawrence,” he purred, moving closer, so close that Emily could smell his after-shave and below that the subtle musk of his body. “We have an establishment in the country, a rather select retreat where I’m sure we could find a place for you - an opening - an opportunity for you to free yourself from these unfortunate commitments.” He glanced back at the pile of manila folders.
“What exactly are you suggesting?” she asked uneasily.
Banyon ran his finger along the curve of her throat, his touch proprietorial and cool. “A way out,” he murmured, “a simple business arrangement. A contract.”
“A contract? I don’t understand. I’ve just said I can’t pay you.”
Banyon smiled, his fingers still resting on her throat, stroking the throbbing pulse just beneath the skin. “You misunderstand me, this would be a contract of service - special service!”
Emily’s fists tightened in her lap. “And if I agree?” she said softly.
Banyon let his fingers move lower, grazing the puckered outline of her nipple. “The debt is cleared, your parents’ house is safe and you -” he smiled, glittering shards of amusement flashing in his eyes “- you, my dear, have an experience that will change your life forever.”
Emily didn’t trust herself to speak; she understood the implication in Banyon’s offer very well. She certainly wouldn’t be going to a country retreat as a secretary.
“I accept.”
Had she said that? She must have done. But then anything had to be better than her mother being made homeless.
Banyon smiled wolfishly. “I thought you might.” He indicated the files on the desk. “These documents will be shredded as soon as you’ve signed the contract. You may watch me destroy them.” He opened the filing cabinet and took out a sheet of paper.
“What am I agreeing to?” asked Emily uneasily, glancing at the closely typed lines of print. She regretted it already, but she would not back out now.
Banyon’s smile narrowed. “Absolutely everything,” he said steadily, handing her the pen. “The minute you sign you are our property for a year.”
Emily felt a flood of fear as she read the conditions.
“May I ring my parents to say I’ve got a job and have to go abroad immediately?”
“Of course.”
She made her phone call and then, with a confidence she was far from feeling, signed the contract she feared so much.
Banyon gathered up Peter Howard’s files from his desk and switched on the shredding machine.
“Right,” he said, as soon as they had been destroyed, “now I would like you to undress.”

Behind the two-way mirror over-looking Roderick Banyon’s office in the huge headquarters block that the great multi-national company owned, the only two directors of Fielding and Johnson who really mattered watched the proceedings with intense interest.
Max Fielding poured himself a large scotch.
“Easier than we thought.”
Johnson nodded. “With Emily Lawrence at Deuvar we’ll be able to flush Peter Howard out of the woodwork.”
Max swirled the ice in his glass. “Are you still convinced Peter Howard is alive? Why don’t you let it go, Johnson? Magenta went down in the crash, it’s lost with Peter and his plane.”
Johnson shook his head. “I’m convinced that bastard is out there somewhere.” He lifted his glass skyward. “And I intend to prove it. He will try and rescue her and I’ll be waiting. No-one double crosses me. I’ll get Magenta back.”
Thoughtfully, Max looked through the glass at Emily Lawrence. She could be no more than twenty and delightfully self-assured for one so young. No wonder Peter Howard had been so keen on her. Small, with high up-tilted breasts and long legs accentuated by her carefully tailored skirt, her apparent composure was belied by the throbbing pulse in her long neck. Her grief was reflected in her delicate features. He understood Johnson’s rage at Peter Howard’s betrayal, but even so he couldn’t help but feel that perhaps the turn of events hadn’t been all together unfortunate.
Emily was beautiful and he knew from his carefully documented research that Peter was her first and only lover. To Johnson she was simply bait, but Max would take the greatest pleasure in stealing Emily away from Peter Howard - whether he was dead or alive. Possessing her wouldn’t make up for what Howard had stolen, but Max Fielding would revel in it never-the-less. He felt a familiar stirring in his groin; he was going to enjoy Emily.

Their accountant, Roderick Banyon, had resumed his seat behind the marble-topped desk. Emily had placed the phone back in its cradle; her eyes were wide now, a flicker of fear in her face. Banyon’s expression was cool, almost disinterested.
He rested his finger tips together lightly and spoke in a low voice. “I’m waiting, Miss Lawrence.”
Slowly Emily’s fingers fumbled with the top button of her blouse. She shivered as the material gave way; beneath she was wearing a delicate white bra. Her nipples - hard dark peaks - pressed against the lace. She slithered the skirt down over her rounded hips. The dark triangle of hair beneath the sheer fabric of her panties couldn’t quite disguise the contours of her sex. She was hesitant; her reluctance adding an erotic frisson.
On the far side of the mirror Max moved closer to the glass. Only Peter Howard had seen Emily like this. Until now those subtle curves and plains had been the province of just one man, now she would share them with many, the first being Roderick Banyon. Emily bit her lip and began to struggle with the catch of her bra. Her pale face betrayed her anxiety, her lips trembled. The scrap of lace fell to the floor and instinctively she covered her naked breasts with long slim fingers.
Banyon shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said softly, his voice clearly audible through the mirror’s speakers. “Peter owes us far too much for you to be coy, my dear.” He indicated her crotch with his hand. Flushing scarlet, Emily slipped off her knickers. Banyon nodded approvingly. “That’s much better,” he said on an outward breath. “Now come over here.”
Emily took a tentative step towards the desk and he smiled. “From now on you will do exactly as you are told, do you understand?”
The girl nodded, her eyes never leaving Banyon’s face. He opened his desk drawer and removed a studded leather collar, with metal links set into each side. “Lift you hair,” he said, “and come closer.”
She crept towards him, her expression betraying a mixture of fear and anticipation. Banyon smiled triumphantly as she knelt in front of him, her pert breasts brushing his knees. Glancing up towards the two-way mirror he fastened the buckle and then dropped his hands to her shoulders. “I want you to suck me dry,” he said in a soft voice that did not disguise the command.
She hesitated, then dropped her head, nervous fingers seeking out the zip of his trousers, pulling it down, reluctantly exposing his throbbing cock. She moved slowly onto all fours, full buttocks exposed and slightly apart, revealing the delicate pink lips of her sex nestling between them.
Slowly, slowly, she took Banyon into her mouth, fighting her revulsion and fear. As her lips closed around him, Banyon caught hold of the thick collar and pulled her closer.
“Ah!” he gasped as the girl began to work on him with her tongue. His eyes closed as she wriggled closer.
In the pit of Emily’s open sex was a glistening droplet of moisture, caught in the lamplight. Though her mind might deny the fact, her body couldn’t lie - she was enjoying her unexpected submission!

Behind the glass, Johnson was already on his feet. He opened a cabinet in the little hidden room and removed a riding crop.
Max snorted and drained the remains of his scotch. “I thought you liked to leave that side of the business to Leonora?”
Johnson flexed the slim leather riding crop speculatively between his fingers.
“Normally, yes, but after all, Miss Lawrence has come to us under unusual circumstances. I’d like to let her know what to expect.” He jerked the door open, flooding the room with light.
Through the glass the girl was sinking lower now, resigned to the task in hand. Each lapping caress, each hungry wet kiss around Roderick’s cock, echoed through her slim body, her hips flexed, her breasts quivered as Roderick held her tightly by the collar.

Emily shuddered as Banyon’s cock pressed deeper into her mouth. The smell of his excitement and the taste of his hard throbbing flesh flooded her senses. His grip on her collar was brutal as he moved closer and closer to the point of release. She could feel tears of fear and humiliation prickling behind her eyes. Could he tell she had never done this before? She shuddered as she tasted the first few drops of semen in her mouth.
Above her, Banyon began to grunt and writhe. His fingers tightened on the collar until she could barely breathe. Suddenly he thrust hard into her mouth and she tasted his warm salty offering; a great sea of excitement that took her by surprise and flooded down over her chin. She gasped, struggling for breath as he pushed her away onto the floor. Her tears couldn’t be held in check any longer and trickled down her cheeks; salty water mingling with the salt of Banyon’s semen.
“Well,” said a male voice close by. “So this is how you spend your tea breaks is it, Roderick?”
Emily was so startled that she let out a thin mewl of panic, while in front of her, Roderick Banyon slowly slipped his exhausted cock back into his trousers. She was about to scramble to her feet when the same voice commanded her to stay were she was. She obeyed, crouching at Banyon’s feet, not daring to raise her eyes. She was so embarrassed and self-conscious that it was almost a relief to stay on the floor.
“Miss Lawrence has signed the contract?”
Banyon, seemingly unfazed, nodded.
The man made a noise of approval. Emily allowed herself a glance across the room and realised there were not one but two men, standing in the office doorway. Both were dressed in expensive suits and they appeared to be distinguished business men in their late forties. One spoke, while the other - she shuddered - was carrying a slim leather object in his right hand…
A riding crop!
A chill flitted down her spine. He was watching her intently, like a cat might watch a mouse.
Over her head the other man was speaking.
“… down to Deuvar. We’ve already arranged transport. Mr Johnson thought he might come in and see what our newest acquisition has to offer.” He moved across the room and touched Emily on the shoulder, his fingers were cool. “Get up,” he said gently. “Mr Johnson would like to look at the you.”
Unsteadily Emily clambered to her feet, eyes still downcast, cheeks flushed scarlet. The man referred to as Mr Johnson made a thick sound on the back of his throat. “Turn around,” he grunted. Emily moved slowly, their eyes hot upon her flesh, making her shiver. She could feel the scarlet flush spreading down over her whole body and was aware of the remains of Banyon’s excitement still on her chin.
Johnson stepped forwards and ran his hands over her with a cool appraising touch - almost as if he were dealing with horse flesh. He let the end of the riding crop tease over her breasts and then his fingers moved lower. She flinched and drew back as he splayed the lips of her quim, seeking entry.
“What’s the matter?” he asked as she stiffened.
She tried to speak but the words caught in her throat, Johnson’s fingers worked lower.
“Speak up!” he snapped.
“I’m a virgin,” she said, in a voice barely above a whisper.
Peter had wanted to wait until they were married, and his kisses - so tentative and loving - had driven her wild with desire. So much older than she was, Peter had been delighted, almost shocked, that she had never made love. Once he knew, he had vowed to keep her chaste until they were married. She had often thought that her innocence had been part of her appeal - after all, what else did she have to offer the worldly-wise successful businessman that was Peter Howard?
She looked up to see if there was compassion on the faces of the three men. But what she saw was delight and amusement.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” she said flatly.
Johnson was delighted.
“All right. We’ll have Leonora look at her. Arrange it, Banyon.”
His fingers moved across her flesh with proprietorial ease. He didn’t speak but bent her this way and that, making her quiver with embarrassment as his finger brushed the tight puckered bud of her anus. When he spoke again he was addressing the other man, apparently his junior colleague.
“Not bad,” he said. “An added bonus if she’s telling the truth.” He stroked the dark curls of her pubic hair. “I want this off.”
His companion nodded. “Leonora will take care of that.” He glanced at Roderick Banyon. “Make sure you make a note so that it’s done on arrival.”
Banyon scribbled something on his pad, his eyes lingering on Emily as if recalling the sensation of her lips fastened hard around his cock. She shivered and bit her lip. What was unnerving her was that at some deep level - unrecognised until now - she found their attentions exciting. Her sex ached to be touched; she could feel the wetness gathering deep inside.
Johnson cupped her breasts thoughtfully, thumbs brushing over the pale peaks. They hardened under his rough caress. He smiled lazily and drew a line with the riding crop down over her torso. Where the head touched her, her skin tingled. She shivered and was rewarded by a thin smile. He looked beyond her to Banyon.
“You’re getting sloppy, Roderick. Why didn’t you put the cuffs on? Or were you just keen to get her sucking your cock?”
Banyon pushed himself to his feet and took two leather cuffs from his drawer. He didn’t even look at Emily, instead he held out the restraints.
Emily didn’t move.
“Give me you hands,” he snapped crossly. She held her wrists out in front of her, hoping that they wouldn’t tremble. He strapped the studded cuffs tightly around each wrist. In each broad leather band was set a small metal loop and a length of fine chain. He glanced across at Johnson. “What do you want me to do with her hands?”
Emily watched from the corner of her eye. He shrugged. “Behind her back I think, but keep them high.”
Emily didn’t resist as Banyon secured her hands, linking the chain through the loops, pulling them tighter until her hands lay in the small of her back. Turning her roughly he looped a leather band around the tops of her arms, jerking them back so that her breasts jutted forward. She flinched as the leather bit into her skin.
It wasn’t until she felt the glitter of pain that she realised Banyon had rendered her totally helpless. The enormity of what she had agreed to suddenly hit her. Panic rushed up through her body, lifting beads of sweat on her top lip. Frantically she looked from face to face, trying to detect some hint that this was a game - a strange erotic joke. None of the three men moved; instead she could see the glint of pleasure in their eyes.
“Please,” she whimpered.
Johnson pulled a face. “Did I hear a noise, Banyon?”
The accountant reddened. “Sorry, Mr Johnson.” He stepped closer to Emily, pulled a paisley scarf from his pocket and tied it tightly over her mouth. Emily pulled away from him in panic only to feel Johnson’s hands closing around her upper arms.
His strength astounded her. She started to fight in earnest, struggling and wriggling against his grip. Behind him the third man sighed and stepped over to an elegant cupboard by the door. What he produced from inside made Emily gasp behind the gag. He was holding a long metal pole, on each end of which was a leather cuff matching the ones on her wrists. He lifted an eyebrow and smiled. Her heart thundered in her chest and she renewed her fight with Johnson and Banyon trying to suppress the waves of excitement that built alongside the fear. Her breath was roaring through her as she tried to break away from them.
Johnson pushed her face down onto the desk with one sharp movement, pressing her breasts down onto the cold marble top, Banyon caught hold of her collar and held her head down while she felt Johnson force his leg between her thighs. The cold desk sucked the breath of her as she felt other hands jerking her legs open. Her head spun as the leather bit into her ankles, securing her open and vulnerable for whatever was to follow.
Johnson grunted. Even through her struggles and his clothes she could feel the hard press of his erection against her buttocks. She whimpered as he stepped away, unable to push herself upright. She tried to block out the image that she must present to the three men. She could also sense that her fear and bondage added something to their pleasure - and the sensation that was growing minute by minute between her legs. Something glowed there, a tight white hot desire that she had never experienced before.
She lay for a few seconds, trying to turn her head to see their faces. All she could see on the desk was a carbon copy of the contract she had signed so easily.
Behind her she could hear Johnson’s breath quickening. “I think,” he said in a low voice, “that we ought to show Miss Lawrence what she can expect.”
Away to her right she heard the unearthly hiss of the riding crop cutting through the still air and the next instant a white hot pain, as clear and destructive as a pistol shot, flashed through her. Behind the gag she screamed out, the sound registering as a dull miserable moan. The pain from the whip spread out like a glowing red hot lava flow, suffusing her body with wild sensations. Before she had time to compose herself the second blow struck, echoing the path of the first, driving away all reason.
Tears flooded down her cheeks and she screwed her eyes tight shut, wishing she could block out the terrifying hiss of the riding crop as it swung back again. She shook uncontrollably as the next blow bit home -

Max Fielding watched with curiosity as Johnson struck again. His friend and associate had a curious bright-eyed stare as he beat the prone girl, and Max wondered if, secretly, Johnson imagined that it was Peter Howard who was tethered and at his mercy. Across the girl’s pale buttocks three great livid weals had risen. She was wriggling instinctively to avoid the blows, revealing more and more of her plump slick sex.
Max sighed; it was a shame she had claimed to be a virgin - he would have liked to feel his cock sinking to the hilt in that moistly fragrant cradle of pleasure. Her breasts were splayed against the icy marble, her eyes squeezed great tears down onto her face; she looked wonderful.
Johnson laid the whip on again, four, five, six strokes - each as angry and effective as the last. The girl’s screams were stifled to an unhappy tight noise forcing its way out around Roderick Banyon’s ridiculous paisley handkerchief. She writhed frantically; seven, eight, nine - a trickle of urine ran down her thigh pooling in a steaming puddle on the floor around her feet.
Max glanced at Johnson’s face; the grim look of determination had faded to a narrow smile. He drew the crop back again and cracked it with unerring accuracy across the ripe curves of Emily Lawrence’s backside and then threw the little whip onto the desk alongside her with a strange finality.
“Get her taken down to Deuvar, now,” he snapped as he turned on his heel. He glanced over his shoulder at Max Fielding. “I want to go over the details of Magenta’s disappearance again.” There was a significant pause before he spoke again. “We need to be ready -” he said.

When the other two had left, Banyon surveyed the girl. She was terrified and in shock, and seemed to have passed out. He took her coat from the stand where she had hung it when she’d arrived, and draped it over her naked body. He pressed a button on the intercom on his desk and asked for the chief of security staff to come and collect a package - with strict instructions that it was to remain ‘unopened’ on Johnson’s personal orders.
When Emily was gone - unceremoniously bundled away like so much meat - he collected his coat and hat and left the office.
Outside, the night had begun to darken rapidly; the sky held the promise of snow. Banyon kept to the shadows, pulling his collar up around his throat. He didn’t want to be seen: he dare not use the office computer.
Two blocks away in a public library he logged onto a public access computer and tapped in a message that he hoped would find its way to Peter Howard - if he was still alive…

Chapter 2

Peter Howard had been unconscious for five weeks, although he did not realise that yet.
When he did wake up it felt as if his head might just explode.
As at last he opened his eyelids, a fraction at a time, they felt as though they were scouring his eyeballs. Every other muscle in his body must be joined to them, because they screamed out in complaint as he tried to focus. He wanted to lick his lips but his mouth and tongue were as dry as sawdust. Bright sunlight cut into his skull like a knife.
A girl’s face materialised above him; a pretty blonde with huge brown eyes, a nurse’s cap added almost as an afterthought.
She smiled.
“So you’re awake at last?” she whispered, in a gentle Scots brogue. “We knew you were coming to.” His mouth was too coated and unwieldy to form the words. She laid a professional hand on his forehead. “Don’t try and speak just yet. I’ll go and get the doctor to come and take a wee peak at you, Mr Roberts.”
Peter Howard screwed up his face. Roberts… of course! … memory flooded his mind with images … he had been on the run, they had swopped passports…
“My friend?”
“Peter Howard you mean, Mr Roberts?”
It sounded so strange. He nodded.
“Dead,” she said. “It was bad. Mr Howard was unrecognisable.” There had only been the two of them and the pilot. They crashed almost on take-off, they had got nowhere…
Her eyes were full of sympathy.
“Where are my things?” he muttered.
The girl smiled. “Everything that was brought in with you is safe and sound. Now you lie still while I go and get the doctor.”
Peter Howard let his eyes scrape shut, listening to the nurse’s shoes pitter-pattering across the hard floor, and tried to get a grasp of what it was he remembered.
Magenta!
He shivered as fragmented vivid images came like staccato gunfire - the drone of the engines, a burst of ear shattering static, a loud bang, voices raised in terror, a burning, terrifying sensation of cold water seeping through his clothes, strange unearthly screams of metal on metal, lights, noise - and all the time knowing, at some dark unfathomable level, that whatever else happened, he had to survive and save Magenta…

…he woke again, disorientated and sweating, and pressed the call bell. The little blonde nurse answered, smiling as she opened the door.
“I should think you’re hungry?” she said, helping him up to a sitting position. Peter nodded even though it was a lie.
He couldn’t help but notice the way her heavy breasts struggled against the thin fabric of her uniform. It didn’t take much of a stretch of the imagination to visualise her naked. He breathed in her subtle perfume. He would tie her to the bed, watching those gorgeous breasts swaying as he arranged her on all fours for his pleasure. She would smile nervously over her shoulder as he tied the last of the restraints in place, suddenly aware how vulnerable she had made herself, with all her charms exposed. Her sex would taste so sweet as he parted her lips with his tongue; a sweet tantalising taste of the delights that would follow. His fingers would dip inside her; she’d be wet and would writhe deliciously at his touch. As she lifted to meet his fingers he would step back and slide the leather belt from his trousers, let the cool length play across her back and thighs. She would shiver and begin to moan softly.
He must be recovering…
In his imagination the nurse’s face slowly changed to that of Emily Lawrence and the ache in his groin became almost unbearable. The hours he had fantasised about Emily’s wedding night were incalculable. He had sensed how ripe Emily was the day she had first applied for a job in his office - so innocent, so gentle, with those flashing blue eyes.
As she had walked up to his desk he had imagined how she would crawl towards him on her hands and knees, naked and obedient to his every wish. He had wanted to be her master from the moment he had laid eyes on her - she would be his and his alone…

Emily convinced herself she must have been dreaming and opened her eyes. What she saw made the breath catch in her throat. She had woken up into her nightmare. Her arms were secured, feet splayed apart. Her naked body ached from cramp and cold, her buttocks still glowing from the kiss of the riding crop. With a growing sense of horror she realised she was in some sort of crate. Light filtered through circular holes just a few inches above her face.
One of her greatest fears was being confined in enclosed spaces. Her heart began to race and she longed desperately to be back in the strange sleep-state from which she had woken. She started to wriggle, trying to free herself from her bonds; her breath coming in tight hysterical gasps.
They had taken off the gag, but she was too terrified to cry out. Every movement brushed her body against the crate’s rough sides, reminding her of Johnson’s attentions.
At some stage someone had tied her hands tight across her belly, but the space was too confined for it to be of any advantage.
Finally she willed herself relax, closing her eyes to block out the terrifying image of the raw wood just inches above her face, and instead strained to hear what was going on outside. At first all she could hear were the laboured sounds of her own breathing - no voices - and the distant muffled hum and vibration of an engine. She bit her lip; what in God’s name had she got herself into? Almost as the thought formed in her head the engine noises stopped and there was the sound of a vehicle door being opened.
People talking!
Emily concentrated on picking out the words; there was at least one male voice and a woman. She sighed with relief. Something must have happened. Someone must have found her - she was safe.
The feeling was short lived.
“Get it inside,” snapped the female voice. “You’re late. I have people waiting.”
The man mumbled a reply. Emily realised that whoever the woman was, she was expecting Emily’s arrival. This was no rescue but a delivery. She felt the crate being lifted; a rocking sensation that made her feel slightly sick and disorientated. Even through the wood she could feel the change in temperature as she was carried outside and the light from the air holes above her subtly changed.
Seconds passed and she strained to remain calm, trying to concentrate on the voices and sounds outside as she was carried back into some sort of building. She felt a jolt as the crate was placed on a floor and held her breath when she heard the catches being opened. Then her prison was flooded with brilliant white light, momentarily blinding her.
“Well, well,” purred a deep female voice, “so this is Peter Howard’s little virgin bride?”
Emily screwed up her eyes against the glare, her sense of fear and vulnerability returning like a tidal wave.
“Get her out of the box,” commanded the voice. “I haven’t got all night.”
Emily peered out from behind half closed lids. Above her two uniformed men perused her nakedness with cool disinterest. She couldn’t see the woman. The two men crouched, pulled her roughly to her feet and held her under the arms. The leg irons meant that she could barely move.
The room she found herself in was clinical, with a doctor’s couch dominating the centre. Beside the couch stood a tiny Eurasian woman dressed in black leggings and a short grey silk sleeveless top. Her sleek dark hair was tied back in a pony tail. Emily shuddered; this was no rescuer. The woman’s slanted almond eyes flashed with a cold cruel glitter. “Get her onto the table,” she said again, as she snapped on a pair of surgical gloves.
As they carried Emily across the room she saw that one wall was entirely made up of thick glass panels - and behind it a host of shadowy faces watched the proceedings with interest. Emily whimpered miserably as the two men laid her on the couch and did not resist as they secured her wrist cuffs above her head. She tried to stay calm, taking one deep breath after another.
The Eurasian woman smiled thinly down at her. “I am Leonora,” she said evenly. “I run Deuvar. That is where you are. What I say is law, do you understand?”
Emily nodded.
Leonora’s hand closed tightly around Emily’s chin. “Not good enough.” she whispered darkly. “Tell me, do you understand?”
“Yes,” Emily whispered miserably.
“Good,” said the dark woman, relinquishing her grasp. “Now let’s see if you were telling Mr Johnson the truth.” She nodded to the two men. Emily felt them unbuckle the leg irons and guide her ankles into high stirrups that spread her legs wide, exposing the deepest recesses of her body. Glancing down she could see the unknown faces moving closer to the glass to get a glimpse of what lay between her thighs. Emily was so shocked that she began to struggle, although she knew it was pointless. She felt her shoulder joints crackle and scream in protest.
Leonora sighed and rested a gloved hand on Emily’s exposed sex, her fingers sliding down over her clitoris; the woman’s touch was both electrifying and at the same time, deeply threatening.
“Lie still.”
Emily froze as Leonora began to examine her. Her tiny hands cupped Emily’s breasts, squeezing them speculatively, before moving them down over her belly, touching and prodding as if she were meat. Finally Leonora moved between her legs, spreading the lips of Emily’s sex open, watched by the audience behind the glass and also the two uniformed guards. Her fingers brushed Emily’s clitoris again sending a shower of sensations through her prone body. Emily moaned and without thinking lifted her hips.
Leonora smiled narrowly. “You’re going to be good,” she murmured. “I can see that.” She nodded towards one of the uniformed men. “Get me the wedge and bring the trolley closer.”
Emily stiffened as she felt a roll of something cold and unwieldy sliding under her buttocks, tipping her pelvis so that she was totally exposed. Leonora pulled an overhead light down and slowly slid a single finger into Emily’s quim.
Instinctively her muscles tightened around it and Leonora let out a humourless chuckle, “My God, this is so tight.”
In spite of herself Emily could feel little crystals of expectation and desire building low in her belly. Leonora’s finger worked a little deeper, her thumb brushing Emily’s clitoris as she worked. The girl let out a thin mew of pleasure and fear. Leonora withdrew her finger slowly, and in its place Emily felt something stunningly cold; her whole body stiffened. Leonora glanced down at her and slid the cold metal in a little further. Emily’s body resisted its intrusion.
“I have to look,” Leonora said quietly. “And I won’t break through - virginity is too valuable a commodity to waste on a lump of stainless steel.”
Emily felt her face flush crimson as Leonora bent to examine what lay within her.
She was nodding as she came back up. “She’s telling the truth. Nothing’s been this way before.”
Emily bit her lip. “I told Mr Johnson -” she began.
Leonora’s face darkened like thunder. “Haven’t you been told that you only speak when spoken to?”
Emily seeing the fury in the other woman’s face nodded.
Leonora ran a finger casually down over Emily’s belly. “Don’t forget, you signed a contract, you’re ours now. If you break the rules then you will be punished. Do you understand?”
Emily nodded again, too terrified to speak.
Leonora smiled thinly and slipped the chilly metal out. Emily let out a sigh of relief, but if she thought her ordeal was over, she was wrong. Leonora’s gloved fingers worked lower, trickling something cold and slick down over the tight bud of Emily’s backside. Emily instinctively tensed as she felt Leonora’s fingers begin to work at it, seeking entry. She sighed and slicked a little more cream over her fingers tips. “Pant,” she said coldly. “Let me in. We can do this one of two ways; trust me, it’s much easier if you co-operate.”
Leonora had seen many girls like Emily in her years at Deuvar; and had trained or broken them all. She relished the look on their faces when they first arrived; the compelling, tremulous look of fear and anticipation. The girl on the table was unconsciously resisting her with every sinew in her prone body; but she would be swift to learn. When it came to seeking entry into this tight bud, convention as much as anything else was what prevented the girls from relinquishing control.
Emily Lawrence snapped her eyes shut as Leonora gently eased her finger through the tight circular band of muscle. Emily’s body tightened around it, seemingly sucking it deeper. She would need to be stretched - her anus was far too tight for most men, though it could be that she was just tense. A fluttering pulse throbbed in Emily’s throat, betraying her fear.
Leonora casually stroked the ridge of the girl’s clitoris. It had already stiffened to a tight scarlet peak. Emily moaned and twisted a little under the caress; she was going to be good, responsive - frightened at the moment, but quite obviously excited.
Leonora could smell the girl’s excitement growing; her nipples hardening deliciously. She rubbed the little pleasure bud again and was rewarded by the girl lifting herself a little, seeking out Leonora’s finger tips. As she lifted higher Leonora drove her finger all the way into her arse. Emily gasped.
After a few seconds Leonora withdrew her finger; there was more that had to be done before Emily was ready to be taken into the training house. Leonora nodded to her two male helpers. The thick dark wedge of pubic hair had to come off, and - she glanced at the tray on the trolley - Johnson had said he wanted her pierced. One ring through the thick outer lips of her quim and one in each nipple.
Leonora turned briefly, watching the appraising eyes of the clients who had been invited to view the evening’s proceedings. They wouldn’t be disappointed. Business would be good after tonight’s little performance with Emily Lawrence. Her presence and her virginity would excite a lot more interest.
One of the uniformed guard pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and began to swab the delicate pink aureole of Emily’s nipples. The girl’s eyes snapped open in sheer terror. Leonora stepped away. She always enjoyed watching her helpers at work.
Emily began to writhe as the second man moved down to rub something between her legs; the cream they used would dissolve away the thick dark hair and leave her sex as naked and vulnerable as a ripe plum. Emily let out a thin squeal of terror as the first guard pressed the cold metal piercing gun against her breast. He adjusted the head so that jaws nipped the skin tight
“No,” Emily hissed. “Please!”
The second word was cut short by the explosive sound of the tiny bolt biting through the delicate flesh. The little silver ring that the piercing gun delivered flashed like a darting fish in the brilliant clinical lights. When the guard positioned the gun for a second time all that could be heard was a soft breathy sob.
Leonora smiled. The nipple rings looked superb and linked together with a fine silver chain would be a great aid to bringing Emily to heel. The room was now silent except for the soft unhappy sobs of the prone girl. Leonora looked at the clock on the clinic wall; a few more minutes and the second guard could swab away the remains of pubic hair.
Leonora glanced at the long sprung instrument that would deliver the third ring. It was already primed. All she would need to do was gather up the delicate skin and press it through. It would be over in seconds.

Emily felt the brush of the cold steel against her inner thighs and froze. The room was ominously silent. She dare not imagine what was to follow - except that at some level she had already guessed. Her nipples felt hot now; aching deep inside, and she had felt the cold rings against her flesh for a few seconds until her body heat had warmed them.
“Lie very still,” said Leonora on an outward breath. The sensation that followed a split second later was abstract; white heat - accompanied by a strange hissing sound. Emily screamed out as she felt the ring pass through the lips of her sex. Tears of pain and terror blinded her. Standing between her legs Leonora made a low noise of satisfaction. “There,” she said patting the girl’s thigh, “all done.”
Emily mewed in terror as something cold snaked over her belly. Glancing down she saw the glitter of a narrow chain and heard the snick of the catches as her nipples and sex were joined in an unnerving triangle.
Leonora leant over her, almond eyes alight. “You look very beautiful,” she purred. “Why don’t you let me show you?”
Emily felt her arms and legs being freed and then she was helped to her feet by one of the men. Her steps were unsteady, faltering. Ahead of her was a full length mirror. What she saw reflected there stunned her. The delicate chain linked the rings through her nipples before dropping down to the pink naked mound of her sex, creating a V shape that drew her eyes to the silver ring that nestled in the bare swollen flesh of her outer lips. Around her neck was the studded collar Roderick Banyon had put on her, and her wrists and ankles were still circled by leather straps.
Leonora smiled behind her and gently lifted Emily’s dark hair back off her face. “You’re nearly ready to begin your year with us,” she said. “We will start your training tomorrow.”
She snapped her fingers and the uniformed men approached and took hold of Emily’s arms. She was too stunned to resist.
Leonora glanced at the men. “You may do the rest. Put her in 27 when you’ve finished.” A second later she peeled off the surgical gloves, dropped them on the floor and vanished through the exit. Emily swallowed hard and looked from face to face of her two guards. What else was there they could possibly do to her?
They took her over in front of the thick glass wall. She could see and feel the eyes of the observers. “Kneel down,” said the first guard. Shaking Emily complied.
The second took something from the trolley. Emily flinched; what in god’s name was going to follow? There was a humming sound and the first guard jerked her backwards; they were going to shave her head. The clippers droned as they bit into her soft golden brown hair, the first shoulder length tress fell to the floor in front of her. Her humiliation complete, Emily tried to close her mind to the sounds. Tears were trickling down her pale unhappy face.
When they were done the first guard pulled her to her feet. His expression was blank and unfeeling.
“One last thing,” he said and pulled something from his jacket pocket. It was a thin rubber hood that fitted like a second skin over her skull and down over her eyes and ears, shaped to leave her mouth and nostrils uncovered. It was almost a relief not to be able to see. Emily took a deep breath. Anonymous hands led her away; she was too shocked, too lost in her own private fears, to do any more than go where they guided her.
The walk seemed long, turning left and right, the floor cold and unforgiving beneath her bare feet. Finally she heard a key turn in a lock and was led into what she sensed was a smaller room. Her guards guided her onto a narrow bed, fixing something through the wrist cuffs so that her hands were secured above her head, with a little slack so that she could just about turn over.
“Don’t try to take off the mask,” were the final words she heard before the door slammed shut. Alone she curled into a tight ball and started to sob, great hot miserable tears that clung to the inside of the mask. The chains cooled and warmed as they brushed again the peaks and curves of her body. The pierced places felt hot, bruised and swollen.
Behind the mask she could see the compelling image of Peter Howard. Why had he left her in such a mess? Surely he must have known what sort of men he was dealing with!

Max Fielding had driven down to Deuvar to witness the initiation. He had not been disappointed - nor had any of their other clients who had paid to see the spectacle. He was sorely tempted to put a bid in to be the one to deflower her.
While the other gentlemen and ladies who had watched Emily’s preparation had now gone off into other parts of the house to find gratification, he had come to visit what was jokingly called ‘The Stock Cupboard’. At the rear of the secluded mansion were three tiers of small cells where the girls of Deuvar were kept ready for their masters’ use.
He walked slowly along the galleried landings; most of the girls were out in the mansion, on display, though some of the privately ‘owned’ girls were still chained up and waiting in their cells. He grinned to himself. Sometimes it felt as if he was running a very private livery stable.
He peered through the open hatches. As a director he had a master key. Not too much was said about what went on in the stock cupboard. The male staff could avail themselves of whatever was on offer and some of the regular members, he knew, bribed the guards to have special privileges with particular girls.
In one cell was a heavy limbed Negress, trussed up on all fours, ready for the attentions of her particular owner. An ornate silver dildo had been skilfully inserted into her anus; apparently she was too tight for the man who regularly serviced her and who preferred the delights which a boy might better offer. Below the dildo Max could see, glittering, almost buried amongst her oily black hair, the row of silver studs that her master had had inserted into her labia. A thin plaited whip hung on the wall above her. The girl was making soft throaty sounds and Max wondered if perhaps one of the guards had used her - the pale lips of her sex glistened like jewels.
In the cell next door was a Junoesque red head, secured spread eagle against the wall. Max knew that she belonged to a particularly interesting female financier, who relished the chance to lay on the whip. He had watched them once, enjoying seeing the submissive Titian giantess crawl on her hands and knees to service her mistress with her long pink tongue. The memory made him shiver with pleasure. Perhaps he ought to make a point of watching them again -
In cell 27 crouched the reason for his late night visit. Emily Lawrence was curled into a fetal ball, her naked sex peeking shyly between the curve of her thighs. The silver ring was just visible under the harsh overhead light. He watched for a few seconds, trying to guess whether she was asleep or awake before fitting his master key into the lock.
Her body stiffened as she strained to hear his approach. On cat-like feet he moved alongside her bed. The thin hood picked out her distinctive features, rendering her face to an ebony sculpture. He stroked her thighs gently. “Straighten your legs,” he whispered. “I want to look at you.”
Slowly she complied, her lips trembling below the edge of the mask. Laid out for him under the unforgiving eye of the lamps she was a feast. “Open you legs,” he murmured as he circled her nipples, delighted that they hardened under the merest touch. The rings looked superb; Johnson had been right in his decision to pierce her. He bent closer and took one between his lips, sucking the little fleshy peak and the cool ring into his mouth. She shuddered, obviously afraid that the flesh would tear.
As he kissed and sucked each peak in turn he moved his hands lower to stroke her sex; so tempting but as yet unavailable. He parted the lips gently above her clitoris and then kissed a soft moist route down over her belly until the little peak nestled between his lips.
Beneath him the girl began to moan - at once both afraid and excited. As his tongue worked faster she lifted up to meet his caresses. Her sex tasted of the sea, of a dark ancient ocean that compelled men to seek it out.
God, he would like to fuck her, feel his cock buried in that tight wet tunnel. The ring was just a gesture, a symbol, if he’d wanted to he could have slipped inside her…
Instead he pulled back, as the girl’s pleasure began to drive him out to the edge of recklessness. He stood up and undid his trousers, guiding his stiff angry cock towards her trembling mouth. As she felt it brush her lips she shuddered and then opened for him.
“Carefully,” he said in a low voice. “If you bite me, Leonora will take the greatest pleasure in pulling you teeth.”
The girl stiffened momentarily and then began to lap and suck at him; a terrified puppy who sought only to please. Max Fielding smiled to himself and slipped his finger back towards her sex; after all there was no need to be stingy with pleasure.

Chapter 3

“And just where do you think you’re going?” said a crisp, efficient female voice.
Peter Howard was almost relieved to be caught trying to make his way to the nurses’ station. The corridor floor was spinning up to meet him as he leant breathlessly against the wall outside his room. A strong pair of arms caught him under the armpits.
“I just wanted to get my things.”
The corridor lights seemed to be darkening around him and his voice was disappearing down a distant echoing tunnel. He clutched frantically at the smooth walls.
“If you can just hang on for a split second,” said his rescuer, “I’ll grab a wheel chair and we’ll have you back in your bed in no time. You should have rung if you wanted anything.”
Peter was looking up into the eyes of a statuesque strawberry blonde dressed in a crisp navy blue dress. The uniform did nothing to disguise the fact that she had a figure that would drive most men insane. She smiled coolly at his appraising and appreciative stare. “I can see you’re on the mend,” she said with amusement. “So what was it you were looking for?”
Peter focused on her name badge. “Sister Ruskin?” he said in surprise.
She nodded and took hold of his wrist. “My, my, but your pulse is racing, Mr Roberts. I think we’d better get you back into bed.”
Peter nodded. “I wanted to see the things they’d brought in with me - when they fished me out of the water?”
She gave him an indulgent look. “Did you try looking in your bedside locker?”
Peter blushed. “I never thought -” he began but the Sister’s expression stopped him in his tracks.
She winked at him knowingly and wheeled him back into his room. As she helped him into bed Peter could detect a tiny but unmistakable hum of desire in her touch. He glanced across at her; her pupils were dilated and glittered darkly like jet. He didn’t want to betray his ignorance and waited whilst she crouched to retrieve what was in the bedside locker.
His heart leapt as he saw the familiar contours of his hold-all - it appeared unscathed - but there was something else. The sister placed a large white envelope alongside the leather bag. It was sealed with the hospital’s official stamp and marked ‘Private’ in a round distinctive hand.
“The doctors wanted to try and find out more about you, whether you had a family, or were on any medication - that sort of thing.”
Peter picked up the envelope and turned it thoughtfully between his long fingers. It felt thick, like a magazine or - he smiled as comprehension dawned - a brochure. Johnson had given him a sample brochure for their company’s flagship retreat, Deuvar. He’d got no idea it had been in his holdall. The brochure was an elegant maroon-bound book whose tasteful and discreet cover belied its torrid contents.
“Did you take a look inside?”
The woman nodded and bit her lip. “Yes,” she replied softly. “I never dreamt such places existed.”
Peter peeled open the flap of the envelope. “And did it excite you?”
She nodded, her face flushing crimson, “Oh yes,” she said. “I’m rather afraid it did!”
Peter Howard smiled. “Perhaps I can help you then,” he said softly.
He watched as Sister Ruskin tucked him carefully into his bed, her hands moved rapidly, her face was still flushed from her confession.
“What I really need is access to a computer,” he said when she finally looked at him. She was so close that he could detect the smell of her perfume and beneath it the scintillating hint of perspiration. His fingers moved to her ample breasts, seeking out the tight buds of her nipples. She hesitated as he began to undo her uniform.
“Have you any idea,” he said in a low, barely audible voice, “what it feels like to be at a man’s beck and call? Always to be available for his every wish, his every desire?” One hand snaked lower to gather up her skirt as he pressed his lips to her cleavage. She shivered and moaned softly, the colour draining from her face, as she pressed her body closer to him and he found the swollen mound of her sex between meaty muscular thighs.
“I could teach you so much, Sister Ruskin,” he said darkly. His touch was more brutal now, probing amongst the fabric to find an entry. Instinctively she opened her legs to give him greater access, and let out a throaty gasp as he tore the fabric aside and plunged his fingers into her sopping quim.
“My God, you’re so wet, so ready.” He pressed wet kisses to her warm fragrant skin. “I would like to fuck you, tied on all fours; push deep inside you as you lay bound and gagged for my pleasure.” He let one finger toy with her anus. “No place is too secret, no pleasure too wild. Would you like that, Sister? Or perhaps you would prefer to be beaten first?”
He slipped his fingers out of her, letting one hand cup her plump cool arse. “The kiss of a belt here, making your skin sing, making you beg for mercy and more in the same sweet breath. Would you like that?”
Desperately she pulled herself away from him, eyes flashing diamond bright as she re-buttoned her bodice. “My God!” she hissed breathlessly. “Will you take me to this place, to Deuvar?”
“The question is,” Peter said, “will you help me to get my hands on a decent computer?”
The sister tugged her uniform straight and then nodded. “They’ve got a computer on the ward, in the clerk’s office. Do you think that would be all right?”
“I have to see it.”
Sister Ruskin glanced at her watch. “When the staff go for their break I could come and get you in the wheel chair.” She looked anxiously over her shoulder towards the door. “I really ought to go now.”
Peter smiled. “Of course… what’s you name?”
“Angela.”
“An angel? I’ve found an angel? How very appropriate. One thing before you go; lift up you uniform. I want to see what’s hidden down there.”
Angela blushed furiously, but then she slowly lifted her skirt. Her thighs were thick and meaty, strong and pale, whilst between them was an expanse of coarse white cotton hiding away her sex. Her belly and hips were full and rounded.
Peter tilted his head on one side as if with disapproval. “Such a shame to keep something so beautiful hidden away. Take those off!”
Angela stiffened as if she was about to protest and then after a few seconds hesitation rolled the plain cotton briefs down over her wide hips. Her sex was surrounded by a stunning corona of red blonde hair. Peter smiled and lifted the fingers that had so briefly explored her secret paces to his lips; they smelt musky, like the warm animal scent of the stable.
Angela’s colour deepened as she watched him slip his fingers into his mouth. “Stay like that,” he said. “I want to be able to touch you whenever I want.”
Angela bit her lip, eyes alight with unspeakable desire. She bent hastily to pick up her panties and stuff them into her pocket before hurrying back into the corridor. Peter smiled and lay back amongst the pillows; this was an ally he certainly couldn’t have anticipated. Once he was certain she had gone he turned his attention to the hold-all on the bed and unzipped it carefully. The interior smelt of rank dampness - the sea.
Inside, carefully wrapped in a double layer of polythene, was the thing that had almost cost him his life. It was a simple metal box with adapter leads carefully wound around it like the umbilical cord of a new-born child. In the bag, untouched by the sea water, was the thing for which he was certain Johnson and his partner Max Fielding would be prepared to die or kill for: Magenta.
Carefully he unpeeled the water proof wrapping - it certainly looked undamaged but he couldn’t be sure until he had access to a computer. Magenta was a computer hard disk, a huge archive of information that held within it the destiny of nations and powerful men. He sighed and lay back exhausted amongst the pillows, finger tips resting on his prize. Magenta was the twentieth century’s answer to the Holy Grail and he still possessed it.

In cell 27 in Deuvar, Emily’s unseen visitor had left. She could still taste the salty offering of his seed in her mouth. Against all the odds she knew she was falling asleep, exhaustion and hunger driving her into unconsciousness. She rolled onto her side, careful to avoid the loops of chain that joined her most sensitive and vulnerable places.
Between her legs she could still feel the dull satisfying glow of her orgasm. Her unseen lover had guided her to the edge of oblivion as she had drawn him deeper and deeper into her compliant mouth. At the very second when she believed she would die under his knowing caresses she had heard him gasp. His movements had become more ragged and instinctive and, as her own pleasure had drowned out all fear, he had flooded her mouth with thick salty semen. He had slumped over her, teasing one raw pierced nipple into his mouth, gently sucking on the cold silver ring.
She had almost wept as she heard him leaving; she wanted to feel his lips and fingers on her again. Her quim ached to be filled. She shivered at the memory and tried to relax.
The last thing she imagined before sleep claimed her was Peter’s face. Her grief at losing him was mingled with a measure of pure rage and a bitter sense of frustration.

In her luxurious office suite in another wing of Deuvar, Leonora Ti Chung poured Max Fielding a scotch, and a mineral water for herself. “Emily has generated a lot of interest already,” she said, handing her employer his drink.
Max nodded. “Anyone I know?”
“Vernier the Frenchman, Mustapha the Arab, Colbart -” She lifted her glass as if to encompass the whole mansion. “Let’s face it, Max, how often do we get our hands on a white virgin?”
Max sipped his drink. “So do you think Emily Lawrence will give you any problems?”
Leonora laughed dryly. “No. All she needs is a little basic training to make sure she does as she’s told. It shouldn’t take too much.”
Max smiled to himself. After all, hadn’t he seen Emily’s movements and the pierced delights of her ripe fragrant sex first hand? “And, of course, the right buyer,” he added to disguise his expression.
Leonora nodded and then picked up a sheet of paper from her desk. “I would have agreed with you, but apparently your friend Johnson has other ideas.” She handed Max the typed fax. “As you can see, Mr Johnson only wants the auction to include the actual deflowering. He doesn’t want her owned by one man. My instructions are that she is to be made available to anyone who wants her.”
Max pulled a face. “But she would be perfect as a slave for one of our regulars.”
“It appears that Johnson has other ideas. He wants her to be well used.”
Max snorted. “What he wants is to get his hands on Peter Howard and he thinks this is the way to do it.”
Leonora drained her glass in one mouthful. “And revenge for stealing Magenta?”
Max nodded and offered his own glass for a refill. “Some revenge, to beat a live woman for revenge on a dead man!”

In his London town house, Johnson laid the phone back in its cradle. Emily had arrived safe and sound and his instructions had been carried out to the letter.
On the computer screen on his desk was the message that his treacherous accountant had sent into the world-wide computer net for Peter Howard. Peter was once Banyon’s best friend, but now Banyon had played right into his hands. Johnson had wondered how to ensure that Peter Howard knew that Emily was at Deuvar. This way Howard would get the information from a source that he trusted implicitly.
Johnson was convinced Peter Howard was still alive. It was too damned convenient that he had died and Magenta had been lost with him. Too neat, too easy to be true.
The door to his office opened slowly to reveal his own personal body slave, so painfully trained to his particular tastes.
The girl was tall; supposedly a warrior princess, who had been given to him as a gift during a business deal with an Arab prince. Johnson had no way to check her pedigree, but her natural bearing and stance certainly suggested that she had once been of some great importance.
Her lithe muscular body bore the magical marks of ritual scarification, patterning her exquisite golden skin into complex silver and blue whorls and glyphs. The intricate designs led the connoisseur’s eye back and forth across the oiled movements of the sleek muscles. Her breasts were small high peaks with large exotic nipples - and her sex…
He smiled, a cruel smile.
Her sex was like a wild animal, heavily covered in a rough musky pelt that extended up from the usual V shape in a narrow line up to her navel and beyond, finally fading in the hollow beneath her breast bone. She looked barely tame, dangerous - like a leopard who wore a leash only because she respected and feared the master who controlled her. Possessing her was pure illusion.
He had seen her first at the Prince’s summer palace. She had been tied into an astonishing erotic arc, thumbs clamped to her toes; a fighting snarling she-cat that obviously terrified the two men appointed as her keepers.
Her muscular body had glistened with sweat as she fought against her bonds, breasts jutting forward, nipples bullet hard, a low threatening growl trickling from between her bared teeth. Seeing her writhing and fighting against her restraints had brought a flush of heat to his face.
She presented the ultimate challenge - a truly untamed woman.
He stared at her sweating tattooed body as she struggled desperately to free herself.
The Prince lifted a hand towards her. “This creature, rather like our Arab horses, is truly the province of an expert, Mr Johnson. I will not be offended if you decline my gift. I know your tastes. My harem is full of women who would satisfy your every whim.”
Johnson smiled thinly, eyes never leaving the contours of the dark girl’s straining body.
“Rest assured, Prince Assim, she will meet my needs perfectly. I am deeply flattered by your generosity.”
The Prince smiled and gave a little bow. “Would you like my men to secure her so that you can try her?” He nodded towards the uniformed guards who stood either side of the girl. Johnson saw fear in their faces.
Across the room the girl let out a banshee scream of pure loathing, rattling the chains that secured the clamps to her toes and thumbs to the floor. She struggled to turn, turning her head as best she could to try and see who was speaking.
Johnson shook his head. “I would prefer to have her home first.” He stared at the guards. “It is not my habit to take my pleasure in front of servants.”
The Prince laughed. “Here we hardly notice them, my dear Mr Johnson. They know better than to be indiscreet. Perhaps after dinner I can interest you in sharing a rather attractive European girl who recently joined my stable.” He paused, eyes alight with mischief. “The man who supplied her says she moves exquisitely under the lash.”
Johnson smiled. He had brought the girl over himself as a little oil to grease the wheels of commerce.
“My pleasure, Your Royal Highness.”
Their exchange of pleasantries concluded, Johnson left the Prince and went back out onto the terrace, where the sirocco wind rippled through the trees around the palace. Eyes on the desert beyond the whitewashed walls, his mind returned again and again to the fascinating wild creature who was now his.
The following day he had Leonora and his four most trusted security men flown out. He had the tattooed girl shipped to England in a crate aboard his private jet and delivered to Deuvar by his most experienced handlers, with no water, light or food on the journey.
By the time she arrived she was exhausted and, despite continued resistance, obviously terrified. Dark circles stained the skin beneath her wild-cat eyes.
Even then Johnson didn’t relent. He and Leonora understood only too well what was needed. The strange wild tattooed girl was hung, spread eagled, in one of the cells. Leonora ensured she was kept in almost total darkness and beaten every day with a thin whip that lifted raw weals across her muscular shoulders.
She saw no-one except for her masked tormentor, who never spoke, and Johnson, who came in to feed her where she hung. If she fought or resisted he left her hungry. Later he took delicacies, feeding herby hand, talking to her in low but commanding tones - the voice of her master.
After a fortnight the unnerving glint in the wild girl’s eyes began to fade and the sleek gloss of her golden skin faded to an unhealthy grey. It was only then that he sensed they were close to breaking her.
Like a cat, she tried to rub herself against him when he visited, seeking some crumbs of comfort from his touch. Another week and she let him touch her, exploring her exotic curves and folds with knowing fingers. The beatings continued every day. She stank. Unwashed, her hair clung to her face in filthy ribbons, but Johnson continued his regime of pleasure and pain, rewarding her compliance and obedience with gentle caresses, treats handed out by his own fingers.
When she was wild or disobedient she was whipped by her masked tormentor. Reward and punishment - a heady and effective method of bringing even the wildest of beasts to heel.
When he finally cut her down - a month after she had arrived at Deuvar - she clung to him like a child, sobbing frantically, rubbing her filthy body against his.
He oversaw her washing, inspecting every inviting orifice of her strange tattooed body - and then he took her to his rooms. He lay back on his bed, naked, and let her show her gratitude. She mewled like a kitten and crawled over to the bed, her body eager to worship him.
He remembered it still, her tentative movements, her fear at displeasing him in case her punishments began again. And when - exhausted and raw from pleasuring him - she had curled at his feet like a beaten dog, he had never forgotten the expression on her face.
He knew then, as she had looked up at him with those strange eyes, that he hadn’t broken her, just bent her instinct to survive into a shape that would serve him almost as well. Even now he sometimes watched her, aware that just below the surface the wild beast still lingered, no more that a heart beat away.
Every day he took a whip to her oiled intimidating body, a salient reminder of what would befall her if she ever disobeyed him.
She never smiled, instead her gingery brown eyes watched the world coldly; she had the eyes of a predator. He beckoned her closer. She dropped to her knees and crawled across the floor towards him. Even with those bewitching feral eyes downcast her posture did not quite disguise her arrogance. At his feet she bent lower still, resting her forehead on the floor near his feet.
Her scarred oiled flesh glowed in the lamp light. He took a thin switch from his desk and flexed it thoughtfully. He let his imagination roam free; there was nothing he could not do to this girl, nothing he had discovered yet…
The phone rang, breaking his concentration. It was his private line so he must answer it. Angrily he plucked the receiver from the stand.
“Yes?” he snapped.
“St. Leonard’s hospital here. May I speak to Mr Johnson?”
Immediately he got a grip on his tone, spoke more softly, but it was only skin deep.
“Ballard Johnson speaking. How may I help you?”
“I hope you don’t mind me ringing so late but you asked me to contact you when Mr Roberts regained consciousness? Well, I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear that he came round this afternoon.”
Johnson smiled thinly. “Really, well, that is marvellous news,” he said. “When will he be able to receive visitors?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps.”
“I shall come.”
He hung up and looked at the warrior slave girl. Tomorrow he would know for certain what had happened to Peter Howard from this eye witness, Roberts, whoever he was. At the thought of Peter Howard he felt the fury low down in his gut, burning up through him in a wild bush fire.
The girl at his feet felt his anger. She was trembling slightly, a delicate veneer of perspiration lifting across her shoulders and in the small of her back. He let the head of the switch draw a line from the nape of her neck to the boney prominence between her flat well muscled buttocks. She got up slowly, uncurling herself like a sleek cat. As she drew back her shoulders he brought the length of the switch sharply across her dark cinnamon coloured nipples. Caught off-guard she let out a wild throaty roar and threw back her head, eyes flashing furiously.
“Come to me!” he commanded.
Though he was never certain that she understood his words she understood what was expected of her. She pressed her head to his chest, nuzzling him. He stroked her beaded hair and guided her down over his desk, fingers working along her spine. She dropped her hips, opening her sex rhythmically like a wet pink mouth. Even here, on the skin closest to her most private parts, the tattooist’s art was visible. He drew back the switch and struck her low, where the crease of her buttocks joined her thighs.
The second blow was higher. He began to rain a flurry of blows down on her blue and silver scarred flesh. She threw back her head and howled like a dog as the redness flushed through her skin, turning her golden skin to colour of a stormy sunset.
Finally he threw the whip down onto the floor, dropped his trousers and plunged his raging bulbous cock into the dark stormy recesses of her anus. She snorted madly and bucked against him, while his hands circled round to cup her slick glistening breasts. He nipped and twisted her long distended nipples.
She gasped, matching him stroke for stroke as he plunged deeper and deeper into the stunningly tight orifice nestling between her buttocks. He felt her hands slipping down between their legs, one palm cupped the root of his cock, nipping and pressing in time with their thrusts. The fingers of the other, he knew, would be buried to the hilt in her sex, a thumb rubbing her clitoris. He sensed the rhythm of her fingers through the thin membrane that divided her two electrifying orifices. She beat out a steady counterpoint, driving them both over the edge to the white heat of oblivion.
With one final thrust he surrendered control, letting her stunning body close around him, driving away all reason, sucking every last drop from his cock. He felt her orgasm hot on the heels of his own and was dragged back to the brink to take one final look into the pit of pleasure as her body drew him in hungrily. It felt as if she might be able to swallow him whole, consume him in the wild beast that throbbed between her legs.
Snorting, breathless, sweat pouring down his face, he withdrew and collapsed back into an armchair. She turned round slowly and murmured the one word he understood from the all the year’s they had been together.
“Maestro.”
She dropped to her hands and knees and crawled onto the mat alongside the hearth. In front of the last embers of the fire she stretched out and closed her ginger eyes; a sleek wild cat exhausted and well fed after a long day’s hunt. Johnson smiled to himself and picked up the report he had been reading.

Peter Howard looked at the computer screen in the ward clerk’s office and cursed. ‘Access denied.’ It seemed as if everyone really did believe he was dead. He tapped in another code sequence; he wanted to connect up to a relatively secure corner of the computer network before he dared to try and open Magenta. His body complained, he was exhausted. He leant back and rubbed his eyes as Angela Ruskin appeared with a mug of coffee.
“Someone will be coming soon.” She handed him the mug. “How’s it going?”
Peter snorted as the computer denied him again. “I can’t do it,” he said, tapping in another access code. “There are other ways in but I need the time to chase around, back track, find a back door - shit - how long before I can leave hospital?”
Angela pulled a face. “Four or five days I guess.”
Peter groaned. “Oh well…” He stopped mid sentence as a message scrolled up onto the screen. “Oh, my god!”
Angela read the message over his shoulder. ‘They have Emily’ She leant closer. “Emily?”
“My girl friend,” he said flatly. He looked at her and decided upon honesty. “We plan to get married.”
Angela didn’t bat an eyelid. “And who has her?”
Peter sighed and ran his fingers back through his dark hair. “Some people who could do her an awful lot of harm. They want something I have. I have to get out of the hospital, I just have to! Can’t I just walk out?”
Angela snorted. “Don’t you mean just wheel out? Your body isn’t much up to walking yet.” She paused thoughtfully. “You basically just need rest and recuperation, you could discharge yourself into a nursing home.”
Peter looked thoughtful. “Would that take long to arrange? I’d need computer access, arrange for some funds -”
Angela grinned. “Actually, I had a better idea. There are dozens of nursing homes in this area. No-one would be that interested in checking up on you. To be honest they’d be pleased to have the bed back. Why don’t you come home with me? I could help you cook up a fictitious nursing home place for the forms -” She paused, eyes alight.
It was Peter’s turn to grin. “And?”
She lifted her skirt slowly to reveal the ripe red hair around her quim. “Perhaps you will do me a favour. Didn’t you say you would teach me discipline, like at Deuvar?”
Peter nodded. No harm in that!
Angela placed a form in front of him. She had been well prepared, it seemed. “Better fill this in then, Mr Roberts.”
“Are you serious about taking care of me?”
“I’ve got a fortnight’s holiday due to me. I’ll ring in tomorrow night and say my mother is sick.”
Peter lifted an eyebrow.
Angela grinned. “Well, all the others do it. About time I had some too.”
Peter slid his hands up her thighs; they were warm to the touch. “Some of what?” he whispered darkly.
She wriggled around so that his fingers slid effortlessly into the thick matt of hair around her quim. He pressed deeper, sliding inside her, feeling the wet compelling pull of her sex.
“Whatever you have to offer me.”

Chapter 4

Emily Lawrence was woken by a gentle touch on her shoulder; the merest fleeting caress.
Instantly conscious, she needed no time to collect her thoughts or struggle to remember what had happened to her. As she woke to the fearful darkness created by the thin mask she knew exactly where she was. She remembered the command to remain silent unless spoken to and struggled to stop herself from asking who was there, instead she strained to listen for clues. Her face and head felt desperately hot and uncomfortable under the rubber and her nipples and sex felt raw and vulnerable from being pierced.
After a few seconds she felt gentle hands undoing her wrist restraints, the movements accompanied by soft tuneless humming. A hand stroked her collar, there was a clicking sound, and then a soft tug.
“Come with me. We’ll wash you now,” said a foreign sounding female voice. The unseen woman re-enforced her invitation with a sharp tug on the collar.
Emily unfolded her body and put her feet on the floor. Her full bladder ached. The tug came again and she guessed that it was perhaps a leash fixed to the loop in her collar. Gingerly she took two small steps, hands in front of her.
Her companion laughed. “We’ll never get there if you go so slowly. Here -” Emily felt a small cool hand linking though her arm. “I’ll show you. I’d forgotten you can’t see.”
They walked arm in arm out into what sounded like a corridor, where Emily had walked the night before and then - still at a snail’s pace - into another room. With every step Emily was conscious of the chains, afraid to snag or catch them, she walked as if she were on broken glass. Firm small hands guided her onto a bench and she heard another snick of metal on metal.
“Close your eyes.” said the voice. “It will be very bright when I take this off.” Emily complied as the mask was rolled back off her face. The cold air hit her moist sweating skin like a soft kiss. She moaned with relief as the pressure was relieved and instantly wondered if she was going to be punished. Opening her eyes she looked straight into the face of a small oriental girl, dressed in a clinical smock. Her companion smiled.
“Better?”
Emily nodded, unsure whether the question demanded an answer. They were in a large white-tiled bathroom. By the door was a man in uniform who was watching the two women without interest. Ahead of her were shower cubicles and open lavatory stalls - neither had any doors. Beside her, snaking away from the collar on her neck, was a long length of chain that was secured into a large ring complete with a small lock. It was so high on the wall that she could only assume her diminutive walker had given the security guard the chain as they came in - she certainly wouldn’t be able to reach it herself.
The girl smiled again. “My name is Kai. You can wash and then I’ll do these -” Her tiny quick silver hands cupped Emily’s nipples, touching the silver rings. Emily flinched. The girl pulled a face. “It’s all right. I’ll make them feel better. Lie back a little.” Carefully she removed the chain that linked each ring. As the links moved through rings Emily bit her lips, praying that they didn’t snag.
Emily’s body chain removed, Kai indicated the shower and the toilets. Emily glanced at the impassive face of the guard, wondering whether she could bring herself to use the lavatory while being watched. The neck chain was long enough to allow her to move freely around the room. Finally she realised that she had no choice and walked into the toilet stall, averting her eyes until she was done.
The warm water in the shower was sheer bliss. She let it course down over her, draining away the aches and pains of the previous day. It seemed almost impossible that her life could change so dramatically in less than twenty four hours. She was reluctant to climb out of the cubicle until finally Kai switched off the water.
“If you lie here -” Kai pointed towards the bench, now covered with thick cream towels. Emily climbed onto it. Kai secured her hands above her head, slipping short straps through her wrist cuffs, and then unfastened the neck chain. Emily glanced at the guard’s rugged unsympathetic face; resistance would be pointless.
Kai looked at Emily’s body appreciatively before patting her dry. The Oriental girl slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and poured something from a bottle onto a ball of cotton wool. She tended to each piercing with gentle thoroughness; the cool spirit of the cotton wool burned like fire and brought tears to Emily’s eyes. Kai made tender clucking sounds in her throat, finger lingering on the sensitive peaks of Emily’s nipples. As her fingers moved lower Emily held her breath. Kai grinned. “It will sting but it will feel better.”
One finger slid down between the lips of her sex, caressing her clitoris. The knowing touch sent a flurry of unexpected pleasure through Emily’s body, so unexpected that she let out a little squeal.
Kai looked pleased. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” she said, repeating the move. The touch made Emily shiver. Kai stroked her clitoris again as she applied the spirit soaked cotton wool to the lips of Emily’s quim; the contrast of the two sensations was breathtaking.
Kai stood back a little to admire her handiwork. “Now I’m going to oil you. It’ll feel wonderful.” She took another bottle from a small table and poured a pool of liquid into her palms to warm it before spreading it on Emily’s belly. Emily found it hard to relax at first, although Kai’s gentle rhythmic movements did feel good.
All the time, behind Kai’s shoulder, Emily could see the dark eyes of the guard. His expression was subtly changing from one of disinterest to open excitement as the little oriental girl skilfully rubbed the oil into every inch of Emily’s flesh. When she had finished with the front she tapped Emily on the shoulder for her to turn over. Now her touch was more positive, firmly kneading her back muscles, slipping knowing fingers over the swell of Emily’s buttocks and into the sensitive flesh between them.
In spite of herself, Emily could feel her excitement growing with every kneading movement. She could sense Kai’s pleasure and a growing sense of expectation.
Kai’s caresses where awakening a part of her nature she had never known existed. The girl’s hands lifted to run along her waist, stroking the sensitive areas under her armpits before sliding down to the small of her back. She began to work on the muscles of her thighs. Emily moaned and opened her legs, gasping as Kai’s fingertips slid over her anus, a finger teasing at the little closed bud. Kai made soft throaty noises of encouragement, and in spite of herself Emily felt a tight glittering spiral beginning to build within her.
Behind her she heard a noise, but was too excited to care, flexing her muscles so that her sex and backside were open, lifting a little clear of the bed for the girl’s touch.
What she felt next took away her breath. Something cool and smooth on the very rim of her backside. Before she had time to resist she felt something being pushed into her, cold and invasive, opening her backside in its path. She squealed and began to struggle, fighting the invasion, but too late. Strong fingers held the dildo in place, while others flipped her unceremoniously onto her back, snapping tight a triangular leather harness that held the dildo tight inside her.
Emily sobbed, staring up into the eyes of not just Kai, but the heavily built guard. He wore a lascivious grin. He hunched over her, pressing his thick lips down onto her’s.
“I’m going to be the first to fuck you there,” he said as he pulled away, thrusting his hand between her legs to drive the dildo deeper into her backside. “Tossed a coin for it.” His flinty eyes glittered. Beside him, Kai was smiling. Emily felt a desperate sense of betrayal. The head of the object nestling deep inside her made her feel sick. She glanced down - the heavy straps around her thighs and belly were a stark and unnerving contrast to her pale skin. The guard surveyed her body with barely concealed desire.
He looked at Kai. “How long before she’ll be ready?”
Kai smiled, snapping off her rubber gloves. “I’d say any time at all. She’s aching for satisfaction. I’d let you have her now if it weren’t for Leonora’s orders.”
The guard bent forward and pressed his face into Emily’s groin; a long snaking tongue opening up the lips of her sex. Emily stiffened as his rough mouth caught the silver ring that linked her sex lips. Her fear was tempered by the white hot electric plume of pleasure that his kiss lit in her belly. She was stunned by her body’s reaction. She could feel an urgent surge of need. The guard pulled back a little, sniffing at her naked sex like a dog.
Kai held out her hand. “Time we went to see Leonora.”
Emily climbed unsteadily from the couch, feeling the anal insert move in her with every step.
Kai smiled encouragingly.
The guard helped Kai to secure Emily’s hands behind her back; all the time his fingers moved over her body with something akin to possession. She shuddered as his fingers moved across the crease of her buttocks.
He made a thick guttural noise and then beckoned to Kai. She stepped towards him with total obedience. Grabbing hold of Emily’s arms, he forced her onto the floor. He was so quick that Emily didn’t have a chance to think, let alone act. Kai did nothing to assist her. She screamed out in desperation as he pulled a short length of chain down from the table and snapped it into her wrist cuffs.
“Be quiet,” he snorted, as she tumbled backwards onto the cold marble floor, her weight pinning her arms behind her. He bent down and grabbed hold of her collar, jerking it upwards until she was kneeling. All the time Kai stood behind him, eyes downcast. The guard grinned at Emily. “Can you feel that thing up inside you? Imagine what it will feel like when it’s me!”
Emily felt her colour draining.
“Now, get yourself comfortable and open you knees nice and wide,” he said with a leer. He glanced over his shoulder at Kai. “Get that overall off. I want to see you two together - seems to me that the pair of you were enjoying your massage. After all, I’ve got to wait for her -” he nodded towards Emily. “So I’ll have you instead.”
Kai said nothing. Instead she slipped the pristine white smock over her head. Beneath she was wearing a dark green leather Basque. It fitted her like a second skin, pressing her full breasts up in an open invitation. Her nipples seemed unnaturally dark, as if stained with something, and hardened instantly in the cool air.
The guard groaned appreciatively and circled the oriental girl, as Emily watched them in terror. He ran his hands over Kai’s narrow elongated waist. The leather Basque was tight, nipping her skin slightly so that her flesh seemed to swell out from under it; she was an erotic masterpiece. Below the lower edge of the Basque, which was shaped to frame her belly, Kai’s sex was naked and glistening with oil. At the lowest point between her legs hung a large ring on which was a tiny glittering bird.
The guard grinned and drew a finger between the outer lips. Her clitoris peeked seductively between the flushed pink labia. “I want to see you on all fours with your tongue between her legs,” he said softly. “I know that’s what you want, Kai. I’ve seen you before when you’ve been in here with the other girls.”
Kai knelt slowly and caught hold of Emily’s collar, pulling her close. Her lips brushed Emily’s cheek and then her mouth. Her kisses made Emily whimper; so gentle, so soft - mixed feelings of revulsion and fear rose in Emily’s gut. She gasped and tried to pull away as Kai’s lips opened and her tongue sought entry.
The oriental girl’s hands lifted to her breasts, teasing at the engorged peaks with great care, tracing the line of the rings. Her head moved lower, kissing out a wet trail of desire on Emily’s tingling excited flesh. Beside the bench the guard watched with a grin on his face. “Does she taste good?” he murmured, fingers on the fly of his uniform trousers.
Kai moaned and moved lower still, pushing her pert bottom up towards the guard, who turned and locked the door to the bathroom.
Emily was so stunned that she was frozen to the spot. Kai’s cool oily hands worked along her open thighs. Emily gasped. A few second later they were followed by a tongue, as warm and compelling as the heat of summer. Kai hissed softly and Emily felt Kai’s tongue persuading the lips of her sex to part.
Emily whimpered as Kai’s fingers slipped beneath the leather of her harness, and pulled her onto her exploratory tongue. She wriggled to try and free herself. Emily had never been touched by a woman, nor ever in her darkest, most erotic dreams imagined what it might be like.
Kai’s expert kisses were electrifying. Emily’s mind screamed in revulsion while her body begged for more. Her legs opened spontaneously, pressing the anal dildo deeper as she felt Kai locate the tender swelling peak of her clitoris. As the oriental woman’s mouth closed around it Emily knew she was lost.
Behind them the guard grunted and dropped to his knees. Emily caught a fleeting glance of his thick meaty phallus as he manoeuvred himself into position. Kai gave a wild shriek as the man plunged into her open waiting body. Emily had no idea which orifice the man had chosen, her mind full of the wild suckings and lappings of her female lover.
The guard thrust forward, leering at Emily, his fingers playing with her peaked nipples. He set a furious pace, matched now by Kai’s hot wet tongue.
Emily thought she might faint as the flurries and waves of pleasure grew and grew with each new sensation. The stunning crystal waves seemed to come closer and closer together until suddenly her mind was filled with a brilliant white light and a pleasure of such intensity that she could barely breath.
The guard gave one tremendous final thrust and then fell sated across Kai’s leather clad back. All Emily could feel now was the roaring glow of satisfaction deep in her belly and the soft breaths of Kai on her thighs. Slowly the guard pulled away, pressing his wet flaccid cock back into his trousers. He looked at the women, crouched on the floor for his pleasure, with total disdain.
Kai pulled herself upright and looked down at Emily. “I’ll take you to see Leonora now - and then you will eat. No mask, but you’ll have to be blindfolded.” Her voice sounded remarkably normal, whereas Emily was trembling so much that she didn’t think she would be able to stand.
Kai unlocked her hands from the couch and helped her to her feet. She signalled to the guard who took a long silk handkerchief from his pocket and covered her eyes.
He leant forward as he tied the knot tight. He was so close that Emily could feel his breath on her skin, “Keep an eye out for me. Don’t forget, I’m going to be the first,” he murmured threateningly. As he spoke he slipped his hand between her buttocks and pressed on the strap that held the dildo in place.
Kai sighed theatrically. “Let me take her, pass me the leash.”
Emily heard the guard leave and then felt the gentle tug as Kai directed her to move. This time the leash was far shorter so that as they moved forward she felt Kai’s knuckles brushing against her shoulders. Finally she could stay silent no longer. “How can you let him treat you like that? Are you a prisoner here?”
Kai’s reply was a short barking laugh. “A prisoner? Don’t be ridiculous. I signed a contract. We all have.”
Emily nodded miserably, thinking about standing at the desk in Roderick Banyon’s office with her hand poised over the contract that had brought her to Deuvar. “So the contract is genuine then?”
“Yes, of course, we all sign up for a year at a time. I came over here on the recommendation of my sister.”
Emily was stunned. “You chose to come here?” she said incredulously.
Kai snorted. “It offered a better life than the one in my village. Another year, maybe two, and I’ll leave. Most girls stay five or six years. When we decide to leave, Leonora arranges for us to have suitable papers, money -” she paused. “And freedom to do what we like. Some of the girls choose to go with their masters, but it isn’t compulsory. You should have read the contract.”
Emily shivered. “But the way they treat you? That guard? It was awful.”
Kai laughed. “The clients who come to Deuvar are connoisseurs; they understand the electric combination of pleasure and pain.”
“And the guards?”
Kai tugged her lead so that Emily followed her around a corner. “It’s in your best interests to keep them sweet. They have the power to control who goes where, who can get in to see us and who can’t. Don’t ever underestimate the advantages of doing what they want.”

A porter pushed Peter Howard to the front foyer of the hospital. Outside, beyond the plate glass doors, the new morning was grey and unpromising. It reflected the way he felt almost perfectly. A male staff nurse had managed to find him a bizarre assortment of second-hand clothes from the charity box - but no socks.
The staff had barely commented on his request to discharge himself, too exhausted from the night shift to have much fight left in them. Sister Ruskin and an overworked young houseman from Accident and Emergency had signed his discharge forms in the office with hardly a second glance - and so now Peter was waiting alone in reception for a fictitious taxi that had been booked to take him for two weeks of rest and recuperation.
On his lap, Peter cradled Magenta, carefully re-wrapped in polythene in his hold-all and the thick white envelope that some-how had managed to offer him a way out of his predicament. He grinned, wondering what Johnson would say if he knew that it had been Deuvar that had been Peter’s ticket out of oblivion.
Staff meandered around the foyer waiting for the change of shift. Finally, Angela appeared through the noisy throng, pale and heavy eyed, swathed in a full length navy cape. She lifted a hand in greeting. “Well, don’t you look quite the bon viveur?” she snorted, glancing down at his charity shop outfit.
He lifted an eyebrow and waved the white envelope in her direction. “Appearances can be very deceptive,” he said with good humour. “Can we get out of this bloody place now?”
Angela nodded and took hold of the wheelchair. “No problem. I’ve got my car parked just outside. Another half an hour and we’ll be sipping tea in front of a roaring fire.”
Peter grinned. “I’d prefer you naked for that,” he said.
Angela poked him playfully. “If I don’t get home soon I’ll be asleep before we get to that part. Come on -”

Outside, the change in temperature hit Peter like a body blow. He winced as the wind cut through his charity-box coat and made a bee-line for his aching ribs. He hunched miserably and let Angela guide him toward her large, if somewhat ancient, estate car.
“Nice car,” he gasped, as she manhandled him into the front seat. He was stunned that his legs refused to bear his weight or obey his commands. By the time he fastened his safety belt he was shaking from the effort and bathed in sweat.
Angela let herself into the other side after stowing the wheelchair in the boot. “It was my father’s. He died a couple of years ago, it was his absolute pride and joy. He’d be horrified that I don’t polish it lovingly after every trip.”
Peter watched the countryside unravel as they made their way out from a small town through into rolling wooded hills. It struck him that he didn’t actually know where he was.
Angela caught his eye. “Are you enjoying the scenery?” she purred.
He nodded dumbly. “Yes. Where are we?”
Angela snorted. “Kent.”
When he glanced down he saw that she had pulled her skirt back over her thighs. The scenery was indeed quite scintillating. He regretted missing her clue. He could just make out a wisp or two of coppery hair, glinting in the watery sunlight.
“So, is this what they call the garden of England?” he said, letting his eyes linger on the top of her thighs as she wriggled lower to expose the plump ripe prize that lay beneath her uniform.
“No, actually we’re just outside Anchorbridge,” she laughed.
Peter nodded and grinned a reply. The motion of the car was slowly lulling him to sleep. Angela’s words barely registered as he closed his eyes.
When he opened them again with a start, he was completely disorientated. Ahead of him, set amongst a profusion of greenery, was a large cottage, rendered cream - a comforting rural image against a slate grey autumn sky. He rubbed his eyes and tried to remember exactly what was going on. Things fell into place slowly as he turned to look at Angela, her nursing uniform now demurely re-arranged to cover her plump thighs.
He stretched. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I must have fallen asleep. I really need to use a phone.”
The sister snorted. “You really need to go to bed and so do I.”
Peter pulled a rueful face.
Angela giggled. “To go to sleep, you fool. I’ll get the wheelchair out of the boot. You won’t have to worry about stairs. We had a ground floor conversion done - Dad had problems before he died. You’ll have your own little self-contained fiefdom - and yes, there is a phone.”
Inside, Angela’s cottage was as inviting as its exterior. Wheeling Peter up a ramp she opened large French windows into an open sitting area - from the ease of access it was obvious it wasn’t the first time a wheel chair had been used to transport its occupants around the place. Beyond the comfortable sitting-room was a huge farm-house style kitchen. Angela kicked off her shoes, plugged in the kettle, and stoked an ageing stove into life. Within seconds the room was filled with a soft warm glow. She wheeled Peter up to the hearth to take advantage of the heat and made them tea.
He wanted to say how grateful he was - express some kind of heartfelt thanks. Instead he watched the hypnotic glow of the coals, cradling Magenta in his arms, feeling his eyelids falling even as he heard the tea being poured. Even Angela wheeling him into the annex at the back of the house and gently helping him onto the bed did little more than add to the changing pattern of his dreams.

“What the hell do you mean, he’s discharged himself? Where’s he gone? Or didn’t you have the brain to find out?” Johnson roared down the phone. At the far end of the line his appointments secretary made noises of apology. She had only rung the hospital to confirm the visiting times and make sure Mr Johnson’s car would be there on time. Johnson stubbed out his early morning cigar in the ashtray on his desk.
His secretary was a tiny pale mouse of a woman, who he had often considered introducing to the delights of Deuvar. She was one of life’s natural submissives. Now, as she twittered on about making enquiries and apologising with every other word, he longed to call her into his office and rip that stupid frilly blouse she wore for work off her narrow pallid back, together with the navy suit that she thought gave her an air of efficiency. He’d bend her over his desk and take his belt to her thin insipid body, making her scream out for mercy - and then, when she lay sobbing, he’d bugger her there amongst the trophies of his success. The fantasy brought a smile to his face.
“Ring me when you have something concrete. I need to know where this man Roberts has gone -” He spoke grimly and hung up.
He needed to know what Roberts knew about Peter Howard. After all, he reasoned, as he took another Havana cigar from the box, they flew together, surely they must have talked about something. All he needed was some hint, some clue, however obscure, as to what Howard had done with Magenta. A lot of people - important people - were waiting to find out what had happened to it. Although there had been no overt threats as yet, Johnson knew that without Magenta or unless he could assure his ‘friends’ that it had been destroyed, his life wouldn’t be worth the cigar that he was presently rolling between his fingers.

Max Fielding had spent the night at Deuvar and joined Leonora in her private office after breakfast. Close circuit television cameras were installed in every one the mansion’s numerous rooms. A set of screens were arranged along one wall of a small room behind Leonora’s office. It was with some interest that Leonora and Max watched the goings-on in the bathroom that adjoined the landing of cell 27.
Leonora had ordered the insertion of the little dildo; Emily needed to be stretched. The incident with the guard and Kai were an added bonus. Leonora watched the womens’ progress down the corridor, eyes moving from one screen to another as they got closer to her office. Kai was one of her most trusted girls.
Leonora heard the knock on her door at the same time as she saw it on the screen on the wall. She smiled and pulled her kimono belt tight, glancing at Max before going to let the girls in. Against the background of the oak panelled office Kai looked magnificent in her leather Basque, leading the wary new girl. Emily’s walk was ungainly, announcing the presence of the slim insert in her backside.
Leonora nodded to Kai and took the short leash herself, jerking it tight so that Emily stumbled forward. She fell face down unable to save herself because of the restraints high up on her arms. Leonora pulled the leash tight so that she was held on her knees, her head resting against Leonora’s thighs. The guards had made a good job of her hair, clipping it back so that it was no more than half an inch long all over her skull.
The girl was still now, straining to hear what was going on in the room.
“What is the first rule I taught you, Emily?” Leonora said in a low voice. Emily stiffened but said nothing. Leonora jerked the lead again, snapping the head back. “Well? I’m waiting.”
The girl was shivering, her breaths coming in tight, unhappy gasps. “Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to,” she whispered after a few more seconds.
“That’s correct.” said Leonora coolly. “A rule I think that you’ve recently broken while you were with Kai on the landing. Am I right?”
Emily nodded. Leonora ran a perfectly manicured finger over Emily’s lips. “Once upon a time we used to cut out the tongues of girls who refused to obey the rule of silence. Some of our clients still prefer it -”
Emily whimpered; a light beading of sweat rising on her top lip. Leonora smiled. The right balance of fear and reward and punishment was essential if a girl was to be suitable for a place at Deuvar. Emily’s nipples looked wonderful; the tremble of fear making the little rings glitter in the lamp-light. Leonora undid the restraints at the top of the girl’s arms and fixed her wrist cuffs to the side of her collar - this effectively pinned her hands while exposing her back. There was no resistance.
Max Fielding watched from the doorway in amused silence. He was used to such spectacles. Kai stood demurely by the hearth, eyes downcast, while Emily, shivering, terrified, waited for whatever was to follow in uneasy silence.
Leonora circled her thoughtfully. She would offer the virgin goods on sale by fax as soon as she had metered out Emily’s punishment. Johnson wanted Emily working and at the beck and call of the clients as soon a possible. A shame really. With the right training she could be a superb body slave.
Leonora took a short flexible whip from the rack on the wall. It was one of her favourites. Made by an old fashioned saddler to her own specifications, the end was split into fine leather fronds. It was designed to inflict pain without damaging the flesh. Leonora ran her fingers through the split end pieces. The leather was so soft that it almost tickled. She turned it thoughtfully in her fingers, judging the weight before laying it at full tilt across the girl’s exposed back.
Emily screamed and instinctively hunched, throwing herself forward. Leonora wasn’t put off; with deadly accuracy she struck again, lifting a second red weal across the girl’s spine. Emily sobbed, trying to roll out from under the whip’s scorching kiss. As she moved she exposed her newly pierced breasts. The whip’s hot tongue exploded across their peaks, wrenching a gut curdling scream from the writhing creature.
Leonora glanced at Max. His eyes were bright with expectation. Kai was still looking down but her rapid breathing announced her own excitement. Emily began to try and crawl away - the whip exploded again across her back.
“What is the first rule?” said Leonora coldly.
Emily’s answer was a miserable sob.
The whip cracked again. “What is the first rule? Answer me or I will give you a dozen more strokes.”
Emily froze. “Silence,” she whimpered, the word barely coherent through her sobs.
“Good,” said Leonora, placing the whip back in the rack. “Kai will arrange for you to eat and then take you into the main hall to begin work.” She paused. “Don’t forget, Emily - silence. Think of being at Deuvar as joining a convent. We demand total obedience, the only thing we don’t expect is chastity.” Leonora allowed herself a smile.

Chapter 5

While Emily Lawrence, sobbing and terrified, was led away by Kai to eat and begin her first full day at Deuvar, and Johnson tried to trace the mysterious disappearing patient, Peter Howard slept like a baby. When he woke in the middle of the afternoon he found that Angela had left a phone on the bedside table, together with a stack of directories, pens, and a note pad. He grinned and tapped in the first number that came into his head.
The man at the far end of the line was stunned when he heard Peter’s voice. Peter’s requests were simple and straightforward. The voice read back his list and then hung up. Peter yawned and lay back amongst the pillows.
He felt much better already. Angela - practical nursing sister to the last fibre of her body - had left a walking frame alongside the telephone table. With some chagrin Peter used it to propel himself to the little bathroom where - without too much difficulty - he showered, shaved and dressed himself in a pair of clean pyjama bottoms and dressing gown, thoughtfully provided by his hostess.
When he re-appeared some time later he felt much more like his old self. Five weeks inactivity might have rendered his body weak, but his mind was as sharp as broken glass.
Another phone call and he had arranged to have funds made available to him. When he’d finished he picked up a local directory and thumbed through the business pages. It was while he was making a final call that he heard the door to the annex open, and looked up.
Angela stood in the doorway wrapped in a sheer, almost translucent, robe that gift wrapped her ample curves from chin to ankle. Her hair, which had been tidily arranged in a bun while she was at work, now curled in tumultuous auburn waves onto her broad shoulders.
“I thought I heard you moving around,” she said. “How was your shower?”
“Wonderful. By the way, I’ve arranged for some equipment to be delivered here.” He glanced at the bedside clock. “They’ve said they can have it here later today.”
Angela lifted an eyebrow. “You really must have some clout, Peter. Usually you can’t get a pizza delivered this far out in the sticks.”
Peter watched her moving around the room. The woman was a banquet. As she pulled the curtains open her heavy breasts moved with fluid grace inside her wrap. As if sensing his interest, her nipples hardened, pressing themselves into an erotic relief. She had called him Peter! He was not Peter to anyone at the hospital… but it seemed so right…
Such great tits…
He was still a bit woozy…
“Are you hungry?”
“What?”
“Hungry?” she repeated. “Are you hungry?”
He lowered himself back onto the bed. “Rather depends what’s on the menu -” His tone didn’t suggest he was expecting an early supper.
Angela turned and let the wrap fall open. Beneath she was naked. Her body reminded him of the models used by the old masters - Reubens or Rembrant. She was sumptuous, heavy breasted, with a narrow angular waist that rolled out over capacious hips. Her belly was softly rounded and her skin - complementing her rich strawberry blonde hair - had a porcelain lustre to it.
Peter smiled. “Take it off,” he whispered, “and turn around slowly. I want to look at you.”
Angela let the sheer fabric slither down over her muscular arms. For a woman of her size she moved with the grace of a ballet dancer. From the back her silhouette accentuated the impression of an hour glass figure and her ample buttocks were plump and dimpled. Peter let out a low whistle of admiration.
Angela peeked provocatively over her shoulder, eyes glittering. “What next?” she murmured.
Peter considered. He would like to find something to bring a red flush to her pale glowing skin, something that wouldn’t rob him of the meagre supply of energy that his normally robust body had to offer. He glanced around the room; he wanted to give her a taste of the pleasures she so obviously craved. A familiar shape caught his eye amongst the fire-irons, standing in an old shell case in the hearth.
“Was your father a teacher?”
Bemused, Angela nodded.
Peter pointed towards the fire. “Was that his cane?”
Angela blushed crimson. “He used it to hook his slippers and things off the floor when he was ill.”
“Bring it to me.”
He could see her hands trembling as she slipped the cane from its nest amongst the innocent pokers. Peter could already feel a tight ache in his groin as he imagined how many tight frightened arses the little cane had kissed.
Nervously, Angela made her way to the bed, the cane held out in front of her like a holy relic. He took it and bent it, testing its flexibility. Beside the bed Angela watched with open-eyed wonder.
He patted the eiderdown. “Lie across the bed. You can’t expect a sick man to stand for his pleasures.”
The flush in Angela’s face spread slowly down over her shoulders, but she didn’t move. Peter’s face grew stern. “Don’t keep me waiting, girl.”
Angela eased herself slowly over his legs. Her weight almost made him tell her to stop, but the prospect of her ripe backside, exposed and ready, gave him the strength to continue. When she was across his thighs he pushed a pillow under her hips, tipping her up to expose the delicate contours of her buttocks.
He grinned and swung the cane back. It cut a swathe though the air and exploded across her backside. She wailed and leapt forward while her porcelain skin lifted in a slim blood-red ribbon. He struck again. Six of the best, he calculated, was probably all that he would be able to manage. With each blow Angela let out a shriek of pain and ground her body into his thighs. Between each stroke her body opened like a ripe flower, fragrant and compelling. He smiled. Angela Ruskin’s education was going to be a real pleasure.
When the final blow was struck he pulled himself up and leant forward to kiss each stripe in turn. She mewled with pleasure as his tongue traced the criss-crossed weals. Easing his hands lower he opened her legs; between her thighs was a white hot, sopping crucible of pleasure. She was so excited that her juices were trickling down onto her legs. He guided her so that she was kneeling across his lap and looked up into her face.
Her cheeks were tear stained and flushed, eyes still flickering with desire and need. His fingers trailed back to her sex, dipping - almost swimming - in her excitement. He opened his pyjamas and ran his hands, wet from her sex, over the engorged purple head of his cock. Slicking it back and forth over his foreskin, he got hold of her neck and pulled her closer.
She shivered as she bent forward to service him with her mouth. He imagined the pleasure as she tasted her own juices mingled with his. The image was so compelling that Peter wondered if he would be able to hold back.
Her mouth seemed alive, drawing him in between her lips like a hungry beast. She sucked harder, her large hands lifting to cup his balls and tease along the length of his shaft. Her breath on his belly, hot and wet, was alone almost enough to drive him to the point of no return. Locking his fingers into her long hair he jerked her closer, driving into her again and again.
Gasping, at the very moment of release, he pulled her away. As she sat up she looked surprised, denied her final prize. Peter took a deep breath, bringing himself skilfully back from the brink - avoiding looking at her heavy pink tipped breasts, over which it would be so tempting to spurt his thick shimmering semen. He held the base of his cock in both hands.
“I want to feel this inside you,” he murmured. “Buried to the hilt inside your cunt.”
Angela shivered and slowly crept up to take him into her. Her sex dragged him in, its slick throbbing walls closing around him like a tight hot fist. He snorted and burying his hands in her hair jerked her hard back so that she was forced into an erotic arc, her breasts jutting towards him, her mouth open as they struggled to set a frantic rhythm.
She matched him stroke for stroke, mimicking his wild brutal thrusts. She screamed as he jerked her head back further still and writhed deliciously as he closed his teeth around her swollen engorged nipples.
He felt the first contraction of her orgasm in the same white hot second that he felt the unstoppable throb of his own. He pressed his teeth tighter, trapping her tender flesh, as they both thrashed and thrust their way to oblivion.

At Deuvar, Emily was being led in silence back to her cell by a burly guard after her first day as a member of Fielding and Johnson’s elite contract girls. She had been allowed to return without a blindfold but even so her eyes were downcast.
At the cell door the guard snapped a short chain into her wrist cuffs, linking them so that they touched. A second longer chain joined them from above the bed frame, which meant that she would be able to move around the cell. Alone, she stared unseeing around its confines and thought about the events of the day.
Outside Leonora’s office Kai had removed her blindfold and then led Emily gently downstairs into the main hall and there… Emily could hardly bear to think about it.
The guests at Deuvar had free access to all the public rooms as well as a number of private suites. Well dressed men and women had been taking breakfast in an exquisitely furnished dining room over-looking a magnificent formal garden. Emily had been acutely aware of her nakedness and, worse still, of the thick leather harness that secured the device into her anus.
Eyes turned toward her as she’d walked in, unashamedly asses