The Contract (2 page)

"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…

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…