Sarah Fisher - The contract

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.

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.