Sarah Fisher - The contract

Behind him Angela was making muffled noises as she struggled to get into the harness. He'd had to guess her size, which was one of the reasons he had chosen the harness – a Basque or a leather body suit would have required a far more accurate guess.

When he turned again she was slipping the shoulder straps over her alabaster flesh. The harness fitted her like a glove – a very tempting glove. The straps circled her heavy breasts, the black leather accentuating their fullness and pallor. Lower straps framed her sex and either side the thigh straps… Peter smiled, already the harness was working its magic on his cock. She reddened at his appreciative glances and the obvious bulge in his pyjama trousers as he helped her fasten the buckles.

"Isn't this -" she paused, as if to find the right word, "obscene?" she whispered uneasily.

Peter snorted. "Don't be silly. You look magnificent. The real obscenities in life are cooked up by bastards like this -" He pointed towards the intriguing spiralling graphics of Johnson and Fielding's logo. "To the outside world they appear totally respectable, while under the umbrella of their respectability they're selling arms, toppling governments to increase their market shares – and scurrying round to buy up cheap grain destined for aid convoys. That's real obscenity." His tone was so intense that Angela stepped back.

Peter lifted a hand in apology. "Sorry, I'll climb down off my soap box. I've been chasing this organisation for years. They're so well established they thought that no-one would ever dare -" He stopped suddenly, aware that he was doing exactly what he had tried to avoid. If he told Angela anything he would be putting her at risk. Not only her, but himself as well.

Angela nodded. "I understand, but why are you doing it? I mean, what has it got to do with you?"

Peter leant back in his wheel chair. "It's my job," he said flatly.

"Your job?" she repeated.

"That's right." In front of them the computer images curled and swirled seamlessly into a 3D satellite picture of the world.

Instead of satisfying her, his explanation obviously intrigued her more. She moved closer, her ripe body garnished temptingly in the leather harness.

"What do you do?" she said. She was so near that he could see puckering around her nipples and catch the warm intriguing perfume of her skin mingled with the smell of the new leather.

He groaned in surrender and pulled her to him. "I'm a policeman," he murmured as he cupped her breasts in his palms.

He felt her tense and then pull away. "A policeman?" she stammered.

He nodded, catching hold of her shoulders and pulling her back towards him. "A very special type of policeman. Poacher turned gamekeeper. Don't worry I'm not going to charge you with anything other than being the sexiest woman I've laid hands on in years."

His lips brushed hers as he slid his fingers through metal rings set in the waist band of the harness and jerked her sharply onto his lap, biting down on her bottom lip until he tasted the rich coppery heat of her blood. She rubbed herself against him.

"Why don't we leave the computers to talk to themselves for a little while. I think we ought to have a look through the box of tricks I ordered," he said slowly.

Angela was trembling as she got to her feet and wheeled him back towards the bed. "Anything you say," she whispered unsteadily. "Anything you say."

Max Fielding took his phone call from Johnson in reception, watching the glamorous couples moving through to the music room, the restaurant, the bar – and of course the private suites that Deuvar boasted on the first floor.

A casual observer might have thought he had stumbled upon a luxurious country hotel, but small things suggested otherwise to the trained eye. Firstly the girls were all magnificent and all unnaturally deferential to their partners. Against the elegant evening dress a knowing eye might detect the faint outline of the nipple rings of the girls that were pierced. Finally, of course, there was the distinct air of expectation; the atmosphere hummed with a subtle but unmistakable eroticism.

Max's jovial and relaxed state of mind was broken by Johnson's icy tone.

"They can't locate that bloody chap. Vanished. I've had a man down at the hospital all day," he growled.

"He'll turn up."

Johnson snorted. "I damned well hope so. How's it going with that bastard Howard's girl?"

"Wonderfully. You should have come down yourself. You've missed quite a show. Leonora has high hopes for her. The auction will be…"

"I don't want anyone to have high hopes for her," Johnson snapped, stifling the words in Max's mouth. "I want her broken. I want to get my hands on Peter Howard. If he's alive he'll come to get her. I want -"

"Gently, gently," soothed Max. "If he's dead the item in question is lost. Nobody else would realise its significance. And we'll know if anyone tries to use it."

"If they try to use it, it'll be too bloody late. Besides how do we know he was working alone?"

"For God's sake calm down. Haven't we talked about damage limitation? Why don't you come down here and…"

Before Max could finish his sentence Johnson slammed the phone down on him.

Max sighed. From the open doors of the restaurant came the restrained sounds of a string quartet. He brushed the lapels of his dinner jacket and adjusted his cummerbund. Leonora had promised to join him for a drink. He glanced around to see if she had arrived.

Close to the main entrance, two men dressed in immaculately tailored evening suits watched the comings and goings with equal interest. They looked as distinguished and affluent as any of the other guests, though Max knew they were part of the security force that Leonora employed. Each wore a tiny silver button in his lapel, connecting him by radio to the main office. After a few seconds one moved away from the door towards the main stair case. Max glanced at his watch. The shift was changing bang on time.

Upstairs in cell 27 Emily lay on her back staring at the ceiling.

The overhead light in the windowless room was gradually dimming. Emily felt immeasurably tired. Kai had said she would visit to remove the anal stretcher. Emily shivered as the thought crossed her mind. Removal would be bliss, but she suspected that the next day it would be replaced. At present it nestled like an invasive finger between the cheeks of her backside.

The cell was gradually receding into shadows, not that there was much to see. The little room was furnished clinically, in white tiles, with a central bed screwed to the floor, complete with a built in mattress. A single blanket and pillow had been folded on the bed when she had returned from her day downstairs. Other than that, the only objects were a lavatory and hand basin against one wall. The floor was cold unforgiving marble. She blinked, hardly able to keep her eyes open, hoping that Kai would arrive soon…

The sound of a key in the lock!

She looked up, trying to focus sleepy eyes, and then froze in horror. Framed in the doorway was the guard she had seen that morning. His long hair was pulled back into a pony tail, accentuating the hard contours of his face. He had changed from the daytime uniform of blue shirt and charcoal grey trousers into elegant evening clothes which were skilfully tailored to highlight his impressive musculature.

He grinned as he stepped into the cell.

"Kai's coming," Emily hissed in a terrified voice. "She won't be very long."

The guard shrugged. "Doesn't really matter does it? She isn't going to try and stop me."

Emily clutched the thin blanket up over her body, aware of the harness biting into the flesh her between her legs as she instinctively clenched her muscles. Her arms were still linked together at the wrist, connected to the overhead chain. She struggled to pull them apart, knowing that it was useless.