Sarah Fisher - The contract

Emily flushed scarlet as she heard Kai making her way into the cell. She didn't move or look round, her embarrassment too overwhelming.

"Not bad. When's the auction?" said the guard without emotion.

"Noon tomorrow, the boss wants it done quickly." Emily felt Kai's softer feminine hands on her back. "You haven't split her have you?" she said, opening Emily's buttocks to examine her.

"No, you know me. She's so ripe and wet – shame we couldn't have made up a threesome, but I'm off duty now -" He laughed dryly. "Do you know who'll be here tomorrow?"

Kai said nothing. Instead she pressed Emily down onto the bed. "She ought to go to sleep," she said almost in Emily's ear. "Big day tomorrow."

Emily relaxed her hips, and let her belly sink into the mattress. She closed her ears to what else they said. She wanted them to leave and stop talking about her as if she wasn't there. She screwed her eyes tight shut and tried to conjure up Peter Howard's face and the sound of his voice.

When she opened her eyes again the light in the cell had finally gone out and she was alone. Between her legs her backside felt red raw and worse still was the ache in her belly – she needed satisfaction. Her hands where still secured to the frame above her head so that she couldn't even touch herself.

She had never felt the need before, but now more than anything else, she wanted to slip her fingers down into the wet hot confines of her sex and stroke the little pleasure bud that the guard had brought to the very brink of release. She sighed – and within a few seconds was asleep – the ache unfulfilled.

It was late. Peter Howard was sitting in the wheelchair beside the computers he had had installed. He watched the screens, letting his mind wander free. On the side table was Magenta, still encased in its water-proof wrappings. He didn't want to connect it up until he was absolutely certain he had a way in. It would be disastrous if they discovered Magenta's presence before he was set up and ready.

He was completely exhausted, but he knew that sometimes solutions appeared best in the grey still area before sleep claimed him.

Emily Lawrence was at Deuvar.

The knowledge appalled him, but he didn't know exactly what to do about it. He was far too weak to consider a one-man rescue squad. Surely Johnson wouldn't use her for the purposes Deuvar had been designed for? It had to be a bluff to draw him out. Emily might be a prisoner there, but even Johnson wouldn't stoop so low as to break a girl against her will. Deuvar had their precious contract that all the girls had to sign before they gave themselves into Leonora's clutches. He couldn't imagine that Emily would sign herself away.

Peter ran his fingers through his thick wavy hair. He really ought to be in bed. Angela had left – he glanced at the bedside clock – almost an hour earlier. He grinned. What an unexpected find she had turned out to be. He'd never realised that physiotherapy could be so much fun.

He had screwed her over his bed, gagged and pressed down amongst the sheets with their tight hospital corners. He'd held her by her harness and applied the delightful little nipple clamps he had ordered along with a few other things. She had whimpered and struggled as he had forced his way into her without prelude.

As he had pushed his cock home he had felt her waiting lips fold gratefully around him. When he had taken his pleasure he had turned her over and tongued her to her own release, making her beg him for more.

He yawned and looked at the screens one last time. He needed to sleep and the ideas and solutions eluded him. Carefully he pushed himself to the bed and eased himself onto the sheets; they still smelt of Angela's body.

Max Fielding had settled himself in the main bar at Deuvar, watching the evening's entertainment with his arm around one of Leonora's girls. On stage a slim blonde girl was tied, belly down, across an ornate plinth. Dressed in a low cut leather Basque that nipped her tight, her sex was tipped up for the attentions of her mistress, who's expert tonguing made Max quiver.

All eyes where on the masked dominant woman's hands, where a tiny crop nestled, its handle formed into a thick black dildo. As the girl struggled and writhed the woman alternately beat and fucked her with the device.

The girl's lightly tanned skin was suffused by a shimmer of perspiration, her breasts pressed flat against the plinth. Her face was flushed, wild screams reduced to groans by the rubber gag she wore.

Business in the bar was brisk. Several of the clients, Max knew, had arrived that evening purely for the auction of Emily Lawrence the next day. Leonora was circulating amongst them – the perfect hostess. Distinguished well known public faces mingled with the anonymous rich without a second thought.

Under Leonora's management Deuvar had rapidly become one of the best known open secrets amongst the world's wealthiest and most influential individuals. At Deuvar no pleasure was too extreme – and almost no secret too big to keep.

On stage, the girl on the plinth was sobbing behind her gag, a trickle of creamy juice sliding provocatively down the inside of her thighs as her mistress drove the dildo home. The girl shuddered. Max turned away and made his way up to his suite. He had an important phone call to make.

His female companion lifted an eyebrow in question. Max smiled and ran a finger over her full scarlet lips. "I won't be long," he said. At the door he lifted a hand in farewell to Leonora who was in deep conversation with a Greek oil magnate who had arrived by helicopter. She barely acknowledged him as he hurried upstairs.

Johnson was sitting at home considering what he ought to do next. In front of him was the latest faxed report from his man at the hospital. It made disturbing reading. He glanced at it, poured himself a scotch over ice and then picked up the phone.

Hospitals were large anonymous places. People and names got lost in the system. He shouldn't have to check the information he had received for himself, but Johnson was the kind of man who found it very, very hard to believe that anyone could do a job as well as he could.

He tapped in the number and after two rings a polite female voice answered. "Good evening, St. Leonard's Hospital, how may I help you?"

Johnson looked at the sheet in front of him. "I wonder whether you could put me through to Hansard ward?"

There was the sound of a phone ringing and then another bright cheery female voice. After the social pleasantries Johnson said, "I wonder whether I could speak to Sister Angela Ruskin please. The night sister -"

There was moment's hesitation at the far end of the line. "I'm very sorry," said the young voice. "I'm afraid you must have the wrong ward. We haven't got a Sister Ruskin working here. Are you sure she works nights?"

"Yes," said Johnson slowly. "She was looking after Jack Roberts, the man who survived the plane crash."

The girl coughed. "We did have Mr Roberts on our ward, but I'm certain we haven't got a sister Ruskin. Would you like me to get Sister Thomson for you? She's been on this shift for years. I'm sure she'd know."

Before he could reply the girl moved away from the phone. A few seconds later the information was confirmed. No-one called Sister Ruskin worked or had worked on that ward.

Johnson didn't listen to any more. His witness, the man in the plane crash, had last been seen with a nursing sister in reception. The same nursing sister who had signed the release papers for Jack Roberts; the last men to see Peter Howard alive. A nursing sister who, it now appeared, did not exist.

Johnson had always believed that Peter Howard was working alone, a maverick with a healthy degree of self interest, a man with an eye for anarchy – now he wasn't so certain.