Sarah Fisher - The contract

A great shame really. His groin still ached from the after-effects of his fantasy. They had very little time left for Angela's education. Beside him the tiny lights on Magenta's display screen began to go out one by one. Peter wheeled himself carefully round to the back of the computer and pulled out the lead that connected it to Magenta.

Angela was obviously muddled, her confusion showing on her face and the intense way she was watching him.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked again.

Peter grinned. "The people you work for don't know a great deal about Magenta do they? Or was it that they didn't trust you with their secrets?"

Angela grimaced. "They only told me what I needed to know."

On the screen behind him two other questions appeared alongside the flashing bar. Peter watched for a few seconds before typing in his reply, slowly, one considered letter at a time. When the messages were complete he pressed the send key and began to retreat out of Johnson and Fielding's computer system, closing doors and electronic alleyways behind him. Finally, all that appeared on the screen was the Johnson and Fielding corporate logo. His shoulders slumped and he rubbed his hand across his eyes. He was exhausted.

"Is that it?" Angela asked breathlessly.

Peter glanced at the digital clock once again. "Not quite. Maybe you could go and make some more coffee."

Angela moved to pick up the mug he had stood alongside the keyboard. As she stretched Peter grabbed hold of her wrist. "And while you're out there, maybe you'd like to ring your boss and let them know what I've done?"

Angela froze. "Well, what exactly have you done?"

Peter smiled. "If they know that much about Johnson and Fielding's business they'll soon find out."

Angela pulled away, extricating her wrist from Peter's grasp. "What about Emily?" she said without meeting his eyes.

Peter nodded towards the now inert box beside the computer screen. "I'm going to try and exchange Magenta for her," he grinned. "What choice do I have?"

Angela looked puzzled. "But you've just made a copy? Surely they'll know you've double crossed them?"

Peter sat back in the wheelchair. His body felt as if he'd run a marathon. "Let me worry about that," he said slowly. "Now, are we going to have coffee before you drive me to Deuvar?"

Angela nodded reluctantly and Peter wheeled himself across to a book case and pulled out a road atlas.

"Coffee first."

When she had left, Peter carefully re-wrapped Magenta and then tapped in a short message to Johnson's electronic mailing address.

Johnson was about to leave his suite at Deuvar when the phone rang. A disembodied voice gave him the information he had been waiting for.

Peter Howard was breaking into the computer system! He was reproducing Magenta at that very moment!

Johnson sighed. "So predictable. Have you managed to trace his location?"

"It shouldn't take us too much longer to pin point his exact whereabouts."

Johnson smiled, letting his eyes wander over the intoxicating curves of his slave as she waited, with her eyes downcast. "Good," he whispered. "Let me know how the trace goes. Can you tell me where he has stored the copy of Magenta?"

"I'll contact you as soon as we know… wait… there's a message that's just coming in for you, sir… 'on my way.'"

Johnson put the receiver back in its cradle. He had won. He glanced at his watch. It would surely be some time before Peter arrived. He knew that the plane had taken off from their private landing strip and had barely reached the coast before it crashed. He tugged on the slave girl's lead. She looked up at him with her disturbing ginger eyes.

"Maestro," she murmured.

He pulled her closer, relishing the sensation of her breath on his face. She smelt of the byre. He stroked her cheek and let his fingers slide lower to the curve of her breasts. She shivered as he nipped distractedly at the dark peaks.

Time to celebrate.

It was obvious to Johnson that Peter Howard had made a copy of Magenta to increase his bargaining power. Magenta was a devious and tricky little device. When a copy was made, the original computer key, the old Magenta, became obsolete, only the new Magenta could open up Johnson and Fielding's complex computer system.

Johnson had a sneaking admiration for his adversary. No doubt Peter would come to Deuvar and negotiate safe passage for himself and Emily Lawrence, in return for which he would reveal the whereabouts of the new copy of Magenta.

Peter would have copied the new Magenta and sent it down the phone lines into the vast world-wide computer network, hiding its complex codes in some obscure distant electronic backwater. It was a strategy Johnson would have used himself if the situations had been reversed.

The girl rubbed herself against him, tempting him away from his thoughts, trying to make him forget the daily beating which he gave her to remind them both who was in control. She opened her mouth, running that tempting cat pink tongue around her lips. Her face held an erotic invitation. He ran a hand down over her shoulders. Beneath his finger tips her muscles rippled like a race horse in prime condition.

"Get the whip," he said flatly.

She shivered out from under his touch. Johnson smiled as he let go of the leash.

Later, when the situation with Peter Howard was resolved, he would ensure she received the full benefit of his attention, but now there was only time to release the growing tension he felt in his belly. He loved the chase. He wanted nothing more now than to confront Peter Howard and come away the victor.

The girl was back, cradling the riding crop like an ancient relic. He flexed it thoughtfully between his fingers and drew back the head. He saw her stiffen in expectation and smiled.

"Bend over the table." His voice brooked no contradiction. It was a token beating, barely raising weals on her exotic hide, but it would be enough to raise her expectations of what would follow later. He could see her sex, open, expectant – he sometimes wondered, in the moments like these, when she laid her needs so bare, where the Prince had got her from, this intriguing barely domesticated slave of his.

She looked back over her shoulder. Her undisguised passion made him shiver. A familiar not unpleasant ache was growing in his groin with every passing second. How very tempting it would be to forget serious matters that drew him away from her and lay on the whip with genuine fervour, bring a wild glittering flash to her strange eyes.

Did she ever pine for whatever distant place had been her home? She didn't move as he struck. Her sex, like an open ripe flower, wafted its compelling perfume towards him, making his mouth water.

"Get up," he said thickly. A few more seconds and he would be powerless to resist the compelling voice of his own desire.

But Peter was coming. He was too restless for this. It was time to go down…

At the top of the stairs his eyes focused on the social gathering, but his mind was elsewhere. The mansion was the culmination of a life-long dream, a place where his business contacts could discreetly indulge their passions with a stunning selection of the world's most beautiful – and most submissive – girls. Those who were less than beautiful were masked. Johnson had often noticed on his travels that the less attractive girls were those most eager to please.

Deuvar's chef was French, they held a wine cellar second to none. The fixtures and fittings had been chosen from auctions all over the world from the house of the gracious rich. Johnson's attention was drawn once again to the scene below. In the main hall some of Deuvar's resident girls were naked, or dressed in harnesses or other more exotic costumes.

The air was filled with the soft hum of conversation. The bar was filling up, dinner was still being served. Johnson smiled; this was his secret domain. It seemed rather fitting that he should resolve his problems with Peter Howard at Deuvar. He had first met him here, in the bar, when Peter had been a guest of another client.