Sarah Fisher - The contract

"You must know Peter," the influential contact who had introduced them had said. "Computer genius."

Their mutual interests had sparked a conversation that had ended with Johnson offering Peter a contract to create a foolproof computer security system. They'd cemented their deal the Deuvar way, sharing a submissive blonde beauty in the sauna, Peter buried to the hilt in the girl's quim while Johnson had let her suck him dry. Her narrow sun-tanned back had been laced with the weals of the whipping Peter had inflicted on her.

Johnson shivered, remembering the pleasure, and imagined Peter heading through the night towards him with details of the whereabouts of the new Magenta and wondered for an instant how it would be resolved. His fury at Peter's betrayal was tempered with a healthy respect for his skill and his cunning; both were qualities he admired.

Below him the guests where oblivious to his state of mind. Leonora, champagne glass in hand, was exchanging pleasantries with one of the guests, when, as if sensing Johnson on the landing, she looked up and made her way towards him.

"Your – er – your guest hasn't arrived yet," she said quietly, surveying the hallway. "I hope you meal was to your liking."

Johnson nodded. "Wonderful as always. I thought I might socialise a little."

Leonora nodded. Johnson noticed that she still retained the air of respectful deference that had first encouraged him to appoint her head of Deuvar. He had found her in a back street in a North African port, tied across a filthy bed, gagged and subdued, eyes blackened from the beating her slave master had inflicted to break her spirit. Her tiny pert breasts had been marred by livid bite marks. Her owner, a belligerent ageing Turk with foul breath and a great pot belly was preparing to have her cut; slice away her pleasure bud and lips of her quim so that she would appeal to Eastern tastes – a final cruelty to break a girl who was obviously too spirited for the local market. The Turk seemed to think it was the only answer, the only way to make her saleable and controllable.

It had been her spirit that had endeared Leonora to Johnson. The Turk had assured him she was unbreakable and had insisted on bringing out the rest of his slave stock for Johnson's perusal. This, he had assured Johnson, was the way that women should behave. Real women, women who understood what was expected of them. In the cramped confines of the Turk's house Johnson had inspected a string of broken women, including one mental defective who it was obvious had been trained from childhood onward to see her whole life only in terms of the pleasure her body could give to the Turk and his customers. The Turk was proud of her, rubbing her heavy pendulous breasts like another man might pet a dog. She had responded by rubbing her thick odorous sex against him, whining pitifully while her mouth worked at the bulge beneath the Turk's great belly.

All the time the Turk paraded his mongrel bitches, Johnson had surreptitiously watched the girl on the bed, so unhappy, but resolutely awaiting her fate. She was quite obviously far above the Turks's normal standard of girls, though he was reluctant to explain how he had come by her.

When, finally, the Turk had exhausted his supply of slaves, Johnson had turned his attentions again to the Eurasian girl on the bed. He had explored her gently, touching the delicate almost hairless lips of her sex, opening her thighs, exploring the tight confines of her backside with an oiled finger tip whilst across the room her master had stood by, eyes on his girl, mouth slack.

When Johnson had her untied she had scurried across to him like a saviour, pressing her bruised lips to his fingers. Her Turkish master had been stunned and only too eager to close a sale.

Johnson had bought her the same way he had many of the other girls; a willing commodity only too eager to escape from a closed oppressive culture to the heady opportunities of Deuvar. A great shame he couldn't have been more discerning with his male employees.

Now Leonora indicated the guest lounge. "We have a floor show this evening, or music in the ballroom. Would you like me to arrange a table?"

Johnson shook his head, thinking about the way Leonora seemed now; a queen, in command, an employee with unshakeable loyalty. "I don't think so. Has the video tape arrived of Emily Lawrence yet?"

"I'm afraid not." Leonora paused, looking slightly ill at ease. She glanced over her shoulder. "Would you like me have one of the girls bring you some champagne? I don't wish to appear rude, but I do have another matter to attend to."

Johnson lifted an eyebrow in rebuke. "What other matter is so important that you have to run away from me, Leonora?"

The Eurasian woman bit her lip. "It is Kai, one of our most trusted girls. She was involved in Emily's escape attempt."

Curiosity awakened, Johnson encouraged her to continue. "Intentionally?"

Leonora shook her head. "No. Carelessness, but really she should have known better. She's earned a position of trust here and I think, perhaps, let it go to her head."

Johnson smiled. "I see." He considered the possibilities for an instant. "A disciplinary matter then?"

Leonora, immediately following his train of thought, nodded. "Perhaps you might like to ensure the punishment is correctly administered?" She indicated the corridor that led to her offices. "I really would like to get this over as soon as possible."

Johnson smiled. "My pleasure," he said under his breath. Still leading his own slave girl, he fell into step behind Leonora. He paused for a second mid-stride. "Have you heard from the Haroldsons?"

Leonora shook her head. "No. But, after all, they did have sole rights to Emily for a full day. I imagine they are fully occupied."

"Perhaps," said Johnson, ignoring her comment, "you might like to contact them and invite them to join us. It wouldn't do Emily any harm to understand what happens when one of our girls breaks the rules."

"Of course," said Leonora.

Naked, Emily Lawrence crouched in the footwell of the chauffeur driven car. Naomi Haroldson was dressed once again in her stunning evening dress, and had added a full length mink coat. She sat arm in arm with her husband. Beside them both sat Franz, his hand casually slipped through the leash to Emily's collar.

Emily's mind was muddled, still full of hot feverish images of Franz's body and Naomi's caresses. Between her legs her sex was throbbing; a dark heady mix of pleasure and an aching tenderness. On her buttocks the sting of the brand mark made every movement uncomfortable.

Her rational mind couldn't quite grasp what had happened to her, but the instinctive animal half knew only too well. She had been taken, she had submitted – and she relished it. There was a peculiar sensation of elation deep inside her. Her body was no longer hers, owned instead by the masters of Deuvar.

She had expected to stay at the Haroldson's guest cottage until the following day and was surprised when Naomi had announced they had been invited to the main hall.

The car moved slowly up the drive. Outside, the frost gave everything a strange magical quality, echoing the odd feeling Emily had in her belly. At the elegant main entrance to the mansion the car pulled to a halt and the occupants climbed out into the starlit night. Emily was hardly aware of the cold or the sensation of the gravel beneath her feet.

Franz tightened his hold on the leash and she wondered if he thought that she might try and make a run for it. If he did, he had wildly underestimated the effect he had on her. Instinctively she fell behind, letting Naomi, her husband and Franz take the lead. With eyes downcast, she followed them into the warm confines of Deuvar.

She shivered when she saw that the guard on duty was Birdie. He eyed her speculatively, grinning. She wondered if he could sense the change in her.