Sarah Fisher - The contract

She presented the ultimate challenge – a truly untamed woman.

He stared at her sweating tattooed body as she struggled desperately to free herself.

The Prince lifted a hand towards her. "This creature, rather like our Arab horses, is truly the province of an expert, Mr Johnson. I will not be offended if you decline my gift. I know your tastes. My harem is full of women who would satisfy your every whim."

Johnson smiled thinly, eyes never leaving the contours of the dark girl's straining body.

"Rest assured, Prince Assim, she will meet my needs perfectly. I am deeply flattered by your generosity."

The Prince smiled and gave a little bow. "Would you like my men to secure her so that you can try her?" He nodded towards the uniformed guards who stood either side of the girl. Johnson saw fear in their faces.

Across the room the girl let out a banshee scream of pure loathing, rattling the chains that secured the clamps to her toes and thumbs to the floor. She struggled to turn, turning her head as best she could to try and see who was speaking.

Johnson shook his head. "I would prefer to have her home first." He stared at the guards. "It is not my habit to take my pleasure in front of servants."

The Prince laughed. "Here we hardly notice them, my dear Mr Johnson. They know better than to be indiscreet. Perhaps after dinner I can interest you in sharing a rather attractive European girl who recently joined my stable." He paused, eyes alight with mischief. "The man who supplied her says she moves exquisitely under the lash."

Johnson smiled. He had brought the girl over himself as a little oil to grease the wheels of commerce.

"My pleasure, Your Royal Highness."

Their exchange of pleasantries concluded, Johnson left the Prince and went back out onto the terrace, where the sirocco wind rippled through the trees around the palace. Eyes on the desert beyond the whitewashed walls, his mind returned again and again to the fascinating wild creature who was now his.

The following day he had Leonora and his four most trusted security men flown out. He had the tattooed girl shipped to England in a crate aboard his private jet and delivered to Deuvar by his most experienced handlers, with no water, light or food on the journey.

By the time she arrived she was exhausted and, despite continued resistance, obviously terrified. Dark circles stained the skin beneath her wild-cat eyes.

Even then Johnson didn't relent. He and Leonora understood only too well what was needed. The strange wild tattooed girl was hung, spread eagled, in one of the cells. Leonora ensured she was kept in almost total darkness and beaten every day with a thin whip that lifted raw weals across her muscular shoulders.

She saw no-one except for her masked tormentor, who never spoke, and Johnson, who came in to feed her where she hung. If she fought or resisted he left her hungry. Later he took delicacies, feeding herby hand, talking to her in low but commanding tones – the voice of her master.

After a fortnight the unnerving glint in the wild girl's eyes began to fade and the sleek gloss of her golden skin faded to an unhealthy grey. It was only then that he sensed they were close to breaking her.

Like a cat, she tried to rub herself against him when he visited, seeking some crumbs of comfort from his touch. Another week and she let him touch her, exploring her exotic curves and folds with knowing fingers. The beatings continued every day. She stank. Unwashed, her hair clung to her face in filthy ribbons, but Johnson continued his regime of pleasure and pain, rewarding her compliance and obedience with gentle caresses, treats handed out by his own fingers.

When she was wild or disobedient she was whipped by her masked tormentor. Reward and punishment – a heady and effective method of bringing even the wildest of beasts to heel.

When he finally cut her down – a month after she had arrived at Deuvar – she clung to him like a child, sobbing frantically, rubbing her filthy body against his.

He oversaw her washing, inspecting every inviting orifice of her strange tattooed body – and then he took her to his rooms. He lay back on his bed, naked, and let her show her gratitude. She mewled like a kitten and crawled over to the bed, her body eager to worship him.

He remembered it still, her tentative movements, her fear at displeasing him in case her punishments began again. And when – exhausted and raw from pleasuring him – she had curled at his feet like a beaten dog, he had never forgotten the expression on her face.

He knew then, as she had looked up at him with those strange eyes, that he hadn't broken her, just bent her instinct to survive into a shape that would serve him almost as well. Even now he sometimes watched her, aware that just below the surface the wild beast still lingered, no more that a heart beat away.

Every day he took a whip to her oiled intimidating body, a salient reminder of what would befall her if she ever disobeyed him.

She never smiled, instead her gingery brown eyes watched the world coldly; she had the eyes of a predator. He beckoned her closer. She dropped to her knees and crawled across the floor towards him. Even with those bewitching feral eyes downcast her posture did not quite disguise her arrogance. At his feet she bent lower still, resting her forehead on the floor near his feet.

Her scarred oiled flesh glowed in the lamp light. He took a thin switch from his desk and flexed it thoughtfully. He let his imagination roam free; there was nothing he could not do to this girl, nothing he had discovered yet…

The phone rang, breaking his concentration. It was his private line so he must answer it. Angrily he plucked the receiver from the stand.

"Yes?" he snapped.

"St. Leonard's hospital here. May I speak to Mr Johnson?"

Immediately he got a grip on his tone, spoke more softly, but it was only skin deep.

"Ballard Johnson speaking. How may I help you?"

"I hope you don't mind me ringing so late but you asked me to contact you when Mr Roberts regained consciousness? Well, I'm sure you'll be delighted to hear that he came round this afternoon."

Johnson smiled thinly. "Really, well, that is marvellous news," he said. "When will he be able to receive visitors?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps."

"I shall come."

He hung up and looked at the warrior slave girl. Tomorrow he would know for certain what had happened to Peter Howard from this eye witness, Roberts, whoever he was. At the thought of Peter Howard he felt the fury low down in his gut, burning up through him in a wild bush fire.

The girl at his feet felt his anger. She was trembling slightly, a delicate veneer of perspiration lifting across her shoulders and in the small of her back. He let the head of the switch draw a line from the nape of her neck to the boney prominence between her flat well muscled buttocks. She got up slowly, uncurling herself like a sleek cat. As she drew back her shoulders he brought the length of the switch sharply across her dark cinnamon coloured nipples. Caught off-guard she let out a wild throaty roar and threw back her head, eyes flashing furiously.

"Come to me!" he commanded.

Though he was never certain that she understood his words she understood what was expected of her. She pressed her head to his chest, nuzzling him. He stroked her beaded hair and guided her down over his desk, fingers working along her spine. She dropped her hips, opening her sex rhythmically like a wet pink mouth. Even here, on the skin closest to her most private parts, the tattooist's art was visible. He drew back the switch and struck her low, where the crease of her buttocks joined her thighs.

The second blow was higher. He began to rain a flurry of blows down on her blue and silver scarred flesh. She threw back her head and howled like a dog as the redness flushed through her skin, turning her golden skin to colour of a stormy sunset.