Domination Inc. (26 page)

Nina repeated her actions on Laurel's right nipple, fastening the clamp just as tightly. She smiled at Laurel's obvious discomfort. ‘Oh, yes, they hurt when they go on, but they hurt even more coming off.' Her finger travelled down the cleavage between Laurel's breasts and down over her softly curving stomach, to settle in her red-gold pubic bush. ‘They make them for down here, too,' Nina informed her. ‘Imagine how they'd feel, biting into those soft lips of yours...'

Nina's finger stroked the length of Laurel's moist crease, and despite herself, she moaned at the touch.

‘Nina, control yourself,' Roger said. ‘I think it's about time our two houseguests provided us with a little entertainment, don't you?'

‘I know just the thing,' Louisa Lawson said. ‘Let me go and fetch it.'

This time, when she returned, she was carrying a little bottle of olive oil and a long, phallic-shaped object, made of very old-looking leather. She held it up so that both Laurel and Cindy could see it more clearly.

‘They call it an olisbos,' she announced, drizzling a copious amount of oil over the smooth leather and rubbing it in with her fingertips. ‘It's just a fancy name for a double-ended dildo. And I think you know exactly where both ends are going, don't you, girls?'

Without ceremony, she thrust the oiled dildo between Laurel's thighs, pushing it deeply into her vagina. Laurel felt the phallus lodge securely inside her, stretching her tight walls. Then Cindy was hauled to her feet and brought over to where Laurel was standing. Louisa's hands reached down to part Cindy's inner lips, then she shoved the other end of the dildo into Cindy's sex.

‘Release their hands,' Roger told Louisa. ‘I want to see them playing with each other's tits.'

Louisa unfastened Laurel's cuffs, and she rubbed her aching wrists, before putting her arms round Cindy and hugging her close.

‘You know I don't want to have to do this,' she whispered.

‘Don't kid me,' Cindy replied. ‘You love being made to do things just as much as I do, but you just won't admit it.' As she spoke, she jerked her hips, thrusting the end of the dildo further up into Laurel's juicy channel. A groan of pleasure escaped Laurel's lips.

‘Told you,' Cindy said. She reached out and caressed Laurel's breasts, mindful of the clamps, encouraging Laurel to fondle her own smaller ones in return. They sank to the floor together, oblivious to their audience, their pussies grinding together as they used the olisbos to bring them to the brink of climax.

Lost in a haze of bliss, Laurel was barely aware of Roger saying, ‘Go and get your address book, Nina, I need to make a call.'

Nina must have made some retort, for Roger snapped, ‘Do it, or I'll have you on the end of that thing, and we'll watch as Laurel makes you come.'

The last thing Laurel heard before her orgasm hit her was the sound of the drawing room door closing softly behind Nina.

 

 

 

 

 

Joe was slumped on the settee in his dressing gown and boxer shorts, trying and failing to concentrate on the Italian football match which flickered on the television screen in front of him. It had been a long and strenuous night, and he was still tired from his exertions. The sisters he and Christian had been employed to escort to the warehouse party in Victoria Dock had insisted on being taken back to the flat they shared some time after midnight, and had proved to be almost insatiable. Joe had lost count of the number of times Serena, the elder of the two, had come on his tongue as he licked and lapped at her fleshy, shaven sex, his senses overwhelmed by the musky smell and taste of her, coupled with the sounds of Christian spanking her sister, Charmaine, as the girl wriggled and squealed on his leather-clad lap. It had been a fabulous night, and well worth the wad of notes Serena had tucked into his top pocket before he left, but by the time he had arrived home it was seven in the morning, and he'd barely enough strength to have a shower and a swift breakfast before going to bed. He'd surfaced about an hour ago, but he was beginning to think that had been a mistake. What he needed more than anything was another couple of hours' sleep...

The phone rang, and he reached out to pick up the receiver on autopilot, glancing briefly at the TV screen, where Ronaldo was placing the ball on the penalty spot, having gone down faster than a Thai bar girl in the area. It was probably Laurel, calling to tell him about her own exploits down in the New Forest. ‘Hello?' he muttered drowsily.

A voice he did not recognise asked, ‘Is that Joe Gallagher?'

‘Yes, it is.' Joe was alarmed by the speaker's faint tone of menace. ‘Who is that?'

‘All in good time. I thought you might want to speak to your friend first.'

There was a muffled sound, which Joe thought might have been a sob, and then Laurel was on the line, her voice barely a whisper. ‘Joe – I'm so sorry.'

‘Laurel!' Joe exclaimed. ‘What's going on? Are you okay?'

‘It was a set-up. It's Rog—' and then the receiver appeared to be snatched away from her.

‘What the hell do you want?' Joe asked.

‘A straight swap,' the voice replied coolly. ‘I have your friends, Laurel and Cindy. You have part ownership of Domination Inc. Give me that, and I can assure you the girls will not be harmed. Refuse me, and—' There was the sound of a palm slapping hard against flesh in the background, followed by a sudden, unmistakably female cry.

‘Why should I do what you're asking?' Joe said, aware that there were two very good reasons, both of whom appeared to be in imminent and obvious danger.

‘Because the agency was mine before that silly little slut got you involved in running it, and I want it back. I want you to come down to Garside Hall, alone, with the deeds to the agency; give me those, and you get your friends in exchange. Don't think about involving the police, or it will be the worse for all of you. Don't forget I hold the whip hand here – quite literally, I can assure you.' The man, who Joe now realised to be Laurel's erstwhile business partner, Roger Preston, sniggered at his own pun. ‘Shall I expect to see you this evening, Joe, or do you want me to treat the girls to another night of my very special hospitality?'

‘You'll see me when you see me, Preston,' Joe replied.

‘Don't keep me waiting too long, Joe. I'm not a very patient man, and you might not like what happens when I get impatient.' There was another slap, another soft cry, and then the line went dead.

Joe sat for a moment with his head in his hands, all traces of tiredness gone. From everything Laurel had said about Preston, he had built up a mental image of a devious interior disguised beneath a veneer of charm, but he had not believed the man could be quite so ruthless. Somehow, Laurel and Cindy had walked into a trap, and he had allowed it to happen. If only he'd sent Warren on that job the night before, and gone down to Lawson's house with Laurel...

He grabbed the phone, punching numbers almost at random. There was no answer from Chris; he was no doubt still sleeping off the combined effects of Serena and Charmaine. Devon's phone, too, rang unanswered. When he called Warren the answerphone kicked in almost immediately. Joe waited with rising impatience for the message to finish. ‘Warren,' he began, unable to conceal the urgency in his tone, ‘Warren, are you there? Look, if you are there, for God's sake answer the phone! It's an emergency, they've got Laurel—'

‘Joe?'

‘Warren, thank Christ. They've got Laurel and Cindy. I—'

‘Calm down,' Warren replied. ‘Who are “they”?'

‘You know the bloke who owned the agency, Roger? The one who disappeared and left Laurel with all the debts? He's in league with that Clive who invited her down to his house for the weekend. They got her there to talk business, and the only business they want to do involves stealing everything we've worked for. He wants me to give up my share in the agency in return for the girls.'

‘What a fucking bastard.' Warren paused for a moment, listening to a voice that Joe could hear only faintly. ‘I'm sorry, Sara. Pick your clothes up and go home, love. We'll have to finish this some other time. Sorry about that, Joe,' he said, returning his attention to the conversation in hand. ‘What does he want you to do to get the girls back?'

‘He said I've got to go down there on my own with the agency deeds, and we'll do an exchange.'

‘And you trust him?'

‘What else can I do?' Unexpectedly, Joe was finding himself close to tears. ‘Warren, if they hurt Laurel I'll never forgive myself.'

‘They won't hurt her. But you're not to go there alone. I'm coming with you.'

‘But—'

‘No buts. I'm just as worried about those girls as you are, but I think I've got a plan. Meet me at the agency at six o'clock. I've got a favour to call in and it might take me a while.'

He rang off, leaving Joe staring at the phone, trying to collect his jumbled thoughts. Roger had given a clear warning of the consequences of disobeying his orders, but Warren was right; they could not trust the man to keep his word. Whatever Warren's plan involved, it had to be better than walking blindly into the lion's mouth. Praying that they were doing the right thing, Joe went to get dressed; he had a rendezvous to keep.

 

Challoners' was the most famous theatrical costumier in London; the shop had stood in the same street in Piccadilly for over fifty years, its windows full of outfits its team of dressmakers had created for a succession of well-known films and TV shows. On this Sunday afternoon, its front door was firmly shut to the world. Warren Keating stood on the pavement, gazing at a display of Victorian ballgowns and waiting for Helen to arrive with the key. It was a long time since he'd seen Helen Jeffreys, but she'd dropped everything at the sound of his voice, just as he had known she would. They had met when he had landed the small part of a builder in a couple of episodes of a long-running sitcom; she had been the show's costume designer, and they had enjoyed a short-lived, but very intense fling. He thought back with satisfaction to one occasion when they had been out filming on location for the show in Norfolk and he had fucked her in the bedroom of a tiny cottage as a scene was being shot in the room below. He had watched with amusement as she had fought desperately to control her cries while he powered forcefully into her from behind; he had taken a belt to her plump white backside beforehand, and with every thrust his groin slapped against the raised welts on her soft skin. When they had both been on the verge of coming, he had tangled his fingers in her bobbed brown hair and pulled hard; her shriek of agony combined with overwhelming pleasure must have been audible to the cast and crew beneath them. He had imagined their reactions, staring up at the ceiling as they registered the unmistakable sound of a woman in the throes of orgasm; he suspected the footage of that moment had turned up on the engineers' Christmas compilation tape that year, though it would never feature on any comedy out-takes show for public consumption.

He was still smiling at the memory as Helen came hurrying down the pavement towards him. She had hardly altered since the last time he had seen her; still slightly overweight, with her figure concealed by a baggy cardigan and a shapeless skirt. For someone whose life revolved around making sure people were perfectly clothed, her own dress sense had always been appalling, Warren thought. What she needed was a man who appreciated her dramatic curves, and encouraged her to wear outfits which would reveal her sensational breasts and the bottom she thought was too chubby and pear-shaped. Still, everyone in TV was so skinny, paranoid about the extra pounds the camera added to their frame, it was no wonder Helen appeared to feel unattractive in comparison.

She pushed her long fringe out of her eyes, and smiled shyly at Warren. ‘It's nice to see you again,' she said, ‘but I don't quite understand what we're doing here. You said there was something I could help you with?'

‘That's right,' Warren replied. ‘Can we go inside and talk about it?'

‘Okay. Come on.' Helen opened the front door and they stepped inside. Immediately, a high-pitched alarm began to bleep rapidly. Helen punched in a series of numbers on a keypad by the door, and the alarm fell silent.

‘So are you going to tell me what this is about?' Helen asked.

‘Well, when I rang, I thought you were still at the BBC, and I was going to ask you to do something which might get you the sack. To be honest, it still might, but you'd do that for me, wouldn't you, Helen?'

‘I don't know. Tell me what it is you want me to do.'

‘I need to borrow a couple of costumes from you, but not officially. You see, I need them now, this afternoon, and if I don't get them, well, let's just say that a friend's life might hang in the balance as a result.' As he spoke, Warren hoped he was over-dramatising the situation. He seemed to have hit the right note with Helen, however, as she seemed less defensive than she had done a moment ago.

‘And what sort of costumes would these be, exactly?' she asked.