The Contract (24 page)

An intense memory of the final screen of Johnson and Fielding's computer system flitted across his brain again: 'Recreate Magenta'? flashing like a beacon in his mind. He had typed 'yes' and as he had done so two further questions had appeared: "When? Where?"

He glanced down at his watch. Just a little while longer and Magenta would have recreated herself. Even so there was still time to spare for one more game with Angela and then it would be time for the show down, the last grand finale, with Johnson and Max Fielding. A final game which if he misjudged a single move might cost him and Emily their freedom.

Through the glass partition of the cafe he saw the lorry driver watching him with interest. He raised his fingers to signal five minutes, then laid the phone back in its cradle and glanced across the car park to Angela's car. The distance between the cafe and the car looked like a marathon. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the effort, and headed off into the darkness.

By the time he got back his legs felt like damp straw and he was sweating like a horse. Steadying himself against the roof he jerked the door open and called Angela's name. She blinked,unfocused in the half light.

"Are you ready to leave now?" she said thickly, struggling to sit up.

Peter grinned. "Almost." He extended a hand towards her. "First of all there is someone I would like you to meet."

Angela rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "Is this one of your million and one possibilities?"

Behind him Peter could hear the sound of approaching footsteps. "Get out of the car," he said in a low voice that invited no contradiction.

He saw Angela stiffen, suddenly wide awake. "I thought you meant you and I were going to…" her voice faded away as she spotted the men that Peter sensed standing at his shoulder.

"Oh, my God," she said unsteadily, eyes widening.

Peter stood back. "These gentlemen are looking for a little company. It's a cold lonely night."

Under the jaundiced car park lights he could see Angela's colour draining. "Get out of the car." he said again. Slowly she did as she was told, eyes never leaving his.

"Come around this side into the shadow. My friends are very busy men."

Angela crept towards them like a terrified rabbit amongst a pack of hounds. The lorry driver had brought a friend with him. The pair of them were great muscular men, dressed in donkey jackets and jeans, hard faced and rough. Angela stood stiffly against the side of the car, her hands clenched in tight fists.

Peter smiled. "Undo your coat and lift up your skirt. I want to show my friends what's on offer."

Angela swallowed hard, her pupils reduced to bright pin pricks in the yellow lights. "Peter…" she began.

"Do it," he snapped coldly, relishing the way she flinched.

Her hands trembled as she undid the buttons and raised her skirt. Her thighs were milky white, the dark leather harness framing the golden corona of hair around her quim. Behind him one of the men let out a thick guttural snort of pleasure.

Peter glanced at them. "Well?"

The first man nodded. "Not bad," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his fist. He pulled out a roll of crumpled notes and peeled off the top two. "She'll do." He stepped closer to Angela, eyes drinking in her exposure. "Yer said twenty, didn't yer?"

The man grinned lewdly and spat onto to the Tarmac before handing Peter the money without a backward glance. All his attentions were focused on Angela, who shrank away from him, trembling. He reached out, pawing the soft recesses of her sex, seeking entry, almost prising her open. Even in the half light his hairy, tattooed hands were in sharp contrast to the alabaster whiteness of Angela's skin. She flinched as he found his way, gasping as his fingers vanished inside.

His companion moved behind her, arms snaking up around her torso to explore the voluptuous contours of her breasts. He jerked at the buttons of her blouse, dragging aside the fabric so the heavy curves were exposed. He groaned as he cupped them, meaty fingers teasing at Angela's already erect nipples.

The first man, uninterested in anything but the quim his fingers had spread and forced their way into, slid his cock from inside his jeans. His shaft was muscular, arching menacingly towards Angela's soft belly. He wrapped his hand around the base, tugging the foreskin back from the angry head.

Angela seemed rooted to the spot. Her face was devoid of emotion, jaw set. Peter stepped back to watch. The driver's burly companion held Angela tightly against his chest, spreading her thighs with his huge hands, taking her weight so that his friend could take her with ease.

The first man spat into his hand, wiping the saliva over his cock before moving between her open legs. His face was contorted into a tight unpleasant grin.

"Like a little bit a rough, do you, then?" He pressed his slick cock close, a menacing weapon, wet and unnerving.

Angela gasped as the lorry driver forced himself home, bracing herself against her captor as her unknown lover buried himself to the hilt with a dark hot moan of pleasure. He leant closer, kissing her crudely, a trail of saliva trickling down onto her chin. His strokes were ragged and invasive, uncontrolled, as if he were trying to thrust his whole body into her.

Peter shivered. This was better than he had anticipated. The man's face flushed scarlet. "Shit, she's hot," he gasped, sliding his hands down over her backside to drag her closer. As he worked his lips sought hers again, pressing wet kisses against her throat and face.

Angela threw back her head, trying to evade the lorry driver's lips while behind her the thickset man ground his crotch against her buttocks, rubbing and thrusting as if he too were making love to her. She whimpered, struggling, writhing, but even so Peter could sense her growing excitement. Her breasts were flushed, her body held uncomfortably as if she were struggling to unseat her rider, who plunged on, oblivious to her pain.

The man kissed her again, seizing her chin so that she couldn't escape his aggressive lips. Suddenly, as if instinct overtook her revulsion, Angela started to move with him. She arched her hips forward, drawing the lorry driver deeper.

He gasped and renewed his efforts, jerking her towards him, driving on and on until with a wild wolfish howl he crashed his way into orgasm. He snorted as the waves of pleasure engulfed him, twitching and shivering, a gob of saliva clinging to his unshaven face. Finally, breathless, he slithered out of her.

Angela's head slumped forward. Released by the great bear of a man who held her, she stumbled and folded down onto all fours. This was too much for the bear, already excited by the efforts of his friend. He crouched behind her and pulled up her coat. He worked wildly, exposing the ripe pale orbs of her backside. Before she had time to recover or protest, he plunged his great arching phallus into her quim, so recently abandoned by his companion.

Angela let out a high pierced wail, and arched back as if to try and push him out. Instantly the great bear grabbed her neck, impaling her with a single devastating stroke. With one hand he groped at her breasts, rubbing her already engorged nipples, pummelling the soft flesh with filthy fingernails.

After no more than a dozen stunning thrusts that drove Angela face down onto the ground, the bear's passion was spent. She screamed miserably as he rammed home for one final gut wrenching push.

Sliding out, he clambered to his feet and pulled a couple of notes from his back pocket.

"Here," he said thickly, handing the money to Peter. Without another word, he turned and headed back towards the cafe. The first lorry driver followed, lifting a hand in salute as he went after his friend.

Angela, sobbing softly, crouched beside the car. She was shivering, blouse in tatters, her naked backside smeared with dirt. Peter walked over and lifted her chin. Her eyes were bright, her pale face heightening the impression of her vulnerability.

"Peter," she whispered, unsteadily and laid her face against his thigh. He could feel tears soaking through onto his skin. Tenderly he stroked her hair.

"Was that it?" she murmured.

He undid his trousers. "Not quite."

Her eyes flashed momentarily and then she took his throbbing cock between her lips, cradling his balls gently with her fingers. Her tongue slithered over his shaft, lips working at him, sucking him deeper. He moaned and lay back against the car as she crept closer, ragged and dirty. Her breasts pressed against him, her whole body compliant and needy.

"Touch yourself," he murmured. "Give yourself the pleasure they denied you."

He caught a fleeting glance of her hand snaking down over her belly, seeking out the pleasure bud. She stiffened momentarily as her finger tips connected and began circling the tight little peak. He felt as much as heard the little moan of pleasure that trickled out around his cock. Locking his fingers into her dishevelled hair he pulled her closer, relishing the ancient act of worship that took him to the edge of heaven.

She sucked him dry while her fingers drove her own pleasure on and on. As his own orgasm engulfed him he felt her shudder, her breath ricocheting around his cock and belly in compelling little gasps. When they had done he took her hand and helped her to her feet.

"Deuvar," he said in an undertone.

The road ahead seemed unnaturally dark after the motorway. Peter peered out into the darkness to get his bearings.

"Not more than ten minutes." As he spoke his stomach contracted sharply. Ten more minutes and he would be at the gates of Deuvar. Ten more minutes and he would see Emily again. A cold finger of apprehension slithered down his spine.

"Turn there, on the left," he indicated a narrow road that lead to the iron gates of the country mansion. Deuvar stood alone in acres of parkland. As they passed through a stand of trees Peter caught sight of the building, far in the distance, its lights like stars in the darkness.

At the gate house a security guard eyed their car suspiciously. Peter unwound the window.

"Mr Howard," he said in a carefully controlled voice. "I am expected."

The uniformed man nodded and opened the electronic gates. Peter's fear was receding to be replaced by a sense of relief. Finally it would be over. He glanced at Angela. She was stony faced, tense. He grinned.

"Well, we're here."

Angela snorted. "Yes, but are we likely to be able to get out again?"

Peter shrugged. "You, most certainly, I'm not so sure about me."

On the hearth rug, Emily had rolled onto her back. She was still asleep, her face relaxed and almost child-like. Her legs were slightly apart. Between them Max could see her quim was bruised, a livid dark purple stain spreading over the pale flesh bore witness to her surrender. The heavy outer lips were smeared with moisture which glistened silvery in the lamp light. Her breasts were soft, nipples distended in the last heat from the fire. She looked at once both totally vulnerable and totally desirable.

Max stroked the mug thoughtfully. Had it not been for Johnson and Peter Howard he might had asked Naomi Haroldson if he could have sampled the girl's compliant little body. Instead he had seduced the wild woman. The pungent feral smell of her tattooed body still lingered on his fingers and lips. It would be fitting for her scent to be wiped away by the sweet smell of Emily's tender little frame. As he toyed with the idea he felt a familiar stirring in his groin.

Leonora grinned at him, as if she could read his mind. "Do you want me to wake her? When Peter gets here it will be too late."

Max snorted to cover his growing excitement. His fantasy was rapidly taking shape. He would tie Emily's hands above her head and have her there on the hearth. Open those long legs with his knee, bury his tongue in her fragrant depths as she writhed beneath him. He would slip his hands under her backside, lift her up to him, drink from that cunning compelling slit. When she was within seconds of reaching her climax he would screw her, in, out, deeper and deeper.

She would rub herself against him, seeking fulfilment of the sensations he had ignited in her. Moaning, she would open her mouth, let him slide his tongue, still suffused with the taste of her sex, into that other delicate pink orifice. Her tongue would tease around his, drinking in the taste of her own delight. She would lift her hips, begging him to take her further, higher… He shivered as he imagined her cunt closing around his cock like tight wet fist.

When he looked up he realised Johnson and Leonora were watching him with amusement.

Johnson shrugged. "Why don't you wake her?"

Leonora poked the girl with her foot. Emily blinked and then her eyes widened in surprise. Instinctively she tried to cover herself, her hands moving over her breasts and quim. Max smiled to himself, her natural modesty added a certain frisson to his fantasy.

Leonora nodded towards Max. "Mr Fielding wants you," she said coolly.

Unsteadily Emily clambered onto all fours, eyes sleep bright. Without another word she crawled over to Max and laid her head in his lap. She was warm and sleepy and smelt divine. Her face brushed into the heat of his groin sending sparks of pleasure up into his belly.

Max sighed and stroked her head. "It's all right," he murmured, imagining the raw bruised flesh between her legs and the dark glow of her beating. He would wait. He was certain there would be another time.

"Go back to sleep."

The girl blinked again and then curled up against him, her warmth seeping through his clothes, her soft breath electric on his thighs.

Across the room a light flashed on the telephone. Leonora picked up the receiver and then looked up. "He's here. Security just let him through the main gate."

Johnson uncurled himself from behind the desk and straightened his jacket. Max carefully slid out from under Emily. She made a little throaty moan as she repositioned herself and then was silent.