She was his now, he thought triumphantly, any advantage she had was lost by her eager submission to his orders. He laid on the tawse with anger-fuelled intensity, striking her breasts, her white belly, her thighs, the swollen rise of her sex. The little leather straps stung, a sharp waspish sting that wouldn't break the skin but instead brought up an intense flush of colour.
Angela writhed miserably, hot tears streaming down her face, but he knew that even in her fear she was revelling in her punishment. Her eyes betrayed her excitement, her gaping sex was wet and eager. Behind the gag her little cries of pain excited him beyond all measure. He laid into her again and again, glorying in the pain he was inflicting. The strokes exploded and crackled across her reddening flesh like lightening strikes. His body screamed out at the effort, arms aching as he lay on a final flurry of strokes.
He threw the tawse onto the floor and climbed onto the bed and, jerking down his sweat pants, rammed his cock into her, dragging her hips up to accept him. Her scream was stifled by the thick material in her mouth. He forced into her, deeper and deeper, letting his frustration and his anger guide him.
She lifted herself to meet his stroke, her tight hot sex seizing his cock like a mouth. On and on he pressed, almost oblivious to the woman beneath him. Suddenly he felt the twitching sucking heat of her quim, and realised how close Angela was to the point of release. Close to coming himself, he tore his cock out of her, and began to stroke his shaft.
Denied her prize, Angela began to moan frantically, rubbing herself against him, eyes alight with need. His cock was wet and oily from her passion. He watched her face as he slid his foreskin back and forth, bringing the white heat and the madness closer with every stroke.
He had an image of her in his head, being fucked by the fisherman, her majestic form abused by the dishevelled man, and suddenly he was lost. A great throbbing stream of semen exploded out over her, splashing onto her belly and breasts.
Peter collapsed forward, his fury gone, earthed by his pleasure. Slowly he lowered his head to Angela's sex, wet, ripe, fragrant. He moaned and began to tongue her, biting and nipping fiercely at the enticing gold fringed mound. She lifted her body, giving herself over entirely. Her surrender was complete, an act of atonement.
Within seconds silvery oceanic juices flooded his mouth, her ample curves writhing and juddering with the outward signs of her climax. On her belly the droplets of his semen shimmered.
Finally, breathless, Peter lay down beside her, and undid her gag. They didn't speak but he could see the plea for understanding in her eyes. Stiffly he untied her, taking off the sharp little clamps that had imprisoned her nipples, sucking and lapping at the swollen bruised skin. When she was free of the ropes she curled up against him, her breath warm on his body.
"I need to talk to you," she whispered at last.
Peter shook his head. "No, I have to work, that's what you want, isn't it?" He felt dizzy, exhausted, but knew it was finally time to set a new plan in motion.
In amongst the wild chaotic anger he had seen an answer. He climbed unsteadily from the bed, almost afraid to look back at Angela. In all the dark erotic games he had ever played, he had never feared losing control, but with Angela Ruskin he had been as close as he had ever come. He'd wanted to make her pay.
He looked at the cane on the bedside table. Thank God he had had enough control to use the tawse. If he'd used the cane he could have cut her delicate flesh to ribbons. He eased himself back into the wheelchair, uncertain that his legs would carry him over to the computers.
He glanced at the screens. The little electronic mail message still flashed. He wheeled himself over to the desk, clicked the collect option on the menu and waited. The electronic letter opened from the centre, like a rose bud unfurling.
Peter scanned the first line of text. "Sweet Jesus!"
Angela looked up. "What is it?"
He didn't need to beckon her over. She clambered off the bed and read the lines of text over his shoulder. The message was from Johnson.
"So, there you are, Peter. How very nice to see you looking so well," it read. Alongside the words was a still photograph of Angela pushing the wheelchair towards the exit of St. Leonard's hospital.
"It's only a matter of time before I find you and your accomplice. Contact me. You know where."
Set in amongst the words on the computer screen was a small square which Peter recognised as the logo for Deuvar, Johnson and Fielding's secret pleasure palace. It flashed another invitation. Reluctantly he clicked on the button and instantly the screen filled with a stunning video image that took his breath away.
Emily!
"My God!" he hissed.
Beside him Angela gasped.
Peter turned his attentions from the main screen and moved toward the second computer, frantically keying in a sequence of numbers. Johnson and Fielding's logo appeared within seconds on the second screen.
"What are you doing?" asked Angela, her attention riveted by the stunning erotic images that filled the first screen.
"Engaging Magenta," he said breathlessly. "I've got to get Emily out of there."
On the screen Emily Lawrence sobbed as a guard moved closer, his cock glistening with lubricant as he crept towards her. Strapped on her belly for his pleasure, she began to whimper. The sounds of her fear welled from the multi-media computer and filled the little annex room.
Peter swung round in his wheelchair and pressed the mute button. The brief video sequence repeated, as hot and disturbing as before, but now it was muted, Emily's open mouth silent, only her face revealing her pain and misery.
Angela was transfixed.
"Are you going to trade Magenta for Emily?".
Peter was totally immersed in the frantic search for a way into the system. It hardly mattered now if someone detected him. They knew he was alive. It was, as Johnson had said, only a matter of time before they found him. The screen he was working on unfolded again, taking him deeper into the bowels of the computer's programming.
"Emily? Are you going to trade Magenta for Emily? I have to know."
Peter looked up. "Maybe, but not quite in the way they expect. I suppose you want to ring your puppet master? Pass me the box before you go, will you?"
Angela looked uneasy. "You mean Magenta?"
Peter nodded. "Did you say you know something about computers?"
Angela nodded. "My father taught computer studies."
"Right, plug Magenta into the port in the back of this machine. I've marked the connection -"
Angela unwrapped the box with care and then slid the flex out. Peter smiled thinly. "When I've got this done I need you to take me somewhere."
Angela looked up, unfurling Magenta's leads. "Deuvar?"
He nodded and then turned all his attentions back to the mass of figures and letters that slowly rolled up across the screen.
"Yes," he said flatly. "Deuvar!"
Emily crouched on the plinth, exhausted. Her body ached, her sex, opened and raw, burnt deep inside. There was a smear of blood on her thighs. Naomi Haroldson and her blond lover had awakened a creature in her that she had never suspected existed.
Emily was shocked to realise that she had enjoyed her compliance – relished the act of surrender, felt a strange freedom in submitting totally to the needs of her partners.
Naomi Haroldson slithered slowly out from under her, withdrawing the intimidating bulk of the dildo. Her parting gift was a delicate kiss on the open lips of Emily's aching quim. Behind her the great blond giant sighed with pleasure and slipped out from the dark secret places.
Emily slumped forward. Surely they were done now. Franz walked around her, stroking along her spine with his fingers. His touch made her shiver. He moved on the balls of his feet like a sleek big cat. Emily watched him as if mesmerised; the man who had finally taken her, the man who should have been Peter Howard. He turned, eyes alight with something she couldn't fathom.