The Contract by Sarah Fisher Read Free Book Online

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