Read Online The Contract by Sarah Fisher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Fisher
Tags: home_sex
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just make out a wisp or two of coppery hair, glinting in the watery sunlight.
"So, is this what they call the garden of England?" he said, letting his eyes linger on the top of her thighs as she wriggled lower to expose the plump ripe prize that lay beneath her uniform.
"No, actually we're just outside Anchorbridge," she laughed.
Peter nodded and grinned a reply. The motion of the car was slowly lulling him to sleep. Angela's words barely registered as he closed his eyes.
When he opened them again with a start, he was completely disorientated. Ahead of him, set amongst a profusion of greenery, was a large cottage, rendered cream – a comforting rural image against a slate grey autumn sky. He rubbed his eyes and tried to remember exactly what was going on. Things fell into place slowly as he turned to look at Angela, her nursing uniform now demurely re-arranged to cover her plump thighs.
He stretched. "Sorry," he murmured. "I must have fallen asleep. I really need to use a phone."
The sister snorted. "You really need to go to bed and so do I."
Peter pulled a rueful face.
Angela giggled. "To go to sleep, you fool. I'll get the wheelchair out of the boot. You won't have to worry about stairs. We had a ground floor conversion done – Dad had problems before he died. You'll have your own little self-contained fiefdom – and yes, there is a phone."
Inside, Angela's cottage was as inviting as its exterior. Wheeling Peter up a ramp she opened large French windows into an open sitting area – from the ease of access it was obvious it wasn't the first time a wheel chair had been used to transport its occupants around the place. Beyond the comfortable sitting-room was a huge farm-house style kitchen. Angela kicked off her shoes, plugged in the kettle, and stoked an ageing stove into life. Within seconds the room was filled with a soft warm glow. She wheeled Peter up to the hearth to take advantage of the heat and made them tea.
He wanted to say how grateful he was – express some kind of heartfelt thanks. Instead he watched the hypnotic glow of the coals, cradling Magenta in his arms, feeling his eyelids falling even as he heard the tea being poured. Even Angela wheeling him into the annex at the back of the house and gently helping him onto the bed did little more than add to the changing pattern of his dreams.
"What the hell do you mean, he's discharged himself? Where's he gone? Or didn't you have the brain to find out?" Johnson roared down the phone. At the far end of the line his appointments secretary made noises of apology. She had only rung the hospital to confirm the visiting times and make sure Mr Johnson's car would be there on time. Johnson stubbed out his early morning cigar in the ashtray on his desk.
His secretary was a tiny pale mouse of a woman, who he had often considered introducing to the delights of Deuvar. She was one of life's natural submissives. Now, as she twittered on about making enquiries and apologising with every other word, he longed to call her into his office and rip that stupid frilly blouse she wore for work off her narrow pallid back, together with the navy suit that she thought gave her an air of efficiency. He'd bend her over his desk and take his belt to her thin insipid body, making her scream out for mercy – and then, when she lay sobbing, he'd bugger her there amongst the trophies of his success. The fantasy brought a smile to his face.
"Ring me when you have something concrete. I need to know where this man Roberts has gone -" He spoke grimly and hung up.
He needed to know what Roberts knew about Peter Howard. After all, he reasoned, as he took another Havana cigar from the box, they flew together, surely they must have talked about something. All he needed was some hint, some clue, however obscure, as to what Howard had done with Magenta. A lot of people – important people – were waiting to find out what had happened to it. Although there had been no overt threats
"So, is this what they call the garden of England?" he said, letting his eyes linger on the top of her thighs as she wriggled lower to expose the plump ripe prize that lay beneath her uniform.
"No, actually we're just outside Anchorbridge," she laughed.
Peter nodded and grinned a reply. The motion of the car was slowly lulling him to sleep. Angela's words barely registered as he closed his eyes.
When he opened them again with a start, he was completely disorientated. Ahead of him, set amongst a profusion of greenery, was a large cottage, rendered cream – a comforting rural image against a slate grey autumn sky. He rubbed his eyes and tried to remember exactly what was going on. Things fell into place slowly as he turned to look at Angela, her nursing uniform now demurely re-arranged to cover her plump thighs.
He stretched. "Sorry," he murmured. "I must have fallen asleep. I really need to use a phone."
The sister snorted. "You really need to go to bed and so do I."
Peter pulled a rueful face.
Angela giggled. "To go to sleep, you fool. I'll get the wheelchair out of the boot. You won't have to worry about stairs. We had a ground floor conversion done – Dad had problems before he died. You'll have your own little self-contained fiefdom – and yes, there is a phone."
Inside, Angela's cottage was as inviting as its exterior. Wheeling Peter up a ramp she opened large French windows into an open sitting area – from the ease of access it was obvious it wasn't the first time a wheel chair had been used to transport its occupants around the place. Beyond the comfortable sitting-room was a huge farm-house style kitchen. Angela kicked off her shoes, plugged in the kettle, and stoked an ageing stove into life. Within seconds the room was filled with a soft warm glow. She wheeled Peter up to the hearth to take advantage of the heat and made them tea.
He wanted to say how grateful he was – express some kind of heartfelt thanks. Instead he watched the hypnotic glow of the coals, cradling Magenta in his arms, feeling his eyelids falling even as he heard the tea being poured. Even Angela wheeling him into the annex at the back of the house and gently helping him onto the bed did little more than add to the changing pattern of his dreams.
"What the hell do you mean, he's discharged himself? Where's he gone? Or didn't you have the brain to find out?" Johnson roared down the phone. At the far end of the line his appointments secretary made noises of apology. She had only rung the hospital to confirm the visiting times and make sure Mr Johnson's car would be there on time. Johnson stubbed out his early morning cigar in the ashtray on his desk.
His secretary was a tiny pale mouse of a woman, who he had often considered introducing to the delights of Deuvar. She was one of life's natural submissives. Now, as she twittered on about making enquiries and apologising with every other word, he longed to call her into his office and rip that stupid frilly blouse she wore for work off her narrow pallid back, together with the navy suit that she thought gave her an air of efficiency. He'd bend her over his desk and take his belt to her thin insipid body, making her scream out for mercy – and then, when she lay sobbing, he'd bugger her there amongst the trophies of his success. The fantasy brought a smile to his face.
"Ring me when you have something concrete. I need to know where this man Roberts has gone -" He spoke grimly and hung up.
He needed to know what Roberts knew about Peter Howard. After all, he reasoned, as he took another Havana cigar from the box, they flew together, surely they must have talked about something. All he needed was some hint, some clue, however obscure, as to what Howard had done with Magenta. A lot of people – important people – were waiting to find out what had happened to it. Although there had been no overt threats
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