Free The Contract by Sarah Fisher Page B

was expecting an early supper.
    Angela turned and let the wrap fall open. Beneath she was naked. Her body reminded him of the models used by the old masters – Reubens or Rembrant. She was sumptuous, heavy breasted, with a narrow angular waist that rolled out over capacious hips. Her belly was softly rounded and her skin – complementing her rich strawberry blonde hair – had a porcelain lustre to it.
    Peter smiled. "Take it off," he whispered, "and turn around slowly. I want to look at you."
    Angela let the sheer fabric slither down over her muscular arms. For a woman of her size she moved with the grace of a ballet dancer. From the back her silhouette accentuated the impression of an hour glass figure and her ample buttocks were plump and dimpled. Peter let out a low whistle of admiration.
    Angela peeked provocatively over her shoulder, eyes glittering. "What next?" she murmured.
    Peter considered. He would like to find something to bring a red flush to her pale glowing skin, something that wouldn't rob him of the meagre supply of energy that his normally robust body had to offer. He glanced around the room; he wanted to give her a taste of the pleasures she so obviously craved. A familiar shape caught his eye amongst the fire-irons, standing in an old shell case in the hearth.
    "Was your father a teacher?"
    Bemused, Angela nodded.
    Peter pointed towards the fire. "Was that his cane?"
    Angela blushed crimson. "He used it to hook his slippers and things off the floor when he was ill."
    "Bring it to me."
    He could see her hands trembling as she slipped the cane from its nest amongst the innocent pokers. Peter could already feel a tight ache in his groin as he imagined how many tight frightened arses the little cane had kissed.
    Nervously, Angela made her way to the bed, the cane held out in front of her like a holy relic. He took it and bent it, testing its flexibility. Beside the bed Angela watched with open-eyed wonder.
    He patted the eiderdown. "Lie across the bed. You can't expect a sick man to stand for his pleasures."
    The flush in Angela's face spread slowly down over her shoulders, but she didn't move. Peter's face grew stern. "Don't keep me waiting, girl."
    Angela eased herself slowly over his legs. Her weight almost made him tell her to stop, but the prospect of her ripe backside, exposed and ready, gave him the strength to continue. When she was across his thighs he pushed a pillow under her hips, tipping her up to expose the delicate contours of her buttocks.
    He grinned and swung the cane back. It cut a swathe though the air and exploded across her backside. She wailed and leapt forward while her porcelain skin lifted in a slim blood-red ribbon. He struck again. Six of the best, he calculated, was probably all that he would be able to manage. With each blow Angela let out a shriek of pain and ground her body into his thighs. Between each stroke her body opened like a ripe flower, fragrant and compelling. He smiled. Angela Ruskin's education was going to be a real pleasure.
    When the final blow was struck he pulled himself up and leant forward to kiss each stripe in turn. She mewled with pleasure as his tongue traced the criss-crossed weals. Easing his hands lower he opened her legs; between her thighs was a white hot, sopping crucible of pleasure. She was so excited that her juices were trickling down onto her legs. He guided her so that she was kneeling across his lap and looked up into her face.
    Her cheeks were tear stained and flushed, eyes still flickering with desire and need. His fingers trailed back to her sex, dipping – almost swimming – in her excitement. He opened his pyjamas and ran his hands, wet from her sex, over the engorged purple head of his cock. Slicking it back and forth over his foreskin, he got hold of her neck and pulled her closer.
    She shivered as she bent forward to service him with her mouth. He imagined the pleasure as she tasted her own juices mingled with his. The image was so