The man at the far end of the line was stunned when he heard Peter's voice. Peter's requests were simple and straightforward. The voice read back his list and then hung up. Peter yawned and lay back amongst the pillows.
He felt much better already. Angela – practical nursing sister to the last fibre of her body – had left a walking frame alongside the telephone table. With some chagrin Peter used it to propel himself to the little bathroom where – without too much difficulty – he showered, shaved and dressed himself in a pair of clean pyjama bottoms and dressing gown, thoughtfully provided by his hostess.
When he re-appeared some time later he felt much more like his old self. Five weeks inactivity might have rendered his body weak, but his mind was as sharp as broken glass.
Another phone call and he had arranged to have funds made available to him. When he'd finished he picked up a local directory and thumbed through the business pages. It was while he was making a final call that he heard the door to the annex open, and looked up.
Angela stood in the doorway wrapped in a sheer, almost translucent, robe that gift wrapped her ample curves from chin to ankle. Her hair, which had been tidily arranged in a bun while she was at work, now curled in tumultuous auburn waves onto her broad shoulders.
"I thought I heard you moving around," she said. "How was your shower?"
"Wonderful. By the way, I've arranged for some equipment to be delivered here." He glanced at the bedside clock. "They've said they can have it here later today."
Angela lifted an eyebrow. "You really must have some clout, Peter. Usually you can't get a pizza delivered this far out in the sticks."
Peter watched her moving around the room. The woman was a banquet. As she pulled the curtains open her heavy breasts moved with fluid grace inside her wrap. As if sensing his interest, her nipples hardened, pressing themselves into an erotic relief. She had called him Peter! He was not Peter to anyone at the hospital… but it seemed so right…
Such great tits…
He was still a bit woozy…
"Are you hungry?"
"What?"
"Hungry?" she repeated. "Are you hungry?"
He lowered himself back onto the bed. "Rather depends what's on the menu -" His tone didn't suggest he 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 compelling that Peter wondered if he would be able to hold back.
Her mouth seemed alive, drawing him in between her lips like a hungry beast. She sucked harder, her large hands lifting to cup his balls and tease along the length of his shaft. Her breath on his belly, hot and wet, was alone almost enough to drive him to the point of no return. Locking his fingers into her long hair he jerked her closer, driving into her again and again.
Gasping, at the very moment of release, he pulled her away. As she sat up she looked surprised, denied her final prize. Peter took a deep breath, bringing himself skilfully back from the brink – avoiding looking at her heavy pink tipped breasts, over which it would be so tempting to spurt his thick shimmering semen. He held the base of his cock in both hands.
"I want to feel this inside you," he murmured. "Buried to the hilt inside your cunt."
Angela shivered and slowly crept up to take him into her. Her sex dragged him in, its slick throbbing walls closing around him like a tight hot fist. He snorted and burying his hands in her hair jerked her hard back so that she was forced into an erotic arc, her breasts jutting towards him, her mouth open as they struggled to set a frantic rhythm.
She matched him stroke for stroke, mimicking his wild brutal thrusts. She screamed as he jerked her head back further still and writhed deliciously as he closed his teeth around her swollen engorged nipples.
He felt the first contraction of her orgasm in the same white hot second that he felt the unstoppable throb of his own. He pressed his teeth tighter, trapping her tender flesh, as they both thrashed and thrust their way to oblivion.
At Deuvar, Emily was being led in silence back to her cell by a burly guard after her first day as a member of Fielding and Johnson's elite contract girls. She had been allowed to return without a blindfold but even so her eyes were downcast.