Dr Casswell's Plaything Page 3

  Casswell followed her gaze and smiled wryly. ‘Whatever it takes.’

  Anna poured herself a glass of iced tea. ‘Funnily enough, Rigel, I guessed you would say that. Now tell us, what does it say? I’m very curious.’ She indicated the sheet of paper Casswell cradled in his fingers. On it was a facsimile of two tiny pages covered in close script. Even from the fleeting glance Sarah had she recognised it as similar to the pages of the diary that she and Casswell had already translated and transcribed back in England.

  After a few seconds Dr Casswell began to read. For Sarah, stripped to the waist, waiting in front of Uri Weissman, her sex wet from his invasion, it was like hearing the voice of an old friend – an old friend whose life and circumstances uncannily echoed her own.

  …Bound hand and foot I was carried from my master’s bedchamber to the feet of my master’s most honoured houseguest, strung on a pole like a prize doe, fresh from the hunt, naked save for the studded collar my master had given me. To be gifted to a stranger thus both terrified me and yet at the same time lit a dark light low in my belly. His highness the king, who has graced the castle with his presence, is an old man, and his sumptuous robe does little to disguise his fragility. Flanked by his entourage he drank in the details of my nakedness, my long slim legs, ripe breasts, full hips, oiled and perfumed and all tied and ready for his pleasure. As I caught a glimpse of him my first thought was that surely such an old man was too feeble to have much use for me. I could feel the eyes of the great hall on me and began to tremble, wondering what would become of me if the guest of honour indeed had no use for me. Would my master’s gift be seen as an insult?

  Slowly the old man stood up and gestured to those servants who carried me to bring me closer. My feet were cut free and the pole lifted so my arms were above my head. Now it seemed I was his to explore and use as he wished. He beckoned them to carry me closer still so he could inspect me. In his hand I caught a glimpse of a riding crop and guessed at once where his tastes lay.

  Behind him stood two young men – noble men or thanes by their rich dress and arrogant bearing, I knew not which – watched the king, their eyes alight with desire as the old man ran a thin and wrinkled hand over my trembling flesh. I knew better than to meet his gaze and looked down demurely at the rush-covered floor. His hands lingered on my breasts, cupping them thoughtfully in his pitifully gnarled fingers.

  ‘It seems my host has sent this creature as a gift to tempt me from the path of righteousness,’ the old man hissed angrily. ‘What say you, my sweet boys?’

  Behind him the two young men nodded and murmured agreement.

  ‘I am a refined and noble man pledged to mother church, pledged to one woman for a lifetime.’

  Was this a game or was he truly upset? I felt a rush of fear in my belly. He let the head of the whip trail across my breasts and belly, and last of all over the rise of my maidenhood before sliding it between my legs. I moaned in anticipation of what I imagined was to follow. It was impossible not to.

  The old man snatched the whip away and shook his head in disgust. ‘’Tis true that this wench is a harlot indeed. Ripe for correction, ripe for redemption.’ He held the whip out. ‘Who will undertake this deed for me?’

  As he spoke, the servants who bore me set the pole to which I was tied into a frame, erected, I realised now, for that very purpose.

  One of the king’s young companions stepped forward, breathing heavily, lips slack and moist with greed and lust, eyes bright. My fear quickened. The old man would barely raise a weal, but this young buck could easily whip me without so much as raising a sweat. I felt my pulse begin to race and began to struggle against my ties.

  ‘Let me, father,’ said the man. I could see now that he was dressed in the raiment of a priest, although it was so fine a robe it was hard to tell if he was a man of the cloth.

  ‘See,’ he said, as I pulled again at my ties, ‘she is spirited and full of fight; she needs the devil beating out of her for certain.’

  From the dais the other said, ‘Aye, and then I, brother.’

  The old man nodded his approval. ‘You shall share in the creature’s correction; ten strokes each to begin with. Let us see if such a girl begs for mercy – after all, are we not merciful?’

  I knew I would beg, but not yet; that was not the bargain I had struck when I became my master’s plaything. I knew he was somewhere in the room watching me, he and his good friend Lord Usher, who shared my favours many a night. I would not disgrace him. I closed my eyes and held my breath as the first of the young men drew back his arm.

  I heard the whip cut through the smoky air, holding my breath as I imagined what would follow. The blow hit me square across my bottom and I screamed as the shock roared through me. This man, with his strong right arm, truly thought to beat the devil out of me. Although from the look on his brother’s eager face I suspected that when the beating was done they had other plans – more base plans on how best to redeem me…

  ‘That is all there is,’ Casswell said, as he stopped reading and with regret folded the paper into his jacket pocket. ‘You say you got this from the local museum?’

  Anna Weissman nodded in confirmation. ‘From their private archive. Apparently it was bequeathed to the museum, along with several other pieces that were stored in a relic chest, back in the nineteen-fifties.’ She handed him a photograph, which Casswell glanced at. ‘It seems strange that something so important should end its days in a tiny museum here in Turkey.’

  Despite the businesslike words, Sarah could see from the woman’s expression that hearing the extract had excited Anna Weissman. Beatrice de Fleur’s voice was still as fresh and as sexually charged now as it had been so many centuries ago, when she first scribed her compelling and intimate diaries.

  Casswell looked particularly pleased with the find, although unlike Anna it always seemed his excitement was more academic than physical. ‘The tone, the appearance of the script looks promising, and it is written almost exactly as the others were, or at least the fragments and extracts that I have seen.’

  He pointed to the photocopied page. ‘Beatrice’s style is unique, written in an obscure central European dialect; there is always an element of cipher and encoding in the entries. Although, I have not seen or heard this particular incident documented before. It is just possible that you’ve come across a new volume in the museum.’

  Anna looked intrigued. ‘So this entry is not the one you translated before?’

  Casswell shook his head. ‘No, which makes this find all the more exciting.’

  There was a discreet tap at the door and Weissman glanced down at his watch. ‘Perhaps we can discuss the matter over lunch? We eat lightly in the middle of the day and dine more sumptuously in the evening. If you would care to join us?’ He got to his feet and indicated the others should follow him.

  Casswell nodded, Sarah retrieved her blouse, and as she buttoned it up, it struck her that once this meal was done she was promised to their host to share his siesta.

  Rigel Casswell lit a cigar and lay back on the bed watching the plume of smoke drift and swirl up into the oppressive afternoon air. It felt good to be on the trail of Beatrice de Fleur once again, and how fitting it was that Sarah Morgan should be there with him. He put an arm behind his head and closed his eyes.

  After they had eaten Chang whisked her way to shower and ready her for their host, Uri Weissman. Casswell smiled at the idea as he considered taking up Weissman’s offer to watch their encounter. Despite the rigours of the trip and the heat of the day, he was very tempted.

  In the adjoining chamber Sarah did not resist as Chang dressed her in a fine red and gold embroidered caftan and matching sandals. He drew her hair back, and outlined her eyes with a fine kohl line. A veil was the final touch. Sarah glanced at herself in the mirror; she looked like a slave from the harem.

  The room she had been given was long, with a high ceiling, and doors at one end with a balcony overlooking another narrow street. A f
an burred overhead. The room was painted white and gold, the bed up on a raised platform draped with creamy muslin mosquito nets.

  As Chang admired his handiwork, Sarah longed to ask the imperious oriental about their host, but knew from bitter experience that the rule of speaking only when spoken to extended to him as well as Casswell. During their flight from London, Casswell’s valet had sat silently in economy class while she joined the doctor in first, but here in the quiet of the bedroom it was Chang, not Sarah, who had the upper hand.

  ‘There,’ he said, fastening the veil over her hair. Sarah suspected he was talking to himself, but nevertheless nodded and looked again at her reflection in the mirror.

  The caftan was made of delicate cotton voile, so fine that her body was visible through the folds. Chang had rouged her nipples, set a faux jewel in her navel and added a delicate gold G-string so fine that it just covered the lips of her sex and sat snugly between the shapely orbs of her bottom. As a final touch he had put a narrow black leather collar around her throat and added a fine gold chain to it.

  It was odd how quickly she relinquished her modesty to this apparently impassive little man; this man who used her as and when he pleased, her compliance a perk of his servitude to Dr Casswell; this man who regularly shaved away her pubic hair, and who attended to her body in the most intimate and private of ways.

  Without another word Chang caught hold of the chain and led Sarah back down the stairs to an ornate set of double doors. Beyond them Uri Weissman was already waiting for her.

  Gone now was the European tropical suit of cream linen jacket and tailored trousers of their earlier encounter, and instead Uri Weissman was dressed in a long fine white cotton robe. He looked Sarah up and down and had her turn around before his critical gaze. Then as Chang went to leave, Weissman stopped him.

  ‘Secure her and stay,’ he ordered.

  Set up in front of a large mirror on a heavily patterned carpet was a frame not unlike a tall piano stool, with a long padded seat with cuffs and chains attached to all four legs. Sarah shivered, knowing full well that the device was meant for her.

  As Chang bent her forward and fastened the restraints tight around her wrists and ankles, she experienced a moment of total fear as she surrendered to whatever would follow – after all, she did not know this man. She only knew she trusted Casswell’s judgement. Catching sight of her reflection for an instant, she saw the image she presented to Uri Weissman.

  The stool was built so that her buttocks were high, her knees slightly bent, legs apart, her breasts pressed hard down against the upholstery, her lithe body draped with the soft red fabric. As she watched, Chang lifted the skirt of her robe to reveal the creamy white orbs of her bottom, the gesture like some terrible parody of a bride being unveiled for the groom.

  It was disconcerting and compelling at the same time to watch Weissman’s progress across the room towards her. Chang moved to one side and stood with his hands folded behind his back – the model of a perfect servant.

  Weissman prowled, hungrily absorbing the delectable view of the bound girl. In his hand he carried an old carpet beater, made from bent willow. Sarah shivered and let out a little sob of fear, trying to imagine what its broad face would feel like as it cracked across her delicate and vulnerable flesh.

  Weissman flexed it thoughtfully between his large hands before taking up a stance behind her. As the seconds passed, all Sarah could hear was her rapidly rising pulse beating in her ears and then, in the mirror she watched Weissman’s arm go back, heard the air rush and then screamed out in shock as an instant later the face of the beater exploded against her skin. A red-hot sensation rolled through her, making her writhe.

  The stool was bolted to the floor, because the frame moved not an inch as her body contorted from the strike. The gold G-string tightened as she flexed, pressing tight against her clitoris, its grazing touch a bizarre and unexpected counterpoint to the great flash of pain. Weissman struck again and this time her body arched, its progress cruelly stopped by her restraints, her cries rending the still afternoon air.

  Tears of discomfort and rivulets of perspiration ran down Sarah’s face as the beater found its mark yet again.

  ‘Please,’ Sarah sobbed, ‘please,’ as always not quite knowing whether she was begging her tormentor to stop, or whether she was crying out for him to continue.

  As she bucked and twisted, Sarah felt the terrible firefly glow light deep in the heart of her sex, a spark that ignited that same tantalising need, that same madness that kept her so close to Casswell and all he offered her.

  As Weissman found a rhythm her cries broke up into throaty sobs and incoherent pleas, the heat suffusing her body like a tidal wave, her breasts rubbing hard against the damask, her clitoris pressed and restrained by the tight G-string. It was a heady and terrifying combination.

  Above her, Weissman grunted and lay the beater on again and again until Sarah lost count of the strokes that exploded across her tied frame. The sensation washed away all reason until at last the Austrian threw the beater down and crouched over her glowing buttocks, ripped the G-string to one side, and gripping her hips pulled her back towards him and drove his cock deep into her wet sex.

  Sarah cried out as he plunged home, his flesh against hers a stunning contrast to the angry heat of the beater, although the sounds were strangled and fearful in her dry throat. With one hand on her hips, the other tangled in her hair, Weissman dragged her up in a bow towards him.

  ‘Untie her,’ he growled at Chang, who complied instantly.

  Allowing Weissman to guide her, the Austrian pulled Sarah down onto the floor in front of the mirror and rolled her onto her back. His expression was triumphant.

  He hunched over her and tore the G-string off, with one hand still working in the folds of her sopping sex, his thick cock slid back into her, while with his other hand he lifted her breasts up to his lips, first one and then the other, sucking and biting at her aching nipples.

  Sarah whimpered in delight and began to writhe beneath him, her excitement building towards a terrifying crescendo. Weissman, his eyes glazed over with a mixture of pleasure and need, suddenly pulled back and roughly lifted her legs over his shoulders, allowing him to plunge deeper still. The sensation of his weight and the glow of her bottom rubbing against the floor were almost more than Sarah could bear, and without thinking she slid her hand down to touch her engorged clit.

  Weissman snorted and leered down at her. ‘You truly are a find, Miss Morgan. Come on; fuck me and let me feel you come. Suck me dry with that tight little pussy of yours.’

  The words sounded so incongruous, grunted in his thickly accented, educated tones, but even so Sarah did as she was told, rocking furiously against him until moments later she sensed his impending climax and with it her own. As the lights exploded inside her head she closed her eyes, and the last thing she saw as the waves of pleasure stole her away was Chang watching the two of them, his expression quite unreadable.

  In the small viewing room that overlooked Weissman’s bedroom, Casswell watched his pupil with interest and delight. It was hot and dark, and beside him on a small sofa Anna Weissman was straining forward, any pretence of sophisticated indifference long since forgotten. Her eyes were alight with pure excitement.

  Casswell knew from what had been said earlier that it was Sarah’s exquisite body and her unquestioning obedience, not some incestuous desire for her brother, which shortened Anna’s breath and induced the expression of intense interest on her handsome face.

  Not that Anna was averse to male flesh. Her tastes, as he remembered, moved in many directions.

  As if she was completely oblivious to Casswell being there, Anna slid her hand down between the sleek, well-toned flesh of her thighs. As she found the right spot she gasped and then threw her head back, eyes closed, and began to work her fingers back and forth, eagerly stroking the little bud that nestled there, while dipping her fingers into herself.

  Casswell smiled; t
he show in the hidden room was nearly as interesting as the one in Weissman’s bedroom.

  Suddenly Anna’s eyes opened, pupils dilated with desire, and she stared at Casswell as if seeing him for the first time.

  It was obvious what she wanted, but to make sure Casswell understood, Anna took his hand, put it over her own in its fragrant hiding place, and then parted her fingers. Her sex was wet and warm, covered by just a wisp of soft damp silk.

  She was more than ready for him, but Casswell smiled down at her and shook his head; whatever Anna Weissman thought, there was no way she was going to call the shots.

  As her face registered consternation, Casswell dragged his hand out from between her legs and pulled her roughly off the sofa onto the floor. The only way she was going to have Caswell was on his terms. As she started to resist, he ripped open her blouse and bra, dragging them off her suntanned shoulders, while his lips sought out her heavy breasts.

  She squealed in pain and protest but Casswell sensed her resistance – although genuine – was little more than an excited reflex, a token to appease any last shred of decency. This was exactly what Anna Weissman wanted. She was desperate for him to take her, to dominate her, to make her his and give her the pleasure she longed for.

  As she began to relax and move with him, moaning as he sucked hard at her engorged nipples, his hands crept under her pencil skirt, this time ripping away the silk panties. All the time his lips were pressed to her breasts, nipping and sucking, but now he moved lower, licking her ribs and belly while his hands further pulled up her skirt.

  If for an instant Anna Weissman thought she was in for tender pleasures, she was mistaken. With two fingers deep in her wet quim, Casswell could sense how close the vixen was to an orgasm, and just before she reached the point of no return he pulled away, as if done with her.

  ‘Please,’ Anna sobbed, ‘don’t stop now, please.’ She begged while her fingers sought the spot his lips had abandoned, but before she could bring herself to a climax Casswell grabbed tight hold of her wrists.