Dr Casswell's Plaything (10 page)

‘I see finally you have felt the kiss of the whip, Miss Weissman,’ the odious man continued, goading them. ‘I regret not being there when you were beaten. Who was the lucky man? Was it the good doctor? It would be nice to see you brought to your knees. Tell me, did you cry out? Did you beg for mercy? I would have paid almost any price to have watched him lay the whip on you.’

Anna Weissman glared at him, but without another word she settled down on the cot bed, her legs parted on the narrow mattress, dildo held tight in one hand. She looked like some astonishing erotic sacrifice. Mustafa grunted his grudging approval. ‘Very nice, Miss Weissman, but I want to see that little toy working away inside you. And you, Miss Morgan, do not just stand there, get on top of her. I want to be paid for my part of the deal. You have to earn the right for your master to work on the manuscript.’

A few rooms away in the relatively tidy crypt Rigel Casswell collected together the remains of the morning’s work, assisted by one of the museum staff.

For the first time since they arrived he was deeply aware of his surroundings. The shadowy crypt felt oppressive. Although it had once been a magnificent place, the huge vaulted room was lit by a series of fly-blown bulbs, plaster had fallen from the ancient walls, and the paint was flaked and peeling. Every available surface was stacked with labelled boxes and files and piles of papers, some of which evidently had not been touched in decades. The air was dry and dusty and full of the smells of decadence and decay.

Casswell stretched. He was ready to go back to Weissman’s house to avoid the heat of the day, and although his face did not betray a flicker of emotion, he was concerned about Sarah’s whereabouts. He knew the details of the deal struck by the curator and the Weissman’s, but that did not mean he was happy about it.

Until arriving in Turkey, Sarah’s sexual awakening, in fact her whole erotic education, had been in his expert hands, and when she hadn’t been under his direct supervision she was in the hands of men he trusted implicitly to take care of her. Men of integrity who understood the roles of submissives and their masters, men who knew the unwritten code of behaviour that governed the dark and pleasurable game.

Casswell slipped the documents he had been working on into his briefcase and glanced around the room, wondering where Sarah was. He had no real idea what kind of man Mustafa Aziz was, but every instinct told him the man was not to be trusted.

‘Do you know where the curator is?’ he asked as casually as he could manage, still packing his briefcase.

The man, who had just finished locking Beatrice’s diary back in its protective case, looked across at him with a bemused expression. Casswell wondered how good the man’s English was when he turned and grinned, revealing a large gold tooth.

‘You want Mr Mustafa?’ he said conspiratorially. ‘He is not far from here, he have his own special place. You like to go and watch him, maybe? I can take you there. Mr Mustafa he not know that we know about his very secret place. I get you a good view, yes? A good seat?’ As he spoke he held out a grubby hand.

Casswell looked his would-be guide up and down. It seemed that here at the museum everything had its price, even betraying your employer. Casswell took out his wallet and placed a note on the assistant’s palm. The man pulled a face, but Casswell refused to be intimidated. It was this or nothing.

The man held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Okay, okay, you drive a hard bargain, Englishman. Come, I show you where he and your woman are…’

The man waved Casswell to follow him through a labyrinth of narrow passages beyond the room where they were working. Finally, just as Casswell suspected he might be being taken on a wild goose chase the man pushed opened a low door into what looked like a tiny storeroom. The interior was bathed in deep shadow, although what hit him before the sight was the smell; the air inside was hot and heavy with the acrid stench of bodies and sweat. One wall of the room was studded with a series of peepholes bored through the crumbling plaster, and in front of each hole was a chair. Other men, all of whom looked as if they might be on the museum staff, already occupied three of the chairs.

They looked up momentarily, blinking in the light, and then returned to whatever was going on in the room beyond. It seemed as if Casswell had inadvertently stumbled across the port’s contingent of voyeurs.

His guide indicated a chair and then pulled the door to. As he settled, Casswell wondered if he could trust any of the men to guide him back out of the dingy underground maze and into the daylight. But before the idea took root, he glanced through the peephole closest to him and to his surprise saw Anna Weissman stretching up to run her tongue across the shaved and open quim of dear Sarah. The floor of the storeroom was set well below that of the cell beyond, and seen from this angle it was a revelation. Both female’s bodies gleamed with a gloss of sweat, and Sarah’s sex flushed scarlet, the inner lips slick with sheer pleasure.

She was crouched on all fours over the blonde’s face, her eyes closed, her hips moving backwards and forwards over Anna’s busy tongue. He knew her well enough to know that Sarah was extremely excited, her body taut and expectant as the blonde’s tongue and fingers brought her closer and closer to the edge of orgasm.

Sarah moaned and writhed, struggling for breath, struggling to hold on. What was even more remarkable was that with her other hand his student of the night before, Anna Weissman, was driving a dildo deep into her own sex and was obviously close to the edge too. It was a stunning tableau. Both females were totally consumed by the fire of passion. Watching from the comfort of his armchair, Mustafa Aziz was also sweating hard and enjoying the spectacle, his erection like a mountain in his stained clothes.

Crouching above Anna, Sarah suddenly began to buck and threw back her head, crying out in ecstasy, spine arching as the woman beneath her lapped on and on, driving her through into a shuddering orgasm. As if she was afraid to miss one second of the delight, Sarah ground her wet quim down onto her companion’s face, chasing every last sensation, every glittering moment of delight, and then suddenly it was done, all over. Unable to take any more, Sarah fell forward onto the cot, breathing hard.

Mustafa Aziz got slowly to his feet and applauded, almost as if he was watching a cabaret. ‘That was good, very good,’ he gloated, running his hands over Sarah’s glistening flesh. ‘Now,’ he said, gripping the back of her neck before she had time to catch her breath, ‘I want you to kneel on the floor, and do the same to Miss Weissman. Quickly, while she is so very close to coming. Now, do as I say.’

Sarah winced as the man’s grip tightened, but did not resist as he dragged her off the bed onto the filthy floor. Kneeling there between Anna’s open legs, she tentatively kissed the woman’s flat belly, her tongue slowly tracing a path down from her navel to the rise of her sex. Anna was still working the dildo in and out, lifting her hips in time with the penetration. Sarah hesitated and then very gently kissed the wet junction where Anna’s sex lips divided, encircling her clitoris and sucking gently on the swollen scarlet bud.

Anna Weissman whimpered and lifted up to give Sarah greater freedom. Sarah sucked and nuzzled again at the plump, fragrant folds. As they began to find a rhythm, Sarah caught hold of the dildo, easing it from Anna’s glistening fingers and took control of its passage, losing herself in the act of pleasuring the blonde. It was a compelling image. Casswell felt the breath catch in his throat. Sarah and Anna looked exquisite, lost in a sea of rapture.

Standing above them both, lips slack and wet, eyes dark with a shark-like hunger, Mustafa ran his hands over Sarah’s shapely hips. At first she barely seemed aware of the Turk, and then her eyes widened as he roughly pushed her thighs apart and ran a hand up into the engorged opening between her buttocks. Casswell saw her whole body stiffen for an instant as he unzipped his fly, and grabbing hold of her hips, guided his raging cock deep inside her.

Sarah shrieked as he pressed his unwieldy shaft home, his hands catching hold of her breasts, fingers twisting and pinching her erect nipples. Deeply and securely embedded, Mustafa Aziz hunched over Sarah’s shapely frame like a slavering, rabid dog, frantically forcing himself deeper and deeper while beneath them both Anna Weissman cried out in pleasure as Sarah brought her to the shores of oblivion.

In the gloom of the tiny room, Casswell’s companions were deeply appreciative of Mr Mustafa’s erotic little cabaret. Next to him one of the men had his cock wrapped tight in his fist and it was obvious that he might well come along with the three figures in the cell. He grunted, swearing furiously, eyes glazed as he started to twitch and snort. Casswell looked away.

Back in the cell beyond the peepholes, Sarah’s part in the sordid arrangement was over and done with now, and Casswell vowed to take her back to Weissman’s house as soon as he could, to get her away from Anna and the pig Aziz. The Turk rocked back onto his heels, mouth slack, his shrivelled cock nestled in the grimy folds of his trousers, slick with the rich juices of desire, spent and flaccid. Sarah had slumped down onto Anna and looked as if she was asleep.

Casswell rose and made his way back to the cellar and the stack of ancient treasures, and didn’t have to wait long for his pupil to arrive. He smiled; Sarah Morgan was a truly extraordinary girl. She was tidily dressed, with her hair brushed, looking as if she had just spent the previous hour taking dictation.

When Sarah got back to Weissman’s house she was grateful that Casswell dismissed her. She hurried upstairs to shower. It seemed to her that so far the trip to Turkey had been punctuated by encounters with Mustafa. She had no idea where Anna had gone after leaving the museum, and Chang was nowhere in sight either. In some ways it was a relief, but in others she felt abandoned, dirty and abused. The dried evidence of Mustafa’s lust was still on her thighs, her body was sore from the way he had fucked her, and her nostrils were full of the stench of his sweat and breath.

A sound disturbed her thoughts, and she swung round to see Chang watching her intently. ‘Dr Casswell said you might need me,’ he said, and to her surprise, Sarah’s eyes filled with tears.

Chang shook his head. ‘Don’t cry, Miss Morgan; you understood that total obedience was part of the arrangement if you were to remain in Dr Casswell’s employment.’

She nodded, afraid to speak. How could she tell him of the humiliation she felt as Mustafa abused her, when so much had happened since she first arrived at Casswell’s house?

Chang looked her up and down. ‘We all learn our place, and it seems that while you are here it is to be at Mustafa Aziz’s beck and call. But things will change. Bathe, wash your hair, and rid yourself once again of the stench of the filthy man – we won’t be here much longer. If it is any comfort to you, Dr Casswell is not easy here either – something’s wrong.’

Sarah nodded, still too unsettled to speak. It was totally unlike Chang to confide in her.

When she emerged from the shower, Chang had turned back the bed and set a tray on the bedside cabinet.

As she crossed the room she noticed there was a pile of Casswell’s notes stacked by the computer. Seeing the neat white bond covered in her master’s distinctive hand was oddly comforting; despite everything else, whatever happened to her, Beatrice and her adventures and her loves, passions, and pain were still there to guide her through. She knew Casswell already had more work for her to transcribe, so after a rest she would get on with typing it up, restoring some sense of order.

Naked, her hair still wet, Sarah picked up Casswell’s manuscript and settled back among the pillows and began to read the diary. Within seconds she was drawn into the girl’s life at the castle and her troubles, and suddenly all thoughts of Mustafa Aziz and Anna Weissman seemed to fade into insignificance.

…So much has changed since the night the Lady Cassandra arrived at the castle. His lordship was in a difficult position – if he questioned her decision or refused to let her have me as her servant, he would be acting disrespectfully to the king and this Cassandra knew only to well. He certainly could not choose me over his betrothed.

He praised me to her, saying I had given fine service in the house in the years I had been there. At this Cassandra smiled, although the expression had no truth or warmth, and said, ‘I know the service she has provided for you and how well you like it, sir. I’ll have no division of favour under my roof. Either she stays and serves me or she goes. She told me she was given by the church; if we cannot reach a compromise then the church shall have her back. I know the perfect spot. What say you, father abbot?’

My master caught hold of her hand and said gently, ‘Beloved, let us not argue and begin this marriage under a cloud, particularly not over something so insignificant as the fate of a serving wench. If you wish to have her in your service then so be it, I have no objection, I am happy that she will be of some use to you.’

I knew he said it to save me, but I also knew that Cassandra understood exactly what he was doing.

The next few days went badly, the whole of the household in uproar as Cassandra made her mark on its running – she was not slow to lay on the rod, nor her cruel and cutting tongue. As for me, I was given charge of her bedchamber, although my duties extended far beyond those of cleaning and mending. I dreaded the end of each day and the coming darkness – each night she would call me to undress her and then take me to her bed to perform all manner of unnatural acts under the watchful and lustful eye of the king’s bastard.