Dr Casswell's Plaything (21 page)

It was a difficult irony for Sarah to take; bound to something that just minutes earlier she had hoped would be her route of escape. Now the three men were behind her, just visible over her shoulder, and she could not resist as Abdullah slid his sweating hands up the outside of her skirt, lewdly savouring the feel of her bottom as he did, and then unfastened it and tugged it down over her hips, down her shapely legs to the dusty ground, then roughly spreading her legs apart, the tendons standing out in her thighs and calves as she strained on tiptoe.

Then, with no more ado, he crouched behind her and his tongue and fingers licked and explored and took every advantage of her vulnerability, making her cringe. Meanwhile the waiter ripped off her blouse, the fabric cutting into her delicate flesh as it tore away.

Exposed and naked, there was nothing Sarah could do to resist the three of them, and she just knew that Mustafa intended to punish her for running away and for struggling so fiercely.

‘You really ought to learn to co-operate, little one,’ he said, his voice thick. ‘And you should also learn it is in your best interests not to upset me; I am very good friends with Uri Weissman. Very good friends indeed.’

He signalled for the two men to move back, which they did with much reluctance and grumbling, and then he felt between her legs, cupping her sex from behind, making her stiffen and gasp as he slid his thumb up into her. Sarah flinched at the crude violation, and would have spat at the arrogant oaf if she could. She knew Weissman saw Mustafa as little more than a minion, a man to be used and manipulated when it suited him, but the sweaty Turk clearly had gross delusions of grandeur.

‘You have to understand who is in control here, Miss Morgan,’ he growled in her ear, his breath laden with garlic. ‘And trust me, I will teach you. I really will.’

He moved away, his intrusive hand leaving her, and Sarah strained to pick up some clue as to what would happen next, although she had a pretty good idea, and then she tensed as she heard an unmistakable sound, and strained to catch a glimpse from the corner of her eye of the waiter pulling his leather belt from his trouser loops and handing it to Mustafa. Her fat tormentor folded it double in his fist, and then moved out of her sight.

There was a terrible silence, a few seconds deep and dark and full of a cruel promise. Sarah swallowed hard, every sense and nerve braced for the fierce kiss of supple leather.

And it came an instant later, the first stroke wrapping around her flank like some evil embrace. There was no pain for a few seconds – no sensation at all – and then it flooded her senses and she cried out instinctively, her back arching as the second blow followed, slightly higher and harder than the first, and as she strained her head round she saw the look of lust and excitement on the faces of Abdullah and the waiter. They would get their turn with her, of that she had no doubt.

The next crack of the belt across her unprotected buttocks drove away that thought, and the next one – until every shred of her consciousness was focused in the raw kiss of the leather against her flesh. Mustafa was as good as his word; he truly meant to teach her a lesson she would not forget.

The absorbing pain of the belt was a sensation for which there was no equal, one that she both feared and yet at some strange and unexpected level delighted in. As her restrained body contorted under the kiss of it she wondered what dark magic it was that Casswell had sparked in her. Somewhere far away Sarah could hear a voice crying out in anguish, and it took a while to realise that the voice was hers. Mustafa clearly intended to punish her long and hard for her attempted escape and for her insolence. The leather bit home again and again, cracking across her back and buttocks, making her skin burn and glow until finally there was nothing left but a void, a distance from which it almost seemed she was watching herself in the alley.

At last, after what seemed an eternity, they released her. Now it was the turn of the other two to indulge themselves, and Sarah was too weary and too stunned by what had happened and by her secret reaction to it to object.

The waiter turned her around and held her under the arms, while Abdullah lifted her legs around his waist and without prelude, slid his cock deep into her. Sarah gasped; despite everything she was wet and ready for him, and instinctively her calves locked around his back as he began to rut against her. Still aglow from the belt, she writhed against his belly, unable to escape either his cock or his fingers as she impaled herself again and again on his raging shaft. It was a heady combination.

The waiter turned his attentions to her breasts, his rasping breath wafting through her hair as he watched his companion fuck her. Deep inside Sarah felt the first ragged spasms of Abdullah’s approaching climax and, against all the odds, her own too. He began to writhe and groan, forcing himself deeper and deeper, and just as she thought she could take no more the first waves of orgasm crashed through her. Sarah’s whole body shuddered with the sheer energy of it, arching and twisting in the waiter’s arms. She cried out again and again, her cries mingling with the grunts of Abdullah as they came together in a swell of pure physical release – and then, quite suddenly, it was all over.

Breathing hard, sweating, both spent, Abdullah dropped to his knees in front of her, and for a few seconds pressed his face into the warm fragrant wetness of her sex, his tongue lapping at her clitoris, fingers still eager to explore as if he could not get enough of her. It was almost more than Sarah could bear, and she desperately tried to wriggle away, moaning her protests.

But before she had a chance to catch her breath the waiter eased her down onto the beaten earth of the alley, onto her hands and knees, and knelt behind her. Sarah sighed with shameful delight as she felt him enter her. Her juices, and those of Abdullah, eased the waiter’s passage and no doubt added to his excitement. He reached for her breasts, mauling them rabidly and pinching her tight nipples, and then slid his hands back to her hips, gaining a better purchase as he drove his cock into her like a steam hammer, all the time mumbling and then crying out all manner of words that Sarah did not understand. He came in seconds.

Sarah slumped to the ground and looked up, trembling and exhausted, her body smeared with grime. Mustafa Aziz looked down upon her, his eyes as dark as coal. She wondered if this was payment enough; had he taken enough pleasure by looking on as the two men took her in turn, watching her humiliation?

It seemed not.

Mustafa Aziz beckoned her to crawl closer, and unfastened his fly. Sarah knew exactly what it was he wanted, so on her hands and knees she made no attempt to get to her feet. At that precise moment she was not sure that her legs would support her, anyway.

She fished his shaft out with trembling hands and slipped the crown into her mouth, her trembling lips and tongue working backwards and forwards and around the glans, one hand working along him, cradling the weight of his balls, while the other eased his foreskin back and forth. He grunted and she guessed it would not be long before he ejaculated too.

He pushed his cock deep into the back of her mouth, once, twice, his fingers locked tight in her hair as he pulled her against him, almost making her gag. With her hands spread against his overhanging belly Sarah fought to hold him back; to stop him penetrating so deliberately deep, but it was impossible. Snorting like a pig and jeering gleefully, sweat running down his face, Mustafa also came quickly, his seed filling her mouth and seeping from the corners of her tightly stretched lips onto her chin. And then, before Sarah knew what the animal intended, he hauled her to her feet and kissed her aggressively, his hands tightly clutching her burning buttocks and his tongue plunging into her mouth to lap at his own seed.

True to his word, Mustafa arranged for Sarah to be taken back to Uri Weissman’s house. Sitting in the back of the rattling, squeaking cab, wearing nothing but her shoes and the old shirt the waiter had given her, she was aware of the taxi driver’s eyes crawling slowly over her as he spied her in his rear-view mirror. She shivered under his undisguised interest. Did he know, could he guess what she had been doing? What she was wearing was a bit of a giveaway, she acknowledged ruefully.

As they got closer to Weissman’s house, Sarah wondered if Casswell would be there yet, even though she knew it was doubtful that he would be back from his meeting in the mountains. It seemed such a long time since she had seen him, and she longed to see his reassuring face. But conflicting with her desire to be with him was an uneasy fear of the things Mustafa had said; if it came to it, which would Casswell choose – her, or his precious diaries?

It was dark when Casswell finally got back to the harbour town, the lights of the port picked out like stars in an otherwise dark and lovely landscape.

The abbot had suggested Casswell stay overnight, but he did not like the idea of being away from either the diaries or Sarah for any longer than was completely necessary. If he was honest, he did not trust the abbot, Mustafa or Weissman any further than he could throw them. He nipped the bridge of his nose to try and short-circuit the headache that was developing. It had been a long and trying day.

It was true that the abbot had several documents that interested Casswell; tantalising fragments of accounts of a slave auction, another that referred to Beatrice de Fleur by name, and one or two interesting little erotic stories illustrated and bound in leather, but he’d had little chance to study any of the documents for more than a few minutes, watched every step of the way as he was by the hovering abbot.

He was made to feel welcome enough, and the late lunch was a simple but tasty affair; cheese, bread and olives, and a glass of the local wine, but even after returning to the vaults for another look at the abbey’s erotic treasures, Casswell had an odd feeling that there was more to the trip than met the eye.

Despite his reservations it had not been an altogether fruitless journey, for the abbot, after some gentle persuasion, somewhat reluctantly agreed to loan the documents he had shown Casswell to the local museum. But only on the express understanding that Mustafa Aziz took total and personal responsibility for their safekeeping. He would arrange to have them collected the following day if the chief curator agreed to the deal.

Casswell glanced at his watch, thinking about Sarah and wondering how the transcriptions had gone, and about how long it would be before they could finally leave for home and the familiarity of Casswell Hall. It would be a relief to leave the tensions of Turkey behind.

Weissman’s house was quiet and still when the car pulled up outside. Casswell wondered if the others were at dinner, or perhaps everyone had gone out for the evening. That prospect was certainly appealing.

The main salon appeared to be empty, so Casswell slipped off his jacket, folded it over his arm and headed upstairs; what he really needed more than anything else was a drink and a shower. At the door to his room he hesitated – he had the distinct feeling that there was someone already inside.

Casswell sighed; maybe he was just tired and jumpy. It was probably Chang turning down his bed, or perhaps Sarah waiting with a pile of notes from the day’s work.

Sarah.

Casswell let her name linger in his mind for a few seconds. The idea that she was waiting for him in his room was one that excited him. She was one of life’s natural submissives, a creature so exquisite, so perfect, so ready to serve and obey in whatever way he commanded. She was a treasure – and one he intended to guard jealously.

The feel of her compliant and obedient body moving against his was something he relished. He sighed; if Turkey had been difficult for him, it had been considerably worse for her.

Inside the room Casswell dropped his jacket over a chair and began to unbutton his shirt, his mind still on Sarah, and turning round he was surprised to find Anna Weissman standing in the shadows by his desk. She stared at him and attempted a smile, her face a mask of contrived innocence.

Casswell was not so easily fooled, and as their eyes met he noticed that she dropped something to the floor, a single sheet of paper that fluttered and fell like an autumn leaf, down beside the desk.

‘Oh, hello Rigel,’ she said hastily, quite obviously trying to regain her composure by improving on her smile. ‘Have you, um, have you had a good day?’

Casswell nodded, and then said with a wry grin, ‘I didn’t have you down as the kind of woman who welcomed her man home after a hard day at the office.’

He watched her colour and bluster ebbing away. ‘So what did you want?’ he probed. ‘Is there anything I can do to help you?’ As he spoke he turned his back, and apparently his attention, to the drinks tray on the side table, although from the corner of his eye he could see her reflection in the dressing table mirror. The instant his back was turned she bobbed down, retrieved the paper, and added it to a pile on the desk.

‘Would you care for a nightcap?’ he asked, all innocence, but furtively watching her every move. ‘Brandy?’

‘Um, that would be lovely,’ Anna gushed, overdoing it somewhat.

‘Soda?’ he asked, turning to her. ‘Ice?’

‘Uhuh.’ She smiled and came over to take the glass from his fingers. ‘Mustafa rang,’ she said, gradually gathering her composure. ‘He said you were going up to the abbey today.’

Casswell smiled; she would never make a poker player. ‘And you thought I’d be away overnight?’