Dr Casswell's Plaything (23 page)

It seemed the blonde’s penance was not yet over. She eased Sarah’s thighs apart, and the kneeling girl felt a warm tongue flick over the tight puckering of her anus, and then down over the delicate bridge of skin that lay between it and her throbbing quim. Anna’s tongue slid in and out, sucking her juices much as Sarah was sucking Casswell’s cock.

He smiled. Sarah’s eager tongue and lips were taking him closer and closer to the point of no return – and it was the sweetest of tortures. Anna Weissman had taken the place he had ordained for her – serving his beautiful slave.

He nodded, and Chang dropped to the floor between the blonde’s legs and, lifting her hips slightly, positioning her just as he wanted her, used some of the oil he had previously used to coat her body, to lubricate that spot he loved so dearly. There was a tremor that echoed through each of them, a chain reaction, as Chang fed his cock very slowly deep into the tight dark confines of Anna’s bottom.

The blonde cried out – her pain, her shock, her trepidation, and the sense of humiliation muted by the soft warm press of Sarah’s shapely thighs and buttocks to her face. Casswell pressed deeper into Sarah’s willing mouth, and she responded instantly by increasing the pressure of her fist around his shaft, her lips closing tight, working him harder and harder. They both knew it would not be long before she took him to the point of release, and Casswell briefly wondered if he could hold out long enough so that each player could reach the goal they most desired simultaneously.

Despite the humiliation at the hands of Chang, Anna was writhing and moaning as the artful oriental applied his fingers to the engorged ridge of her clitoris. Sarah groaned around the column of flesh in her mouth and ground her sex back onto the face of the Austrian woman, and Casswell knew from the way she was moving, the tightness in her shoulders and the dreamy expression on her face, that she was as close as he was.

Suddenly Sarah jerked forward, a little moan of pure pleasure echoing and vibrating through his cock. It was enough to take him over the edge, and the effect on the others was explosive as if that one little shudder, that one little gasping sob, was the touch paper that lit a stunning and volatile fuse.

Waves of ecstasy rolled through him driving away everything, every thought, except the suction and heat of Sarah’s mouth tight around his cock and the pulsating rise of his orgasm. Sarah suckled and hummed with avid delight, and her mouth filled with his seed.

Anna Weissman shrieked, her hips lifting to meet Chang stroke for stroke as she impaled herself on his shaft, and for an instant all four of them were linked by an intense communal pleasure, which only very gradually subsided and left them replete and drained, the silence of contentment punctuated only by the sounds of their breathing.

‘Well, well, well… what have we here? And why wasn’t I invited?’

Casswell opened his eyes. Uri Weissman, cradling a glistening glass of brandy, was standing by the door, his eyes alight with interest. Was his expression one of envy, or was he hoping his sister’s mission had not been thwarted?

‘I thought you were spending the night in the mountains,’ he went on.

Casswell smiled, making no effort to move. ‘And miss the comforts of your hospitality? I don’t think so.’

Weissman laughed. ‘You are a cool customer, Rigel,’ he said, and lifted his glass in salute.

While Chang poured their host another glass of brandy Sarah remained curled up on the floor beside Casswell, watching Weissman’s every move.

‘We will be leaving at the end of the week,’ Casswell informed the Austrian, his hand lingering on her shoulder.

While Weissman had settled himself in an armchair, his sister slipped away to retrieve her clothes and what little remained of her dignity.

Weissman looked at Casswell inquisitively. ‘Are you serious?’ he asked. ‘Are you that close to finishing the translation?’ Casswell knew Weissman had a good idea how much more he had to do, but he was a far better liar than his sister. His questioning expression did not falter for an instant. Casswell nodded.

‘And what about the extra manuscripts from the abbey?’ Weissman continued, probing.

Casswell smiled. ‘They’re just a simple matter of translation; anyone could do it. What makes the diaries so much more complex is that not only are they in a little known dialect, but much of the more sensitive material is encrypted. Beatrice was a clever young lady. She knew how potentially explosive and dangerous these accounts of her life could be if they fell into the wrong hands.’

Weissman nodded. ‘We will be sad to see you go,’ he said. ‘It has been a pleasure to have your company. And of course, we will miss the company of your lovely assistant. Such a talented little creature.’

He smiled at Sarah, who shivered under his stare. His eyes moved over her, exploring her nakedness, as intrusive as tangible fingers, his attention lingering for a few seconds on the leather collar she wore.

‘A nice touch,’ he said, rolling the ice around in the bottom of his glass. ‘Perhaps I ought to get my sister one. What do you think?’

Sarah looked away, she would be glad to put their stay in Turkey behind them.

The sound of Anna returning broke Weissman’s concentration. As the blonde crossed the room, now dressed, with her hair and make-up immaculately restored, he abruptly got to his feet. ‘If you will excuse me, Rigel, my sister and I have a family matter to sort out. I will see you both tomorrow.’

Anna looked taken aback; it was extremely late and quite obvious that the ‘family matter’ was a complete surprise to her, but she did not question her brother or offer a word of protest.

Once the two of them had left Casswell dismissed Chang, rose from the comfort of the chair, and taking Sarah’s hand, led her to his bed. It seemed that at least for tonight the status quo had been restored, and with a warm glow enveloping her, Sarah slipped between the sheets beside him. As he turned to her in the darkness and held her in his arms, she sighed with contentment and a sense of coming home.

When Casswell and Sarah arrived at the museum the following morning, Mustafa Aziz was gleeful. Rubbing his hands together with delight he showed Casswell the box of books and manuscripts that had arrived at first light from the abbey. Even Casswell was surprised how quickly it had all been delivered, assuming that Mustafa’s agreement to keep everything safe would have to be confirmed in writing. But apparently not. It seemed Casswell’s genuine interest and Mustafa’s word over the phone had been enough. Although he did not say so much, Casswell thought the abbot a fool, or perhaps, it occurred to him as he looked at the crate, the old man was just happy at last to rid the abbey of the salacious material. Whichever, the chest was made from the finest tooled red leather, faded now with age, and bound with two stout straps. It took a couple of men to carry it down to the vault.

Casswell very carefully opened it and examined the contents without removing anything.

‘You made a very fine impression on the abbot,’ Mustafa told him. ‘He rang me last night to say how impressed he was by you. He considered you a true gentleman.’ Casswell glanced at the Turk, wondering why all the flattery. ‘This material is only here because of your excellent and honourable reputation,’ gushed Mustafa.

‘And held in your safekeeping?’ Casswell asked.

The Turk nodded. ‘Indeed. The deal is we keep it all safe, translate it and return it without the contents ever becoming public knowledge.’

‘And those are your true intentions?’

Mustafa snorted, as though insulted by the suggestion otherwise, but then a smile slowly broadened his loose lips. ‘What can I say?’ he chuckled. ‘If the material is commercial, what man would not be tempted to turn a coin or two. We both know there are interested parties out there who would relish something new.’

‘Sell them, you mean?’

Mustafa very nearly blurted something, but paused and then stopped himself, as if remembering who he was talking to. ‘No, no, the originals, of course not,’ he snorted, as if the very idea that he was suggesting such a thing was a slur on the integrity of his family name. ‘But, a good copy of the translated version, perhaps?’ he opened his arms expansively, as if the proposal was only natural and totally acceptable. ‘The abbot need never know, need he?’

Sarah knew from Casswell’s expression that he was offended by Mustafa’s dishonesty, and his dismissal of the abbot’s trust.

With a withering look that expressed Casswell’s opinion on the matter perfectly, he turned away from the sweating oaf and focussed his attention on the handwritten script on the desk before him. But thick-skinned as ever, Mustafa merely grinned at the rejection and dabbed his forehead with his usual grubby hanky.

‘I wondered if you might look at them, Dr Casswell, and then perhaps recommend a trustworthy translator, given the potentially delicate nature of the contents,’ he said, undaunted.

‘Well, there are several good scholars I would be happy to recommend,’ Casswell replied. He glanced again at the chest. ‘And yes, I would certainly like a greater opportunity to look through the collection. I’d appreciate it if you would leave it here for the time being.’

Mustafa nodded curtly. ‘Of course, no problem.’ With a wave of his hand the two porters were dismissed.

Pulling on a pair of light cotton gloves, Casswell returned his attentions to the job in hand. Lifting his magnifying lens closer he began to work, and getting the message that he had been summarily dismissed, Mustafa backed away.

Sarah glanced at Casswell. It was so unlike him to be rude that she suspected he was deeply annoyed with not just Mustafa, but the whole distrustful set up they had found in Turkey.

Finally alone, it was not long before a comfortable silence settled between the two of them. Then Casswell read the words from the page in front of him, taking Sarah by surprise, for normally he wrote the translations down, but today it seemed important for him to hear Beatrice’s words aloud.

Sarah picked up a pencil and started to take notes, locked into the story not just by the events unfolding, but also by the sensual hypnotic timbre of Casswell’s beautifully modulated voice.

…The days riding back to the castle are long and arduous, the nights longer still, but I am learning that with Usher as my new master at the very least I am safe. The pain and the kiss of his belt is tempered by the knowledge that he will protect me from whatever the journey brings, and his cruelty is fired by an animal passion, not by revenge or spite.

I ride alongside him, wrapped in a cloak from his war chest, dressed in clothes he has bought for me along the way, my mind returning again and again to what will become of me when at last I ride under the gates of my master’s castle.

To mark my servitude and obedience, Usher found me a collar from his chest that once graced the neck of his most favoured hound. Set with studs and precious stones it is a pretty trinket, and all the while I wear his mark, in my imagination Lord Usher takes me, stripped naked and bound hand and foot, and passes me over to my lord – a wedding gift for the man who, as the miles and the abbey are left behind us, fills my every waking thought.

In my dreams my master smiles, and without looking back at those knights and ladies and fine noble folk who are gathered for his wedding breakfast, carries me up to his chamber and makes me his once more. He must take me back for himself, reclaim me from the life I have suffered away from the castle, and in my wild dreaming I feel the bite of leather as the whip wraps around me, I feel his body pressing on mine, his cock buried deep, deep inside me, inside my mind, I smell him, I hear the soft whisper of his breath in the dead of night when he sleeps and the heady groans of his excitement as he fills my body with his pleasure.

At present it is Lord Usher who reaps the sweet harvest of these imaginings, for by the time I climb down from the horse each day my body is yearning with the most desperate hunger, my sex wet and ready, longing for satisfaction.

Usher knows women well, and sees and understands only too well the raw lust in my eyes as I turn to him – for I dare not look at any of the other men who ride with him. Often he dismisses his body servants and will take me then and there, against a tree, or if we have stopped at an inn, up against the wall, caring not who witnesses the coupling, pushing up my skirts, driving his cock deep into me, or order me to the floor and take me like a beast on all fours amidst the dust and dirt.

Worse by far he will make me wait, but not in a way that lets my blood settle. Instead, as the day darkens, he will summon me for all manner of trivial reasons, or brush against me or cup my breasts as he passes. As I wait on him he will press a kiss to my neck and slide his hands up between my thighs, so by the time night falls I am like a bitch on heat, or sweated up like a mare, with a hunger that will not abate.

Usher knows too my worth as cold hard currency, and likes the games and power my body offers him. At the house of a merchant he will trade my services to an older son, or a father, or both for a little silver, and though he has no need of the coin he loves the sport of it. A second calling, he tells me as he impales me after they have had their fill – a pimp to willing whore. What better trade for a landed man?

Last night at a farm on the outskirts of a town, he took me out to the barn once supper was done on the pretext of looking at a filly he had bought, and on which he would value the farmer’s opinion. Waiting in one of the stalls were the farmer’s sons, three big boys, and a father who they favoured.