Dr Casswell's Plaything (3 page)

Uri Weissman eyed her again with interest and as he did, Casswell indicated that she should stand so he could inspect her more closely. Sarah knew better than to refuse, and turned slowly.

For her trip to Turkey, Casswell’s manservant, Chang, had dressed her in a white cotton blouse with breast pockets, a slim-fitting cream linen skirt, broad brown leather belt and high-heeled sandals. Despite looking like an English Rose abroad, beneath the clothes Sarah Morgan was totally naked, her quim shaved and oiled, her body always available to Casswell or whomever he might choose to pass her to.

Weissman beckoned her closer and indicated the blouse. Without a word Sarah undid the buttons, eyes lowered, colour rising, as she slipped it back off her narrow shoulders to reveal pert breasts with large dark nipples. She still found it hard to overcome her natural modesty and blushed as the blouse dropped to the floor. She could smell her own body, crystals of perspiration rising in the pit of her throat and along her collarbones. The slight breeze from the fan contracted her nipples into stiff peaks and filled the room with the delicate perfume of perspiration mingled with the heady scent Casswell liked her to wear.

She felt like a prize filly, sweated up and on show. Despite her natural reticence, there was something about being at the beck and call of the two men that excited and frightened her at the same time.

Glancing down into the street below Sarah wondered how many passers-by might look up and see her, framed by the doors of the balcony. She knew too that if Casswell asked her she would beckon any peeping Tom to join them, whoever he might be. She would take him into the room, suck his cock, and let him fuck or whip her, and the prospect induced a ripple of pleasure in her belly. She was his to command and however disturbing it might be, it excited her beyond all reason and measure.

Weissman grunted his approval at her unquestioning obedience, and then indicated that she should come and kneel closer so he could handle her.

‘Personally I would have her pierced,’ he said conversationally, weighing first one breast and then the other in his large hands. He nipped thoughtfully at the puckered nipples, rubbing them between thumb and forefinger. ‘I know an excellent man locally who would do it for you while you’re here. He does a good job. He would do her sex, too. It looks good and marks her as your own.’

Casswell laughed. ‘If you look at her you’ll see I’ve already marked her as my own.’

As he spoke, Weissman lifted her skirt and turning her a little, saw the brand mark on Sarah’s buttock, and nodded his approval. ‘Very good, but I would still consider a piercing. I find it helps with training and improves the appearance greatly.’ The Austrian slipped his hand up between Sarah’s legs. He was far from gentle. It felt to Sarah as if he really was handling horseflesh, firmly and without compassion, so she understood this was business, not tenderness or affection or even genuine interest. A single finger roughly breached the outer lips of her quim and without prelude drove deep inside her. She winced as her body resisted his invasion.

‘A little dry,’ he said, and withdrawing, spat into his palm and having rubbed it unceremoniously into the folds of her quim, tried again. This time he had no trouble, pressing deep into her, his thumb sliding back to brush her clitoris. Sarah gasped as she felt a little ripple of pleasure and instinctively flexed her buttocks, her body drawing his finger deeper still.

Uri Weissman laughed and nodded approvingly. ‘Tight, good breasts, and keen too – I’m very impressed, Casswell. You always did know how to pick them. Not bad at all. I shall look forward to this afternoon—’

There was a knock at the door. Sarah froze, uncertain whether to cover herself or stay as she was.

‘Come in,’ barked Uri Weissman, making no effort to move.

Sarah felt her colour deepen and looked down at the floor.

‘Rigel darling, how wonderful to see you again,’ gushed a female voice that, like Weissman’s, had a heavy Teutonic accent. ‘How are you? I see you have brought another one of your pets along with you, and of course my brother would need to try it out. He is so boring, so predictable.’

Reluctantly, Weissman drew his hand from between Sarah’s legs and turned to greet the new arrival. ‘Casswell, you must remember my sister, Anna?’ He turned his attention to the striking young woman. ‘If I had my way I would hand you over to Casswell so he could train you, you little vixen, and then perhaps you would have some manners and understand what it is that women are truly designed for.’

Sarah glanced up into ice-blue eyes of a statuesque blonde who bore an uncanny resemblance to their host.

‘Oh, I know exactly what they’re for, Uri. And I like them for all the same reasons you do, darling. Here, I brought you this, Rigel; a little something to whet your appetite.’ She handed Casswell a neatly folded sheet of white paper.

He opened it, and after a few seconds smiled. ‘My God, is this it? This is what I’m here to translate. It’s wonderful. How did you get hold of this?’

Anna laughed. ‘Oh please, how do you think? I’ve been working on the Head of Antiquities, Mustafa Aziz, for weeks. He is a perverse little bastard, but he adores women too, particularly women who adore other women. I have therefore promised him something very special to get us access into the vaults of his precious museum.’

Seeing Casswell’s expression, Anna laughed. ‘Did Uri not tell you? The items you want to see are considered to be highly sensitive. Certainly not available to the general public.’

Anna glanced back at Sarah, those diamond-hard eyes crawling slowly over her.

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.