Dr Casswell's Plaything (4 page)

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 fan 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; the 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.

‘Get up on all fours,’ he snapped, and without hesitation she did exactly as she was told. Casswell smiled wolfishly. Weissman was right about his sister; despite all her bravado she was ripe for training.

Waiting for him now, crouched there in the shadows, Anna was a picture of submission. Her blouse ripped, her elegant skirt rucked up around her narrow waist and between those long legs her quim was wet and ripe, hungry for his attentions.

Casswell let her wait for him, and just as he sensed she was beginning to relax he unzipped his fly, and releasing his turgid shaft he thrust deep into her, making her cry out with surprise, discomfort and pleasure. This time his fingers found her clit and pressed on its delicate hood, all the while driving in and out of her, their movement an echo of the one they had just witnessed in the room beyond the two-way mirror.

Anna Weissman sobbed as he thrust into her, her body matching him stroke for stroke until he felt her sex start to contract rhythmically around him, and Casswell knew then that he was lost to everything except the pleasure of the moment.

Beneath him Anna pressed back and rode on, drinking in the last few ripples of delight, her tight quim milking him, and they both sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath, sweat coating their faces and bodies.

Sarah lay in bed listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the Turkish night. Outside the sky was black and sensual. A slight breeze, swirling up from the sea, rippled the curtains on the balcony, and now the day was done she could hear the lapping waves of the Aegean against the harbour wall from somewhere close by.

Sleep eluded her even though she was exhausted, her body heavy from the thrashing administered by Weissman. Part of her was uneasy about her role on the trip to secure and translate the diary, although her role had seemed clear when she was back in England with Casswell.

In stark contrast to the events of siesta, over dinner Uri Weissman had played the perfect host while his sister Anna spent the entire evening unashamedly flirting with Casswell. Sarah shivered as she imagined Anna’s full lips, pouting and eager, her body so slim and yet so ripe in a silver lamé sheath dress, moving close to him, smiling and touching his arm. It was as if Anna was offering herself to him on a plate.

Sarah made sure she did not catch the Austrian woman’s eye, although she was shaken by Casswell’s apparent delight at so obvious a creature. She wondered if her position in Casswell’s life was tenuous; in theory she was his personal assistant but realistically good secretaries were ten-a-penny, although she hoped her role in his life as an obedient slave was less uncertain.

Alone in her bed, Sarah bit her lip to hold back the tears. She loved Casswell more than she could possibly say. The realisation took her by surprise. Watching him laugh and joke with Anna Weissman made her jealous and unhappy beyond anything she had ever felt. But beneath the jealousy was something else – instinctively Sarah did not trust the elegant woman, although she could not work out why.

After coffee and liquors were served, exhausted by the long day, Sarah was pleased when Casswell suggested that she might like to retire early and wondered if he would call for her to share his bed.