Dr Casswell's Student (17 page)

Casswell smiled as he watched Sarah open Amelia’s quim with her gloved fingers and then press her face forward. Her eyes were closed and her tentative tongue circled and stroked back and forth across the swollen bud that nestled between those engorged lips, and then her mouth settled on Amelia’s flesh.

It was such a beautiful sight to see: the naked and bound beauty, her stretched body still perspiring and marked from the kiss of the whip, and the subservient Sarah on her hands and knees, in full evening dress, her head buried between the other’s thighs, and her tongue paying homage to those wet and fragrant folds.

‘Shall we join the adorable ladies, my boy?’ said a voice at his shoulder. Such was the tension in the room, Oliver Turner had been able to slip in unnoticed.

‘Why not,’ Casswell said, with a sly grin at his friend and mentor.

Turner nodded towards the frame. ‘Any particular preference?’

Casswell shook his head. It crossed his mind that it was almost a shame to disturb the lovely twosome.

But Turner wanted his share of the fun.

He sidled up behind his beautiful willowy blonde and ran his hands up over her ribs to cup her breasts. His lips brushed the curve of her neck and her shoulders, while thick fingers toyed with her nipple rings. With her eyes tightly closed, Amelia moaned and wriggled seductively against her master; an invitation so unmistakable it made the watching Casswell’s penis lurch in his trousers. From the tension in her muscles and her staccato breathing he knew she was already careering towards a mighty orgasm. The elderly gentleman fumbled with his trousers and unleashed his straining member. Without hesitation he thrust his hips forward and entered Amelia with one accurate lunge.

Crouched between the blonde’s legs Sarah was completely entranced, eyes closed, she was making soft slurping noises of pleasure as she nuzzled, lapped and fingered Amelia’s throbbing quim. As Casswell watched, Turner’s gnarled erection slipped between those rich moist folds. Sarah obediently lapped at the underside of that too, as it speared up into the blonde’s waiting body.

Casswell noticed she’d slipped a hand down between her own legs. Just like Beatrice de Fleur, Sarah was seeking her own pleasure, longing to travel the same road as the luscious slave who gyrated and moaned above her.

He dropped to his knees behind Sarah, suddenly desperate to be a part of the end game, and lifted the soft velvet folds of her skirt. She dipped her back and ground her hips towards him. Under the lightest of caresses her juicy sex opened like an exotic flower. Casswell smiled; his slave was everything he had ever hoped for – and more. Unfastening his fly he pressed his curved shaft home without any further prelude. She reached back between her parted thighs and her silken fingers joined his, guiding and welcoming his phallus home.

She needed him as much as he wanted her.

Sarah’s body enfolded him, drawing him deep, deep into the ocean of delights. Above them, Amelia suddenly cried out with pleasure and began to thrust raggedly back and forth against Sarah’s busy tongue. Casswell groaned and bit down on Sarah’s shoulder, making her whimper with pain and thrust back onto him all the harder.

Within seconds all four of them were lost amongst the crashing white-plumed waves of pleasure. The moment of climax echoed and re-echoed through them all; a continuous charge, so intense it was impossible to decipher where one person’s pleasure began and another’s ended.

An hour later dinner was being served by Turner’s uniformed staff in an elegant room overlooking the gardens and the ornamental lake. The table glittered with a wealth of silver, cut crystal and crisp white linen. Sarah took a genteel sip of her soup and glanced surreptitiously around the table.

In the candlelight the setting looked so opulent. At the head of the table Oliver Turner looked like an elder statesman, a successful mature businessman at ease, while seated beside him Amelia could easily be taken for his niece or goddaughter. The blonde was now dressed in a stunning copper silk column dress that whispered wealth and emphasised her exquisite creamy skin. With her hair dressed and her make-up applied to perfection she looked for all the world as though she had spent the evening making polite chit-chat and passing around appetising hors-d’oeuvres. Further down the table their guests – a distinguished-looking academic in a beautifully cut dinner-jacket and his companion, wife, lover, it would be hard to tell which – sat in companionable silence while their host told them about his recent trip to North Africa.

Sarah doubted that anyone would ever guess the true nature of the liaison.

She could still feel the silky juices of excitement trickling and pooling in the warm space between her thighs; the good Doctor Casswell’s excitement mingling with hers. In sharp contrast, every time she moved she was reminded of the raw stab of the branding iron. Pleasure and pain, was there ever a more heady cocktail?

‘A little more wine, my dear?’ asked Casswell politely, indicating her glass.

Sarah nodded. The food was superb, and the conversation between Casswell, Turner and Amelia flowed seamlessly and merrily between art and music and history, on past the theatre and recent exhibitions; matters Sarah knew very little about.

As if he sensed her feelings of isolation Casswell stroked her cheek; it was the gesture both of reassurance and possession. ‘Your education is only just beginning,’ he murmured in a low voice. Sarah nodded and blushed under what she sensed was his growing approval.

In the conference room the following morning Rigel Casswell refilled his coffee cup and then glanced down at the typed notes he had been given by Oliver. The long narrow room had formerly been a covered walkway, and its large arched windows gave a breathtaking view out over the rolling parkland of Oliver’s country estate. Its shape concentrated the attention firmly on a low and subtly lit dais backed by a screen. Casswell stretched – it promised to be a fine day. Already the mist was lifting off the lake, softening the shards of the morning sunshine. He added a splash of milk to the coffee and went to find his seat.

The room was busy with the low murmuring of in-depth conversations. Gathered around the large oval table were some of the world’s foremost experts on historical erotic literature.

On the dais, standing behind a clear lectern, Rupert Lassiter, the first of the day’s speakers, re-lit his pipe, quickly called his audience to order, and then began his discourse. His role had been to confirm and verify the existence of Beatrice’s diary from other written sources of the time. He spoke with bluff good humour about letters between bishops commending the care of the work to the other, and a letter from two honoured guests who had been privileged enough to see the diaries on a visit to the religious order and had written – very discreetly – to thank the Abbot for his kindness in letting them read extracts from it. And then, to peals of laughter from the gathered men and women, he added that the guests went on to praise the Abbot for the two ripe serving wenches he had lent them to take away ‘the powerful ache for pleasures of the flesh that lingered in the aftermath of reading the Mistress de Fleur’s astonishing journal’.

‘Here,’ said Lassiter, pointing with the stem of his pipe to a screen behind him, ‘are some very nice photographic reproductions of the lists of contents of the chests that rested in the Abbey. And here, a complete inventory of the holy and secular books stored in the Abbot’s private library at the turn of the last century. Rather like an inner sanctum it was here that the order’s treasures where kept, both for safekeeping and as, with these diaries, to keep them from prying uneducated eyes. And here—’ he tapped some lines of faint, almost indecipherable hand-written text, ‘—we appear to have a record of the complete work that interests us. As you will see, the diaries were listed in the centre of the page, their titles amongst a column of several other volumes. That’s a very good sign. I would have been far less happy had these appeared at the foot or head of the page, as this could infer tampering. And by that I mean that the works had been added to the inventory at a later date. Now if we move on to contemporaneous accounts of—’

A hand went up on the far side of the table. A delegate from America began to speak in a lazy mid-western drawl. ‘I would like to make this point clear, Doctor Lassiter. Are we saying there is definitely more than one volume?’

Lassiter nodded. ‘Oh, absolutely, it would certainly appear so, yes. All the documentary evidence points to there being several small books, all very much like the one Oliver has in his possession. Small, portable, quite crudely made by Beatrice or one of her compatriots. But yes, four, perhaps more volumes. A very rare thing indeed, I grant you, but for us quite a miraculous find.’

There was a murmur of surprise and pleasure around the table, while Rupert Lassiter turned his attention back to his notes. ‘Now, as I was saying, next I moved on to the contemporaneous accounts of…’

But Casswell’s thinking had already moved on, to thoughts of Sarah and Amelia making love to each other in Oliver’s private apartments while he looked on. He imagined the two girls dressed as a matched pair, in black shiny leather, a studded collar around each of their necks and a matching body harness that lifted their breasts and then, after circling their slim waists, framed each thigh so that their sex was naked and exposed. He shivered at the delightful image. He would order Sarah to tie Amelia into the frame they had used the night before and then beat her with a rigid leather paddle he had with him. He swallowed hard, imagining the sound as it bit into the blonde’s succulent flesh.

He had seen the compassion in Sarah’s eyes when she had discovered Amelia hanging from the frame. How very hard it would be for her to overcome her fear and reluctance, to obey his orders and lay on with the strap. Or perhaps it would be better if it was the other way around. In his mind he reversed their roles, imagining Sarah now writhing with pure delight as Amelia abandoned the paddle and fell to her knees, driving her tongue deep into the secret places on Sarah’s tied and sweating body. She would be caught on Amelia’s wriggling tongue like a beautiful bird in a trap, writhing and sobbing as the pulse of orgasm throbbed through her. Oh yes, that would be delightful. Casswell closed his eyes and let the fantasy take flight.

Upstairs, well away from the conference, Sarah woke to find herself naked and alone in a vast double bed in one of the guestrooms. She stretched a little and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, while piecing together the events of the previous evening. Her fingers strayed to her throat and touched the collar and chain that was fast becoming part of her bedtime ritual.

After a very civilised dinner she and Amelia had kept Turner and Casswell company in the billiard room until quite late, and then… she sighed at the memory.

As the night had drawn on the conversation moved to a project that Turner had been involved in, in central Europe. It had been a long and involved story about the stultifying effects of a cumbersome and inefficient bureaucracy. As the tale unfolded Turner’s voice had dropped to a low hypnotic murmur, and Sarah found it impossible to keep her eyes open. She remembered with some embarrassment the creeping feeling of tiredness she seemed powerless to resist.

The combination of a superb dinner, the wine, and her unexpected encounter with Amelia, began to take effect – or perhaps it was Chang’s painkilling potion. Whatever, when Doctor Casswell had suggested she retire for the night she had been deeply grateful. Chang had brought her up to this room.

For a little while after she undressed she had waited in the velvety darkness, fighting the call of sleep, wondering if Amelia or Rigel Casswell, or perhaps even Oliver Turner, might come and slip into her bed under the cover of night. But as the minutes ticked by her grip on consciousness gradually loosened.

For the first time in many nights her sleep had been blessedly dreamless.

Now morning sunlight pushed its way between the closed curtains. Sarah stretched again. Her body ached and as her back and thigh muscles contracted she was vividly reminded of the brand. She winced, and then heard a noise from close by. In an alcove by the door Chang was hanging the dress she had worn the night before onto a padded hanger.

She was quite surprised to see him there; assuming that he would be attending to the doctor. He looked up as she moved.

‘It is late, high time you were up,’ he said, without emotion.

Sarah glanced at the bedside clock – it was after ten. Hastily she began to scramble off the bed, wondering why he hadn’t called her before. What would Doctor Casswell say if she turned up late?

Chang swung round. ‘But there is no need for you to hurry this morning. The doctor will not be wanting you until later in the day, although he has left you some work to be getting on with.’ He nodded towards the desk where, to Sarah’s surprise, lay the loose-leaf folder containing the transcript of Beatrice’s diary, and beside it the familiar bulk of a computer like the one in Doctor Casswell’s study. ‘Would you like me to ring for some breakfast?’

She nodded, wondering why the doctor hadn’t mentioned the arrangements earlier, but she knew Chang would be angry if she spoke without being spoken too. Did that mean that from now on she could only speak when he asked her a direct question?

He grinned, the expression quite uncanny on his normally impassive face. ‘So, Sarah Morgan, it would appear that once your chores are done for today you are mine and Oscar’s… you remember Oscar, Mr Turner’s chauffeur?’