Dr Casswell's Student (2 page)

He seemed happy with my response. ‘Trust me, Beatrice, trust me and give yourself to me completely. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me. So brazen – so ripe. I already know you are mine to command. Give yourself to me and I will not betray your trust. I will show you paradise.’

What could I say or do when he had me just as he wanted, tied and naked? My tears continued to flow like a river. He ran a hand over my flank as if I were a favoured dog or horse. Perhaps his touch was meant to quieten or comfort me, but by all the saints it felt to me like the hand of a man staking his claim to a new possession.

Such passion and pain he has shown me in just one evening. Once I was at his mercy his smooth hands cupped and squeezed my breasts. His mouth worked against mine, teeth biting down on my tongue and lips. And no matter how much I cried out and begged for clemency my pleas fell on deaf ears.

His touch both unnerved and excited me. At times he caressed me as I knew a lover should; gently, tenderly, tonguing the soft folds of my quim, and exploring my body as any good husband might. And then just as I glimpsed the lights of heaven, he stopped and pulled away.

‘By God, you are a temptress, girl. You have the body of a whore and the face of an angel,’ he muttered thickly, wiping his lips. ‘That old devil Orme at the Abbey said you would serve me well, and he was right. But you need to be taught who is master here and who the slave; unbroken you are far too heady a drug.’

From beside his bed he pulled out a thin whip, the ornate handle set with jet. ‘I used this to break my favourite horse. How fitting that I should use it next on you.’

When I saw the whip I began to struggle anew and cried out in protest. I would do whatever he asked. There was no need to beat me; wasn’t I already at his mercy?

He ignored my cries, drew back the head of the whip, and lay on a stroke that took me to the very edge of consciousness. The whip’s fiery tongue lit a raw red path across my flesh as hot as the sun itself. Every sinew of my body screamed out in complaint and in terror – but he would not be stopped.

I twisted away from him, desperate to avoid the whip’s harsh lesson. But my master would not be denied. This time the fine leather snaked around my torso and bit into my belly and then my breasts, leaving a livid scar in its wake. By now I could scarcely hold a sane thought in my head. The only sound that filled my brain was that of the whip as it cracked out again and again. I have no idea how long he beat me, only that the blows seemed to go on longer than time itself. At last, when the air was still, I struggled to catch my breath.

With firm hands he cut me down and I tumbled forward into his arms. My breath came in raw gasps and my head spun. Great weals had lifted on my shoulders, back and breasts, and my throat and eyes were sore from crying out in pain and… and yet mingled with it all was an odd sense of pleasure that terrified me more than the pain itself.

But if I thought my ordeal was over I was much mistaken. My master picked me up in his strong arms and lay me down on the bed, his eyes alight with a lust that burned as bright as any star. Far from sating his hunger, my beating and humiliation had lit an unstoppable passion. As I cowered amongst the rich tumble of linen, eyes wide with terror, he unfastened his breeches. For the first time I saw his pillar of manhood, raised like an avenging sword from between the folds of the cloth.

I could hardly imagine that my tiny body would accommodate such a beast. Roughly he pulled me up onto my knees and pressed my head and lips towards his phallus. Afraid and repelled by what he demanded of me, I understood only to well what he craved. He pulled me closer still. Powerless to resist I kissed him humbly, keeping my eyes downcast, and then took his great throbbing sex into my mouth.

To my astonishment I found myself lost in the act of worshipping him; an ancient act of submission to his masculinity. Lapping at the great ivory shaft my body began to glow with desire, my sex wet and throbbing with an unfulfilled need.

Eagerly now I cupped him with my fingers, longing for some kind of climax to this dark game. As I began to find a rhythm, hands, lips and tongue working in harmony, his dark eyes flashed with fury; had he not already told me it was he who was the master and I the slave?

Pushing me back amongst the covers, he pressed forward. I knew then I was lost; his to command. There was a fragrant wetness that trickled from between my thighs; the same rich juices that flowed whenever I dreamt of my master.

He forced my legs apart with his knee and opening me cruelly with his fingers, guided his phallus home. For an instant my body resisted his assault, my sex tight and unbreached. There was a terrible raw surge of pain when I truly thought I might split apart as my body fought to hold him back, and then finally he drove his cock home and I cried out like an animal on a stormy night, hungry and wild and afraid.

To my amazement, as he began to move my body opened for him like a flower blooming. Rubbing against me, his hands working over my bruised breasts, I was astonished by the strange tendrils of pleasure that grew into intense spirals of light, twisting up from low inside my belly.

I thought perhaps the pain and the shame of the beating had driven me insane and these feelings were the divine rewards of my madness and obedience. Was this wild surging pleasure the very madness that would drown out the last remnants of reason?

Heat rose like a fever inside me until I thought I would die from sheer delight. And then, at the very pinnacle of pleasure when my demise seemed assured, I felt my master thrust forward once more, his shaft pulsating deep inside me, his passion a heady counterpoint to the waves of ecstasy that roared through me. And then, finally, there was stillness.

He pulled out of me and struggling to his feet, tidied his clothes.

‘You will come whenever I call for you, Beatrice,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I will brook no excuses, girl, no delays. You are mine now, do you understand?’

I nodded, unable to find the words to reply, and clambered off the bed, collecting my gown and the torn remnants of my petticoats. As he unlocked the door he caught hold of my arm. His features had softened. His eyes, so steely before, were gentle now.

‘Remember who you serve, lady. I am your only master. Our fates are closely entwined, Beatrice. Yours and mine.’

I do not understand what he means. All I know is that I am still expected to attend the feast, and my body and mind are in a raging tumult…

Sitting alone in Doctor Casswell’s study, Sarah Morgan realised she was struggling to breath. The computer screen in front of her was completely blank; she hadn’t typed a single word since beginning to read the manuscript. Its flickering unforgiving eye silently observed her discomfort. Her face was flushed, her body hot and feverish. She swallowed hard.

Why had Doctor Casswell asked her to type up his translation when he could have easily asked any of the other girls who worked in the office? They were far more efficient and competent typists than she was. Sarah realised, for the first time, that asking her to stay at his house made no sense at all. Was it, whispered a dark voice deep inside her mind, that the good doctor recognised the parallels in Sarah’s life to the hapless Beatrice?

She shivered. Surely her mind was playing tricks on her. How could her situation possibly mirror the fate of the long dead slave girl? But even as her mind framed the question Sarah knew the similarities were there: wasn’t she an orphan too, brought up by a great aunt? Although only twenty-two, hadn’t she spent the last few years of her life caring for the old woman? Though hardly a convent, it was as close as it was possible to get in the modern world. And hadn’t an old family friend found her the job at the museum once her aunt had gone into a home? An elderly male friend of the family who had known Casswell for years? Perhaps she, like Beatrice, had unwittingly been sold to her master. Sarah glanced nervously around the small study, wondering if it was too late to turn down Casswell’s offer of extra work.

She jumped as the study door swung open to reveal the doctor’s servant carrying a supper tray. The tiny Oriental man set the meal down on a side-table by the fire.

‘If you ring the bell when you’ve finished, Miss Morgan, I will come and collect the tray,’ he said flatly in impeccable English. ‘And after you’ve eaten I will show you to your room.’

Sarah nodded. Her stomach rumbled in response to the appetising smell of the food. It crossed her mind that her imagination was getting the better of her. She was just hungry and nervous, that was all. Things would look different when she had eaten.

She smiled up at him. ‘Thank you.’

He bowed in response.

As soon as he had left the room, but before she began to eat her supper, Sarah typed in a working title for the manuscript:

‘The Diary of Beatrice’, translated by Doctor R J Casswell.

Satisfied that she was back in control, Sarah Morgan turned her attentions to the tray.

After supper Chang led Sarah upstairs to her bedroom. She felt better for having eaten. Abandoning the manuscript and the word processor, she followed the little Oriental man back into the hall. Stepping out of the warm study she wondered again whether accepting the invitation to Casswell House had been such a good idea. Since he had first shown her to the office there had been no other sign of the doctor. With just Chang for company the old house seemed dark and cold and foreboding. The oppressive gloom made the hairs lift on the back of Sarah’s neck.

The sweeping staircase was lit by dusty lamps and bare bulbs. The whole place had obviously seen much better days; the carpets were threadbare, the drapes faded and thin. Even in the poor light it was impossible to ignore the layers of dust and cobwebs that clung to every surface. Here and there pieces of plaster had fallen off the walls revealing the lathe below.

So Sarah was surprised when Chang opened an ornate door on the second floor to reveal a warm comfortable room. A large coal fire burned in the grate. The hearth was flanked by two arm-winged chairs, while lamps on side-tables lit the room with a soft golden glow. Opposite the door, floor-length curtains framed a dramatic view out over the grounds, and standing in the bay window was a
chaise longue
, upholstered in black velvet and strewn with cream silk cushions. On the dressing table stood a bowl of fresh flowers. It certainly wasn’t the kind of room Sarah had been expecting.

Through an open door she could see into the bathroom, where plush white towels hung from a rail. But what really caught and held her attention was the enormous mirror that dominated the main room. It stretched from floor to ceiling on the wall opposite the bed.

The ornate gilt frame would have looked ridiculous in a smaller room or a lesser house. It was surmounted by two huge plump cherubs and from the baskets they carried, tumbled a cornucopia of fruit, flowers, birds and animals, and a tumult of bubbling water and twisted ribbons that made up the frame.

In the mirror’s cool reflection the huge bed was caught and held like an exquisite picture.

Sarah glanced at the bed’s carved wooden uprights and for an instant imagined Beatrice tied there, naked and afraid, awaiting her master’s pleasure. The image sent an intense electric pulse of desire down her spine, making her shiver.

Behind her Chang watched, his face expressionless as she hastily ordered her thoughts. ‘I hadn’t imagined I’d be staying anywhere so luxurious,’ she said.

The servant bowed curtly. ‘I will tell the doctor that the room is satisfactory. I have unpacked your things,’ he said, indicating the wardrobe and tallboy. ‘Breakfast is at eight.’

Sarah thanked him and then added, ‘Do you think it would be all right to bring Doctor Casswell’s notes up here to read? I thought I could begin transcribing them tomorrow.’

Chang’s expression didn’t change. ‘I will ask the doctor.’

As he turned to leave, Sarah continued. ‘Will I see Doctor Casswell again this evening? I mean, does he expect me to go downstairs? I thought perhaps he might want me to spend the…’ her voice faded under the man’s unwavering stare. She wasn’t sure what it was that Casswell expected of her, but as it was barely eight o’clock she hadn’t considered the possibility that Chang could be showing her up to bed.

The servant looked surprised. ‘Doctor Casswell usually spends his evenings alone. He works or reads. I do not think he anticipates you joining him this evening, Miss Morgan. Would you like me to ask him?’

Sarah shook her head; it seemed she was dismissed, unless of course the doctor assumed she would want to continue working until bedtime. She smiled at Chang and then waved him away. ‘Thank you. It was a long drive; I think I’ll just get settled in.’

The little man nodded. ‘If you want anything, please ring.’ He indicated a bell-pull beside the mantelpiece and then closed the door quietly behind him. As soon as he was gone, Sarah let out a sigh of relief and slumped into one of the winged chairs by the fire. Working at Casswell Hall was going to be far more difficult than she imagined. The house and its surroundings were so strange. The Doctor made her nervous – even with Chang she was on tenterhooks – and then there was the content of the manuscript itself.

She glanced around the room. Chang had already unpacked her possessions: her books – two novels – lay on the bedside cabinet, clothes, shoes, everything – even her toiletries, were neatly arranged in the appropriate places. On a tray by the fire were refreshments: bottles of wines and spirits, soft drinks, tea and coffee, suggesting that she was expected to stay in her room when not working downstairs.