Dr Casswell's Student (3 page)

Exploring the large room she suddenly felt more like a prisoner than a guest, and it seemed odd to catch sight of herself in the huge mirror as she crossed its path. When, a few minutes later, Chang returned with the Doctor’s notes, she couldn’t help but wonder if the little man knew exactly what the book contained.

As he closed the door, she opened a bottle of wine and poured herself a glass, pulled the chair closer to the fire and switched on a lamp. It took no more than a few seconds for the images of Beatrice and the servant girl’s brooding master to fill Sarah’s thoughts. What perturbed her more than the vivid imagery was that in her mind’s eye it was Doctor Casswell who laid on the whip – and her own body that waited for its cruel kiss.

Hastily Sarah closed her eyes, trying to block out the fleeting but intense fantasy. She glanced down at the innocent looking folder on her lap. In a sense it was like holding Pandora’s box. Perhaps it would be foolish to open it again and immerse herself in the world of Beatrice and her newly discovered passions.

As if her fingers had a life of their own she opened the book and began to read:

…I am lost and I realise now that there is no one left for me to turn to for help. Today my master’s servant, Arturo de Vallon, summoned me from my duties. Leaving the children with the maid I hurried through the castle to my master’s apartments. This is the first time he has called me since the night of my Lady Elizabeth’s feast and I was afraid and excited by turns. Imagine my surprise when I got to his chambers only to discover that they were empty.

I turned to ask Arturo whether my master had left any instructions to meet him elsewhere, and then I saw the look in the serving man’s eyes. He grinned and shook his head. ‘Not a-one. The master is away this morning bringing the yearlings homes. So, there’s just you and I, girl, and I intend to sample a little of what the master enjoyed so well.’ He paused, eyes bright with lust. ‘I was outside last time and heard the kiss of the whip, and found myself a place where I could watch. I saw how you bucked and twisted beneath him, how you lifted up that sweet shameless body of yours and drew him deep into your ripe quim.’

Arturo picked up a flagon from the table and drank deeply. ‘The master and I go back a long way. He on a noble path and I, until now, his faithful man-at-arms. He has never begrudged me anything from his table. I often sup of his wine, eat alongside him just as if we were brothers, not man and master – and now I will have a little of his pleasure.’

I had been slowly backing away while Arturo was speaking. As he lifted the flagon again I turned and ran towards the door, but to my horror he seemed to have anticipated my move and leapt ahead of me, the flagon and its contents exploding across the floor as he slammed the door shut.

Grabbing me by the arms he spun me around and kissed me hard, his breath foul and pungent. As his lips met mine he drove me hard back against the wall, banging my head. I shrieked out in pain and fear, the darkness closing over me, but he was oblivious to my injury. Snatching up a rag from the side-tables he tied it around my mouth so that I shouldn’t scream out again and renewed his assault, his fingers fighting with the fastenings of my bodice. I struggled furiously, trying hard to break away, but he was having none of it and held me tight with one great fist.

Once my breasts were ripped free he toyed with them, twisting my nipples between his coarse fingers, grunting and slavering like a wild animal, spittle trickling down onto his chin as he sucked and bit on their sensitive peaks.

Pinning me back against the wall he pushed his foot between mine, forcing my legs apart, and while with one hand he squeezed and nipped at my breasts, his other hand gathered up the folds of my skirt, seeking entry into my most secret places. He towered over me, his rancid breath hot and wet on my skin – and as he leered down at me, body pressed hard against mine, I was too afraid to move.

Just in the instant when I thought all was lost, the inner door leading into my master’s private chapel opened, and there stood none other than Father Orme, my mentor and teacher. This is the man who had engaged me to my master’s household. My heart swelled with relief; surely he would not see me violated by this lewd villain.

‘What goes on here, Arturo?’ snapped Orme furiously, as the servant froze with me pinned to the wall, breasts exposed, his hand still forced up between my legs.

‘Well,’ the serving man began, reddening furiously ‘I… I…’

To my horror, instead of ordering him to unhand me, Orme grinned at Arturo’s obvious discomfort. ‘No need to explain, man, I can see for myself. Taking a little ride on the master’s filly, are we, while his lordship is busy elsewhere, eh?’

My cheeks flared crimson and I began to struggle once more in earnest. Orme gave me an icy look. ‘Perhaps you would like me to hold her still so you can get mounted up more easily?’

Arturo grinned in disbelief. ‘Most obliged, father,’ he said, and turned me round, driving me back towards Orme so hard he winded me. The old man wrapped his arms tight around my waist. I could hardly believe what was happening. The old priest leant closer and pressed his face close to my hair, breathing in the scent of my body.

‘Do exactly as you are told, girl,’ he hissed as he kicked my legs apart. ‘Arturo is a valuable ally. Did your Master not explain to you that it is your duty to give yourself to those who demand it? He has already told me how brazen you are, Beatrice, how wicked you are; temptation itself entrapping the poor unwary traveller.’

Any other words were lost as Arturo dragged my skirt up around my waist and sank to his knees before me. His tongue plunged into my quim and to my horror Orme’s hands lifted to toy with my breasts. I could not resist them both and the filthy gag stopped me from calling out in protest.

Despite my humiliation and shame I also knew that I could not fight the dark spiral of pleasure that Arturo’s tongue brought to life between my legs.

I began to writhe with pleasure, horrified by my body’s eager submission to Arturo’s explorations. Just as the first waves of pleasure rolled through me, Arturo clambered to his feet, and with Orme taking my weight, drove the head of his meaty purple phallus deep inside me.

The sensation of him working it deep made me gasp in surprise. I could offer no resistance. My body opened like shimmering gossamer for his cock, and then once he was fully home, it closed around him eagerly, hungrily, like a clenched fist.

Perhaps the old priest was right – perhaps I was as wicked as he suggested. The fierce thrusting of Arturo’s body against mine lit a beacon fire deep inside my mind and I was dragged helplessly by this sweating grunting serving man deep into the raging seas of oblivion. Deep inside me I felt his cock throbbing. Seconds later he slithered from the confines of my body and was quickly dismissed by Father Orme.

The old priest let go of me and I dropped to my knees, overcome by shame and the dizzy echoes of my passion.

‘Stay exactly as you are,’ snapped Orme, as I began to tidy my clothes. I reddened, only too aware of the creamy swell of my naked breasts, my nipples still flushed and hard from their rough caresses. Even now between my legs I could feel the serving man’s seed trickling slowly onto my thighs.

‘I thought I could trust you Beatrice to use your learning to good effect. This is how you repay my faith, is it?’ said Father Orme in an icy tone. ‘Using your wiles to seduce your master and his servants, and flaunting your nakedness before a respectable man of the cloth?’

I blushed furiously, and pulling away the cloth gag began to protest my innocence, but Orme held up his hand to silence me. ‘Don’t try and defend yourself you little slut. I know exactly how to punish you kind for your brazen and unseemly behaviour, Beatrice. I will take it upon myself to take on your correction before you lose your very soul to this madness. Lift your petticoats. I will beat this lewdness from you.’

Crouched on all fours, I braced myself as he ran a hand over my backside. He pushed my thin petticoats aside so I was completely exposed for his explorations. I blushed furiously, imagining the picture I presented. My flesh still bore the marks of my lord’s horsewhip, and Orme grunted his approval. ‘I see the master has already begun to train you… good… good.’

To my surprise his fingers worked down over my reddened buttocks to explore the sopping folds of my quim. He dipped inside me, grunting his appreciation, and then he slid a hand up over my belly and cupped my breasts so that the juices of my sex were smeared on my skin and nipples. The air seemed to be suffused with the heady scent of my excitement and Arturo’s seed and, as Orme nipped at my flesh, without thinking I moaned with a mixture of delight and embarrassment.

The old priest growled furiously. ‘I fear you are lost already, Beatrice. You are truly a whore. You need to be punished for such forwardness.’

Glancing back over my shoulder I realised he had removed the belt from his robe, and before I could move or compose myself, the broad leather strap exploded across my bare buttocks, making me shriek out in horror.

The heat and pain roared through my body like a storm wind. Still so close to the moments of pleasure, my skin seemed more sensitive and more delicate than normal, and I wept and screamed at the intensity of the pain from Orme’s beating. And yet… and yet… amongst it all was a tendril of desire, so dark, so unholy that it unnerved me.

When the beating had finished I instinctively moved closer to my tormentor, cowering at his feet, silently begging his forgiveness and his absolution.

As I rested my head against his thigh I was aware of his manhood pressing forward, seeking attention between the folds of his coarse robes. He looked down at me, eyes as bright as ice, and without a word I parted his robes and pressed my lips to his gnarled cock, my hands lifting to cradle the distended bulk of his balls and stroke at his engorged shaft. He shivered and closed his eyes. With one hand he brushed the hair back from my face and then thrust forward, cursing himself for his own weakness and desires as he did so.

It was a matter of moments, no more, before I tasted his excitement and an instant later a great fountain of warm frothing seed filled my mouth – so copious a quantity that it coursed out onto my chin and dripped down over my breasts. Orme sighed as if I had relieved him of a great burden.

He ran a finger down through the trail of his pleasure where it clung to my flesh. ‘Go back to your work,’ he whispered in a thick unnatural voice. ‘I need to be alone for a while.’…

In the darkened room that stood behind the two-way mirror looking into Sarah’s bedroom, Doctor Rigel Casswell poured another brandy and settled back in his armchair. By moving a little it was possible to see almost all the interior of Sarah Morgan’s room.

He watched her now, though she was totally unaware of his presence. Seated by the fire she drained her wine glass, closed the folder containing his notes and very slowly got to her feet. Her eyes were glassy, her breath shallow and excited. She moved with a nervous grace as if she was uncertain what was expected of her even when she was alone. There was a rather unworldly look about Sarah Morgan; an air of innocence and naïvety he’d noticed on the very first day she had commenced working at the museum. They were qualities that both excited and delighted him.

Rigel Casswell was a patient man. Like a hunter he knew the importance of understanding his prey, to observe and understand its habits, all the better to trap it – to tame it. It had taken him months to plan Sarah Morgan’s seduction and find a way to persuade her to join him at Casswell Hall – but he already knew it would be well worth the effort.

In the bedroom Sarah picked up her dressing gown from the foot of the bed and padded barefoot towards the bathroom. At the door she hesitated and turned to glance into the mirror.

He could see the flame of desire burning in her eyes. He knew she was excited by what she had read, and frustrated that the passion could not be fulfilled. As if hypnotised by her own reflection Sarah stepped closer to the glass, hands moving almost subconsciously over her body.

Who, Casswell wondered, did she imagine was caressing her? Was it the dissolute Father Orme? Or the Lord of the Castle? Or perhaps the rough hands of his manservant, Arturo? Casswell wished he could be privy to her secret thoughts; could tap into the well-spring of her desire.

Slowly the girl began to undress. Like a moth drawn to a candle flame she was caught helplessly by the mirror’s unblinking eye. First she unfastened her jacket, dropping it onto the ottoman at the foot of the bed, and then one by one undid the buttons of her crisp white cotton blouse. Shamelessly now she stared into the mirror, eyes dark with desire, caught up by the power of her own image.

How vain, how brazen Sarah Morgan could be when alone, thought Casswell. She would soon learn to be humble in his presence; a slave, a handmaiden to his desire, just like the beautiful Beatrice de Fleur.

Casswell leant forward, watching as the thin blouse fell silently to the floor. Sarah’s breasts were exquisitely shaped and generously full, cradled in a delicate white lace bra that barely covered her large pink nipples. Gently, almost lovingly, she cupped one in her palm, thumb and finger caressing the rapidly hardening peak.

Casswell held his breath, amazed at Sarah’s behaviour. He certainly hadn’t expected her to be so bold or so ripe with desire. He smiled thinly, sensing a delightful thread of self-consciousness still present, mingling with her obvious need for satisfaction. Cheeks tinged with pink, eyes bright with excitement, Sarah Morgan’s exquisite body was more than he could possibly have hoped for.