by Sarah Fisher
As Sarah shuddered and gasped, thrusting against him, Weissman snorted and buried his face into her welcoming cleavage, and she felt him shudder, felt his cock convulse deep inside her, and knew it was over for the moment. As she slumped in his arms and lowered her head to his shoulder, exhausted, she noticed the driver’s dark eyes watching her closely in the rear-view mirror.
‘So tell me, what is your pleasure this evening, gentleman?’ said the sycophantic proprietor, showing them to an unoccupied table close to the stage of the seedy club.
‘Champagne,’ Weissman told him.
The man nodded. ‘Of course, Herr Weissman,’ he said greasily, and beckoned one of the waiters over and babbled the order to him while staring quite openly at Sarah, eyeing her with lurid interest. Other shady eyes had turned to admire her, too.
There was one other girl in the club, but she was hooded and on the small stage, her hands and feet manacled to an ornate wooden frame. The owner’s crawling gaze, however, ignored her and remained firmly on Sarah, making her feel horribly uncomfortable.
‘Yours?’ the greasy man said to Weissman. ‘A new acquisition?’
Weissman shook his head. ‘No, unfortunately not.’
‘Oh, my apologies, Mr Weissman,’ gushed the man, with an obsequious nod of his head.
Weissman waved a hand indifferently. ‘That is all right, she is with…’ he paused, as if teasing, ‘… she is with my good friend here, Dr Rigel Casswell.’
Instantly the man’s eyes lit up, and he bowed. ‘Dr Casswell?’ he fawned. ‘I have heard of you. You are translating the maid’s diaries, are you not? It is my pleasure – no – my honour, to welcome you into my humble establishment.’ He quickly uncorked the champagne handed to him by the waiter, and handed them each a glass. ‘I have heard so much about you. I am honoured to welcome you here; you must have this on the house – I insist.’
Weissman appeared to be deeply uncomfortable with the subservient man’s enthusiasm, and his inside knowledge of Casswell’s mission in Turkey.
Casswell nodded an acknowledgement of the exaggerated plaudits and murmured his thanks, clearly wanting no more, so the proprietor returned his attention to Sarah.
‘And this is one of your pupils, yes?’ he said, drooling over her even more appreciatively than before.
Sarah sensed that Weissman was about to protest, but Casswell nodded in response to the question. The man leered. ‘Quality becomes its master,’ he slavered. ‘May I?’
Without hesitation Casswell nodded, and understanding what was required, Sarah obediently sat still so the man could admire her at his leisure.
Casswell nodded towards the girl on the stage. ‘And is she one of your pupils?’ he asked. She was slightly more heavily set than Sarah, with riper breasts and hips. She stood so still that she could have been a statue, and what gave her away was the twinkle of an ornate ring that pierced one nipple and caught the light as she slowly breathed. The girl was a compelling sight. Her large breasts were framed by a tight leather harness, which went around her neck and down over her belly, and as it crossed her sex it split in two, running down so a thin strap encircled each thigh. Her pubic hair was dark and sleek, clipped into a tiny triangle that neatly framed her sex pouch.
The man smiled. ‘Indeed, she is,’ he said. ‘We keep a small stable here for the use of our clientele. She is quite new – a good girl, though. I bought her from a dealer in Marmaris.’ He glanced again at Sarah.
Casswell smiled thinly; he had seen the look of avarice and interest many times before. ‘So what is it that you have in mind?’ he said, sipping his champagne.
The man sniggered. ‘Am I so very transparent, Dr Casswell? Well, since you ask, I thought perhaps we could exchange a little favour. My girl, as you see, is ready to be beaten, I have already a volunteer, one of our regulars – but perhaps we can come to some other arrangement.’ He paused, eyes alight. ‘Perhaps you would like to do the honours?’
Sitting beside Casswell, Weissman smiled calculatingly. ‘No, I have a much better idea,’ he interrupted, and it struck Casswell that the Austrian could not bear to be upstaged by him. ‘How about your slave girl beats his slave girl, Casswell?’ Weissman went on. ‘Let’s see how she is on the other end of it.’
Sarah looked at them both in horror, but the club’s proprietor seemed to be both impressed and intrigued by Weissman’s suggestion.
Casswell’s smile did not falter. ‘Certainly, but won’t your volunteer be disappointed?’ he said.
The host shrugged. ‘It is of little consequence. There will always be other nights.’
On the far side of the stage the identity of the volunteer was beyond any doubt. A heavily set red-faced man in evening dress was watching the bound girl like a cat surveying a mouse.
‘He has paid me well, and I will ensure he does not suffer unduly for his loss. But it would be good if he did not use the paddle tonight. He is a good man but heavy-handed. I am certain he will not mind if the show is good. It will be something a little different.’ He looked at Sarah again, and then added, ‘Although, of course she cannot work dressed like that.’
‘Strip her, then,’ said Weissman flatly, draining his glass. ‘I’m sure your volunteer would be only too happy to give a helping hand.’
Despite the fact that Weissman was overstepping the mark, Casswell indicated that Sarah follow the proprietor up onto the little stage, and an odd hush descended over the club’s patrons as she climbed slowly up alongside the bound girl.
Casswell knew Sarah well enough to recognise that she was nervous, her pulse fluttering in the bowl of her throat as she tried to swallow her apprehension. The club owner stepped up alongside her and invited the man – the volunteer – to come and assist in Sarah’s disrobing. He needed no encouragement and clambered up to join them, eyes bright and eager. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he circled Sarah a few times, like some feral cat waiting for the moment to pounce.
‘Come on,’ he hissed, encouraging her to undress for him and the waiting crowd.
Sarah’s eyes had darkened with apprehension, but very slowly she began to push the shoulder straps of her evening dress down; too slowly for the impatient volunteer, and he dragged them down to her waist in one violent move.
Casswell saw her flinch, her eyes flashing with a mixture of fury and fear. Even so, she looked exquisite in the lamplight, nipples pert and flushed, crowning her mouth-watering breasts. A faint murmur of approval rippled through the watching audience while the man ran his hands over her, hungrily almost, as if she was something edible.
Sarah shivered, and then he dragged the dress lower still, down over her hips, over her thighs until finally it fell to the floor. As he pulled it down he moved with it, falling to his knees, following its tantalising journey, and pressed a kiss to the flat plains of her belly and then the mound of her sex, tongue easing her labia apart.
Sarah gasped and closed her eyes as he bit and nibbled at the delicate flesh.
Casswell glanced around the audience. There was not a man who didn’t envy him those exploratory kisses or the fragrance and taste of her body on his lips.
After a few moments, the host very gently eased the man away and back to his seat before turning to Sarah and handing her a flat leather paddle.
At once Casswell saw the conflict in her face. She was reluctant. It was not in Sarah’s nature to inflict pain. The man lifted an eyebrow questioningly. The sense of anticipation on the room rose a degree or two, although Casswell did not doubt her obedience for a single moment. She would do exactly as she was instructed.
‘Come on, give the thing to me,’ the volunteer shouted from his seat. ‘I’ll show her what to do with it.’
Sarah stared at him; it was obvious he would thrash the bound girl cruelly, so very slowly her hand closed around the handle of the leather implement and she turned to face the captive girl.
Beads of sweat had lifted on the other girl’s chest and trickled down between
her breasts. She was trembling with anticipation. Casswell wondered how much the girl could hear through the mask. It appeared that she was straining to try and catch some clue to let her know what was going on.
Sarah then took up a position behind her and drew back the paddle. There was a tangible sense of excitement in the audience. The first blow was hardly more than a tap, but both girls squealed with shock and surprise.
‘If you do not beat her properly, then our friend over there will be only too happy to take over from you,’ the owner of the club warned.
Sarah bit her lip anxiously and drew back the paddle once more. This time the blow was harder and the bound slave girl jerked forward and let out a strangled cry of pain. The audience were totally entranced by the events on stage. Sarah struck again, her breasts swaying as she swung the paddle back and struck the tied creature. The girl shrieked. Sarah hit her again and then again, harder still, the crack of the leather against her delicate pale flesh lifting a blotchy red area. The girl moaned and hung limp as Sarah laid the paddle on again and again.
Now she had found a rhythm, and perspiration shimmered on her face and breasts. The girl in the harness writhed and twisted against her restraints, her nipples engorged and flushed with the intensity of the beating.
After six more strokes the proprietor smiled and took the paddle from Sarah’s trembling fist and leaning close, whispered something into her ear. Casswell saw her stiffen, and then blush anxiously. He could not hear what was said, but Sarah hesitated for a moment, and then moved around the bound girl and dropped to her knees in front of her. It was a breathtaking moment.
The girl was panting, hanging still in anticipation of whatever might follow. Sarah hesitated again, and then held the girl’s thighs pulled her close. Gently she began to lick the girl, her tongue working its way into the fragrant folds, her fingers exploring the slick depths.
The girl began to move, but this time her gyrations were of pleasure, not pain, and as she writhed in time with Sarah’s tongue and lips, the owner of the club released her ankles by unlocking the manacles. It was then that Casswell understood what was going on. The man who had earlier volunteered to beat the girl clambered back onto stage, his erection clear in his evening trousers. As he walked across the little stage he undid his shirt and unfastened his fly. Standing behind the bound girl, he encircled her waist with one arm, pulled her back to him and without prelude drove his cock deep inside her. Then, withdrawing for a moment, he lifted her and thrust his cock into Sarah’s mouth. She gasped, the girl’s juices coating her chin as he fucked her mouth, then he withdrew from her and drove again into the girl sandwiched between them.
Caught up in the lewd performance, Sarah lapped at the junction where rigid cock penetrated the succulent quim, nuzzling and sucking at their throbbing flesh.
It was a stunning image; Sarah kneeling, covered in a gloss of sweat, crouched between the legs of the bound girl while from behind the man fucked her long and hard.
It did not take long for another of the guests, at the invitation of the owner, to clamber onto the stage, drop to his knees and thrust his cock into Sarah, his fingers circling her waist to seek out her pleasure-bud.
Casswell refilled his champagne glass and looked around with a satisfied smile. His lovely pupil had done him proud, and there was not a man in the room who did not envy him.
Sarah was relieved when the club’s owner showed her through to a backroom behind the stage where she had the chance to shower and get dressed. Her masked companion appeared to have been taken elsewhere, so that someone else could enjoy her favours.
The atmosphere in the nightclub was now electric, and with the ‘cabaret’ over, several other girls had drifted down from an upstairs room. Sarah and the other girl had clearly been an appetiser for the patrons; the champagne was flowing and they were eager to savour the arriving girls’ attentions. Amongst the mêlée Casswell and Weissman were surrounded by a small crowd, and the proprietor was eager to introduce their honoured guest.
It was less than fifteen minutes later when Sarah emerged from the dressing room, but as she stepped into the dingy passageway someone caught hold of her arm.
‘This way,’ he said.
Sarah jumped and looked up into the eyes of Uri Weissman’s driver, too surprised to resist him. He was a tall guy and well built, and he met her enquiring look with a surly smile.
‘I’ve come to collect you,’ he told her, guiding her towards the back door. ‘I have to take you back to Mr Weissman’s place. His orders.’
‘But what about Dr Casswell?’ Sarah began, looking back towards the bar area, but rather disturbingly, she could not see any familiar faces now amongst those gathered closest to the door at the end of the passage.
The driver shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. I’m like you, I just do what I’m told and don’t ask questions.’
Outside, Weissman’s limousine was parked in the shadows of a warehouse. As they set off across the car park the driver, uninvited, put his arm around her shoulders. It was an oddly possessive gesture, and not one Sarah much cared for. And away from the noise of the club, she had the distinct and unsettling sensation that a pair of eyes was following her. She glanced back anxiously over her shoulder, saw a dark silhouette by the back door of the club watching her, and new it was Uri Weissman.
Sarah Morgan was a real find, and the Austrian was annoyed that Casswell would not part with her, but as he watched her slip elegantly into the back of his car, casting a nervous look back in his direction as the driver closed the door for her, he smiled thinly.
Chapter 9
A few hours later, back at Weissman’s house, Casswell stretched, slipped off his evening jacket and then poured himself a brandy over ice from the tray beside his bed. He thought about calling for Chang to give him a massage, and then decided against it; it was very late.
The doors to the balcony were open and the drapes fluttered in the warm night breeze, which carried the smell of the sea and the sound of distant music. It had been a long day and he was looking forward to relaxing with the latest transcripts of Beatrice’s diary before going to sleep.
The meeting of the museum trustees and then their sojourn to the club had proved interesting. And not just because of Sarah’s performance on stage, although it had been quite stunning. He was delighted with his pupil’s progress; she never ceased to enchant and surprise him. Sarah Morgan had come a long way since those first tentative steps back at Casswell Hall.
During her performance the bar had filled with more patrons, amongst them several of the guests from the museum party and, once everyone had partaken of some drink, Casswell had learned more about how it was that Beatrice’s diaries ended up secreted away in an isolated little Turkish port town.
He glanced at his watch, wondering whether Sarah was asleep. She would be intrigued to hear how the books were brought to the port by an uneducated monk who believed he was taking sacred documents away for safekeeping, and the friar who rode with him, who knew exactly what it was the books contained and hoped to use them to secure himself a fortune once he settled in the port. It was the friar who had first started the secret society that flourished just beneath the thin veneer of normal port life. A cadre of educated, well connected men who understood the pleasure of the whip; men who kept slaves and harems of their own. Casswell received several interesting invitations during the few hours he spent at the club. The men he had spoken to were all fellow connoisseurs who were waiting for the completion of his translation with bated breath.
Weissman’s mood had improved, too, over the course of the evening. Casswell had been concerned that his refusal to part with Sarah might jeopardise not just their relationship, but also his mission in Turkey. Uri Weissman was most certainly not a man to be crossed.
A soft knock at the door broke Casswell’s chain of thought. It opened, and Anna Weissman stood there, dressed in a fine cotton chemise that did very little to disguise the curves of her exquisite body.
Casswell smiled. ‘You would have been bored senseless. Do you want a brandy?’ he offered.
Anna nodded.
‘No servants to deliver you tonight?’ he mused, adding ice to her glass. ‘No games? No magic carpet?’
Anna took the drink her offered her and laughed. ‘No, not tonight, Rigel. Just me and my curiosity. I want to have more… a lot more.’
It was Casswell’s turn to laugh. ‘Now you see, there is the rub, Anna. The true submissive would never dream of asking for more. You just want to experiment and explore a little. This is lust, not submission.’
She took an elegant sip of the brandy and moved closer, seductively. ‘Is that such a bad thing?’ she purred. ‘Rigel, I need a guide. I need someone who knows. I can hardly ask my brother, now can I?’
Casswell eyed her thoughtfully and indicated the ottoman at the foot of the bed. ‘You know lesson one; total obedience, and total trust.’
‘Haven’t we already done that?’ she said, pouting. ‘The other night?’
Casswell’s expression hardened. ‘And total silence.’
Without another word, Anna sat on the blanket box, drained her glass and set it aside, held the hem of her chemise and pulled it over her head. There was no getting away from the fact that she had a quite magnificent body.
Casswell picked up the expensive little sliver of fabric from the floor and ripped a strip off the hem. Anna’s eyes widened in shock, but if she was planning to protest she wisely thought better off it.
Casswell blindfolded her. He could see that she was apprehensive, her breath fast and shallow, little beads of perspiration dampening her brow. He smiled; it was time Miss Weissman experienced a little fear.