by Sarah Fisher
He settled her back on the ottoman, and ripping more of her chemise he tied her wrists to the legs of the chest and then, having slipped a cushion under her hips to make her body more accessible, secured both her ankles. She whimpered as he tightened the ties.
She looked quite exquisite – a luscious feast. Casswell stroked her pensively, and then taking an ice-cube from her brandy glass, slid it around the dip of her toned belly. Anna gasped and shivered. Very slowly he circled each nipple in turn, and watched them hardened and rise like rosebuds. Her whole body trembled in anticipation of what might follow. With deliberation Casswell poured the last of his brandy over her quim, and then began to lap at it while his fingers pressed into those silken sex lips – lips that were getting wetter and wetter with every passing moment.
Just as Anna began to relax and move with him, Casswell palmed the remains of the ice-cubes into his mouth and then pressed hard against her tight pussy.
Ice and fire. Anna Weissman’s body flexed, and she mewled in shock and delight as he returned his attentions to the swollen ridge of her clitoris.
‘You… you bastard,’ she gasped, trying to wriggle away from his tormenting caresses, but Casswell merely used his tongue to push the ice deeper still.
Writhing beneath him, Anna Weissman cried out in a heady mixture of pain and pleasure as he brought her to the point of orgasm again and again, but skilfully denying her the final prize. He applied a pair of silver nipple clamps to the exquisite peaks that tipped her full breasts, making her mewl and gasp all the more earnestly, brushing them, making her cry out as the pleasure and pain coursed through her veins. As she lifted herself to try and ensnare him, to try and drive him over the edge, he took another little something from his box of toys, and slid an anal plug into that tight dark space that as she writhed against him just begged to be filled.
Anna gasped as it popped home, and relentlessly, Casswell teased her supine and bound body, expertly brushing her clitoris with his thumb so that shards of pleasure spasmed through her. It was such a shame that she was Uri Weissman’s sister, for the more he saw of her the more potential she showed. It crossed his mind, as she moved against his knowing touch, to take her back to England. He had enough contacts to have her placed with someone who could deal with her wilfulness and bring out her full potential.
Beneath him Anna was deliriously begging for satisfaction.
‘Please, please,’ she sobbed, almost in tears, trying desperately to lift her hips to his touch, to take her to that all-consuming place, completing the sensual arc he had begun.
Then Casswell slipped his hands under her taut thighs, lifted her towards him as much as the bonds would allow, and drove his cock deep inside her, making her scream in delight, and at the same time his educated fingers renewed their attention, circling the throbbing scarlet bud that lay between those succulent lips.
This time there was no going back. Anna Weissman began to buck and twist, pushing herself hard onto his cock, crying out again and again as the waves of orgasm crashed over her. As her climax finally engulfed them both her quim closed tight around his cock like a hungry mouth and pulled him with her down onto the shores of oblivion.
At the door of Casswell’s room, Sarah hesitated for a moment. She wanted to go in and tell him that she had increasing suspicions about Weissman’s motives. She also longed to feel the comfort of his arms, the reassurance that only a master could give a slave.
She stood by the door for a moment composing herself and her thoughts, agonising over how to broach the subject of his associate – it certainly was not going to be the easiest conversation she’d ever had.
There was no reply to her tentative knock, so she tried again – still no reply, but some part of her knew it was important that she told Casswell about her concerns regarding Weissman. So against her better judgement, she opened the door and pushed it open.
And what Sarah saw was not Casswell alone or a sleep, but hunched over the tied body of a woman – a woman she instantly recognised only too well as Anna Weissman, who was even now in the throes of a very animated orgasm. Casswell’s expression was taut with pleasure, his cock buried to the hilt in the female as he rode her bucking form.
Sarah tried to suppress her squeal of dismay, and took a step back. The lurid tableau hit her like a body blow. She felt lost, both betrayed and alone in a world that had no place for her.
As she was about to turn and flee to the temporary sanctuary of her room, Casswell looked up at her. ‘Sarah?’ he grunted, his teeth clenched with the effort of fucking the woman.
She did not wait to hear what else he had to say, if anything. Instead she ran from the room as fast as she could, along the landing to her room and slammed the door shut, leaning back against it and panting heavily. With a racing heart she was not altogether surprised to see Chang waiting by the bed.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked.
It was all too much for Sarah. She burst into tears and through the sobs told him, and then unable to hold back, described her intense feelings at discovering Anna Weissman in the arms of her master.
Behind her blindfold, still bound tight on the ottoman, Anna Weissman struggled to catch her breath, gasping as the tremors of passion slowly ebbed away. It felt amazing to let go, to let another take control completely; unable to object or to resist the advances of her lover, she’d had no option but to submit and drown in a sea of ecstasy. Her whole body ached with it; her mind was awash with the intense bliss that had roared through her at the approach to and point of orgasm.
And Casswell was so good. She needed to find a way to have more. It made her every previous sexual experience fade into insignificance – his knowing mastery of her mind and body almost driving her to the very shores of madness.
As he began to untie her she wondered about Sarah. She thought back to her overwhelming moment of climax, and how he had called out his slave girl’s name. She was not offended; it seemed even when he had been making love to her, his mind was on his darling girl.
How very touching.
Chapter 10
‘What on earth did you mean, bursting in on me like that?’ Casswell’s tone was icy cold.
Sarah looked up at him tentatively. She knew that this was not the way she was supposed to behave, however much she was provoked. Surely her time at Casswell Hall had taught her that, if nothing else? Total obedience was expected. Wasn’t that the very first thing Dr Casswell had taught her?
She did not know whether to apologise or stay silent, and a single tear meandered down her cheek.
Casswell saw it, and despite his annoyance, his expression softened. ‘If it makes you feel any better,’ he said, ‘I know you don’t like it here, and I no longer trust Uri Weissman, so as soon as we’ve finished with the diary we’ll leave. We’ll go home. Will that cheer you up a little?’
Sarah sniffed, nodded, and gave him a weak smile, the tears sparkling in her wide, hopeful eyes. He stroked her cheek, smudging away the tear with his thumb, and although the touch was tender, nothing could quite disguise the fact that he was comforting a possession.
‘How very touching,’ said Weissman, wandering into the breakfast room. ‘So what is this – a little heart to heart?’ He was dressed in a long robe, with nothing on his feet. ‘Hardly what I’d expect to see between master and slave, Rigel,’ he added, somewhat derisively. ‘Anyway, how did you enjoy the club last night?’
Casswell smiled and settled at the table. ‘Fine, thank you, Uri.’
‘And how was my sister?’
Casswell’s expression remained unchanged. ‘Also fine, thank you.’
Sarah glanced warily across at the Austrian, detecting an edge in his voice. As their eyes met he attempted a smile, but fooled nobody. Sarah knew without a doubt that he was jealous of Casswell, both professionally and socially, and that made him dangerous, and she sensed they had to be careful.
Weissman waved the waiting houseboy over and had him pour the coffee. ‘Good
, I’m so pleased,’ he went on. ‘But all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Isn’t that what you English say? So,’ he continued without pausing for a response, ‘I have arranged for us to go out on a boat. A little sightseeing, a little bay hopping, and then a barbecue on a beach in a cove a few miles up the coast. One of the museum trustees, who is particularly keen to ingratiate himself to you, has offered us his yacht for the day.’
Casswell sipped his coffee. ‘That’s very kind, Uri,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid that Sarah and I have to work today – I’m sorry.’
Weissman smiled without mirth. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I am aware of your schedule, Rigel, and it has not been overlooked. The plan is to leave early this evening.’
Casswell nodded graciously – what else could he do? ‘In that case, we’ll accept,’ he said. ‘And now if you will excuse us, we must prepare to leave for the museum.’
As they went back upstairs Sarah could not help but wonder what the cruise might entail, and was overcome with a bad feeling. The increasing mistrust between the two men was becoming perilous, and she suspected that Uri Weissman had a few tricks up his sleeve to get what he wanted.
After the events of the previous day and evening it was absolute bliss to be back in the cool dark vault sitting beside Dr Casswell, piecing together the events that surrounded Beatrice, and as Sarah began to transcribe the notes her thoughts rapidly drifted away from Weissman and back to Beatrice de Fleur, currently incarcerated in the isolated abbey far away from her lord and master.
…It seems that I am alone now, lost and cold and at the mercy of the abbot and his debauched and cruel womenfolk. Sister Judith is proving true to her word. Every day here I pay for what she sees as my transgressions. I sense that she plans to break me and make me pay for my part in her sister’s betrayal, whether I deserve to be treated badly or not.
Here in the abbey I am expected to be at the beck and call of whoever shouts the loudest, and whomever I cannot serve has reason to punish me for failing them. I am so tired and so lost.
For weeks now I have longed for word of my master, praying that he would send for me, praying that he would have a change of heart although knowing, hope against hope, that it could not be true; who am I, a mere servant girl compared to the Lady Cassandra?
Each day I wake in the bed of whoever has had use of me the night before. Oft time it is the abbot himself, who although he has a taste for boys sees me, quite slim built and still young and fresh, as the best of both worlds. He likes it most when I let him take me from behind, invading my bottom, his gnarled and veined old cock buried to the hilt while he mauls my breasts and bites my neck and shoulders. For such and old man he has an insatiable appetite. Each morning he wakes ever eager for more, always hungry, his manhood stiff and ready he pulls me to him to suck his cock, or ride him until his seed and passion is spent. He tells often that morning pleasure sates the aches and base desires that plague a man of the cloth, and relief before morning prayers means he can turn his thoughts to higher things and allow him to go about the more normal duties of a man in his position with a clear and lucid mind.
It seems that only after dark is the rest of the abbey a den of debauchery such as I saw on the night of my arrival. During the day we are expected to carry on much as any other holy order – although I feel that nothing can quite disguise the taste and flavour of lust that lingers here in the walls like the taint of smoke.
Each day when morning prayers are over Sister Judith puts me to work, cleaning and washing and doing such menial tasks as she feels might break my spirit.
Often she will call me to attend in the visitors parlour if travellers and pilgrims happen by, my body barely covered, dressed in little more than rags. The reputation of the Abbey of St Joseph is widespread. Some travellers come miles out of their way, far from the normal pilgrims’ route to take advantage of our hospitality. Most have heard of the goings on and come to sample the buxom charms of the sisters Mary and Therese. While the sisters ply their trade, one working on each other with tongue and fingers and that great carved phallus, inviting the pilgrims to join them, I am there to wait on table, bringing in wine and such victuals as are required, and when the watchers are heated from the show to be used as they see fit.
Sister Judith has had my hair hacked short, so I look more like a youth than ever. I am dressed in a simple unbleached shift that does little to flatter my body, but little to hide me either. It seems that lost as I am there are men who prefer the submission of a true slave to the bawdy charms and demands of Junoesque sisters.
‘Come close, little one,’ they whisper, as I hurry by with my tray or basket or jug of beer. Moving closer – for it seems I am ever under the watchful eye of Sister Judith, and know I will be beaten if I upset the pilgrims or deny them what they crave so badly – I close my eyes as they slide their coarse hands up under my robes to seek out those secret places. Some wish to fondle my breasts, or slip their hand between my legs, fingers seeking entry, some cold and brutal, some gentle, and all shades in between.
And then, when their blood is up, they look towards Judith who for the price of a few coppers or a bottle of brandy or some trinket that catches her eye, directs them to take me out to the stables. My body is bought and bartered and used for coppers. Out in the stable they mount and take me like some domestic animal, a beast of burden fit only for one thing.
But Judith will not break me, I have sworn that. I may be a slave here in the abbey, but I have known love and joy and the great passion of true desire. I know the way my master’s face lit when he saw me, I know the feeling in my heart, and in my belly as he called me to him and as he took me to his bed. Even now, in the dark of the cellar, I can smell his body and feel the weight of him moving against me and feel of his cock pressing home. Nothing Judith can ever do to me will or can take those feelings and memories away.
During the day I turn my hand to more domestic matters, and while I work I dream of life back in the castle with my master. I had thought to make friends with the hunchback boy, but his mind is too muddled by lust and too simple to hide it. He frightens me, although I have tried hard to win him over with kindness and gifts of food, but even so, I am loath to be alone with him for he is strong and rough. He likes to touch me and Judith does little to discourage it.
Many come this way, and every traveller who comes through the gates, every man who takes me out to the stable, every woman who bids me lay with her and show her delights that no man could match, I have asked them all after the fate of my lord. I hang onto every scrap of news however small, however unlikely its truth. I have passed those things through my mind like a miser counting his hoard. I heard tales of good harvest, of festivals and hunts and fine feasts. But then today came the news that I had dreaded, from a monk travelling with a party of merchants and their ladies.
I was taking ale through to the main hall and caught him between the rigours of his devotions and heading for what I suspect he already knew would be high jinx in the hall.
‘So know you anything of his lordship?’ I asked, replenishing his mug from the jug of ale I carried. I had already told him that I’d served in that household caring for and teaching my master’s children.
‘Aye, indeed I do,’ said the monk, cheerfully. ‘We are on our way to that very castle now,’ he embellished, ‘for the wedding celebrations of the man of whom you speak and the Lady Cassandra. Would you like me to pass on your good wishes?’ His words were a spiteful joke, for what was the worth of good wishes from a slave?
But the joke was lost on me as my heart sank like a stone – if only he knew how far. I shook my head and thanked him, but my good wishes, even if they reached their destination, would cause only more trouble.
My eyes filled with heartfelt tears just from the very thought of it.
It was late, the merchants’ ladies had retired after dinner and the rigours of the day, so only the men and those who lived in the abbey were gathered in the great hall. Drunk from ale they
began to call for an entertainment, and of course Sister Judith and the abbot were only too happy to oblige. For a price.
As I walked in with the ale Judith caught hold of my arm. ‘Come, girl,’ she said. I had spent most of the evening in the kitchen and was surprised she called me, as it was always the sisters of the abbey who put on such entertainment if it was to be had. It was this that the abbey was famous for.
On the dais the abbot waved to one of the monks, Brother Joshua, who helped him with all the affairs both godly and base at the abbey. The man banged his staff on the floor to catch the attention of the revellers.
‘Tonight, gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘as you are all men of means, we are to have an auction of our more saleable items for the poor of the parish.’
‘We don’t want t’pay no more money for no more relics, nor more prayers said for our mortal souls, no more old bones,’ heckled one drunken voice from the pit, and those gathered laughed.
The monk laughed too. ‘Tis a good thing, for none are on offer, brother. What we had in mind was the sale of revel; a little pleasure.’ As he spoke Judith pushed me further onto the dais.
‘Ah, here we are,’ said Brother Joshua, catching my arm and pulling me into the light. ‘Here we have a fine example of the very thing I mean. Our first lot; what am I bid for a night with this fine and comely wench.’
There was a low babble and murmur of unrest from amongst the crowd, but Joshua was not thrown. ‘Come, good gentleman, a girl such as this – for the night – what will you pay? Surely such gentlemen as you know what to do with a willing wench after dark, or am I mistaken? Would you prefer that I drag out old Sister Agnes to sing to us and strum a little on her harp? Come, who would like to plant a root in his fine furrow?’ As he spoke, Brother Joshua grabbed me around the waist and cupped my sex. I tried to pull away but he held me tight.
‘Don’t fight me, girl,’ he hissed, from behind a fixed smile. The men laughed, and it seemed then and only then did the good burghers catch the monk’s drift.