Dr Casswell's Plaything

by Sarah Fisher

  Mustafa laughed. ‘Really?’ he scoffed. ‘Tell me, would you not like a little something more? Did you not enjoy yourself with her? Come, come, you can tell us, Miss Morgan. Confession, I believe they say, is good for the soul.’

  Sarah’s colour deepened, wondering if the waiter who appeared to clear some of the dishes understood what Aziz was saying. Certainly Abdullah did. His dark brown eyes were alight as they studied her discomfort with relish.

  ‘Well?’ Mustafa persisted. ‘Tell us.’

  Sarah was about to shake her head when the Turk leaned forward even more, and under the cover of the table he slid a hand up under her skirt, stubby fingers squeezing her thigh, inching higher. At the same time he tried to grab her nearest wrist with his free hand, but Sarah snapped out of her alcohol-induced torpor and jumped to her feet, sending her chair clattering to the tiled floor, and not knowing quite what to do, the strong wine heavy in her brain and in her legs, she backed away and pressed herself to the wall just behind her.

  The fat, odious Turk threw his head back and laughed patronisingly. ‘Do I make you so nervous, Miss Morgan?’ He stood and lifted the chair back onto its legs, and then patted the seat. ‘Come, come,’ he cajoled smarmily, ‘come and sit down again.’

  Yes, Mustafa did make Sarah nervous, more than she could possibly say. She did not trust him any more than she trusted Uri Weissman; they were both out for themselves – for their own gain. Watching him warily, she very slowly began to back along the wall towards the door as he moved towards her, clearly being careful not to startle her again, as though tracking his prey.

  ‘Come, Miss Morgan, this is ridiculous,’ he said gently. ‘Sit down and let me order you some dessert and coffee. Have another glass of wine. I do not mean to offend by touching you, and I know you like it.’ Sarah shook her head, her mouth suddenly dry, but he ignored her silent denial of his insistent claim. ‘Let me make you purr,’ he coaxed. ‘Let me make you cry with pleasure… and pain. Aren’t they the two things you love the most?’

  Sarah shook her head again. ‘I – I want to go b-back to the Weissman’s house, now,’ she managed, falteringly.

  Mustafa sighed heavily and held up his hands in surrender. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘go.’ And then he resumed his seat and took up a mumbled, incoherent conversation with Abdullah, the two men totally ignoring her.

  So without thinking, feeling very alone and totally belittled, Sarah snatched up her bag, wrenched open the door and hurried downstairs. She was still in a confused spin; she walked quickly through the main dining area, pushed open a door, and found herself out in the kitchens. They were filled with steam and noise and a couple of grimy cooks, but not wanting to turn back and risk bumping into Mustafa, she headed for another door she could see and stumbled out into the narrow winding back streets.

  The oppressive heat hit her like a sledgehammer. For a few moments she stood still and allowed her pulse and her breathing to calm, and although she had no idea of where she was, she was extremely glad to be out of the restaurant. And although this was not the way they had arrived, she glanced around to get her bearings, hopeful that it couldn’t be too difficult to find her way back to Weissman’s, even without Mustafa’s help.

  The door back into the restaurant kitchens had already swung shut behind her, not that she had any wish to go back inside and face Mustafa. So with a confidence that was little more than a veneer, Sarah set off into the maze of smelly, litter-strewn alleys. There seemed to be no one about, except a scrawny black cat curled up in the sunshine, but as she walked deeper into the labyrinth of identical lanes, she felt her panic rising. This was the native quarter, far away from the tourist beaches and stretches of modern hotels, and there was no doubt about it, she was well and truly lost.

  After a while the lanes widened into narrow streets and her spirits rose a little, but it was increasingly hot and most sensible people where indoors, out of the searing sun, so there was no one to ask for directions. There were tiny shops, but they were securely shuttered. Sarah turned round and round, trying to set some sense of where the sea might be.

  Should she turn left or right, try and get back to the museum, or the Weissmans’ house – even though she had no idea of their address? She took a deep breath, and trying hard to control the panic, made her way quickly down another shadowy alleyway.

  The houses here on either side were closed and shuttered too, their windows like unseeing eyes. Despite the suffocating heat, Sarah shivered. It was hard to keep control of the growing sense of fear. The alleyway narrowed, but Sarah carried on into deeper and deeper shadows. Maybe it would be better to find her way back to the restaurant after all, despite Mustafa probably still being there. Or perhaps she should wait until she found someone to help her out of the squalid maze.

  The alley twisted back and forth ahead of her, and for a few seconds Sarah had a real sense of freedom and progress. Maybe she would be all right, after all. She was certain she could hear the rolling waves of the sea, and then, just as she turned another corner, she realised with a horrible start that the alley was a dead-end.

  On either side of the end wall, which was obviously part of a building, were two tall wrought-iron gates, through which Sarah had a tantalising glimpse of terraces covered in lush plants, and places that promised the sanctuary of ordinary domestic life.

  The gates where locked with lengths of chain and padlocks – there was no access through them. So she had no choice but to backtrack and try to find another way. She turned – and lifted a hand to her mouth to suppress the shriek of alarm as she saw her only way back was blocked by the bulk of Mustafa Aziz, Abdullah, and the waiter from the restaurant. The fat Turk was breathing hard, his shirt stained with sweat, dabbing at his face with his usual grimy handkerchief.

  ‘So, there you are,’ he wheezed, and before Sarah could defend herself, the waiter sprung forward and grabbed her around the waist.

  ‘Let me go!’ she shrieked, wriggling and struggling against him, but he held her tighter still and pulled her close into his body, and despite her alarm she instantly noticed a lump pressing against her hip. It seemed he was deeply excited by the thrill of the chase and the capture, and his hands crawled over her body in the struggle as he tried to restrain and quieten her, fumbling against her breasts or her thighs or her bottom. He grunted and laughed, his hold tightening, and she knew that any further movement, any spirited fight, would excite him even further.

  Once she was eventually still, trapped in the man’s arms, panting heavily from the exertions, Mustafa sniggered at her obvious discomfort and distress. ‘Cry out all you want, Miss Morgan,’ he jeered. ‘It will not do you any good here. No one will come to help you.’

  Sarah shrieked again, and this time the waiter clamped a hand tightly over her mouth.

  Mustafa smiled with lurid satisfaction, and as he dabbed at his lips with the handkerchief, Abdullah moved closer. She had noted the way he watched her during lunch. He clearly saw this as his big chance to get some pleasure out of life for once, and with the slightest of nods from Mustafa, he reached forward, albeit a little warily, as though she might squirm free and bite him at any moment, and began to unbutton her blouse, his fingers trembling against her breasts as he did. Once it was completely undone he licked his lips, eyeing the way the material hung open and the promising shadows within. Sarah, held fast by the strong arms of the waiter, his hot breath panting in her ear, watched Abdullah anxiously, her breasts rising and falling in time with her nervous breathing, causing her blouse to open a little wider each time she inhaled, offering the obnoxious little man a tantalising glimpse of her toned tummy and her shadowy cleavage.

  His hands slowly slid inside the gap to seek out the warm contours of her ribcage, cupping her soft breasts. Then, losing all reason he frantically pushed the fabric out of his way and, uttering unintelligible ramblings, clamped his hot wet mouth to her flesh, as if he wanted to eat her alive, pressing oily kisses to her shoulders, her neck, her throat,
her breasts, and her nipples. He was babbling away in his native tongue and trembling with lust, and so was his companion, the waiter. Abdullah slid his hands up under her skirt, his fumbling fingers seeking entry between her thighs, and as he did he cruelly bit on her nipple, make her writhe with pain and squeal into the hand still clamped over her mouth.

  Sarah renewed her fight, pulling back from Abdullah, but in doing so pressing herself even harder into the embrace of the waiter. She managed to work one hand free and lashed out at her weasel of a tormentor, but Abdullah merely laughed and, catching her wrist, licked her fingers.

  ‘You know Herr Weissman has such plans for you,’ said Mustafa. ‘And I understand why, because you are wasted on that arrogant Englishman. I will suggest that he finds a place for you in one of the local stables – there is nothing so attractive as a slave with a spirit.’

  His chilling words brought an abrupt halt to Sarah’s struggles.

  Mustafa laughed when he saw her alarm, and the slime-ball waiter took advantage of the situation to maul her breasts while Abdullah slobbered over their fresh, firm ripeness. And for that moment Sarah was too shocked by Mustafa’s words to care what the two slugs were doing.

  ‘Did you not know?’ continued the Turk, with a despicable grin of mock innocence on his face. ‘Weissman is going to buy you from your precious doctor – or maybe he will barter you for more manuscripts.’

  Sarah felt her heart sink. Was there any possibility that what he said was true? If it came to it, she had no idea whether Casswell would choose her over the books and manuscripts he loved so dearly.

  Seeing on her lovely face the distress his words had caused, Mustafa’s expression returned to one of beaming triumph. He said something to the waiter, who was enjoying himself restraining and molesting her at the same time, his erection grinding against her bottom through her skirt, which made both he and Abdullah laugh.

  It was all too much, the three despicable men were all too much, and Sarah began to fight again in earnest. If Casswell could not or would not save her then she had to save herself. Her newfound ferocity took the men by surprise, and the waiter had to quickly tighten his grip to keep hold of her. Sarah knew that unless she was rescued or escaped their vile clutches, all three of them planned to have her.

  Abdullah grabbed her legs and, pushing a hand up between her thighs, rucking her skirt up at the same time, tried hard to prise them apart. But Sarah fought like a wildcat, her legs clamped together until Mustafa shouted something and the men, cursing and panting heavily, held off.

  But then, responding to a nod from Mustafa, the waiter ushered her to one side and pressed her tight up against one of the iron gates, and with Mustafa’s help they strapped her wrists together with a leather belt and then hung her from one of the ornate curls high up in the wrought iron design. Her cheek and breasts pressed uncomfortably against the vertical bars.

  It was a difficult irony for Sarah to take; bound to something that just minutes earlier she had hoped would be her route of escape. Now the three men were behind her, just visible over her shoulder, and she could not resist as Abdullah slid his sweating hands up the outside of her skirt, lewdly savouring the feel of her bottom as he did, and then unfastened it and tugged it down over her hips, down her shapely legs to the dusty ground, then roughly spreading her legs apart, the tendons standing out in her thighs and calves as she strained on tiptoe.

  Then, with no more ado, he crouched behind her and his tongue and fingers licked and explored and took every advantage of her vulnerability, making her cringe. Meanwhile the waiter ripped off her blouse, the fabric cutting into her delicate flesh as it tore away.

  Exposed and naked, there was nothing Sarah could do to resist the three of them, and she just knew that Mustafa intended to punish her for running away and for struggling so fiercely.

  ‘You really ought to learn to co-operate, little one,’ he said, his voice thick. ‘And you should also learn it is in your best interests not to upset me; I am very good friends with Uri Weissman. Very good friends indeed.’

  He signalled for the two men to move back, which they did with much reluctance and grumbling, and then he felt between her legs, cupping her sex from behind, making her stiffen and gasp as he slid his thumb up into her. Sarah flinched at the crude violation, and would have spat at the arrogant oaf if she could. She knew Weissman saw Mustafa as little more than a minion, a man to be used and manipulated when it suited him, but the sweaty Turk clearly had gross delusions of grandeur.

  ‘You have to understand who is in control here, Miss Morgan,’ he growled in her ear, his breath laden with garlic. ‘And trust me, I will teach you. I really will.’

  He moved away, his intrusive hand leaving her, and Sarah strained to pick up some clue as to what would happen next, although she had a pretty good idea, and then she tensed as she heard an unmistakable sound, and strained to catch a glimpse from the corner of her eye of the waiter pulling his leather belt from his trouser loops and handing it to Mustafa. Her fat tormentor folded it double in his fist, and then moved out of her sight.

  There was a terrible silence, a few seconds deep and dark and full of a cruel promise. Sarah swallowed hard, every sense and nerve braced for the fierce kiss of supple leather.

  And it came an instant later, the first stroke wrapping around her flank like some evil embrace. There was no pain for a few seconds – no sensation at all – and then it flooded her senses and she cried out instinctively, her back arching as the second blow followed, slightly higher and harder than the first, and as she strained her head round she saw the look of lust and excitement on the faces of Abdullah and the waiter. They would get their turn with her, of that she had no doubt.

  The next crack of the belt across her unprotected buttocks drove away that thought, and the next one – until every shred of her consciousness was focused in the raw kiss of the leather against her flesh. Mustafa was as good as his word; he truly meant to teach her a lesson she would not forget.

  The absorbing pain of the belt was a sensation for which there was no equal, one that she both feared and yet at some strange and unexpected level delighted in. As her restrained body contorted under the kiss of it she wondered what dark magic it was that Casswell had sparked in her. Somewhere far away Sarah could hear a voice crying out in anguish, and it took a while to realise that the voice was hers. Mustafa clearly intended to punish her long and hard for her attempted escape and for her insolence. The leather bit home again and again, cracking across her back and buttocks, making her skin burn and glow until finally there was nothing left but a void, a distance from which it almost seemed she was watching herself in the alley.

  At last, after what seemed an eternity, they released her. Now it was the turn of the other two to indulge themselves, and Sarah was too weary and too stunned by what had happened and by her secret reaction to it to object.

  The waiter turned her around and held her under the arms, while Abdullah lifted her legs around his waist and without prelude, slid his cock deep into her. Sarah gasped; despite everything she was wet and ready for him, and instinctively her calves locked around his back as he began to rut against her. Still aglow from the belt, she writhed against his belly, unable to escape either his cock or his fingers as she impaled herself again and again on his raging shaft. It was a heady combination.

  The waiter turned his attentions to her breasts, his rasping breath wafting through her hair as he watched his companion fuck her. Deep inside Sarah felt the first ragged spasms of Abdullah’s approaching climax and, against all the odds, her own too. He began to writhe and groan, forcing himself deeper and deeper, and just as she thought she could take no more the first waves of orgasm crashed through her. Sarah’s whole body shuddered with the sheer energy of it, arching and twisting in the waiter’s arms. She cried out again and again, her cries mingling with the grunts of Abdullah as they came together in a swell of pure physical release – and then, quite suddenly, it was all over.

&n
bsp; Breathing hard, sweating, both spent, Abdullah dropped to his knees in front of her, and for a few seconds pressed his face into the warm fragrant wetness of her sex, his tongue lapping at her clitoris, fingers still eager to explore as if he could not get enough of her. It was almost more than Sarah could bear, and she desperately tried to wriggle away, moaning her protests.

  But before she had a chance to catch her breath the waiter eased her down onto the beaten earth of the alley, onto her hands and knees, and knelt behind her. Sarah sighed with shameful delight as she felt him enter her. Her juices, and those of Abdullah, eased the waiter’s passage and no doubt added to his excitement. He reached for her breasts, mauling them rabidly and pinching her tight nipples, and then slid his hands back to her hips, gaining a better purchase as he drove his cock into her like a steam hammer, all the time mumbling and then crying out all manner of words that Sarah did not understand. He came in seconds.

  Sarah slumped to the ground and looked up, trembling and exhausted, her body smeared with grime. Mustafa Aziz looked down upon her, his eyes as dark as coal. She wondered if this was payment enough; had he taken enough pleasure by looking on as the two men took her in turn, watching her humiliation?

  It seemed not.

  Mustafa Aziz beckoned her to crawl closer, and unfastened his fly. Sarah knew exactly what it was he wanted, so on her hands and knees she made no attempt to get to her feet. At that precise moment she was not sure that her legs would support her, anyway.

  She fished his shaft out with trembling hands and slipped the crown into her mouth, her trembling lips and tongue working backwards and forwards and around the glans, one hand working along him, cradling the weight of his balls, while the other eased his foreskin back and forth. He grunted and she guessed it would not be long before he ejaculated too.

  He pushed his cock deep into the back of her mouth, once, twice, his fingers locked tight in her hair as he pulled her against him, almost making her gag. With her hands spread against his overhanging belly Sarah fought to hold him back; to stop him penetrating so deliberately deep, but it was impossible. Snorting like a pig and jeering gleefully, sweat running down his face, Mustafa also came quickly, his seed filling her mouth and seeping from the corners of her tightly stretched lips onto her chin. And then, before Sarah knew what the animal intended, he hauled her to her feet and kissed her aggressively, his hands tightly clutching her burning buttocks and his tongue plunging into her mouth to lap at his own seed.