Dr Casswell's Plaything

by Sarah Fisher

  Chapter 14

  True to his word, Mustafa arranged for Sarah to be taken back to Uri Weissman’s house. Sitting in the back of the rattling, squeaking cab, wearing nothing but her shoes and the old shirt the waiter had given her, she was aware of the taxi driver’s eyes crawling slowly over her as he spied her in his rear-view mirror. She shivered under his undisguised interest. Did he know, could he guess what she had been doing? What she was wearing was a bit of a giveaway, she acknowledged ruefully.

  As they got closer to Weissman’s house, Sarah wondered if Casswell would be there yet, even though she knew it was doubtful that he would be back from his meeting in the mountains. It seemed such a long time since she had seen him, and she longed to see his reassuring face. But conflicting with her desire to be with him was an uneasy fear of the things Mustafa had said; if it came to it, which would Casswell choose – her, or his precious diaries?

  It was dark when Casswell finally got back to the harbour town, the lights of the port picked out like stars in an otherwise dark and lovely landscape.

  The abbot had suggested Casswell stay overnight, but he did not like the idea of being away from either the diaries or Sarah for any longer than was completely necessary. If he was honest, he did not trust the abbot, Mustafa or Weissman any further than he could throw them. He nipped the bridge of his nose to try and short-circuit the headache that was developing. It had been a long and trying day.

  It was true that the abbot had several documents that interested Casswell; tantalising fragments of accounts of a slave auction, another that referred to Beatrice de Fleur by name, and one or two interesting little erotic stories illustrated and bound in leather, but he’d had little chance to study any of the documents for more than a few minutes, watched every step of the way as he was by the hovering abbot.

  He was made to feel welcome enough, and the late lunch was a simple but tasty affair; cheese, bread and olives, and a glass of the local wine, but even after returning to the vaults for another look at the abbey’s erotic treasures, Casswell had an odd feeling that there was more to the trip than met the eye.

  Despite his reservations it had not been an altogether fruitless journey, for the abbot, after some gentle persuasion, somewhat reluctantly agreed to loan the documents he had shown Casswell to the local museum. But only on the express understanding that Mustafa Aziz took total and personal responsibility for their safekeeping. He would arrange to have them collected the following day if the chief curator agreed to the deal.

  Casswell glanced at his watch, thinking about Sarah and wondering how the transcriptions had gone, and about how long it would be before they could finally leave for home and the familiarity of Casswell Hall. It would be a relief to leave the tensions of Turkey behind.

  Weissman’s house was quiet and still when the car pulled up outside. Casswell wondered if the others were at dinner, or perhaps everyone had gone out for the evening. That prospect was certainly appealing.

  The main salon appeared to be empty, so Casswell slipped off his jacket, folded it over his arm and headed upstairs; what he really needed more than anything else was a drink and a shower. At the door to his room he hesitated – he had the distinct feeling that there was someone already inside.

  Casswell sighed; maybe he was just tired and jumpy. It was probably Chang turning down his bed, or perhaps Sarah waiting with a pile of notes from the day’s work.

  Sarah.

  Casswell let her name linger in his mind for a few seconds. The idea that she was waiting for him in his room was one that excited him. She was one of life’s natural submissives, a creature so exquisite, so perfect, so ready to serve and obey in whatever way he commanded. She was a treasure – and one he intended to guard jealously.

  The feel of her compliant and obedient body moving against his was something he relished. He sighed; if Turkey had been difficult for him, it had been considerably worse for her.

  Inside the room Casswell dropped his jacket over a chair and began to unbutton his shirt, his mind still on Sarah, and turning round he was surprised to find Anna Weissman standing in the shadows by his desk. She stared at him and attempted a smile, her face a mask of contrived innocence.

  Casswell was not so easily fooled, and as their eyes met he noticed that she dropped something to the floor, a single sheet of paper that fluttered and fell like an autumn leaf, down beside the desk.

  ‘Oh, hello Rigel,’ she said hastily, quite obviously trying to regain her composure by improving on her smile. ‘Have you, um, have you had a good day?’

  Casswell nodded, and then said with a wry grin, ‘I didn’t have you down as the kind of woman who welcomed her man home after a hard day at the office.’

  He watched her colour and bluster ebbing away. ‘So what did you want?’ he probed. ‘Is there anything I can do to help you?’ As he spoke he turned his back, and apparently his attention, to the drinks tray on the side table, although from the corner of his eye he could see her reflection in the dressing table mirror. The instant his back was turned she bobbed down, retrieved the paper, and added it to a pile on the desk.

  ‘Would you care for a nightcap?’ he asked, all innocence, but furtively watching her every move. ‘Brandy?’

  ‘Um, that would be lovely,’ Anna gushed, overdoing it somewhat.

  ‘Soda?’ he asked, turning to her. ‘Ice?’

  ‘Uhuh.’ She smiled and came over to take the glass from his fingers. ‘Mustafa rang,’ she said, gradually gathering her composure. ‘He said you were going up to the abbey today.’

  Casswell smiled; she would never make a poker player. ‘And you thought I’d be away overnight?’

  She was about to protest when he reached out and snatched her wrist. ‘Well?’ he demanded, his fingers closing hard. ‘What did you really want, Anna? There is no reason on earth for you to be in here, unless of course you’re checking up on, what? The linen? The housekeeping? What are you doing in here?’

  She blushed and tried in vain to twist her arm free. ‘I – I – please, Rigel, you’re hurting me!’

  Casswell bundled her over to the pile of papers on his desk. ‘You were extremely interested in getting your hands on the first translation of the diary,’ he stated for her. ‘Was it your idea or your brother’s idea to come in here and steal them?’ He paused and looked down at the pages. ‘Or have you already copied what’s here?’

  Anna’s fearful expression gave the game away, and Casswell shook his head in disgust. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘You know I would have made sure all interested parties had a copy – this research is funded by a whole committee of people just like your brother. What is this all about, Anna?’

  She stubbornly refused to respond, so his anger resurfacing and getting the better of him, Casswell caught hold of her hair and pulled her face close to his, and in amongst her fear he could see an intense and compelling flash of desire.

  ‘Tell me,’ he insisted, her face no more than an inch from his. He could smell the mingled scents of her subtle perfume and the soft musk of her skin. She mewled at the pain as his fingers tightened in her hair, but he was without mercy. ‘Tell me,’ he growled, jerking on her wrist. ‘I will not be disobeyed or ignored.’

  ‘It – it wasn’t m-my idea,’ she blurted through a stifled sob.

  ‘Whose was it then?’

  Anna sobbed. ‘I didn’t think you were coming back tonight, so I was going to take the disks and copy them and then I started to read the transcript…’ she stopped, seeming to realise she’d said too much. ‘He’ll kill me if he finds out you’ve caught me.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  Anna nodded as best she could, given that Casswell still had tight hold of her. ‘Yes, Uri and the museum trustees and that little shit Mustafa Aziz. They want the glory of finding and translating this book.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Casswell snorted. ‘They’ve know about it for years.’

  ‘Yes, but you know they couldn’t transla
te it – and this one together with the others you’ve already deciphered, and your reputation, guarantees that they’ll make a lot of money.’ She paused as his fingers loosened their grip, and then she slowly pulled away. ‘Rigel, please take me with you when you leave. I hate it here. I want to learn about those things in the diaries… about the pleasure and the pain.’ Her colour intensified as she looked into his face, and her eyes filled with tears.

  He stared at her. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Uri would never allow you to go with me, and besides, you are of no use to me, Anna.’

  She flinched as though he had hit her. ‘How can you say that? Is it because I can’t type?’

  ‘No, Anna, it’s because you have no integrity or sense of loyalty,’ he stated bluntly. ‘You are ready to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds if it suits you.’

  The statuesque blonde gasped as the candid words registered, and then she launched herself towards Casswell like a banshee. Her face was contorted with fury and indignation, but before she could set foul of him he caught her wrists and held her at bay without too much difficulty.

  ‘Anna,’ he said sternly, ‘if you really want to leave Uri, then do it yourself. If you come to England of your own volition then I’ll help you. I’ll even try to find a master to teach you all the things you so desperately desire, but I’m not taking you away from here with me. The situation is fraught enough without that.’

  As she gradually began to relax he pulled her closer. ‘And now,’ he said, his mood quieter, ‘you’re going to pay for this intrusion.’

  ‘Pay?’ she said, her body instantly stiffening.

  Casswell nodded. ‘Oh yes. But I’ll not say a word to your precious brother about your being caught stealing my work. I doubt that his punishment would be quite the same as mine.’

  ‘Dr Casswell wants to see you.’

  Sarah looked up sleepily into Chang’s inscrutable face, for an instant unable to work out where she was. Since arriving back from her encounter with Mustafa, she had showered, eaten supper in her room and, having given up trying to make sense of the day’s events, curled up on the bed and slept fitfully.

  Her dreams were littered with intense images of twisting shadowy alleys and barred doorways as she ran back and forth trying desperately to escape an unseen pursuer. It was almost a relief to be woken up.

  ‘He’s back?’ she said, with a real sense of relief.

  Chang nodded.

  Sarah hurried to get up from the bed; she wanted to tell Casswell about Mustafa’s deceit and the awful liberties he’d taken.

  Chang helped her, and then looked her up and down with the slightest hint of appreciation in his expression; she had been sleeping naked in the oppressive heat. Without another word he took a leash and collar from his pocket – familiar objects that she had not seen since leaving England – and the gesture was unmistakable. Tonight Sarah was being taken to Casswell’s bedroom as his plaything. She would be a toy for his unadulterated pleasure, and it made something deep in her tummy flutter with delight.

  She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror; her hair was naturally tousled from sleep, and her smooth skin had a warm glow to it, the soft curves of her body a stark contrast to the black studded leather collar. The image made Sarah’s pulse race; whatever else happened to her this was where she felt closest to the indefinable hunger that drove her, the dark energy that Casswell had recognised in her when they first met. She truly was his.

  Chang led her to Casswell’s room. Naked and barefoot, her eyes chastely lowered, Sarah was every inch the perfect submissive, and inside her heart soared, for this was where she belonged, with Casswell, as his lover and slave.

  Casswell sat relaxed on the sofa, dressed in a black silk bathrobe, barefoot too, and cradling a brandy. Sarah’s heart tightened. He was as handsome as he was cruel, and she knew beneath the robe his body was lean and tanned. Excitement gripped her at the thought of his caress.

  She shivered. Nothing she experienced at the hands of any other man came close to the passion and the desire experienced when in Casswell’s company… or his bed.

  He indicated that she should turn around for him, and she did so without an instant’s hesitation. Sarah knew from experience how much he enjoyed looking at her body, touching and stroking and admiring his prize possession. He beckoned her closer, so she backed up close, and following his unspoken instructions, knelt on the floor on her hands and knees, so he could pet her like some favoured animal.

  He smiled and ran his fingers through her hair and then something – a movement or a noise, it was hard to decide exactly which – caught her attention. Sarah looked over her shoulder, and saw to her surprise that Anna Weissman was in the corner of the room. She gasped as she took in the details.

  Naked, tied, her legs spread wide, the elegant blonde hung from a hook in the ceiling. She was trembling, her large eyes wide with fear and anticipation. It was a state of mind and body that Sarah recognised only too well. The trussed woman refused to meet the kneeling girl’s stare.

  Sarah would have known Chang’s handiwork anywhere. He had shaved Anna’s sex mound, and smooth and naked, it looked vulnerable and exposed and at the same time like some erotic, ripe fruit. He had oiled the blonde’s sleek skin too, until it seemed that she glowed from within. Her wrists were tied above her head, exposing her breasts to perfection, and her feet were parted wide and held by a metal retaining bar and ankle straps. She looked quite magnificent, hanging there in the soft lamplight like a living trophy.

  For a terrible, insecure instant Sarah’s heart sank – could it be that she had lost everything? Had Anna taken her place?

  And then Casswell’s dulcet tones seeped into her fears, soothing and reassuring. ‘Miss Weissman needs to be punished,’ he said gently. ‘I caught her this evening, trying to steal our work. It seems we’ve been set up.’ As he spoke he handed Sarah an ornate riding crop.

  She looked up at him with uncertainty in her eyes, feeling the braided handle cradled in her palm, catching the subtle fragrance of the well-worked leather. Sarah was not sure how she felt about what he was proposing. It had been one thing to whip the unknown girl in the nightclub – but to do the same to Anna Weissman? To her surprise, she felt tears welling up in her eyes. This was against her nature, but his gaze did not falter.

  ‘If you do not do it,’ he said with calm assurance, ‘I will hand her over to Chang.’

  Sarah glanced across the room again. Casswell’s manservant was watching and waiting by the door, his expression totally impassive, although Sarah could guess the direction his thoughts were turning. She knew very well that whatever punishment she administered, it would be nothing compared to what the duplicitous blonde might expect at the hands of Chang, although she also knew, without a shred of doubt, that even though she had no desire to hand Anna over to the oriental, this was not what she was made of. She searched Casswell’s face again, hoping he would offer her some clue, some glimmer of what he was thinking, but his eyes were dark and unreadable.

  ‘Well?’ he pressed.

  Sarah knew exactly what she had to do, although with Casswell she always had the choice. It was implicit to their unspoken arrangement; it was the reason she trusted him with her body and her soul. His cruelty, his love of dominance, his love of her, was a magical bond that she both loved and dreaded; the mixture of light and dark, the passion and pain were as compelling an enchantment as she could ever imagine. But she also knew where her passions lay, and it was not in beating Anna Weissman.

  Each to their own – let Chang do what he had a natural gift for. So without a word she handed him the whip back.

  Casswell smiled, and on silent feet Chang came over and took the crop from his master. On the other side of the room Anna whimpered in fear. Casswell beckoned Sarah to move beside him so he could touch her as he sat and watched the entertainment unfold.

  She stood as he ordered, and watched as across the room Chang drew the whip up and back and brought i
t down across Anna’s buttocks with a terrible and deadly accuracy.

  The blonde screamed and spun slightly. Her voice was heavy with a mixture of indignation and pain. A great blush of red rose on her skin, marking the kiss of the whip like a photographic image.

  ‘You bastard, Rigel,’ she moaned as the crop bit again. ‘I hate you. I hate you!’ She writhed and tugged at the leather straps as she babbled.

  In Casswell’s company Sarah had seen many scenes like this before, but this was perhaps the first in which she truly had a vested interest. The elegant ice-cold blonde contorted and twisted against the leather and the leg irons, and Sarah could not help but wonder how much of Anna’s behaviour and intervention had been at her brother’s behest.

  The blonde’s body glowed like spun silk under the lamplight, glistening with a subtle mixture of sweat and oil as Chang continued relentlessly with her punishment.

  The whip cracked repeatedly, the sound filling the room. Anna shrieked, she mewled, and she swore like an alley cat until gradually she became lost in the maze of pain, the sounds slowly changing to something more instinctive and less coherent.

  Chang was relentless, each stroke as accurate and cruel as the one before.

  And all the while Casswell stroked Sarah, almost as if he was settling her, comforting her, consoling her. She moved under his touch to let him have greater freedom with her. His fingers idly made their way over her breasts, and then down the smooth plain of her ribs and belly until he could cradle and explore the gentle mound of her sex and those soft, wet, fragrant lips between her thighs.