Dr Casswell's Student

by Sarah Fisher

  With firm hands he cut me down and I tumbled forward into his arms. My breath came in raw gasps and my head spun. Great weals had lifted on my shoulders, back and breasts, and my throat and eyes were sore from crying out in pain and… and yet mingled with it all was an odd sense of pleasure that terrified me more than the pain itself.

  But if I thought my ordeal was over I was much mistaken. My master picked me up in his strong arms and lay me down on the bed, his eyes alight with a lust that burned as bright as any star. Far from sating his hunger, my beating and humiliation had lit an unstoppable passion. As I cowered amongst the rich tumble of linen, eyes wide with terror, he unfastened his breeches. For the first time I saw his pillar of manhood, raised like an avenging sword from between the folds of the cloth.

  I could hardly imagine that my tiny body would accommodate such a beast. Roughly he pulled me up onto my knees and pressed my head and lips towards his phallus. Afraid and repelled by what he demanded of me, I understood only to well what he craved. He pulled me closer still. Powerless to resist I kissed him humbly, keeping my eyes downcast, and then took his great throbbing sex into my mouth.

  To my astonishment I found myself lost in the act of worshipping him; an ancient act of submission to his masculinity. Lapping at the great ivory shaft my body began to glow with desire, my sex wet and throbbing with an unfulfilled need.

  Eagerly now I cupped him with my fingers, longing for some kind of climax to this dark game. As I began to find a rhythm, hands, lips and tongue working in harmony, his dark eyes flashed with fury; had he not already told me it was he who was the master and I the slave?

  Pushing me back amongst the covers, he pressed forward. I knew then I was lost; his to command. There was a fragrant wetness that trickled from between my thighs; the same rich juices that flowed whenever I dreamt of my master.

  He forced my legs apart with his knee and opening me cruelly with his fingers, guided his phallus home. For an instant my body resisted his assault, my sex tight and unbreached. There was a terrible raw surge of pain when I truly thought I might split apart as my body fought to hold him back, and then finally he drove his cock home and I cried out like an animal on a stormy night, hungry and wild and afraid.

  To my amazement, as he began to move my body opened for him like a flower blooming. Rubbing against me, his hands working over my bruised breasts, I was astonished by the strange tendrils of pleasure that grew into intense spirals of light, twisting up from low inside my belly.

  I thought perhaps the pain and the shame of the beating had driven me insane and these feelings were the divine rewards of my madness and obedience. Was this wild surging pleasure the very madness that would drown out the last remnants of reason?

  Heat rose like a fever inside me until I thought I would die from sheer delight. And then, at the very pinnacle of pleasure when my demise seemed assured, I felt my master thrust forward once more, his shaft pulsating deep inside me, his passion a heady counterpoint to the waves of ecstasy that roared through me. And then, finally, there was stillness.

  He pulled out of me and struggling to his feet, tidied his clothes.

  ‘You will come whenever I call for you, Beatrice,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I will brook no excuses, girl, no delays. You are mine now, do you understand?’

  I nodded, unable to find the words to reply, and clambered off the bed, collecting my gown and the torn remnants of my petticoats. As he unlocked the door he caught hold of my arm. His features had softened. His eyes, so steely before, were gentle now.

  ‘Remember who you serve, lady. I am your only master. Our fates are closely entwined, Beatrice. Yours and mine.’

  I do not understand what he means. All I know is that I am still expected to attend the feast, and my body and mind are in a raging tumult…

  Sitting alone in Doctor Casswell’s study, Sarah Morgan realised she was struggling to breath. The computer screen in front of her was completely blank; she hadn’t typed a single word since beginning to read the manuscript. Its flickering unforgiving eye silently observed her discomfort. Her face was flushed, her body hot and feverish. She swallowed hard.

  Why had Doctor Casswell asked her to type up his translation when he could have easily asked any of the other girls who worked in the office? They were far more efficient and competent typists than she was. Sarah realised, for the first time, that asking her to stay at his house made no sense at all. Was it, whispered a dark voice deep inside her mind, that the good doctor recognised the parallels in Sarah’s life to the hapless Beatrice?

  She shivered. Surely her mind was playing tricks on her. How could her situation possibly mirror the fate of the long dead slave girl? But even as her mind framed the question Sarah knew the similarities were there: wasn’t she an orphan too, brought up by a great aunt? Although only twenty-two, hadn’t she spent the last few years of her life caring for the old woman? Though hardly a convent, it was as close as it was possible to get in the modern world. And hadn’t an old family friend found her the job at the museum once her aunt had gone into a home? An elderly male friend of the family who had known Casswell for years? Perhaps she, like Beatrice, had unwittingly been sold to her master. Sarah glanced nervously around the small study, wondering if it was too late to turn down Casswell’s offer of extra work.

  She jumped as the study door swung open to reveal the doctor’s servant carrying a supper tray. The tiny Oriental man set the meal down on a side-table by the fire.

  ‘If you ring the bell when you’ve finished, Miss Morgan, I will come and collect the tray,’ he said flatly in impeccable English. ‘And after you’ve eaten I will show you to your room.’

  Sarah nodded. Her stomach rumbled in response to the appetising smell of the food. It crossed her mind that her imagination was getting the better of her. She was just hungry and nervous, that was all. Things would look different when she had eaten.

  She smiled up at him. ‘Thank you.’

  He bowed in response.

  As soon as he had left the room, but before she began to eat her supper, Sarah typed in a working title for the manuscript:

  ‘The Diary of Beatrice’, translated by Doctor R J Casswell.

  Satisfied that she was back in control, Sarah Morgan turned her attentions to the tray.

  Chapter 2

  After supper Chang led Sarah upstairs to her bedroom. She felt better for having eaten. Abandoning the manuscript and the word processor, she followed the little Oriental man back into the hall. Stepping out of the warm study she wondered again whether accepting the invitation to Casswell House had been such a good idea. Since he had first shown her to the office there had been no other sign of the doctor. With just Chang for company the old house seemed dark and cold and foreboding. The oppressive gloom made the hairs lift on the back of Sarah’s neck.

  The sweeping staircase was lit by dusty lamps and bare bulbs. The whole place had obviously seen much better days; the carpets were threadbare, the drapes faded and thin. Even in the poor light it was impossible to ignore the layers of dust and cobwebs that clung to every surface. Here and there pieces of plaster had fallen off the walls revealing the lathe below.

  So Sarah was surprised when Chang opened an ornate door on the second floor to reveal a warm comfortable room. A large coal fire burned in the grate. The hearth was flanked by two arm-winged chairs, while lamps on side-tables lit the room with a soft golden glow. Opposite the door, floor-length curtains framed a dramatic view out over the grounds, and standing in the bay window was a chaise longue, upholstered in black velvet and strewn with cream silk cushions. On the dressing table stood a bowl of fresh flowers. It certainly wasn’t the kind of room Sarah had been expecting.

  Through an open door she could see into the bathroom, where plush white towels hung from a rail. But what really caught and held her attention was the enormous mirror that dominated the main room. It stretched from fl
oor to ceiling on the wall opposite the bed.

  The ornate gilt frame would have looked ridiculous in a smaller room or a lesser house. It was surmounted by two huge plump cherubs and from the baskets they carried, tumbled a cornucopia of fruit, flowers, birds and animals, and a tumult of bubbling water and twisted ribbons that made up the frame.

  In the mirror’s cool reflection the huge bed was caught and held like an exquisite picture.

  Sarah glanced at the bed’s carved wooden uprights and for an instant imagined Beatrice tied there, naked and afraid, awaiting her master’s pleasure. The image sent an intense electric pulse of desire down her spine, making her shiver.

  Behind her Chang watched, his face expressionless as she hastily ordered her thoughts. ‘I hadn’t imagined I’d be staying anywhere so luxurious,’ she said.

  The servant bowed curtly. ‘I will tell the doctor that the room is satisfactory. I have unpacked your things,’ he said, indicating the wardrobe and tallboy. ‘Breakfast is at eight.’

  Sarah thanked him and then added, ‘Do you think it would be all right to bring Doctor Casswell’s notes up here to read? I thought I could begin transcribing them tomorrow.’

  Chang’s expression didn’t change. ‘I will ask the doctor.’

  As he turned to leave, Sarah continued. ‘Will I see Doctor Casswell again this evening? I mean, does he expect me to go downstairs? I thought perhaps he might want me to spend the…’ her voice faded under the man’s unwavering stare. She wasn’t sure what it was that Casswell expected of her, but as it was barely eight o’clock she hadn’t considered the possibility that Chang could be showing her up to bed.

  The servant looked surprised. ‘Doctor Casswell usually spends his evenings alone. He works or reads. I do not think he anticipates you joining him this evening, Miss Morgan. Would you like me to ask him?’

  Sarah shook her head; it seemed she was dismissed, unless of course the doctor assumed she would want to continue working until bedtime. She smiled at Chang and then waved him away. ‘Thank you. It was a long drive; I think I’ll just get settled in.’

  The little man nodded. ‘If you want anything, please ring.’ He indicated a bell-pull beside the mantelpiece and then closed the door quietly behind him. As soon as he was gone, Sarah let out a sigh of relief and slumped into one of the winged chairs by the fire. Working at Casswell Hall was going to be far more difficult than she imagined. The house and its surroundings were so strange. The Doctor made her nervous – even with Chang she was on tenterhooks – and then there was the content of the manuscript itself.

  She glanced around the room. Chang had already unpacked her possessions: her books – two novels – lay on the bedside cabinet, clothes, shoes, everything – even her toiletries, were neatly arranged in the appropriate places. On a tray by the fire were refreshments: bottles of wines and spirits, soft drinks, tea and coffee, suggesting that she was expected to stay in her room when not working downstairs.

  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 wrapp
ed 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.