Dr Casswell's Plaything

by Sarah Fisher

  ‘Get up on all fours,’ he snapped, and without hesitation she did exactly as she was told. Casswell smiled wolfishly. Weissman was right about his sister; despite all her bravado she was ripe for training.

  Waiting for him now, crouched there in the shadows, Anna was a picture of submission. Her blouse ripped, her elegant skirt rucked up around her narrow waist and between those long legs her quim was wet and ripe, hungry for his attentions.

  Casswell let her wait for him, and just as he sensed she was beginning to relax he unzipped his fly, and releasing his turgid shaft he thrust deep into her, making her cry out with surprise, discomfort and pleasure. This time his fingers found her clit and pressed on its delicate hood, all the while driving in and out of her, their movement an echo of the one they had just witnessed in the room beyond the two-way mirror.

  Anna Weissman sobbed as he thrust into her, her body matching him stroke for stroke until he felt her sex start to contract rhythmically around him, and Casswell knew then that he was lost to everything except the pleasure of the moment.

  Beneath him Anna pressed back and rode on, drinking in the last few ripples of delight, her tight quim milking him, and they both sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath, sweat coating their faces and bodies.

  Chapter 3

  Sarah lay in bed listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the Turkish night. Outside the sky was black and sensual. A slight breeze, swirling up from the sea, rippled the curtains on the balcony, and now the day was done she could hear the lapping waves of the Aegean against the harbour wall from somewhere close by.

  Sleep eluded her even though she was exhausted, her body heavy from the thrashing administered by Weissman. Part of her was uneasy about her role on the trip to secure and translate the diary, although her role had seemed clear when she was back in England with Casswell.

  In stark contrast to the events of siesta, over dinner Uri Weissman had played the perfect host while his sister Anna spent the entire evening unashamedly flirting with Casswell. Sarah shivered as she imagined Anna’s full lips, pouting and eager, her body so slim and yet so ripe in a silver lamé sheath dress, moving close to him, smiling and touching his arm. It was as if Anna was offering herself to him on a plate.

  Sarah made sure she did not catch the Austrian woman’s eye, although she was shaken by Casswell’s apparent delight at so obvious a creature. She wondered if her position in Casswell’s life was tenuous; in theory she was his personal assistant but realistically good secretaries were ten-a-penny, although she hoped her role in his life as an obedient slave was less uncertain.

  Alone in her bed, Sarah bit her lip to hold back the tears. She loved Casswell more than she could possibly say. The realisation took her by surprise. Watching him laugh and joke with Anna Weissman made her jealous and unhappy beyond anything she had ever felt. But beneath the jealousy was something else – instinctively Sarah did not trust the elegant woman, although she could not work out why.

  After coffee and liquors were served, exhausted by the long day, Sarah was pleased when Casswell suggested that she might like to retire early and wondered if he would call for her to share his bed.

  Chang had already informed her that their suites adjoined, but so far no such summons had come. It was a long time after Sarah had gone to bed that she finally heard Casswell entering his room, and she suspected he was not alone, so feeling tired and bereft she curled up and went to sleep.

  ‘So you want to get your hands on my precious diary?’ said the keeper of antiquities, first thing the following morning. The ornate vaulted museum foyer was cool and dark after the heat and clamour of the streets. Around them a steady stream of tourists were already making their way into the cool shadowy depths of what one of the tour guides was currently describing as a former palace of a minor prince. Unlike its curator, the building was indeed magnificent.

  Sarah tried hard to keep her feelings about the man who had greeted them to herself, and it was a struggle.

  The keeper of antiquities and curator, Mustafa Aziz, was grossly overweight with bad skin, foul breath and a badly trimmed moustache. He had an unwholesome, unwashed appearance and an even more unwashed odour. His suit seemed to be made for a much smaller man and the buttons of his shirt strained unpleasantly over his bloated stomach. In one hand he clutched a stained Panama hat.

  Conspiratorially he caught hold of Casswell’s arm. ‘Has Miss Weissman explained the terms under which you can have access to these precious national treasures?’

  As he spoke Sarah noted the way the fat curator’s eyes worked hungrily, first over Anna Weissman’s body and then more slowly over her own. It was impossible to ignore his undisguised interest. As their eyes met, Sarah reddened furiously and Aziz licked his lips as if he had been savouring some particularly favourite delicacy, before quickly mopping his face with a grubby handkerchief.

  Casswell peeled the man’s fingers from his arm. ‘That you have first opportunity to read the draft translations and that none of the original material leaves the building,’ he said impassively.

  The curator nodded. ‘And?’ He smiled salaciously. ‘And the rest of the bargain… surely you know about the rest of the bargain?

  It was Anna’s turn to speak. ‘Come on, Mustafa, do you really want to discuss your sexual peccadilloes out here in front of the tourists?’ She spoke just loudly enough, for one of the parties being guided in turned to look at them.

  The fat man reddened furiously and made a show of mopping his brow. His expression implied that Anna would regret her remark.

  ‘Casswell knows the score,’ Anna continued. ‘Now are you going to show us down into your precious dungeon or not?’

  He nodded, his eyes all the while working backwards and forward over the two women. It was evident that the blonde’s offhand and aggressive manner infuriated and offended him.

  Taking a heavily carved key from his pocket he beckoned them to follow, their prize it seemed was down a flight of steep stairs carved from the most exquisite marble and which lead them into a vaulted cellar, built under the main hall of the museum. Although it was cool in the catacomb, the air was heavy with the smells of dust and decay.

  Amongst row after row of battered shelves, display cases and filing cabinets, the curator set up a trestle, lights and two swivel chairs. On a tray in the centre of the desk stood a glass cabinet, two pairs of white cotton gloves and a magnifying plate.

  Casswell smiled as he approached the little cabinet. Inside, laying on a special acid free fabric that absorbed moisture, was a tiny red book, four inches by three at the most, the edge of the pages brown with age. Glancing around the makeshift office, he said, ‘Anna told me that you promised to provide a computer and printer for my secretary.’ He nodded towards Sarah. One of the museum’s stipulations was that they did not bring in their own machines, so the state-of-the-art laptop that Casswell brought from England was languishing on Sarah’s dressing table.

  Mustafa grinned. ‘Indeed I did, my friend. You shall have them tomorrow, but today you surely have nothing for her to work on?’ Before he could reply, Mustafa puffed out his chest. ‘And last but not least it gives me great pleasure to present you with a gift made by local craftsmen to remind you of your time in our humble town.’

  He clapped his hands and two lackeys appeared from the shadows carrying a wooden crate. Mustafa waved them to set it down and open it. Inside, amongst a great tangle of wood and wool, was a section of pillar, perhaps two foot high. ‘It is a replica of a roman pillar,’ Mustafa said enthusiastically. ‘Handmade at the local quarry. It will look very fine in your garden, yes?’

  It was a very peculiar gift, and polite as ever, Casswell gave his thanks and turned to look at the contents of the glass case, but the Turk had not finished. ‘And so today I will have Miss Morgan all to myself while you begin work. That was the deal made by Miss Weissman.’

  Casswell looked up momentarily and glanced at Anna.

  Sarah stiffened.

 
Mustafa held up a hand to silence any protest. ‘It was the promise I was made. I have honoured you by opening vaults, by giving you a gift, by allowing you access to my most treasured possession. In return, today I have your woman all for myself and then later the two of them together. Miss Weissman, she has promised me.’ He glared angrily at Anna, who merely smiled at each of them.

  ‘You know you really owe me for this one, Casswell,’ she said.

  Sarah cringed at the prospect of what was developing; it was the most appalling thought, but Casswell’s expression was unreadable as he turned to the glass cabinet that housed the diary.

  Mustafa beckoned to Sarah. ‘You, you come with me.’

  Sarah looked from one face to another, but there was no right of appeal. It appeared that Casswell’s mind was elsewhere. He was busy putting on a pair of cotton gloves, his attention fixed on the contents of the display cabinet, Anna Weissman close beside him.

  Mustafa’s expression hardened. ‘Now,’ he snapped, and Sarah, feeling utterly abandoned, reluctantly followed him.

  Without another word, the fat Turk led her back through the maze of shelves, opened a doorway and took her into another part of the cellars, out through a tangle of ill-lit corridors to a darker, more isolated area. Finally, after what seemed an age, he opened a door in the stonework and beckoned her inside. What choice did she have? Sarah stepped past him and Mustafa immediately shut and locked the door behind them.

  She looked around with a growing sense of fear. They were in windowless room with a beaten earth floor, lit by a single bulb, and empty except for a camp bed, a low table, a chest of drawers on which stood a bottle of water and two glasses, and a battered armchair.

  ‘So, let me see what it is that I have traded my treasures for,’ he drooled, excitement thickening his accent as he settled against the chest of drawers and lit a cheroot. ‘Strip for me. I want you naked. Now.’

  Nervously, Sarah began to undo the elegant linen dress she was wearing. Mustafa watched her with dark eyes, mopping his slack lips with the filthy handkerchief.

  ‘Come on,’ he snarled impatiently, ‘ don’t play around. Let me see.’

  Sarah stood tall to face him, attempting on the surface at least to appear defiant and collected, while inside she was shaking like a leaf. She slid the dress slowly off her shoulders.

  Mustafa nodded appreciatively as she stood before him, naked except for high-heeled sandals. Sarah’s flesh seemed to glow like a candle flame in the shadowy room.

  ‘Good, that’s much better. Now turn around slowly. Let me look at you.’ Sarah did as she was told, her discomfort rising with every passing second until finally the sleazy man snapped, ‘Come here!’ He indicated the armchair. ‘I want you to sit down, like this.’ Stumbling over the words he showed her with his hands. ‘One leg over each arm so I can see you. I want you to touch yourself, play with your tits, finger your wet little slit, your whole body. I want you to stroke and touch and twist those pretty little nipples. I want you to pleasure yourself for me – make yourself come for me.’

  Sarah hesitated, and the curator’s expression hardened. ‘Do you dare to disobey my wishes, Miss Morgan? I’m warning you, it is not in your best interests to disobey me.’

  Sarah started to shake her head, but moving with a speed that belied his bulk, Mustafa caught hold of her hair and jerked her close to him. She winced and let out a cry.

  ‘You do exactly as I say,’ he growled. ‘Without you and me down here now, there is no manuscript for your precious master to work on. No translation, no computer, no nothing. ‘You do exactly as I say or he is out of here.’

  Sarah gasped as his fingers tightened, but her tormentor had not finished with her yet.

  ‘And then tomorrow you will come down her and fuck that ice queen, Weissman, down here in the dust and filth, on that bed, straddle her, sit on her face and I will watch her lick you like a dog. And when she is done, you are going to stick your pretty little tongue deep inside her, make her writhe and cry out for mercy and then trust me, Miss Morgan, I will fuck you both.’

  He caught hold of her hand and pressed it hard against his engorged cock, and bending her hand inside his he held it tight to him. ‘You understand me?’

  Sarah gasped and tried to nod again, but this time he pulled her to him, kissing her hungrily, his tongue plunging deep into her mouth, coarse hands grabbing at her body, mauling her. He tasted of cheap tobacco and coffee. It was pointless to resist him. He was like a hungry animal and groaned and snorted as he cupped the rise of her sex, his thick fingers seeking entry. The smell of his body and breath made her feel nauseous, yet she had no choice but to co-operate.

  After a few minutes he pushed her away. He was panting and slick with sweat. ‘There is time enough for me to touch you later. For now you touch yourself, for my pleasure.’ He smiled with salacious triumph as she hesitantly sat on the chair and very slowly draped her legs, one over each of the arms.

  He nodded. ‘Good, good,’ and waving her up a little, slipped a cushion under her bottom so he could see exactly what was on offer.

  Sarah closed her eyes, humiliated and ashamed, but intimidated by the filthy man’s attention, she reluctantly began to toy with her breasts, fingers circling and teasing the soft peaks into stiffness while her free hand slowly traced a path down over her belly to the contours of her sex.

  But it seemed that this was not good enough for him. ‘No, no!’ he snapped furiously. ‘You think I am a fool, eh? Let me see your face. I want to see your eyes, look at me. Look at me! Do it as if you mean it or I will call one of my men in here to do it for you. That great ape who brought in your master’s present – he would sell his soul for the chance to fuck a white girl like you. You want me to call him?’

  Sarah felt her eyes fill with tears as she stared up at his bloated features.

  Mustafa sneered. ‘You are so defiant. Think yourself better than me, do you?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘No, no,’ she murmured. ‘I’m just nervous.’ It was true; she was nervous and repelled by him.

  Mustafa did not look convinced. ‘Get up,’ he snarled. ‘I will show you who is the master here,’ and catching hold of her arm he dragged her off the chair. Before she could gather her senses he sat down and pulled Sarah down with him, folding her over his knees.

  ‘I see you already know what happens to those who disobey,’ he said huskily, fingering the bruises and weals that still lingered across her bottom. ‘You should take more notice.’

  For a few seconds his hand worked across her buttocks, stroking the soft orbs. Settling himself, he then drew back his hand and slapped her hard. Sarah shrieked as the raw sting of the blow flushed through her, and she jerked on his stout thighs.

  Mustafa grunted; it seemed this was exactly what he wanted; her over his lap, naked and completely at his mercy. Sarah sobbed as he struck the next blow, the pain and heat of his hand intensifying as it cracked across her buttocks again and again. After a dozen or so strokes he stopped, wheezing heavily.

  ‘Enough now,’ he panted, sweating even more than before. ‘You understand what I want. You do exactly as I tell you.’

  Sarah understood only too well, her bottom glowing with the imprint of his hand.

  ‘Get up and give me what I asked for or I will beat you with a stick,’ he growled, tipping her without ceremony to the filthy floor.

  Sarah clambered back into the chair and this time – seeing no other option – opened her legs wide apart so the fat man could explore with his eyes and fingers the most delicate and secret parts of her body.

  He smiled, his wet lips slack, as she began to move against her own caresses, looking her over as if she was little more than meat.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘And don’t mess with me, I will know if you are faking. Harder now. Harder, I want to see you writhing with pleasure.’ He caught hold of Sarah’s wrist and pressed her fingers down into her sex. As he moved closer she could feel him drinking in the
details of her body. She felt the humiliation surge through her veins. Mustafa moved closer and crouched down low, sniffing at her sex before running a grubby finger up over the moistened folds.

  ‘Good,’ he murmured, sliding the same finger in and out of her wetness, trailing it out onto her creamy flesh. ‘I have a little something for you – something I want to use on you now and later on that Weissman woman.’ From the depths of a pocket he produced a package wrapped in a square of silk.

  Inside was a large ivory-coloured dildo, a series of thick rings set with beads around the base. Sarah stiffened as the man slipped the head of the thing between the inner lips of her quim, easing it in and out on the very edge of her sex. It felt cool and pliable against her and her rogue body opened to let it deeper. With a hand on hers, the curator guided her to take over and she began to move against it, realising the rings and the beads were meant to touch her clit. Sarah shivered and pushed the dildo deeper still, working it back and forth, beginning to lose herself in the sensations of the moment, her finger flicking back and forth over her swollen clitoris.

  Mustafa refused to be excluded. ‘Look at me,’ he grunted, catching hold of her chin.

  Sarah had no choice, and as she spiralled out towards the point of no return his eyes were locked on hers. At the very last minute he dragged the dildo out of her.

  Sarah gasped – she was close, so very close. It felt as if she was falling over the edge of the world. He jerked her down in the chair and ripping open his trousers, thrust his engorged cock into her pulsating quim.

  His manhood was so broad she cried out in fear as he drove it in. Her body was teetering on the edge of an orgasm and the very first stroke from his enormous shaft was enough to drive her to oblivion. It was over in seconds, Sarah’s body closing tight around his great cock. Mustafa Aziz gasped as he felt her body holding him, squeezing him dry, and he thrust once, twice, and was spent.

  Seconds later he pushed her off him.

  ‘Good,’ he snorted, wiping his flaccid cock on his handkerchief. ‘That is better, tomorrow you will come back here with that blonde bitch and I will fuck the pair of you.’