by Sarah Fisher
In the cellar at the other end of the museum Anna Weissman soon got bored watching Casswell read from the diary and scribble notes in a pad, and disappeared into the shadows. The doctor rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked back over the new work. The journal in the cabinet was one he had not seen or heard of before and the more he read the more certain he was that they had stumbled across a previously unknown volume. The implications were heady. Certainly his good friend and benefactor, Oliver Turner, would be delighted. The material not only commanded a good price in the hands of those connoisseurs who appreciated such things, but would improve his already worthy reputation as a patron of historical research within their select and well connected membership.
Having transcribed the page that Anna had teased him with, Casswell continued to translate from the end of the section the blonde had photocopied. It was slow work even with good magnification; the handwriting was tiny and tucked and twisted around itself. Even so, he was pleased with what he had achieved. Pushing himself back from the desk Casswell began to re-read the notes
…It was no game. This man, with his strong right arm, truly thought to beat the devil out of me. Although from the look on his brother’s eager face I suspected that when the beating was done they had other plans on how best to redeem me.
I thought I should lose my mind from the pain. The second brother, a tall blond boy with cruel eyes and even crueller touch, laid on his ten strokes with such terrible vengeance that it seemed the two of them were in some contest to see who might strike the hardest. Ten strokes each sounds so little when spoken, yet between them they took me to the shores of madness.
Oh, doubt me not, I begged and sobbed and pleaded to be set free, beseeching mercy they so cruelly promised, fighting against my restraints, but despite their talk of salvation they seemed deaf to my cries as I twisted, bucked and strained under the kiss of the leather.
Finally, when it seemed I could take no more, they cut me down and as I tumbled to the floor, the two of them set about me like hungry wolves. Those two young men, their eyes bright with lust, lapped and sucked at my poor body; exploring my sex, pawing at my breasts, sucking and biting and forcing their way into me with fingers and tongues and cocks; into my mouth, into my quim, and into that secret place where no man should venture, fucking and touching and impaling me again until I thought I would go insane from their attentions. If this is the Christian virtue and mercy of their king then I fear we are all truly undone.
It struck me that we were not alone in our debauchery – all around us in the great hall my nakedness and beating and the actions of the king’s lusty sons had aroused such desires as could not be contained.
Around and over the tables, knights and their ladies, squires and dames, serving maids and lads, all coupled and entwined and fornicated without thought for the consequences of their actions, in twos and threes and fours their bodies pale and sweating in the rush lights, rolling around in the dust. Where one brushed against the other they joined and mixed and changed partners until the night air was thick with the cries of passion and scented with the perfume of bodies. Lord Usher was no doubt enjoying the sport along with the rest, but did my lord look out for me amongst the throes of wild passion?
Lying on the floor of the great hall, my sex was coated with the silky cream seed of the kings’ sons, my back raw, my breasts, face and belly splashed with the remnants of their passion. From his throne the king looked down upon my nakedness, taking in the details of my disgrace and the heavy mass of bodies around the hall.
‘Is the devil that haunted this brazen creature gone?’ he whispered to them, his voice low and tight. ‘Seems we have beaten it out of her and unleashed her wicked ways on the rest of the assembled crowd.’
Half naked and sweating, the two of them agreed that whatever temptation or dangers I previously offered had now been beaten from me. The old man nodded and held out his hand. One of the young men bowed and held the whip in his gnarled fist before he beckoned them to bring me closer.
I could barely walk and could not guess what was to follow. To my consternation the two boys picked me up and bore me to the old man’s throne. While one unfastened his robe the other held me, and then between them they manhandled me onto his lap and guided his cock into my poor exhausted body.
I felt him slide inside me, my body closing around him. The old man had no need to move now, for the two young men guided me up and down on his shaft in time with his thrusts.
The old king grunted and pressed home time and again, his old hands raking my bruised and throbbing flesh. With renewed vigour he thrust into me again and I heard his breath quicken and knew that such regal seed as was left in that dry old husk was about to be spent. He thrust up into me, moaning and grunting, holding tight to the instant of release, and it was over.
Once the old man had stopped twitching and gasping, the young men pulled me away from his exhausted cock, and they set me down on the dais while they attended to their master, wiping him and covering his nakedness.
I was forgotten, and all around the coupling and pleasure went on. I closed my eyes and curled like a cur at the feet of the king, his sons and his courtiers. In the half light the revels and feasting continued until who knows when. I must have slept, for when I was aware again it was darker and quieter and the old man and his entourage had gone.
Someone had dropped a cloak or robe over me to cover my nakedness but even so, lying there amongst the reeds I was cold. As I roused myself, I saw my master looking down at my abused body and wondered if it had been his voice or his touch that had woken me.
With unexpected tenderness he gently lifted me up and carried me to his chamber. In the months since my mistress had been banished from the castle I have shared his bed night after night, curled in his arms ever faithful, waiting for his command.
Tonight he was as tender to me as any nurse, bathing my aching body and rubbing balm into the welts and bruises inflicted upon me by his king’s cruel sons.
I sensed his anger at their treatment of my body, but not a word did he speak to betray his king. Rather when he was done, my master picked me up and set me in his bed. All night long I lay in his arms, feeling safe, his strength and touch brushing away my pain. When the candle burnt low and the sun brightened the eastern sky, he slipped his hand between my thighs, seeking the tender lips of my quim, and I opened to him like the budding lily…
Casswell paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was about to hand over the finished sheets to Sarah when he realised she was not there. Instantly he remembered, as if waking from a dream; his delight on finding the new manuscript had made him forget that Mustafa Aziz still had her in his clutches. Sliding the book safely back into its cabinet, Casswell rang the bell the curator had left for him to summon one of the museum staff.
Chapter 4
For once Sarah was glad of Casswell’s rule of silence. Not catching his gaze, she watched the rich tapestry of the Turkish port unfold on the drive back to Uri Weissman’s house. Beside her, Casswell seemed almost as preoccupied, although when his hand settled gently on her thigh she was grateful of his touch.
It was not far from the museum to the Austrian’s home, but the streets were packed with people, locals pushed and jostled for position, their women heading back home to escape the heat of the day. But even though the street life was fascinating it was not enough to wipe out the events of the morning spent with Mustafa in the cellar beneath the museum.
Sarah shivered in the cool blast of the air conditioning. She had assumed that once the fat little Turk had spanked her and forced her to put on the performance in the armchair her part of the bargain had been be paid. However, Mustafa had other ideas and insisted she join him on an impromptu tour of the museum. Knowing that Sarah was naked under her dress excited him and periodically, as they joined other groups of tourists to listen to the commentary from the museum guides, he would move closer and touch her, sliding a hand up un
der her skirt, clammy fingers groping her. The idea that the other visitors might see him appeared to be an added bonus. In some ways the tour of the dusty sun bleached relics was even more humiliating that the things that had happened in the cellar.
Sarah was relieved when at last one of the museum staff had appeared to say that Dr Casswell was ready to leave and they were to go back to the Weissman’s for lunch. As he helped her into the waiting car, Mustafa reminded her that the next day she had another appointment with him – as if there was any possible way she could forget.
Back at the Weissman’s house while Casswell went to find Uri, Sarah hurried upstairs to shower and rid herself of the oily smell of Mustafa Aziz. When she was finished, Chang was waiting for her outside the shower cubicle with a towelling robe. She had seen very little of him since their arrival in Turkey the day before.
‘So you paid the price set by Anna Weissman?’ he said, looking her up and down.
Sarah nodded, not asking how it was he knew about Anna’s deal.
Chang made a noise of approval and ran his hand over her naked and bruised flank. ‘I will give you a massage, use fragrant oil, get rid of the stench of him.’
Sarah reddened, wondering if she still smelt, and then realised that Chang had taken her clothes away. They must reek of Mustafa’s cheap cologne and stale sweat. Chang’s fingers moved on up over her hips, breasts and shoulders. His touch was enquiring and firm, making her moan with the delicious pain his fingertips created. In many ways the little oriental was a paradox, cruel and kind; tough one moment, tender the next.
Even so, she knew she would be glad of his knowing touch working over the marks that Weissman and Mustafa inflicted, and when he led her naked onto the bed she certainly did not fight as he rubbed aromatic oils into her aching flesh, nor argue when almost an hour later he covered her with heavy white towels and let sleep claim her.
As dinner approached Chang left her to rest, and later brought a tray up for when she awoke.
As darkness fell Dr Casswell was surprised to hear a tapping at his bedroom door. Chang had already told him that Sarah, exhausted by a combination of the oppressive heat and her encounter with Mustafa, had fallen asleep in the adjoining room. Had he wanted her she would have come, but it would be unlike her to appear at his door without being summoned.
It had been a long evening. After coffee and liqueurs out on the terrace with Uri and Anna, Casswell had also pleaded exhaustion, which gave him a chance to re-read the extract he had been working on all morning.
The tapping started again but was more insistent this time. Annoyed at being disturbed, Casswell opened the door a fraction and peered out into the gloom. What he saw astonished him. In the doorway were two of Uri Weissman’s burly housemen dressed in long white robes and fez. Between them they were carrying a roll of bulky carpet.
The taller of them, speaking in thick, almost incoherent English, said, ‘We have brought a gift for you.’ The words were so mutilated that Casswell asked him to repeat what he said. He had obviously learnt the introduction parrot fashion.
Casswell stared in amazement as they carried their burden in; a female was wrapped up inside, and as they unrolled the intricate weave she fell in a tumbled heap at his feet.
‘Anna?’ he said in disbelief.
The blonde stood up very slowly and offered him a deep curtsey. She was dressed in the costume of a harem concubine. Veiled, her blonde hair was covered in sheer black silk, and her ample breasts were snug in a sheer silver and black bra that pressed her heavy orbs together and thrust them forward like a ripe banquet. Each pinkly flushed nipple was tipped with a silver bauble. Her midriff was bare and she was wearing a pair of tiny black panties, tied on each hip, under a pair of sheer black harem pants. To complete the ensemble she was wearing black and silver felt slippers.
In appearance Anna Weissman was every inch the willing slave girl, every inch except for the expression in her eyes, which far from being coy and submissive was open and expectant, not to mention deeply excited.
Casswell looked her up and down appreciatively.
‘I am yours to command, master,’ she said with a stifled giggle.
Casswell could not contain a smile; nothing could have been further from the truth.
‘Uri keeps telling me that you understand women, Rigel, what women truly need. I’ve come to find out if that’s true.’ Her tone was flirtatious.
Casswell waved the words away. ‘To be honest, Anna, I don’t think you’re ready for what I can offer,’ he said without rancour.
‘Please, Rigel,’ she whispered seductively, ‘come on. Please show me.’ It seemed events of the previous day had whetted her appetite.
Casswell looked her up and down again. It was tempting. She was slim and very beautiful, with delicious breasts, her body lithe and exquisitely formed, but unlike Sarah he doubted Anna would ever fully respond to training. She most certainly was not naturally submissive, just deeply curious.
‘Please,’ she said again, and he could see the excitement mounting in her eyes.
Picking up a little brass bell from beside his bed, Casswell summoned Chang. His servant appeared instantly and took up a stance by the double doors, legs parted, arms behind his back. Anna looked puzzled and was about to dismiss her servants when Casswell caught hold of her wrist.
‘Oh no, Anna, that isn’t how it works. Here in this room I am the master. You have no power; you give yourself to me entirely and do as I say. If you want to do this then you must understand I command and you obey. There is no going back. No half measures.’
Anna reddened furiously. ‘But they are my house staff.’
‘Not now – at this moment you are the slave here. Now get on your hands and knees.’ Her colour deepened, and he could see she was about to protest. ‘You heard me,’ he added; this time his tone was harder and without a shred of humour, and if Anna Weissman was about to say anything else, she thought better of it.
Casswell looked at the two men who had carried Anna in. Both of them, he could see, were delighted by the turn of events. He beckoned to the taller of the two. ‘Lift your robe.’
The man stared at him in complete amazement, but after a life term spent in service, did as he was told.
Casswell looked down at Anna, now on all fours at his feet. ‘You know what he wants, don’t you? What he has always wanted? He wants you to suck his cock, to take him in your mouth and suck him dry. Press those beautifully painted lips around his shaft, lap at him with that tongue that has given so many orders, until he comes, until your mouth is full of the taste of him. Pleasure and obedience, every slave has to understand that.’
Anna gasped, her eyes bright with indignation and astonishment. ‘But I thought it would be you,’ she began. ‘I’m not going to do that for a servant… not a servant, Rigel.’
Casswell’s expression did not falter.
Slowly the man began to lift his robe. Beneath it he was naked, his cock already hardening at the prospect of his mistress’s lips tight around it. Casswell wondered how many times the servant had fantasised about such a moment.
‘I can’t do this,’ she said, shaking her head and clambering to her feet. ‘It’s madness.’
Casswell shrugged. ‘Then you will be beaten until you can. Chang…’ Casswell’s man moved towards her. ‘You want to understand what I do, Anna, how I make women feel. Therefore you shall.’ Anna’s eyes widened with horror as the little oriental grabbed hold of her wrists. ‘Or perhaps you would prefer to leave now… there’s the door. All you have to do is tell me and you can go now. Say it after me, Anna. Say, “Rigel, I want you to let me leave now”.’
They stared at each other for the briefest of instants, and Casswell walked over to the side table and poured himself a brandy, contemptuously unmoved by her dilemma. He had seen it a hundred times before.
Anna reddened. ‘I can’t do this,’ she shrieked, struggling furiously to free herself. But they both knew she had chosen. Chang was tot
ally unmoved by her efforts and with the practise he’d acquired over the years, there was no way the blonde was going to get away from him unless Casswell commanded it.
It seemed as if Anna Weissman was not the first slave girl to need correction in Casswell’s suite. Above them, set into the ceiling, was a large metal eyelet. With deft hands, Chang tied the blonde’s wrists together with a leather strop and then aided by Anna’s servants, soon had her secured and tied to a rope suspended from the ring, her arms stretched taut above her head.
All the time it was obvious to Casswell that Anna was still torn between outrage, fear and curiosity. It was an expression Casswell recognised, though he suspected that when this evening was over it was not an experience Anna Weissman would be likely to repeat.
‘All right,’ she said, breathing hard. ‘You’ve had your little joke, Casswell, now let me down and we won’t say any more about it.’
Casswell watched her with interest. ‘But you begged me a moment ago to show you how this felt. And you know what you have to say.’ He smiled thinly and ran his hands over her exquisite body. He could see in amongst all the other emotions Anna Weissman was almost crazy with excitement.
‘Bastard,’ she hissed, between those exquisitely painted lips.
Under his exploratory touch Anna began to relax; perhaps the blonde felt she might win him over, but any feelings of success were short-lived. With two deft movements Casswell ripped away first her veil and then her sheer silk top. Anna shrieked, straining furiously against her restraints, but before the sound had stopped echoing Chang handed Casswell a thick leather paddle and without breaking his stride, Casswell drew it back and struck Anna Weissman hard across the creamy cheeks of her bottom.
The blonde woman screamed with a mixture of shock and pain, then spun and hung for a moment on the rope, gasping for her next breath. ‘Rigel?!’ she shrieked, as if she could not believe what she had experienced.
