by Sarah Fisher
Meanwhile Sister Judith grabbed my arms, giving me no chance to gather my clothes, and without thinking I began to protest.
‘Silence!’ she snapped, dragging me down off the dais. ‘Trust me, girl, you’ll need nothing here, and if you fight me I will break you like a twig. Perhaps you don’t know who I am, but I know very well who you are, Beatrice de Fleur. It seems at last my prayers have been heeded.’
I turned to look again at the hag, and for some reason she did look familiar, but I was certain I had never met her before.
Her expression hardened under my unguarded inspection. ‘Have you no idea who I am, girl?’ she hissed.
I was almost afraid to say no, but she continued. ‘Your master’s first wife, she who is now banished and disgraced because of your word, your betrayal; she was my sister. Now do you recognise me?’
I stared at her in horror, remembering only to vividly the plot to kill my master, and felt an icy claw close tight around my heart. I knew I had to get away from the abbey or this crone would make my life a living hell – if indeed I lived at all.
Piled at the door to the hall were many cloaks and robes, left there by the revellers. Without thinking, as we reached them I grabbed the first I could, pushed my captor away and ran headlong out into the bitterly cold night, wrapping myself in the heavy woollen cloak as I ran.
I was fast and nimble, and although naked I had not removed my boots. In the torchlight I make out the fine grey stallion the king’s son rode – as yet it had not been unsaddled or stabled and was tied to a rail. Unfastening the reins and grabbing tight hold of the mane I leapt up onto the horse’s back, and slipped my feet into the stirrups.
With my hand locked in the reins I turned the beast towards the gate, while behind me Sister Judith staggered out into the yard and shrieked, ‘Stop her, stop her! Stop her now!’
Hunched over the beast, the sound of her voice distracted me and the horse, who was lively despite a day’s journey, skittered and frisked across the slippery clay yard. It was just enough to undo my bid for freedom. I did not see the figure moving towards me through the shadows, but as I reached the main gate I was astonished when the hunchback boy leapt out at me and grabbed the animal’s ornate halter. Startled, the horse reared and I was unseated, losing my grip, and before I could recover rolled helplessly down into the filth.
Sister Judith and the boy were upon me in an instant, dragging me to my feet.
‘Defy me would you, you little bitch?’ she snarled, breathlessly shaking me. ‘Try and make a fool of me by escaping? I shall teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.’ Dragging me, she and the boy pulled me through the stable yard, yanked off the cloak and strung me, without ceremony, between two of the stable supports.
And there was no mercy to be had. I cried out in terror and fought like a wildcat to stop them from tying me, for I knew that this woman wished me nothing but malice. But it was hopeless; the boy was unnaturally strong and the crone driven by pure evil. I could neither resist nor escape them.
‘You will learn the error of your ways,’ she snarled, ‘or be broken in the process.’
I cried out, begging to be cut down. The boy, meanwhile, had picked up a whip and encouraged by his mistress laid it on with a vigour that was terrifying.
My cries must have been louder than I thought, for moments later as I twisted and shrieked against my restraints, trying to avoid the kiss of the whip, I saw that we were no longer alone – men from the hall had filed out into the cold night to witness my disgrace.
‘I’ll have her when you’re done,’ called one, supping from a flagon of ale. ‘Don’t mark her too bad, sister.’
Judith growled her reply and I felt the whip’s cruel touch again and again on my delicate flesh, making me twist and weep, while behind me I could hear the men’s excitement growing, until at last I could feel nothing.
Finally, harsh unfeeling hands cut me down. I felt them on my breasts and belly, wrapping me in a coarse blanket, and then I was dragged across the yard, where the boy opened the doors to a damp cellar and threw me down into the darkness. Afraid and alone, cold and lost, I curled up under the foul blanket in the hay and straw and let night claim me.
And so it was I found myself prisoner at the Abbey of St Joseph…
Chapter 8
Sarah Morgan lay the pages down on the bed, her heart racing. Was this terrible imprisonment to be the fate of her alter ego? To be enslaved at the hands of a cruel and bitter woman?
Sarah glanced around the bedroom, wishing that Casswell had finished the rest of the translation so she could find out what happened to Beatrice.
Finally, still feeling agitated, she settled back amongst the fragrant pillows and covers and was about to sleep when she heard the door open. Chang stood in the open doorway. ‘Tired from your exertions?’ he asked, and Sarah roused herself as he continued. ‘You will accompany the doctor to dinner this evening. He’s been invited to meet the museum trustees.’
Sarah nodded, imagining the social constraints of a formal dinner party, although it would not be the first occasion she had appeared as Casswell’s companion. Any such notion, however, was short-lived.
‘It seems you have already met one of the guests. Herr Heinman?’ Chang’s expression remained impassive, but Sarah guessed he knew the form her encounter with Heinman had taken. Sarah felt the heat in her belly as she remembered the long hours spent downstairs with Uri Weissman and his eager friend. She nodded.
‘And of course that filthy Turk will be there, although tonight it’s likely he will be there as a minion, and you as one of the VIPs. A fitting reversal of fortune, don’t you think?’
Sarah looked at Chang; they both knew that whether she was invited as a guest or not, it would make little difference to her fate. In the unique and very private circle of sexual connoisseurs in which they moved, if Dr Casswell gave her to one of the guests to use as he willed then she had no choice but to comply.
Chang beckoned her to follow him. If she was to arrive on Casswell’s arm then she had to be prepared and look the part. As Sarah slipped out from under the sheet and got to her feet, the little oriental moved closer and slid a hand speculatively between her thighs. It was the intimate gesture of one who knows he is in control.
‘It seems a long time,’ he murmured, sliding a finger into her.
She certainly knew better than to resist, and Chang with his odd combination of kindness and cruelty knew her body more intimately then any lover. He knew she was wet; the diary had ignited a dark need in her and it was almost a relief to have a way to ground the fear and the desire that Beatrice’s words had evoked.
Chang smiled inscrutably as he slid a finger deep into her, and without thinking Sarah moaned as his finger brushed her clitoris. He nodded his approval; in some ways she was as much his as Casswell’s. ‘Bend over,’ he said.
Sarah did as she was told, turning and bending over the side of the bed. For a few moments she stood there, knowing he was examining her. She reddened, wondering what would follow. ‘Have you been touching yourself?’ he asked, sliding his finger into her again. She shook her head. ‘Keeping for yourself what you are promised to share with my master?’
‘No,’ Sarah whispered.
A single finger slid higher to brush the ridge of her clitoris, and she moaned softly.
Chang laughed. ‘You are such an alley cat; no wonder that Aziz wanted you so badly.’ Sarah shivered as he withdrew his hand. ‘You need to be reacquainted with some of the rules.’
She wondered what he meant, even though in the time she’d known him he had punished her on many occasions. She swallowed nervously, and then he moved closer, bringing his hand down sharply and spanked her. It was a complete shock. The blow sounded like a pistol shot and she yelped in pain. Her skin glowed as he smacked her again. She wriggled instinctively to try and avoid the blow but he smacked her again and again, building up a mesmerising rhythm. Sarah felt the pain and the heat course through her bloodstr
eam, mingling with pleasure.
Then just as she began to relax Chang nudged her legs wider apart, and rubbing his hand up between her thighs, spread her juices out over her delicate flesh.
Still dressed, he moved closer and against her, thrusting hard, cupping and stroking her breasts, anointing them with the perfume of her body, so that as Sarah moved all she could smell was her own excitement. The rich musk and his touch excited her intensely until she was thrusting back against him, eager for the feel of him inside her, eager for the pressure of his body against hers, and eager for whatever pleasures he might give her.
Chang’s fingers moved back – back to her anus. Sarah shivered; this was the place Chang preferred, so tight and dark and forbidden. He pressed a finger in to the hilt, her body opening under his knowing exploration, and unlike her encounter with Mustafa Aziz, seemed to welcome the unnatural invasion.
The sensation made her gasp. Slowly Chang withdrew his finger, but before she could regain her composure he drove his cock deep into her quim, thrusting so hard it took her breath away, while at the same time easing his finger back into her anus, stroking his throbbing cock through the thin wall of membrane that divided one pleasure from another. With his other hand he pressed on her clitoris, riding her every thrust and twist. It was all too much; her mind was overloaded with exquisite sensations, rendering her capable of nothing but surrender.
Chang filled her completely, her body at his mercy as they began to move together. He rubbed the engorged ridge firmly, stroking the delicate hood of her clit again and again. He knew exactly how to touch her, exactly the pressure and speed that drove her wild. The pleasures were overwhelming, driving away all reason. Knowing the way Chang’s mind and desire worked Sarah could submit willingly, giving herself in a way that came from a perverse sense of trust.
He slowed the pounding of his hips, fingers echoing the change of pace, and as he did Sarah felt the first waves of orgasm swell through her like a tidal surge, and before she had time to consider it, found herself drowning in a swirling well of pleasure and pain, her eyes closed as she drank in the coursing tumult of passion.
‘Tell me you want to get out of here,’ Uri Weissman whispered to Sarah under his breath. The evening with the museum trustees was far duller than anyone had imagined it would be.
Casswell adjusted the cuffs of his dress shirt; it was a gesture, Sarah knew, that indicated he was bored. But it seemed, despite Weissman’s suggestion, that there was no way they could easily make an escape. Dinner had been convivial enough, even if the company and conversation a little boring. Their fellow guests seemed to mainly consist of local worthies and their wives, and the connoisseurs and masters were keeping their predilections for pleasure and pain well hidden from those on the guest list with less broad tastes.
Mustafa Aziz was there with his wife, a plump woman who quite obviously wore the trousers in their household, but that did not stop him from leering salaciously every time he caught Sarah’s eye. It made her shudder with revulsion, as she remembered him pawing her. Fortunately there were sufficient other guests so their paths barely crossed, and she noticed that if there was any possibility of him sidling close, Casswell skilfully guided her away.
After dinner everyone was shepherded into a room where there was a long and very dry presentation on behalf of the museum.
As everyone settled into their seats, the muted and polite conversation died to silence, and Sarah realised she was beginning to expect every encounter, every social gathering to rapidly deteriorate into a debauched sexual banquet. Tonight at least, it seemed, she was wrong. Up on a podium one man waxed lyrical about the trustees’ plans to extend and expand the museum collection and buildings, and he was followed by another showing slides of artist’s impressions of what the planned extensions and improvements might look like.
Sarah adjusted her dress; a simple yet stunning sheath, black trimmed with silver, low cut and expertly boned to show off the enticing upper slopes of her breasts, her deep cleavage, and her narrow waist. Several of the men in the audience were clearly far more interested in the dress and what it contained than listening to the speakers, and Sarah felt both flattered and unnerved by their avaricious glances.
She tried hard to concentrate on the presentations. None of the board seemed in the least aware of the erotic treasures they had hidden away in the museum vaults, or if they were they were being very careful not to reveal any detail that might excite interest amongst the assembled patrons. Once or twice the host referred to ‘our distinguished guests’, indicating Casswell and Weissman, who were sitting with Sarah to one side of the room near open French windows.
The Austrian was getting gradually more agitated, and Sarah felt a hand touch her thigh. He leaned a little closer and his fingers squeezed. She shivered, struggling not to react, and hoped that no one could see.
‘Faint,’ he whispered. She looked at him. He smiled slyly and leaned closer still. ‘Come on, we have to get away from here before we all die of complete tedium – you and me and your precious master. I know the perfect place. A ten minute drive from here is somewhere much more to your taste.’ He paused, eyes alight with lust. ‘And mine.’
Boldly, almost defiantly, Sarah met his gaze.
‘Come on,’ he pressed. ‘You know you want to.’
Sarah glanced around the assembled crowd. No one would think it odd if she fainted, for despite being next to the French windows the room was hot and airless, so she put a palm to her brow and swayed very slightly on her chair. It was not altogether pretence, because the atmosphere was oppressive. Casswell looked at her anxiously, but Weissman winking conspiratorially at him allayed any concern. And then it was done, eyes closed she let herself flop gracefully into Weissman’s waiting arms, and he was on his feet in an instant.
‘Excuse me, excuse me, I’m terribly sorry, please do carry on,’ he said officiously to the speaker, then carried her out onto the terrace, unable to resist clutching her around the waist tighter than was absolutely necessary, and ‘accidentally’ touching her breast.
Casswell was a yard or two behind, wearing a concerned expression despite the fact that he knew it was a ruse to let them escape. Once out in the slightly cooler air and away from prying eyes, Sarah staged a miraculous recovery.
‘Well done,’ said Weissman with a grin, leading them down to where the cars were parked. ‘I know a very interesting little club nearby that is much more fun.’
Casswell looked back towards the building. ‘But what about you precious trustees?’
Weissman laughed. ‘Have no fear; those who are interested will join us later, no doubt. The club isn’t a particularly well-kept secret.’
Sarah guessed exactly what Casswell meant, but stayed quiet as they climbed into the waiting limousine. Once settled, in the darkness, Weissman leant closer and renewed his exploration of her body. She knew better than to resist, and if Casswell objected, he said nothing.
Weissman eased the straps of her evening dress off her shoulders and stroked her breasts, tweaking and twisting the nipples into flushed peaks. Almost instantly Sarah felt the first flicker of pleasure ignite low in her tummy.
‘How much will you take for her?’ Weissman asked Casswell, as he gently nudged Sarah’s legs apart and slid a hand beneath her dress and down between her thighs, cradling her naked sex.
Casswell took a cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it before shaking his head. ‘I’ve already told you, Uri, she is not for sale. She is far too valuable to me.’
In the shadows, Weissman’s fingers sought entry. ‘Oh come, come, Rigel; everything has a price.’ His eyes flashed lecherously as her body opened to him. ‘And I am a very wealthy man. Tell me what you want. Name your price.’
He pressed a finger deep between the lips of her sex, and Sarah shivered as another joined it, while his thumb circled her clitoris. Without thinking she began to move with his touch, and opened her legs wider to allow him unhindered access.
C
asswell watched her wordless compliance, and smiled. ‘From you, Uri?’ he mused. ‘Nothing. She is beyond price. Besides, Sarah and I have a great deal to do before we go back to England.’
Weissman’s expression hardened, his touch growing more and more intense. Sarah gasped for breath and as she felt the sensations building, wondered as her body began to move against him whether all modesty and all shame had now gone. She was wet and eager, already longing for whatever it was Weissman had in store for her.
‘But Casswell, look… she likes me,’ Weissman protested in a mocking tone.
Casswell’s smile did not falter for an instant. ‘That’s where you’re wrong Uri; she is well trained and obedient: she is the perfect slave.’
Weissman snorted and pulled Sarah even closer, and she knew what he wanted. He unfastened his fly and she straddled him, with one hand guiding his cock deep inside her.
‘Well trained indeed,’ he grunted appreciatively, as his erection speared up within the succulence of her sex. He looked up into Sarah’s eyes. ‘Now I want you to fuck me; show me just how obedient you can be,’ he hissed, and with that he stabbed his hips upward, making her gasp and her sparkling eyes widen as he filled her aggressively.
As though in a dream she began to move against him, obediently riding the rigid column that impaled her.
Weissman snorted with delight. ‘Won’t you join us, Casswell?’ he goaded. ‘I’ll ask my driver to slow down. Come along, why not share her with me? Why not share your precious little slave girl?’
Sarah tried to turn to see Casswell’s face, but in the gloom she heard him chuckle. ‘That’s my whole point, Uri,’ he said. ‘I don’t need to share her. Whatever she does for you or with you, she will always be mine, and at the end of the evening and the end of this expedition I will take her home with me to Casswell Hall.’
Weissman grunted, but Sarah could see that his thoughts were less and less on what Casswell was saying and more on his mounting ardour. She ground against him, riding down onto his shaft, her body engulfing him, contracting around him, her pleasure building. So sensual were her movements that it took mere minutes, no more, to take them both to the point of no return.
