by Sarah Fisher
Title Page
Dr CASSWELL’S STUDENT
by
SARAH FISHER
Publisher Information
Dr Casswell’s Student
published by
Chimera Books Ltd
www.chimerabooks.co.uk
Digital edition converted and published by
Andrews UK Limited 2010
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © Sarah Fisher
first printed in 1998
reprinted in 2001
The right of Sarah Fisher to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Chimera - a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy
Advisory Note
his novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Introduction
‘By God, you are a temptress, girl. You have the body of a whore and the face of an angel,’ he muttered thickly, wiping his lips. ‘That old devil Orme at the Abbey said you would serve me well, and he was right. But you need to be taught who is master here and who the slave; unbroken you are far too heady a drug.’
From beside his bed he pulled out a thin whip, the ornate handle set with jet. ‘I used this to break my favourite horse. How fitting that I should use it next on you.’
When I saw the whip I began to struggle anew and cried out in protest. I would do whatever he asked. There was no need to beat me; wasn’t I already at his mercy?
Chapter 1
Sarah Morgan closed the door of her car and looked up at Doctor Casswell’s country house. Moonlight picked its way between skeletal trees, reflecting in the windows of the mansion, giving them the appearance of cold unseeing eyes. On the lake below the terrace a chill autumn wind stirred the oily black water into life. She shivered and pulled her coat up around her shoulders, wondering if it had been a mistake to accept the doctor’s offer of extra work.
In the three months since she had taken up the post as clerical assistant at Heally End Museum they had barely spoken – so the invitation to help with his research had come as a complete surprise. Sarah was flattered too, and more than a little curious about her enigmatic employer.
Ahead of her the arched front door opened and a wedge of light cut across the unkempt drive way.
‘Miss Morgan? Is that you?’
Sarah struggled to find her voice; she had become increasingly nervous driving along the narrow lanes towards Doctor Casswell’s country estate. Miles from anywhere, without a village or even a road sign to follow once she had turned off the main road, her imagination had got the better of her. Now, hearing his familiar cultured voice in the darkness she felt foolish. Struggling to regain her composure, Sarah called, ‘Good evening, Doctor Casswell. I’m so sorry I’m late – I’d no idea you lived so far from town.’
Framed in the doorway, caught in silhouette, the doctor seemed taller and more imposing than she remembered him, though what she noticed most clearly was the moonlight reflecting in his dark eyes. He beckoned her closer.
‘You’re here now. Come in and get warm. Leave the keys in the car. I’ll have one of the servants collect your luggage.’ His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.
Sarah hurried up the steps, eager to be out of the bitter night wind. Her host waved her inside, and almost instantly the sense of apprehension returned.
The enormous baronial hall of Casswell House was lit by a single bare bulb dangling from a flex in the centre of the ceiling. Rather than illuminate the hall the circle of jaundiced light seemed only to emphasis its brooding gloom. Above them the vaulted ceilings reached up into the shadows. On the panelled walls, oil paintings – dark portraits that echoed of Doctor Casswell’s hawkish features – stared down at her.
As Sarah glanced around, Doctor Casswell indicated that she should follow him. ‘You will be working in my study,’ he said. ‘It’s warmer in there.’
From the shadows a small Oriental man appeared. The doctor waved him towards the open front door. ‘Chang, take Miss Morgan’s luggage up to her room.’ He glanced back at Sarah. ‘I thought we would eat supper while we work, if you have no objection.’
It appeared that any social niceties she might have expected had already been dispensed with. Then again, Sarah decided, looking up into the faces of Casswell’s aristocratic forebears, it was obvious that the doctor thought of her merely as an employee – a lesser mortal – rather than a social equal. Perhaps she had been naïve to expect anything more.
In contrast to the hall, Casswell’s study was quite cosy. A cheery fire burnt in the grate, and the central desk was illuminated by a large lamp. The walls were lined with books. To the left of the fire was a smaller desk on which stood a word processor, and beside that was a display case in which rested a small open book. Sarah, without thinking, stared down at the manuscript. The pages, no bigger than a child’s hand, were covered in carefully written script, formed in tiny precise letters.
Sarah heard the doctor close the heavy door.
‘So, this is it?’ she said in a respectful whisper.
‘No.’ Casswell shook his head. ‘This is just a single page facsimile, bound to resemble the complete work. The original is safe in the vault. I would like to remind you again, Miss Morgan, of the need for complete and utter secrecy about this project. Until I have completed the translation of the whole document and the laboratory returns the tests on the fabric of the book, details of its contents, even of its existence, must not leave this house. Is that perfectly clear? It is imperative that I have the opportunity to establish the manuscript’s authenticity undisturbed by any outside attention – or any other interested parties. As we agreed, I’ve arranged a leave of absence with the museum for you. The trustees fully understand the significance of the work, so there won’t be a problem there.’
Sarah nodded. ‘Of course, doctor. Is the material politically sensitive?’
To her surprise her employer laughed, though the sound was not warm, nor did it make her feel any more at ease. ‘It is most definitely sensitive, Miss Morgan,’ he said in a strange uneven tone. ‘Now, if you would care to take a look through the notes I’ve already made,’ he indicated a loose-leaf folder on the desk. ‘I will have Chang bring in supper for you.’
Sarah took off her coat and settled herself at the desk, and was about to ask the Doctor how he would like the transcripts to be set out when she realised she was already alone. Somewhat bemused, Sarah turned to the first page of the notes and began to read:
…My body aches from the application of the lash and my breasts and their buds, sweet cherries, are bruised and crushed from my master’s rough handling. If I close my eyes I can still imagine his muscular body above me, his manhood thrusting deep inside my sex, whilst his fingers twist and nip at my most delicate flesh.
My head aches from the ocean of tears I have shed tonight. Yet, as I lay here alone on my narrow bed, listening to the musicians playing in the hall below – there is a banquet being held in my lady’s honour – amongst the sense of pain and humiliation another flame burns almost as bright; a desire so dark and unholy that I can give
it no name.
Between my legs I can still feel the remnants of my master’s seed mingling with the bright blood of my lost maidenhood…
Sarah gasped in surprise and felt her face redden. Glancing over her shoulder, she was relieved now that Doctor Casswell had left her alone to study the opening pages. Who could have written such an account, and why? Her gaze dropped once again to the doctor’s notes, her mind absorbing the intensely erotic passages carefully recorded in his fluid intricate hand:
…I believe now that I understand exactly what my role at the Castle is to be, not as my mentor, Father Orme, had led me to believe, as teacher to my master’s children, but as his chattel, his slave, his concubine. My body is his to control and use as he wishes, and it is my sincere belief that Father Orme knew all along what my fate here was to be.
Since I arrived from the Abbey I have often noticed the way my lord has looked at me, the kindness he has paid me, the warm words and gentle manner of our dealings. Many times I have observed him watching me while I have been teaching the children, and thought him an attentive and caring father. But no more. Now I know it was not a father’s pride nor a gentleman’s courtesy to an uncertain and nervous girl that has fuelled his actions, but a ploy to gain my trust.
This evening he called me to his chamber, just as the daylight was beginning to fade. The Lady Elizabeth has returned home this day from a three month pilgrimage to the shrine of St Arnot, and there is much celebration in the house. Every torch has been lit, the house is alive with activity, and a great feast has been prepared for her homecoming. The air is heavy with the scent of rich food and herbs, and I, along with the rest of the household, was to be decked out in all my finery. I wore my best green gown with the finest braids and had plaited ribbons in my hair for the celebrations.
When my lord’s servant summoned me I thought he would have me read awhile, before dining, as has been his custom since my arrival, but instead when I reached his chambers he handed me a goblet of mulled wine.
‘Here, girl,’ he said, a strange expression in his eyes. ‘Let us drink a hearty toast to my lady’s homecoming.’
I took the goblet he handed me and drank deeply, as was his request. I offered my congratulations on his wife’s safe return but he waved my words away. The wine was strong and I’d had little opportunity to eat all day. It made my head spin, and as I passed him the goblet back he caught hold of my wrist and, pulling me towards him, kissed me hard. I was astonished and jerked away in horror.
Before I could protest he asked me who I considered to be my master. I wondered if he had supped too much wine, and said quickly, ‘Why you, sir. You know I am pledged to serve you and your family.’
He nodded and seemed appeased. ‘And you are loyal to my house?’
I nodded, wondering where his questions would lead. He knows full well the circumstances of my engagement at the castle. Although from a good family I was orphaned as a small child and brought up and educated by the church. I have been promised in service to his Lordship’s household as recompense for the charitable contributions from the castle estates to the Abbey.
His eyes darkened. ‘I will have you then, girl – as proof of the loyalty you show me.’
I thought I had misunderstood his meaning. ‘Have me, sir?’ I repeated nervously.
He looked liked a wolf, eyes narrow and cruel. ‘Are you deaf, girl? Is it that you don’t understand what is said to you or is it that you are stupid? Take off your pretty new gown, little church mouse, and let me look at what the good priest has sold to me. Or would you deny me the prize I have already paid for?’
‘I am a maiden, sir, a virgin,’ I said, frightened now and anxious to end our encounter. I had never seen him so hot-blooded or so frightening.
He grinned, running the back of his hand over his lips, wiping away the remnants of the wine. ‘All the better, lady, all the better. I will teach you how a maid should truly serve her man. I have a hunger for a little fresh meat. Now, take off your gown and let me see my prize.’
I hurried back towards the door and caught hold of the handle, only to discover it was locked fast.
His expression hardened. ‘Come along, girl, I have neither the time nor the patience to play games with you. Do as I ask and do it quickly.’
‘But surely your wife awaits you, sir,’ I protested in desperation.
He snorted. ‘How naïve you are. Wife in name only now, sweet child. Surely you know that ours was marriage drawn up to join two quarrelling factions – a marriage of dynastic importance but no love, lady, no passion. Do you think I would have chosen a woman fifteen years my senior had I been given the choice? Now do as I command, or will you make me take, by force, what was promised me?’
There was no escape. He watched me struggling with the door, unmoved by my pleas for mercy, his expression hard and cold. Finally it was obvious he had no intention of letting me go, and I could see no other course than to do as he ordered. Slowly I undid the fastenings of my robe and let it drop to the floor.
His eyes burned like coals as he took in the details of my undress. Tears formed in my eyes, tears of shame and fear, but he was not content. He waved me to continue, his lips set in a narrow line and then – as I began to fumble with the ribbons of my petticoats – he fell upon me with an angry roar of frustration, ripping away the thin fabric with rough and frantic hands.
I fought as hard as I could to resist him, but he was unstoppable, and even then some dark part of my soul knew that I relished his attentions. Some part of me understood his desire, and it both excited and appalled me. The material gave way under his eager fingers and he threw me down onto the cold hard floor.
Stunned, I could barely breath as roughly he turned me onto my back, my colour rising along with my shame as his hands eagerly explored my nakedness.
In my distress I wondered whether his attentions were some cruel ungodly reward for my unclean thoughts about him. Since my arrival at the castle I had come to consider him a handsome and desirable man. He has often come to me at night in my dreams, making me sweat like a mare on heat, my body aching for release. But surely I cannot be held responsible for those dark fantasies that come to tempt a sleeping mind? I have tried hard not to let my mind follow along this path when I am awake. After all, he is the lord of the house, married, and father of my lady’s children. Even if I now know there is no love between them, they are still joined under God’s law in the eyes of the church.
No bonded creature such as I would dare look so high in their affections, but perhaps he had already seen the base desire in my eyes? Perhaps it had angered him so much that he sought to punish me for my presumption?
He was once a soldier, and a powerfully built man. I was helpless to resist his advances, and my fighting and sobbing seemed to make him more and more excited. Finally, exhausted, I could fight no more and I surrendered, too terrified to do anything but wait, half naked, trembling and afraid, for him to do his worst.
Straddling me on the cold unforgiving flagstones he manhandled me as if I weighed no more than a sack of flour, stripping off every last shred of my petticoats. Grabbing hold of my arms he tied my wrists together with a rag and dragging me to my feet, secured them to the frame of his bed.
Catching hold of my chin he tipped my face up towards his. To my surprise my submission seemed to have pleased him. He smiled at me, though the smile did not warm his dark eyes.
‘What a prize you are, sweet little Beatrice. I want you to understand that I am your master in all things. Your body, your very soul belongs to me now. Do you understand?’
I nodded. The tears of humiliation and fear trickled down my face.
He seemed happy with my response. ‘Trust me, Beatrice, trust me and give yourself to me completely. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me. So brazen – so ripe. I already know you are mine to command. Give yourself to me and I will not
betray your trust. I will show you paradise.’
What could I say or do when he had me just as he wanted, tied and naked? My tears continued to flow like a river. He ran a hand over my flank as if I were a favoured dog or horse. Perhaps his touch was meant to quieten or comfort me, but by all the saints it felt to me like the hand of a man staking his claim to a new possession.
Such passion and pain he has shown me in just one evening. Once I was at his mercy his smooth hands cupped and squeezed my breasts. His mouth worked against mine, teeth biting down on my tongue and lips. And no matter how much I cried out and begged for clemency my pleas fell on deaf ears.
His touch both unnerved and excited me. At times he caressed me as I knew a lover should; gently, tenderly, tonguing the soft folds of my quim, and exploring my body as any good husband might. And then just as I glimpsed the lights of heaven, he stopped and pulled away.
‘By God, you are a temptress, girl. You have the body of a whore and the face of an angel,’ he muttered thickly, wiping his lips. ‘That old devil Orme at the Abbey said you would serve me well, and he was right. But you need to be taught who is master here and who the slave; unbroken you are far too heady a drug.’
From beside his bed he pulled out a thin whip, the ornate handle set with jet. ‘I used this to break my favourite horse. How fitting that I should use it next on you.’
When I saw the whip I began to struggle anew and cried out in protest. I would do whatever he asked. There was no need to beat me; wasn’t I already at his mercy?
He ignored my cries, drew back the head of the whip, and lay on a stroke that took me to the very edge of consciousness. The whip’s fiery tongue lit a raw red path across my flesh as hot as the sun itself. Every sinew of my body screamed out in complaint and in terror – but he would not be stopped.
I twisted away from him, desperate to avoid the whip’s harsh lesson. But my master would not be denied. This time the fine leather snaked around my torso and bit into my belly and then my breasts, leaving a livid scar in its wake. By now I could scarcely hold a sane thought in my head. The only sound that filled my brain was that of the whip as it cracked out again and again. I have no idea how long he beat me, only that the blows seemed to go on longer than time itself. At last, when the air was still, I struggled to catch my breath.
