by Sarah Fisher
The young bully stooped and wrapped a cloth around the handle. As he pulled it from the white coals I realised the iron bore the lady’s family crest.
There was a brief moment when I naïvely wondered as to their intentions, and as my mind formed the question, a solution struck me that seemed so preposterous I couldn’t bring myself to let the notion grow. It was then I saw the look in Arturo’s eyes, and knew exactly what they intended.
I tried to escape then, jerking away from Arturo’s grasp, screaming, fighting him, begging, sobbing, pleading… but all to no avail. As Michael closed on me Arturo held me tight against him and her ladyship. He snatched my chin in a cruelly tight grip, tipped my head back, and from a tiny glass vial she poured something thick, red, and bitter into my vulnerable mouth and down my throat.
‘Do not resist me,’ my lady whispered thickly close by my ear. ‘I can show you the true nature of passion. Please, dear Beatrice, do not fight what is already ordained… Drink…’
I know now that the potion was her way of easing the pain of what was to follow, but at that fearful moment the taste was so cloying and spicy, that I feared, as the liquid oozed down to my stomach, that they intended to do away with me. Their evil brand would identity my corpse.
I knew Arturo was enjoying my plight, for as I struggled against his restrictive hold I could feel his vile manhood standing proud within his breeches, and prodding insistently against my gyrating hip. As I strained against his superior strength, my lady clamped my nose and mouth tightly shut until I had finally swallowed the herbal down. When she eventually took her hands away I searched desperately for air to fill my lungs. Arturo’s greedy hands taking advantage of my plight by cupping by swelling breasts as I gasped deeply did not concern me, such was my need. And then I let out a choking scream of indignation, and at that very instant Michael gleefully pressed the hot iron to one poor cheek of my bottom.
It is quite beyond my powers to describe how it felt. But even as my mind crumbled under the smell of smouldering flesh and the sensation of the heat, the dark all-engulfing trail of my ladyship’s drugged potion followed close behind the ribbon of pain. The potion cut a course through my mind that was as soft as mist, and I could feel it robbing me of my senses, pulling me on towards the darkness of the abyss, until finally it closed out all thoughts…
Sarah Morgan pushed herself away from the desk. She had been holding her breath for almost all of the last two paragraphs, and she let out a strangled gasp as she reached the end of the page.
Her mind was awash with Beatrice’s pain and the sense of impending unconsciousness. She shook her head to clear it and glanced up at the words her fingers had, almost unconsciously, transferred to the computer screen. She wondered who else would read this account? Who else would find themselves stirred and drawn in by Beatrice’s intense emotions.
Sarah sighed; it would be a terrible tragedy if the girl’s story was consigned to the dry, unimpassioned halls of academe, a museum vault, or perhaps the safe of some elderly connoisseur. It seemed a tragic fate for a story so full of life and vitality.
Beatrice deserved better than that.
From out in the corridor she heard the sound of someone approaching, and guessed it would be Chang coming to get her ready for her visit with Doctor Casswell.
Chapter 11
Upstairs in his private apartments, Rigel Casswell, glistening with sweat, stripped off his T-shirt and jogging pants and stepped into the shower. The icy torrent of water took his breath away. Slowly, he turned up the heat and leant forward, resting his forehead and palms flat against the cool tiles, letting the water course down over his torso. The sparkling rivulets emphasised the sculptured plains of his carefully maintained body.
Naked, his frame belied his profession. No one would guess he was an academic working in a museum. His stomach was as flat as a board, and as he flexed against the tiles it revealed impressive corrugated bands of muscle. He had the body of an athlete.
Casswell stretched again, letting the water find and play over his shoulders and back. Normally after working out in the gym Chang would give him a full massage, but today there wouldn’t be time. Instead, he and Sarah Morgan would be driving over to enjoy an uninterrupted view of Oliver Turner’s private family museum.
Closing his eyes, he soaped familiar dips and hollows, his fingers easing across into the sore spots.
It was very tempting to imagine Sarah Morgan awaiting his command, her mind full of the passions from Beatrice de Fleur’s astonishing diary. He felt a familiar stirring in his groin, and allowed himself a narrow smile. His hand, slick with soap, worked up and down the impressive arc of his cock, easing the foreskin slowly back and forth. Sarah had performed quite magnificently in the kitchen with Chang and Oliver’s impressive chauffeur. He teased himself, overlaying images of Sarah’s passion and pain with those of Beatrice’s conversion from his own translation.
Beatrice’s diary truly was an erotic masterwork; a quite astonishing find. Oliver Turner had bought it on a trip from an impoverished mid-European museum, where it had reputedly been discovered amongst the dull secular records of a religious order.
While the fabric of the diary was being subjected to scientific tests, Oliver was attempting to track the provenance of the rest of the papers. Although that in itself would prove very little; a forgery could easily be slipped amongst a bundle of authentic documents to add veracity to its origin. Sadly, it was an old trick, but even so it would help Oliver chase down the history of the rest of the documents. Casswell’s job, besides making an accurate and complete translation, would be to check the family and historical references in the body of the text. It was the kind of game of detection he adored. He had always enjoyed the combination of logical deduction and intuitive leaps of faith, and was looking forward to hearing full details of Oliver’s own investigations from the panel of hired experts like himself, whom Oliver had employed to work on different aspects of the diary’s history.
But, despite his attempt to fill his mind with logical and historical images, Sarah and Beatrice refused to be ignored. In his imagination the two women were like celestial twins – their awakening and their stories divided only by a trick of the light.
He leant hard against the tiles and let the cascading water play over him, adding a strange piquant beauty to his mounting desire. Sarah Morgan was like a beacon, a shining path that led him directly back to Beatrice de Fleur.
Beneath his fingertips his cock throbbed. In his increasingly excited mind both woman were gradually becoming one and the same. An erotic amalgam, so that in his imagination the woman who now awaited him was both Sarah and Beatrice. His cock ached to feel her lips around it. He ached to see her kneeling before him, a newly broken slave. Still uncertain, still a little unsure, but his nevertheless… He shivered.
Below him, in the study, Sarah would be naked beneath her smart business suit. Her denuded sex would be wet with excitement from the morning’s work. And if by some chance she had decided to defy him and was wearing panties, he would punish her for such blatant disobedience, and he knew she would enjoy that too.
He would make her bend over the desk, dragging her underwear down around her knees so that she presented that plump ripe backside to him like a gift.
She would stifle a sob and beg a little as he ran a hand over her trembling flesh. His fingers would explore the wetness of her throbbing quim, and then he would turn away and prepare to mete out her punishment. The kiss of the horsewhip would help to ensure that she didn’t dare disobey him again.
Casswell closed his eyes, his fingers moving rhythmically up and down the pulsating shaft of his cock. He hadn’t meant to take his pleasure this far, but he had never imagined he would find a companion so much like the sensual creature of his fantasies. Of course, there had been other women before Sarah in his life – many others, in fact – but none quite like her.
As
soon as Casswell had reached the age of consent Oliver Turner had taken it upon himself to direct the boy’s sexual education. As his godfather, Turner had accepted it as something of a personal crusade. Under his encouraging tutelage and watchful eye, the young Casswell had sampled a rich palette of perversions and delights. Exquisite whores in Hamburg, pretty painted boys in the Far East, twin sisters in Marrakech, transsexuals in South Africa, bondage, buggery, bisexuality and every shade and shape in between. If it was there to be had, Oliver Turner had known where to find it, and as a result the boy sampled first hand innumerable delights of the flesh.
Later, when Casswell was at Cambridge, it became obvious that they both shared a certain passion for pain, and it had been then that Turner took it upon himself to introduce his protégé to whores and other men’s mistresses and body slaves; women and men, willing to act out the young man’s inner most fantasies. What a journey of discovery that had been. It had been a baptism of fire. Casswell closed his eyes, allowing a frenetic collage of faces, bodies and sensations to wash over him, as beneath his finger he sensed the storm was about to break.
It had been the acute understanding of his own desires that had helped him know. From the second he set eyes on Sarah at the museum, he knew she would be special. Here was a girl whom he sensed he could train to be his companion. An uncorrupted creature; a virgin, so very different from the painted whores of Amsterdam or the exquisite street girls in Bangkok. She was a paradox. Though beautiful, she was someone whose very ordinariness made her utterly extraordinary.
At her interview – arranged by Oliver Turner – Sarah had appeared so demure, so unsure of herself. And yet all the time the committee members had been talking to her, Casswell had sensed there was something more; something sensual and dark, shimmering just below the surface. It intrigued him.
Even the way she moved – a heady combination of innocence and repressed sexual energy – had made him sit up and take notice. He could see her still; ripe pert breasts pressing against the thin cotton voile of her blouse, long legs modestly crossed at the ankle and tucked under her chair, and hands folded neatly in her lap.
In his imagination she looked up at him now, her eyes alight with desire, her mouth open a little to reveal a pink tongue between full moist lips…
There was no going back now. Casswell gasped as the rip tide of pleasure roared through him, engulfing him in its current, driving away every thought but release.
His seed ricocheted across the tiles in the shower while he rode his passion out to oblivion, hanging on to his throbbing cock, milking every last sensation with his fist. Finally it was done. All passion spent, he slumped forward and dragged a molten breath into his lungs. After a moment or two he stood on slightly shaky legs and rinsed away the evidence of his secret pleasure, then shut off the water and wrapped himself in a towel.
As he strode from the dressing room into his bedroom he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Somewhere close by Chang would be busy preparing Sarah for their visit to Oliver Turner’s.
In the bathroom that adjoined Sarah’s bedroom, Chang gently ran his hand over the mound of her sex. She was standing beside the bath, he was kneeling on the tiled floor beside her. He had spread a hair removing cream over the few days’ growth that covered her quim. On his instructions she had stood very still while he applied it and remained, unmoving, waiting for it to work.
She felt self-conscious as he studied her nakedness with a casual but informed eye, as if considering bloodstock. Finally Chang looked up, and nodded.
‘It is done now. Step into the shower and I will rinse you.’ He offered her his hand. Sarah looked into his emotionless eyes. When, a little earlier, he had come to collect her from the study, she had offered no resistance and had followed him through the ramshackle house to her room. It occurred to her now that she had gone without question, and that she was rapidly becoming used to this new way of life, and Chang’s role in it; a peculiar combination of nursemaid, servant and gaoler.
Taking the shower head down from the wall the Oriental quickly sluiced away the last remaining wisps of hair. Patting her dry he finished the job by massaging a little of fragrant oil into the rise of her quim, which made her skin feel as soft as silk. She glanced into the mist-ringed mirror on the opposite wall.
Naked, her hair was caught into a loose topknot, and dark tendrils curled by heat and steam framed her face. Her breasts where splashed with crystalline droplets of water, but it was not this that drew her attention. Chang’s glistening oil drew the eyes downward to her softly rounded belly and the delicate contours of her sex below. The absence of pubic hair added a vulnerability that was quite shocking, and in an odd way made her feel and look doubly naked.
Behind her, Chang picked up a basque from the chiffonier, and while she watched in the mirror he threaded it around under her arms and settled it over her narrow waist and hips. It was odd to watch herself being dressed, and to feel it at the same time.
Made from softest black leather the basque emphasised the pallor of her skin and, as Chang tugged it tight, the beautiful hourglass contours of her body. She stared at her own reflection, transfixed by the image in the clouded glass.
The leather made the most of every curve and plain. Strapped into it, she had been transformed into a stunning sexual icon. The cups of the basque were heavily boned so that her breasts were pushed up and forward, but not covered. They presented the ripe orbs like an erotic banquet, laid out for unknown revellers to gorge themselves upon.
Gently, Chang lifted first one breast and then the other, delicately outlining the contours of each nipple with a scarlet lipstick. Sarah blushed furiously as they hardened under his touch.
The rest of her outfit consisted of sheer black stockings, high patent heels and a tailored pillar-box red coat-dress, with slightly padded shoulders and a cinched waist.
As a final touch Chang added pearl studded earrings, a little eye make-up, and a knee-weakening oval of scarlet lipstick which gave her an innocent pout which was just made to be stretched around a pistoning cock.
Sarah studied her reflection and felt her nipples stiffen. On one level she looked every inch the efficient executive’s secretary, but beneath the cool exterior lurked something very different.
Chang stopped to admire his creation, and then slipped a hand up under her dress to stroke the naked lips of her quim. Instinctively, without a second thought, Sarah opened her legs for him.
Chang grinned and eased a finger into the tight moist confines of her body.
‘You learn fast,’ was all he said.
It was later that afternoon that Oliver Turner took Sarah by the arm and guided her along a broad corridor towards a set of impressive double doors that marked the entrance to his family’s museum. Inside, the air was still and heavy, with the musty smell of old manuscripts and sun-dried dust. Glass display cabinets lined the long walls, while others were arranged in islands on either side of the central walkway.
‘My great grandfather began the Turner family museum,’ he said, proudly indicating a dark oil painting above them. ‘He, like so many of the gentlemen of his generation, travelled widely before finally settling down. And then of course, once he began the undertaking, it set a precedent and other members of the family felt they ought to contribute items too.’
Sarah glanced back over her shoulder. Doctor Casswell was walking a pace or two behind them, looking left and right, though she suspected he wasn’t actually seeing any of the bizarre collection of faded trophies and battered souvenirs. No doubt he had heard Oliver Turner’s speech of introduction many times before.
She struggled to keep her attention fixed on their host’s words. It seemed an extremely long way to come to explore the Turner family’s moth-eaten collection of stuffed animal heads, old books, and native spears and shields.
All in all, their arrival at Oliver Turner’s country estate had prov
ed something of an anticlimax. In the car on the way she had been imagining what might happen when they finally arrived. Casswell had seemed pre-occupied, Chang drove, and so she had little left to do but daydream about what might lay in store for her. Every time she moved the black leather basque reminded her that she was near-naked beneath the elegant coat-dress. Images of her oiled sex and her rouged nipples filled her mind. It seemed as though everything had conspired to excite her.
And for what?
Beside her, Oliver Turner was still talking, ‘…adding his own collection of artefacts from his extensive travels in Africa almost a hundred years later…’
They had reached a set of ornate double doors, and Turner bent forward to unlock them.
‘And so now to my favourite part of the collection. I have added several pieces.’ He opened the doors with a flourish, and Sarah, whose attention had been wandering, gasped with a mixture of shock and complete amazement. Her first impressions of the interior and the contents of the huge room were quite overwhelming.
Inside, carefully lit and arranged around a vast circular chamber, was the most amazing collection of sexual paraphernalia she had ever seen in her life. There were masks, gags, body harnesses and suits, stocks, leg-irons, whips, great double-ended dildos, an enormous carved wooden phallus, and so much more that Sarah couldn’t take it all in.
She felt her pulse quicken. The room was lined with display cabinets that no doubt held even more erotic memorabilia, but what dominated her senses was a central dais upon which stood a stunning life-sized waxwork tableau depicting an impassioned encounter between a master and his slave girl.
Under soft lighting a lithe young woman was suspended from the ceiling. Hooded, and completely anonymous, her hands were tied above her head, while her chin rested on her chest. Her skin was the colour of double cream, and her breasts, two thrusting orbs topped with large nipples, were pierced with ornate silver rings. A fine silver chain connected the two rings and glittered in the subdued lighting. It was the most exquisite and astonishing thing that Sarah had ever seen. Sub-consciously she moved closer to take a look at the models, without even considering the implications of her curiosity.
