Dr Casswell's Student

by Sarah Fisher

  But I might have saved what breath I could muster under his weight. He didn’t hear a word of my appeal. Instead he stared down at me, glassy-eyed.

  ‘Tell me truthfully if thou art a demon or some enchantress come to steal my virtue?’ he hissed. ‘Or are you temptation itself, setting a trap for the unwary soul – laid by that old devil Orme to test my calling? Tell me harlot, tell me!’

  Before I could reply he began to wail, and his hands fell upon my breasts, squeezing and mauling as if he was possessed, while his mouth and teeth worked furiously over my damp flesh, biting and nipping at my body like some rabid dog.

  What the young monk would not do was look me in the eye, as he forced my thighs apart and tried without success to press his already inflated pizzle into my quim. As I grabbed at him to try and push him off he looked away, as if he feared my gaze might enchant him. Or was it perhaps that he feared he might see his own lust reflected in my eyes?

  His fingers breached me, dipping into that hot pit that mesmerises men, and as he did he began to sob, ‘Save me from this evil magic. Save me.’ He plunged his fingers deeper still. His thumb brushed my pleasure bud more by accident than design and my body tightened around him. To my horror he threw back his head and howled like a wolf.

  He caught hold of my hair and forced me down onto the wet flagstone floor, and snatching up a stick from the fireplace he began to beat me, the wood cracking and splintering across my buttocks. At last, when I could barely take another stroke, he fell to his knees and took me from behind like a dog, crouched there amongst the wreckage of the bowl, the jug, and the water. Even then he could not bring himself to touch his excited member and caught hold of my hand to help guide him in. As my fingers closed reluctantly around his shaft he sighed with pleasure and began to breathe hard and fast.

  As my body opened for him, his cock thrust home and he began to pump furiously, as if he was being pursued by the very devil himself. As he finally found a rhythm he gripped my hips and pulled me onto him. Back to belly he was spared any possibility of our eyes meeting, and that I might see his need. And so, freed from his own guilt and anguish, the young monk drove on now, on and on and on, forcing his cock so deep he made me cry out.

  Eventually I felt him shudder and then begin to pump in earnest. All guilt, all fear, all thoughts of the divine were lost as his body responded to the driving beat of a more ancient drum.

  When the boy was done, his passion spent, he slipped out of me and hastily clambered to his feet.

  ‘I will bring you some food and get this fire lit,’ he murmured as he straightened his habit, still not meeting my eyes.

  Hastily I began to repair the damage his desire had wreaked on both my body and Orme’s monastic chamber. I picked up the jug, cleaned up the tangle of wet towels, and pulled on the nightshirt to cover my nakedness.

  I had barely completed my task when the curtain was pulled aside. I froze, wondering what fresh mischief my young monk might be at. But to my great relief it was Father Orme returning, although he seemed completely oblivious to the dishevelled state of his bedchamber.

  He looked tired. His weather-beaten face was the colour of old marble.

  ‘We have to go soon,’ he said, indicating the door. He glanced for a moment at my scant clothing. ‘I will have my boy find you a decent cloak and some sandals. I hope he has taken good care of you while I’ve been gone.’

  I looked up. If only Orme knew. The young monk, who had reappeared through the curtain and now stood obediently at his master’s shoulder, shot me a warning glance.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ the old man asked, looking at the little side-tables, still damp with soapy water.

  I stared at Orme, hoping he might offer some shred of comfort or some word of what was going on in the rest of the castle, but he seemed immeasurably preoccupied.

  ‘Father,’ I began, trying hard to keep tight control of my mind, ‘what news is there of my master?’ I could hardly bear to form the thoughts, less still the words. ‘My lord, is he…’ my voice faded to a stifled sob as Orme focused on me for the first time and saw the expression of fear in my eyes.

  To my great relief, he smiled, though it did little to soften his grizzled countenance. ‘Have no fear. He is well, child, though his heart is greatly saddened by the terrible events of this morning.’

  Arturo had been his friend since childhood. The traitor is dead now, killed by one of the guards with a single sword blow. As were half the hired thugs. His lordship feels the Lady Elizabeth turned Arturo’s loyalties; even a betrayer can be mourned. And the Lady Elizabeth is even now confined to her quarters under close guard. It seems that at last she will have her wish to go into a convent. Though we must be very careful what is said within the walls, after all, she is still mother to his lordship’s children.’

  Orme reached out and stroked a damp curl away from my cheek. ‘He owes you his life, Beatrice, and I too.’

  My eyes were damp with tears. ‘May I go to him?’

  Orme nodded slowly. ‘Aye, I think it would please him to see you. Usher is keeping company with him now. Come, let us find you a good cloak and we will be away.’

  He beckoned to the boy monk who even now refused to meet my eye.

  ‘Get the Lady Beatrice a warm mantle and then see to it that we have some food sent up to his lordship’s apartment. It has been a long night and I am famished.’

  I followed Orme through the castle. It was barely light, and around us the rest of those who had spent the night safe under the walls were just stirring into life, oblivious as yet to the drama that had been acted out under the shadow of their slumbers.

  My stomach tightened with every step, and with my heart beating like a drum in my chest we finally reached my lordship’s chambers.

  Orme bade the guard let us through, and then called out to let his lordship know we were coming. Inside the main room my master sat in a great chair by the hearth, wrapped in a fur cloak against the cold of the new dawn and flanked by his cousin, Lord Usher. He looked up briefly at the sound of our footfalls, and for an instant I saw him as if for the first time. He seemed to have aged in those few short hours, the handsome lines and firm jaw suddenly haggard and grey, while the light in his eyes seemed faded and sad. And then he focused on my face and my heart leapt. He smiled and the years fell away.

  He stood up and opened his arms, and I without a second’s hesitation ran to him, longing to feel his embrace, his power, and the warmth of his body next to mine.

  ‘You will come whenever I call for you, Beatrice,’ he said in a broken emotional tone, echoing the words he had spoken to me on that first day in his chamber. How far we had come since then. ‘I will brook no excuses, girl, no delays. You are mine now, do you understand?’

  I nodded, unable to find the words to reply, and clung to him instead. His features had softened. His eyes, so steely before, were gentle now.

  ‘Remember who you serve, lady. I am your only master. Our fates are closely entwined, Beatrice. Yours and mine.’

  And for the first time I understood exactly what he meant. I had come home.

  Sarah closed the book and wiped away a tear. She was sad that the account had finally ended, and yet at the same time deeply relieved that Beatrice de Fleur had been reunited with her master, and that both of them were safe and well.

  The guest bedroom in Oliver Turner’s mansion was dark now, the last light of the afternoon finally fading to a rich autumnal gold. She wondered for the first time in many hours how Doctor Casswell was fairing downstairs in the conference room with Oliver Turner’s team of experts. It seemed an age since she had seen or spoken to him, but even so, the mere thought of his cruelly handsome face lit a tiny beacon in her belly. Like Beatrice de Fleur, Sarah considered him to be her master, her lord, and the realisation made her shiver.

  She slipped off the bed and looked at herself in the dressing
table mirror. The fading light of the day picked out the glimmer of desire in her eyes. She ran her hands over her hips and thighs, turning to admire the uplift of her exquisite breasts and the soft swell of her belly.

  Her body was still marked by the raw tracks of Butt’s cane, and the outline of the brand still glowed raw and uncomfortable on her flank. Here and there were scratches and bruises from her chase through the tropical house. Yet for all this she knew she had a sensual beauty that both surprised and delighted her. It would be hard to disguise outside the confines of the hedonistic life Doctor Casswell had introduced her to.

  She leant over and tugged the bell-pull a couple of times, summoning Chang from wherever he had spent his afternoon. Perhaps, she thought with a wry smile, he might be cracking another bottle of brandy with Oscar, Oliver Turner’s handsome Nordic chauffeur, exchanging stories about what had gone on in the tropical house.

  Chang appeared a few minutes later carrying a tea tray.

  ‘I take it you slept well?’ he said, setting it down on a side-table and nodding at the tumble of sheets and duvet on the large bed.

  Sarah was sitting in a chair by the window, looking out into the rapidly darkening evening. Across the vast expanse of lawns and gardens a network of paths were picked out by strings of silver lights that looked uncannily like a pearl necklace in the increasing gloom. One path that caught her eye led down to the tropical house.

  ‘I didn’t sleep at all,’ she said, after a second or two. ‘I read the rest of the diary. I had to see how it ended. I’ll type up the transcript first thing tomorrow.’

  Chang shook his head. ‘There may not be any need. The German professor, Gilim, thinks the whole thing is probably a fake.’

  Sarah was shocked. She struggled to catch her breath. ‘Are you serious?’ she asked, her feelings of disappointment immense. Since she had first arrived at Casswell Hall, Beatrice de Fleur’s compelling story had formed a framework to her own initiation and training at Doctor Casswell’s masterly hands. The girl’s amazingly erotic tale and Sarah’s life had become interwoven and were, at least in her mind, totally inseparable.

  Chang nodded and poured the tea. ‘Yes. They’re all still waiting downstairs for some expert to arrive from Florence. He phoned to tell them he had some very important information. He should have been here after lunch, but his plane was delayed.’ The little Oriental paused and looked her up and down. ‘I think it’s about time you prepared yourself for Mr Turner’s little supper party.’

  Sarah was wrapped in a white silk robe that she’d found hanging on the bathroom door. Chang beckoned her to her feet, and she did as she was bidden without a second’s hesitation and turned slowly under his dark unfathomable eye.

  He nodded his approval. Exquisitely made, the scant garment was so short it barely covered her bottom and was so sheer that every curve and plain of her body showed through – almost as if she had been gift-wrapped in white silk.

  ‘Is Doctor Casswell all right?’ she asked as she turned around, hoping Chang would not punish her for speaking out of turn, and yet also aware of the tiny but intense pulse of desire that her master’s name evoked. Sarah knew she had changed immeasurably in the past few days; it hadn’t occurred to her to get dressed or cover herself before the Oriental arrived.

  For once Chang ignored her breaking the rules. ‘I would imagine so. Would you like to shower while I lay out your clothes for this evening?’

  Sarah stared at him in surprise. He spoke without emotion, and for the first time it was quite obvious to Sarah that he really had no idea of the power the diary wielded over both her and Doctor Casswell.

  Part of her wished for nothing more than to go to find the doctor, just like Beatrice had gone with Father Orme to comfort her master. She looked at Chang, wondering if he could read her thoughts and if not, if she could muster the courage to ask him to take her to the doctor. Chang looked away and she knew the moment was lost.

  Minutes later Sarah was in the shower. The water coursed down over her body, the warmth easing into the aching muscles almost as effectively as Chang’s knowing fingers. But for all the relief the water gave her, it was difficult to think about anything other than his words regarding Beatrice’s diary.

  As she stepped from the shower and wrapped herself in a towel, Chang stood in the bathroom doorway, watching her. In one hand he was holding a mask, set with diamanté, and curling black feathers.

  ‘Part of your costume for tonight,’ he said without emotion. ‘Quickly now, they’ll be waiting for you.’

  Downstairs in the garden room, Oliver Turner refilled Rigel Casswell’s champagne flute. Both men glanced around the shadowy interior. Turner had wanted to make sure everything was ready for the arrival of his guests. He had already settled on a medieval theme, to echo the history of the diaries, before they had heard the delegates’ findings. Perhaps it might have been wiser to have chosen something else – but it was too late now.

  The elongated room was divided by a row of ornate columns that supported the glass roof, and from these had been hung great garlands of ivy and lanterns. Set with a row of trestle-tables and benches the whole room resembled a medieval banqueting hall. Rigel Casswell sipped his champagne. Already a couple of the other delegates were busy at the bar. He wondered if they had decided to drown their sorrows. All afternoon the atmosphere had been more than a little subdued, and Egon Howard had still not arrived from Florence with his very important news – damn the man.

  Turner lifted a hand in greeting to two of his guests. Crouched beside the two delegates were their body slaves, both naked chained and masked. One – a thin boy with a shock of blond hair – sported a flurry of strange ritual tattoos over his arms and legs that gave him an almost serpentine quality. The second was a girl of mixed race whose skin had been oiled so it looked as though she was carved from an exotic golden wood.

  As Casswell looked at her she glanced up at him and smiled, revealing a row of pearly-white teeth. Her eyes were dark and leonine, as black and untamed as a forest night. As she stretched and eased the heavy chain that joined her to her master, Casswell could see that her body was scarified; her face, arms and breasts were covered in complex swirling spirals of scars that were at once both fascinating and deeply disturbing.

  The band began to play, and Casswell and Turner turned their attention to the buffet that lined one wall.

  ‘Lonely?’ whispered a familiar voice from behind them. Both men turned to look into the masked eyes of a slim blonde creature dressed in an exquisite peacock-blue silk corset. It was laced tightly, emphasising her slim waist and full hips and breasts. Delicate wisps of lace barely covered her nipples, and she wore black silk stockings that were held up with lace garters, and high heeled lace-up ankle boots. Intricate ringlets twisted into a tumble of blonde hair framed a matching peacock mask.

  Oliver Turner smiled, and leaning forward, pressed a kiss to Amelia’s cheek, while at the same time he slid his fingers up over her thighs. Amelia smiled and then wriggled closer, her long slim legs opening a little to give the elderly gentleman easier access.

  ‘I missed you too,’ she purred, licking her lips like some sleek, well-fed feline. She began to rub herself against him, her sinuous body moving sexily in time to the music.

  Amused by her delicious performance, Casswell shook his head and looked away, leaving the two of them to their well-rehearsed erotic game. He glanced at his watch. Chang should be upstairs preparing Sarah Morgan for the party. All he had to do was wait and watch the comings and goings of his fellow guests. And there was much to observe.

  Around him the garden room was rapidly filling up. Although the air amongst the guests was still subdued, the arrival of the delegates’ slaves was gradually, subtly altering the atmosphere. Each slave represented some part of their master’s fantasies, and they certainly reflected a stunning array of tastes. They were exotic, outrageous, bizarre, a
nd utterly, utterly compelling.

  The music drew a handful of dancers out onto the floor. Some were naked and some were dressed, and there was every shade in between.

  At the bar stood Doctor Ford, who had brought twins back from his last trip to the Far East. The two delicate Oriental sisters, naked except for their masks, collars, and silver patent high heeled pumps, waited like puppy’s at the end of their leash for their master to command them. Across the room, Leonra Stevenson, one of the few female delegates, was dancing to the strains of the band, accompanied by her boy, who was dressed as a medieval minstrel, complete with bulging codpiece.

  Casswell glanced at his watch again, and when he looked up, saw Sarah Morgan framed in the open doorway. Led by Chang, who was dressed in a simple black silk Mao jacket, the girl looked stunning. On the end of a fine silver chain that was attached to her collar, she was wearing a close-fitting bodysuit that was covered in sleek black feathers. Combined with the mask, it made her look like some wonderful exotic bird.

  The bodice had long sleeves, and the fabric thinned over her exquisite breasts so that her nipples peaked through the finer, silken fabric. She wore black stockings, and the pale swell of her sex was framed in a tumble of black silk and curling feathers that reflected inky shades of green and blue in amongst the coal-black fronds. The whole outfit offered a heady invitation to linger and explore further.

  Rigel Casswell smiled.

  From behind her mask Sarah stared around the room. It was as though she had been washed up on the darkest shores of passion.

  Doctor Casswell extended a hand and took the fine silver lead from Chang. ‘Good evening, my dear. You look very beautiful.’

  Sarah nodded, feeling unable to speak. Her silent acknowledgement of his compliment appeared to please him. Oliver Turner looked at her also. She could sense his delight with what he saw as too.

  Sarah glanced uncertainly around the party again. The other slaves were all stunning and exuded an intimidating sexuality, dressed in fantasy costumes, all beautifully made-up and coiffeured. They were as exotic and enticing as the sumptuous buffet arranged behind Casswell and Turner.