Dr Casswell's Plaything

Dr CASSWELL’S PLAYTHING

by

SARAH FISHER

Dr Casswell’s Plaything

first published in 2001 by

Chimera Books Ltd

www.chimerabooks.co.uk

Digital edition converted and published by

Andrews UK Limited 2010

www.andrewsuk.com

Copyright © Sarah Fisher

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

This 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.

‘You have to understand who is in control here, Miss Morgan,’ he growled in her ear, his breath laden with garlic. ‘And trust me, I will teach you. I really will.’

He moved away, his intrusive hand leaving her, and Sarah strained to pick up some clue as to what would happen next, although she had a pretty good idea, and then she tensed as she heard an unmistakable sound, and strained to catch a glimpse from the corner of her eye of the waiter pulling his leather belt from his trouser loops and handing it to Mustafa. Her fat tormentor folded it double in his fist, and then moved out of her sight.

There was a terrible silence, a few seconds deep and dark and full of a cruel promise. Sarah swallowed hard, every sense and nerve braced for the fierce kiss of supple leather.

Sarah Morgan closed the door of her car and looked up at Dr 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 coming here had been a mistake…

Accepting Dr Rigel Casswell’s offer to help him translate the erotic diaries of a medieval servant girl, Beatrice de Fleur, leads Sarah Morgan into an intriguing secret world. After being broken in by the doctor and his manservant, Chang, Sarah rapidly discovers the delights of pleasure, pain and submission.

As academic interest in the diaries mounts, Dr Casswell takes Sarah to the house of his godfather and mentor, Oliver Turner, where the old man is hosting a conference of interested parties. But this is no dry academic get together, rather a meeting of masters, sexual connoisseurs and their compliant slaves.

Dr Casswell’s Plaything follows Sarah’s continuing adventures in search of the secrets and passions of Beatrice’s life, while also undergoing her own erotic education.

In the garden room of his mansion, Oliver Turner refilled his and Rigel Casswell’s champagne glasses. Both men glanced around the shadowy interior. Oliver had wanted to make sure everything was ready for the arrival of his guests. He had settled on a medieval theme to echo the history of the diary before they heard the delegates’ findings that perhaps the book was a mere brilliant forgery.

The room was divided by a row of ornate columns that supported the glass roof and had been hung with 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 took a long sip of the champagne. Already a couple of the other delegates were at the bar. The atmosphere all afternoon had been a little subdued and Egon had not arrived yet from Florence with his ‘very important news’ – damned man.

Oliver lifted a hand of greeting to his guests. Crouched beside the delegates were their two body slaves, naked, chained and masked. One was a tall thin boy with a shock of white-golden hair, sporting 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 that it looked as if she was carved from some glorious exotic golden wood. As Rigel looked at her she glanced and smiled, revealing neat white teeth. Her eyes were dark and leonine, as black and untamed as the forest night. As she stretched and eased the heavy chain that joined her to her master, Rigel could see that her body was scarified, her face, arms and breasts covered in complex swirling spirals of white scars that were at once both fascinating and deeply disturbing.

Close by the band began to play.

‘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. Amelia, Oliver’s spirited slave girl, smiled at them. Her corset was laced tight, emphasising her slim waist and full hips, delicate wisps of lace barely covering her nipples, while below she wore black silk stockings tied with lace garters, and high-heeled lace-up ankle boots.

A matching peacock-coloured mask was framed by intricate ringlets twisted into her tumble of blonde hair, and despite all the odds, there was something about the way she looked that evoked the middle ages. Oliver Turner smiled, and leaning forward pressed a kiss to Amelia’s cheek while at the same time sliding his fingers up over her thighs.

Amelia smiled and then wriggled closer, long slim legs opening a little to give the old man greater access.

‘Missed you too,’ she purred, licking her lips like some sleek, well-fed feline. She began to rub against him, her body rippling in waves in time to the music. Amused by her delicious performance, Rigel shook his head and looked away.

Chang told him that he would prepare Sarah Morgan for the party, and all he had to do was wait and watch the comings and goings of his fellow guests – and there was much to observe. Around them the garden room was rapidly filling up. Although the air amongst the guests was still subdued, the arrival of the delegates’ slaves was gradually altering the atmosphere. Each was part of their master’s fantasy, and reflected a stunning array of tastes; they were exotic, outrageous, bizarre – and utterly compelling.

The music drew a handful of dancers out onto the floor. Some naked, some dressed, and every shade in between. By the bar stood Dr Ford, who had brought twins back from the Far East on his last trip – the two delicate oriental sisters, naked except for their masks, collars and silver patent high-heeled shoes, waited like puppies at the end of their leash for their master to command them. Across the room, Leonra Stevenson, one of the few female guests, was dancing to the strains of the band, accompanied by her boy, who was dressed as a medieval minstrel, complete with bulging codpiece.

Rigel glanced down at his watch and when he looked up again, 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, Sarah was wearing a sleek, close-fitting bodysuit that appeared to be covered in black feathers, and combined with the mask it made her look like some wonderful exotic bird. The bodice had long sleeves and she was wearing black stockings, but the fabric thinned over her exquisite breasts so that her nipples peaked through the finer, silken fabric. It was a heady invitation to linger and explore further. Rigel smiled; the pale creamy swell of her hairless 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.

From behind her mask Sarah stared around the room. It was if she had been led to the darkest shores of passion. Rigel Casswell extended a hand and took her lead from Chang. ‘Good evening, my dear. You’re looking very beautiful, I must say.’

She nodded, almost afraid to speak. Her silent acknowledgement appeared to please him. Oliver Turner looked at her too; she could sense that he also was delighted with what he saw.

In those few seconds, Sarah glanced around the party. The other slaves were all stunning and exuded an intimidating sexuality, dressed in fantasy costumes, all beautifully made up – they reminded her for all the world of a selection of tasty morsels as enticing and inviting as the sumptuous buffet that lined one wall.

Other delegates looked up upon her arrival – they must know she was new and although their glances were covert, they did not disguise the fact that many appraised her body with the eyes of potential purchasers.

Outside, beyond the huge glass windows, the night sky was a cloudless band of stars, while inside there was a sense of electric desire bubbling to the surface – not overtly seductive as yet but with an intense erotic promise of things to come. Sarah shivered, trying hard to get a grip of the wild fluttering in her stomach.

Amelia uncurled from Oliver and ran a finger over Sarah’s arm. ‘You and I have a little assignation,’ she purred. ‘Come with me.’

Sarah stiffened and glanced up at Dr Casswell for some kind of confirmation. He inclined his head towards her, eyes bright and hawkish.

‘Do as Amelia says.’

Sarah’s senses were reeling and without a word she followed Amelia across the now crowded room. She noticed that Chang, a figure that hovered in the shadows, had slipped away. She wondered what his departure signified, but before reaching a conclusion, Amelia grabbed her hand and guided her towards a slightly raised platform.

Sarah gasped. ‘What are you going to do?’

Amelia laughed. ‘Trust me; you and I are the cabaret tonight, precious. Just relax and play along – you will love it.’

The conversation in the room faded to a low hum and Rigel settled against one of the pillars that overlooked the stage. A spotlight picked out Amelia, clad in her leather corset. The wisps of lace circled her shapely breasts, framing their heavy contours. And the costume framed her sex, emphasising her ripe pallor.

The music rose again and Amelia thrust her pelvis forward dramatically, while with one finger she teased at the open lips of her naked pussy. With the other hand she picked up a whip from the stage, and as her finger found the tight bud of her clitoris she cracked it, threw back her head and howled like a wolf.

Casswell allowed himself a wry smile; Amelia was a natural exhibitionist. Sarah was watching her performance, completely stunned, open-mouthed as the woman prowled around the small stage. Under the spotlight’s glare, unseen hands had arranged a wooden café chair, over which were draped a pair of handcuffs.

As Casswell watched, Amelia suddenly leapt off the stage and grabbed Sarah. Instinctively the girl protested and writhed, fighting the lithe blonde woman, who relentlessly dragged her onto the stage. As they struggled their way into the spotlight, Amelia seized the top of Sarah’s feather-trimmed body and with a single violent movement ripped it down, revealing the milky-white curves of her breasts.

There was a wild cry of approval from the audience as her tormentor cupped one firm breast in her gloved hand and squeezed it speculatively, tweaking the ripe pink nipple. Sarah sobbed and squirmed miserably but Amelia had no intention of stopping. She guided the girl towards the chair, all the time her fingers working at the girl’s body, ripping away the remainder of her exquisite costume. Sarah mewled unhappily, naked now except for her stockings, the feathery mask and a pair of high heels.

Casswell sipped his champagne, impressed by their performance; he could sense the growing excitement, not just of Amelia but Sarah too. The slim blonde threw her new slave onto the floor and then thrust her hips forward, a single finger teasing at her quim, holding the lips open.

Sarah cried out, whimpering a protest while Casswell stared on with pleasure, feeling the heat and excitement rising deep inside him. ‘No, no, please,’ she sobbed, her voice echoing around the enrapt audience in the garden room, but Amelia was without mercy. She caught hold of Sarah’s hair and pressed her face into her groin.

The girl let out a stifled sob of fear, trying to push away, and then surrendered, her tongue working up and down the flushed lips of Amelia’s sex.

From his vantage point, Rigel Casswell could hear the wet sounds of Sarah working at the blonde girl’s quim, and see the way Amelia’s breasts flushed and swelled, nipples hardening as the hapless Sarah circled and nibbled at her clitoris. He could see that Sarah was overwhelmed.

It was almost as if he could feel the tendrils of pleasure creeping up through Amelia, who was moving under the magic of Sarah’s increasingly competent caresses. The blonde threw back her head and began to move in earnest, rhythmically, thrusting her hips forward in time with the girl’s tongue.

Casswell could sense Amelia’s orgasm approaching, like the tense heady promise of a summer storm. At the very final second, just as Casswell felt certain that Amelia was falling helplessly into the void, she tore herself away from Sarah and dragged her to her feet. With a single smooth movement she turned the dark-haired girl around, and without a whimper Sarah straddled the chair. An instant later Amelia snapped her into the handcuffs, securing her tight to the bentwood frame.

To Casswell’s delight, Sarah could no longer sustain the pretence of real fear; her eyes glittered with anticipation, her flesh glowed with an inner fire. Behind her, the corset-clad Amelia flexed the whip speculatively and let the tip cut through the air.

Sarah shivered, eyes widening, pupils dilated. The second swing was closer, a crueller stroke slicing through the air with an icy hiss. Casswell could feel the goose bumps lifting on his skin. He glanced around; every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on the stage.

He could see Sarah tense for a split second before the next stroke hit her squarely across the shoulders. Then she screamed – a cry that came from the pit of her soul, a wild desperate mewl of pain. Her whole body seemed to leap forward, her breasts thrusting forward, nipples darkening.

Casswell could see, framed by the wooden arc of the chair’s curved back, the open lips of Sarah’s naked sex. Its interior the flushed inviting colour and texture of ripe pomegranates, it glistened like treasure under the spotlight’s single eye.

The hue of Sarah’s flesh was changing, a strange unnerving flush that seemed to seep through her, as behind her Amelia twisted to apply the next stroke.

The blow was lower this time, making Sarah’s legs and pelvis surge forward, pressing fiercely against the chair. Her face was contorted into an ecstatic grimace, while her hips thrust forward again, offering her sex to the audience like a ripe fruit. Mesmerised by the spectacle, Casswell’s mouth was watering from the sheer erotic charge the two females created.

Sarah was breathing hard, trying to retain some control, and then the whip fell again and her head jerked back. Amelia smiled from under the mask – her teeth pearly-white and feline – and then she planted a kiss on her victim’s gasping mouth.

Around him Casswell could feel the erotic temperatures rising, the guests and their slaves willing their way towards release as a single body.

Four, five – the whip cracked again and again. By now Sarah had surrendered entirely to the compulsive beat of the erotic pain. Casswell shivered as he imagined the raw kiss of the leather cutting into his back.

Six and seven – Sarah was pressing herself forward, straining and desperate, trying to rub her glowing, wet sex against the smooth wooden frame of the chair.

Eight and then nine – Casswell wondered how much longer Sarah’s beating could continue. The atmosphere in the garden room was strung as tight as a piano wire.

Ten – and a final decisive blow cracked around the crowded room and reverberated through Sarah’s flushed, perspiring flesh. As if she knew it was the last stroke, she fell forward, sobbing hard, struggling to catch a breath.

Behind her Amelia threw the whip onto the stage and undid her victim’s handcuffs, then dropping onto her hands and knees she crawled across the stage. The submissive pose was completely at odds with the erotic scenario that preceded it.

Casswell wondered if the entertainment was over and looked away just as a man in a long dressing gown stepped onto the stage beside Sarah and Amelia. He looked back, and realised with a shock that the man was Oliver Turner. Amelia slithered across the floor and rubbed against her master’s legs, a feline dripping with sexual promise.

Amongst the crowd was a low murmur of recognition and approval. Their host smiled with all the warmth of a basking shark and stroked Amelia’s pale blonde locks. She purred with delight, and still nosing and rubbing against his thighs, undid his red brocade robe. It fell open to reveal that Oliver was naked beneath, his great cock arched and angry. Under the spotlight he looked better endowed than Casswell remembered.