Dr Casswell's Plaything (2 page)

Amelia cradled his phallus in her fingers and began to suckle at the end where a single teardrop of excitement glistened. She sucked greedily, hungry to pleasure him, with one hand lifting to cradle and caress his heavy scrotum.

The old man’s expression was impassive as the lithe blonde stroked herself into a frenzy, long fingers dipping into the wet ripe confines of her sex, then using her juices to smear over Oliver’s cock and balls. Moans of intense pleasure hummed out from the junction of her lips where they closed around his throbbing phallus.

Sarah Morgan sat in the shadows, and only her eyes betrayed her passion, as bright as a flare in the intense darkness. Until she met him, she could have had no idea that things like this ever went on.

Amelia started to pull away from Oliver, breathless now, but before she could her master grabbed tight hold of her hair and pulled her closer. She snorted and wriggled as if fighting to be free of him, saliva trickling down her chin as he forced her to bring him to release. Between her legs, her fingers still worked their own particular magic, meaning that she too was on the great spiral of orgasm.

Casswell could sense their growing pleasure despite Oliver’s apparently unfeeling expression. Suddenly the man let out a throaty sigh and jerked his cock from between Amelia’s lips; a great arc of semen flooding out over her body, splashing across her face and breasts.

At almost the same instant Amelia began to twitch and shudder, drowning in a great well of orgasm as her fingers worked in the sopping pit between her legs. Beyond the heady images of the couple on stage, the room was draped with a strange stillness and quiet.

Amelia collapsed at Oliver’s feet, his cock, wet from her kisses, still jutted above her like a sword. To Casswell’s delight, Sarah climbed off the chair and crawled across the stage towards the couple – her action as erotic and glorious as it was unexpected. Dropping onto all fours beside the prone body of the exquisite blonde she began to lick the glistening semen off her breasts. Crouched over Amelia, open and excited, her richly fragrant sex was an invitation Casswell was tempted to take up. But as the thought formed in his head, one of Turner’s other guests climbed up onto the stage. The man was in evening dress, but it took him no more than a few seconds to undress, kneel and place his erect penis into Sarah’s sex. Casswell looked away; he knew it would not be long before the party disintegrated into an orgy, and his tastes were more discriminating and he had no great desire to participate.

Then almost as if some benign but debauched god had heard his prayer, Chang appeared at his shoulder.

‘Egon has just arrived from the airport, sir,’ he whispered. ‘He is waiting for Mr Turner and yourself in the drawing room.’

Casswell smiled; on stage his protégée, Sarah Morgan, was on the very brink of orgasm, while above her, still naked except for his dressing gown, Oliver Turner was looking on with the greatest of delight. Casswell indicated the elderly gentleman with a discreet nod of his head. ‘Give our host a few minutes to compose himself and then tell him where we are, Chang. I’ll go and entertain Mr Egon.’

Minutes later, Sarah, her body flushed with the aftermath of orgasm, gasped for breath and rolled over onto her back, her male companion already back amongst the crowd. She could hardly believe the way she had behaved, but also knew that there were no excuses – watching Oliver Turner and Amelia provoked some dark side of her soul that wanted nothing more than to be part of their passion, part of their desire.

Now, as her breathing slowed, Amelia looked across at her, her face arranged in a sly smile. ‘See, I said you’d like it, didn’t I?’

Sarah laughed and then glanced around the darkened function room, out over the sea of faces. Most of the couples and threesomes were already engaged in passions of their own – but to her consternation, Rigel Casswell was nowhere in sight. She picked up a thick white towel that had been left on the edge of the stage and wiped her face; sweat had appeared like raindrops as she fought her way out to the very edges of desire.

A few feet away, Chang clambered onto the stage and whispered something to Oliver Turner, who nodded, pulled his robe shut and tied the belt tight. Indicating that Chang should lead, Oliver fell into step behind him while Amelia followed her master, leaving Sarah alone on the stage. Part of her wanted to stay, but instead she picked up the towel, wrapped it around her shoulders and headed after Chang and the others.

At the door to the drawing room the little oriental turned, opened the door for Oliver Turner and Amelia, and then waved Sarah away. ‘They’re talking business,’ he said gently. ‘Go upstairs and wait. I’ll tell him where you are.’

Sarah looked at Chang and swallowed down the anger, but amongst the many other things she felt about him, she trusted him to take care of Casswell. ‘It’s about the diary?’

Chang nodded and the sense of elation she felt on stage with Oliver and Amelia trickled away like iced water. Without another word she hurried upstairs. What would happen next? Would this mean she would have to leave Casswell Hall, leave her master and the diaries? The thought horrified her. Staring at the familiar outline of the transcript on the table in her room, she closed her eyes, willing the outcome to be a good one.

Sarah perched on the end of her bed for what seemed like an eternity, until finally she contemplated going back downstairs. Perhaps amongst other people the time would pass more quickly. But to her relief, almost as the thought formed in her mind, Casswell opened the door and strode into the room.

Part of her wanted nothing more than to run into his arms, prostrate herself at his feet, whatever it took for things to be right. In an odd way she felt as if they had both lived through Beatrice’s worst fears. For an instant she held back, wondering if she dare speak to him, but she could not contain herself.

‘The diary,’ she began, aware that she had his undivided attention. ‘I finished reading it this afternoon. Chang has told me about the things Gilim said…’ Her voice faded as she struggled to find the right words. Would Casswell be angry with her for speaking out of turn, for knowing so much? ‘Was that the expert you were expecting? Is the diary genuine? I have to know…’

Dr Casswell allowed himself a narrow smile. He looked her up and down, eyes as dark as crystal.

‘So you have to know, do you, Miss Morgan?’ he said, taking a glass from the tray on the side table and settling in the chair Sarah had so recently vacated. ‘How very interesting. One day, my dear, you will learn to be silent. Now take off that towel and let me look at you.’ His voice was barely above a whisper.

Sarah did as she was told, letting it drift to the floor. Already her pulse had quickened. She dropped her gaze in an act of submission.

‘Good,’ Casswell said, beckoning her closer, and without thinking Sarah dropped onto all fours and crept to him, delighted and relieved and lifted by his presence, although unable to explain why. He stroked her hair, pushing it back off her face. Her breasts, still naked, trimmed by the torn remnants of the feathered costume, brushed against his thighs.

‘You are a precious creature,’ he said, cupping her breasts, toying with the erect nipples as he spoke. ‘The bad news is that the diary you and I have been working on is a forgery.’

Sarah felt her heart contract sharply. As she struggled to find something to say, Casswell continued in a low voice. ‘The expert who flew in this afternoon has seen the authentic article in a museum in Turkey. Our volume and at least one of the other diaries that follow it are stored there.

‘The manuscript we have been working on is a clever and apparently very accurate copy, by a master forger at the beginning of this century when an inventory was taken of the books at Father Orme’s old abbey.’ Casswell paused and looked down into Sarah’s eyes. ‘I have to admit; I’d already suspected it wasn’t the original, but it is important you understand, Sarah, that the diary is not a fake. All the stories about Beatrice are true; those are her words, her thoughts, her passions and pains, just transcribed by another at a later date – much as you and I are doing.’

He lifted her chin and wiped away the single tear that meandered onto her cheek.

‘Oliver Turner has already asked me if I would like to go to Turkey to examine the original book, and its companion volumes if I can track them down. He’s agreed to finance the whole expedition.’ Casswell paused for a few more seconds to let the words sink in. ‘I’ve told him to arrange for Chang and my personal assistant to travel with me.’ Sarah stared at him, sorting through what he had said. ‘I’ll need someone I can trust to type up the transcripts. I plan to leave at the end of the month, and will make arrangements for you to come with me.’

Sarah, tearful with relief and gratitude, dropped her head into his lap and nuzzled there like a faithful dog. She could feel his cock hardening as he pulled her closer, so slowly she unfastened his fly and began to lick and suck his thickening shaft; a slave to her master. She moaned softly as she tasted the nectar of his excitement, and like Beatrice, she savoured a sense of coming home.

‘My dear Casswell, it seems so long since we have seen you, my friend.’ As he spoke, Uri Weissman poured iced tea for Sarah and Dr Casswell from an elegant glass pitcher. ‘I am delighted that at last you and your companion are here in Turkey, in my home. Delighted too that I can finally repay your hospitality after all these years. I trust your journey went well?’

The first floor room into which they had been shown, was furnished with an eclectic and exotic mix of European and Middle Eastern artefacts. Along the cream washed walls, long sofas and low tables were set amongst ferns and ornaments and complex panels made from brass and carved hardwoods. The late morning air was heavy with the scent of incense, sandalwood and ylang-ylang burning in a thurible, its perfumed smoke rising effortlessly in an idle twisting plume to the ceiling.

In an ornate cage hanging from a beam sat a handsome red and yellow macaw, watching the proceedings with a tired, world-weary expression.

Although the room was relatively cool compared to the streets below, Sarah felt beads of sweat on her face and in the valley between her breasts.

Their host, an eminent Austrian businessman, had a home in one of the coastal towns on the Aegean, a short drive from Marmaris and just a few minutes by car from a small museum where Casswell had been told at least one of Beatrice’s original diaries were now housed.

Sarah thought Uri Weissman looked like a concert pianist. A tall man, he had great wings of golden hair shot through with grey, which swept back off his high forehead, framing sharp aristocratic features. From time to time his icy-blue eyes would move effortlessly from the conversation to appraise Casswell’s latest companion.

‘Indeed, we’re delighted to be here,’ said Rigel Casswell, his tone suggesting he was bored with the social pleasantries. ‘When can we see the manuscript?’

Uri Weissman laughed, revealing perfect white teeth. ‘You never change, do you, Casswell? You’re always the same – always so very eager when it comes to your precious antiquities. Have no fear; we shall begin our quest tomorrow. I have arranged for the curator of the museum to give us a guided tour, and then for an extra little consideration to have uninterrupted access to the manuscripts. The trustees are remarkably proud of their archives, so despite my best efforts, I am afraid you will have to translate in situ, at least for the present.’

While the two men spoke, Sarah sat quietly on one of the huge cane sofas that gave a view into the narrow streets below. Above her an ancient ceiling fan cut through the hot air like a sword blade, but worked to only disturb the heat rather than cool the room.

Despite Casswell’s convivial comments it had been a long day of travelling – the early journey from Casswell Hall, the flight from London, the drive out along the coast road from the airport. Tired and heavy-eyed, Sarah’s attention wandered away from the two men, her eyes drawn again and again into the alleyway below which gave a glimpse of the main street beyond. It was like a carnival, noise and dust and unfamiliar smells and colours, merchants and tourists mixing with women out to do their marketing, here a donkey, there a man carrying a pile of baskets on his head; the Moorish and Ottoman influence obvious on the buildings and on the faces of the local population.

Weissman’s grand white Moorish house was tucked away in a back street and seemed a million miles from the bleak beauty of Casswell’s isolated country estate.

‘And I assume this is your latest acquisition, eh?’

Aware that both men were now looking at her, Sarah’s attention snapped back to the discussion in the room.

Casswell nodded. ‘Indeed, this is my companion, Miss Morgan.’

Sarah glanced briefly towards her host, eyes lowered, expression demure and guarded.

Uri Weissman nodded with appreciation; there was no doubting her role. ‘You always did have excellent taste. I shall look forward to acquainting myself with your latest pupil when time permits.’

Casswell smiled. ‘I’ll send her up to you this afternoon during siesta, if you wish.’

Weissman smiled. ‘How kind, I’d be delighted to accept.’

Sarah reddened, part of her still unsettled by the casual trading and use of slaves. It seemed that her body was little more than a delicacy to be tried and tasted, a token to be traded or exchanged with whomever Casswell decided deserving.