Dr Casswell's Student (15 page)

‘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.

The slave girl’s sex was bare, and a narrow black leather thong that circled up between her buttocks and joined a studded belt divided the outer lips. To complete what was a breathtaking outfit, the model wore high black patent spiked thigh boots.

Sarah shivered, caught up in the stunning image. Was this what she looked like when bound and waiting for Doctor Casswell to lay on with the riding crop? She could feel a peculiar erotic charge surge through her veins.

‘So, what do you think?’ whispered Casswell, in an undertone. The sound of his voice made Sarah jump. For a moment or two she had been totally oblivious to either the doctor or Oliver Turner.

‘Amazing,’ she murmured thickly, and honestly. ‘Absolutely amazing.’

The waxwork was at once both astonishing and deeply disturbing. Behind the slave girl crouched a small muscular man, masked too, dressed in cream jodhpurs and a dark leather jerkin. His torso was oiled, almost as if he had already worked up a lather of sweat. He cradled a horsewhip in one thick paw, and looked for all the world as if he was about to spring forward and lay on the next cruel, breath-stopping blow.

The girl was wonderfully modelled, caught in the very instant before the whip exploded across her back. Sarah could almost hear her moans of pain and pleasure, her body taut, waiting… and then she noticed something that made her suppress a gasp of horror behind her hands and step back.

The fine chain between the girl’s nipples began to tremble, and then very slowly rise and fall. Sarah squeezed her hands over her mouth as comprehension dawned and nausea threatened… these weren’t waxworks at all!

‘M-my God!’ she blurted. ‘She’s – she’s alive, isn’t she?!’

Oliver Turner laughed, and catching hold of Sarah’s arm, pulled her up onto the dais.

‘The game’s up, my dear,’ he said to the slave girl, who slipped from the restraints, pulled off the hood, and shook out a tumble of lustrous blonde curls. She moved with the easy fluid grace of a dancer, and looked almost feline.

‘Bravo, my sweet,’ Turner continued, pulling the girl close and brushing her cheek with his lips. He stroked one of the rings that pierced her nipples. The bud hardened instantly under his caress. ‘I think we had Miss Morgan well and truly fooled for a little while.’ He turned to Sarah. ‘I would like you to meet my companion, Amelia. Amelia Cartwright, this is Miss Sarah Morgan.’

Sarah nodded dumbly. Unable to find her voice, she extended a trembling hand.

Amelia accepted and pulled it to her scarlet painted lips. Sarah shivered as the stunning blonde turned her hand over and ran her tongue seductively across the open palm in an all too obvious display of her inclinations toward Sarah.

‘Welcome to Oliver’s little museum,’ she purred seductively. Her dark brown eyes were outlined with kohl, re-enforcing the impression that she was some strange exotic cat. She smiled at Sarah’s obvious discomfort, and drew one of her fingers into her warm mouth. Sarah shivered.

‘Oh, come on, relax,’ Amelia whispered in a low, husky voice. ‘Wouldn’t you like to come play a little while?’

Although she was aware of Doctor Casswell and Oliver Turner standing just behind her, and beyond them the door that would lead her back into the main house, Sarah was rooted to the spot.

The blonde seducer’s talons dropped, clearly not even contemplating a rebuttal, to the buttons of Sarah’s dress. ‘Why don’t you let me see what Chang has found for you, my little darling? I’m sure it’ll be something rather nice.’

One button popped free… two… three… Sarah felt her colour rising along with her temperature. The growing tension in the pit of her stomach, though not totally unpleasant, made her tremble with a heady concoction of embarrassment, uncertainty, and longing.

Amelia pouted theatrically. ‘There, there. It’s all right, my little one, relax and let yourself go. This game is supposed to be fun, or hasn’t dear Rigel told you that yet?’ She grimaced, feigning disapproval, and then glared at Casswell.

Oliver Turner sighed. ‘Be careful, Amelia my dear, or I will have to take the horsewhip to you after all.’

Undeterred, Amelia chuckled sexily, and snatching the whip from the waxwork figure of the slave master, ran her hand suggestively down its black leather shaft.

‘Oh, my pleasure entirely, Oliver,’ she purred with a confident grin, sliding the whip between her thighs.

Oliver Turner laughed dryly. ‘You are a little vixen, and no mistake,’ he said.

Amelia dropped to her hands and knees, and nuzzled at the elderly gentleman’s crotch while still working the crop between her thighs.

Sarah gasped at the shameless display.

Turner shook his head, and then ruffled the blonde’s hair as he would a favourite over-indulged pet. ‘You are a very, very, wicked young lady.’

Amelia sprung agilely to her feet and turned her attention back to the spellbound Sarah. She undid the final button and then pulled the red coat-dress back off Sarah’s shoulders and allowed it to rustle to the floor, where it nestled around Sarah’s ankles.

‘Oh yes,’ Amelia purred appreciatively, almost to herself, her dark eyes working slowly over the sensual contours of Sarah’s constrained body. The basque fitted her like a second skin. ‘Oh yes…
very
beautiful,’ she drooled, licking her lips like a greedy cat with the cream. ‘Most definitely good enough to eat—’

Before Sarah could do or say anything Amelia matched word to deed. She dropped silently to the floor in front of her and, exactly as she had with Turner, began to nuzzle at the stunned girl’s perfumed crotch.

Sarah stiffened in complete shock as Amelia’s hair brushed her thighs, and then she gasped as a wet and skilful tongue lapped majestically across the outer lips of her quim. The sensation was electrifying.

‘Oh, my God—’ she managed to gasp. Her first inclination was to turn tail and run away, but then she sensed movement behind her. Shooting a glance over her shoulder she saw Casswell, his expression as impassive as ever, but his eyes smouldering with vehement excitement.

He slipped an arm around her waist.

‘Open your legs,’ he said into her ear, in a tone that brooked no contradiction. ‘Let Oliver’s pretty little kitten have a taste of the cream.’

Before Sarah could protest he snatched her upper arm fiercely with his free hand and held it painfully tight. As she groaned her dismay he nudged a foot between her feet and prised her legs wide apart. She shrieked as Amelia gripped her hips and dragged her closer, and then plunged her avid tongue into Sarah’s sex to trace the engorged ridge of her clitoris.

Sarah closed her eyes, stunned that anything so fleeting could create such an overwhelming wave of pleasure. The tongue flitted and lapped again, making her mewl with pure delight. Was this the magical enchantment that had entrapped Beatrice? Had it been this gift that Beatrice had given, kneeling at her mistress’s feet, locked in a passionate embrace so astounding that it overcame all natural revulsion?

Through swirling mists of pleasure Sarah knew Amelia was rapidly taking control, pressing forward, each white-hot kiss driving her out to the very edge of paradise. And as she did Amelia sat back a little and gently guided the handle of the horsewhip up into Sarah’s defenceless quim. The delirious captive’s head lolled back onto Casswell’s shoulder and she whimpered her shock, but did nothing more to protest.

The leather felt obscene and unyielding, and yet her body drew it in gratefully. Casswell tapped her feet wider with his toe, while his hand slipped up from her trim waist to pinch and twisted her erect and throbbing nipples. He lightly kissed her perspiring temple and whispered lewd promises into her ear.

It was all much too much for their besieged victim. As Amelia set the rhythm with her tongue and fingers, and the handle of the whip, Sarah surrendered. She ground down onto the inert black shaft, not caring that she gave the blonde seductress greater access to her restrained body while it drank in the wonderful sensations.

Oliver Turner looked on with evident satisfaction. He rang a discreetly placed bell to summon Chang, who had been waiting for them in an anteroom. When the Oriental appeared he was carrying something in a gloved hand; something that glowed cherry red.

Turner studied Sarah Morgan. The girl was exquisite in the black leather basque, her creamy flesh already shimmering with a fine gloss of perspiration. He knew she was struggling with feelings of revulsion and the more intense call of undiluted, unrestrained passion.

Casswell smiled conspiratorially and held the girl even tighter as Turner moved in. As though forewarned by some strange female intuition, Sarah, on the verge of a shattering orgasm, opened her eyes and saw him too. A strange silence fell over the room as Amelia also glanced up, her full carmine lips slick with Sarah’s juices.

Turner smiled; it was a tableau well worth savouring, but it was destined to last no more than a few seconds, although in his mind the whole sensual scene seemed to be played out in slow motion.

Sarah noticed Chang and the object he was holding.

Such prescience. She tried to protest, but all coherent sound was efficiently smothered by Casswell’s firm palm. She tried desperately to struggle free, but he was easily too strong and held her with contemptuous ease. With little effort he twisted her in his arms, and as she watched with wide eyes over his fingers, Chang handed the branding iron to Turner, and with a sickening piety, the elderly gentleman sank it onto her exposed right buttock.

Sarah tried to scream into the hand clamped over her mouth, but nothing came up from her lungs. She swooned, felt nauseous, and fell limp and unconscious in Casswell’s arms.

Oliver Turner closed his eyes and lifted his face to the high ceiling, luxuriating in the moment.

When Sarah opened her eyes she was quite certain she’d been dreaming. It had been a strange and very intense dream in which her life and Beatrice de Fleur’s had finally merged; a peculiar dark fantasy where she had been seduced by another woman – a friend of Oliver Turner’s – and then she’d been branded. Something in her mouth, some unfamiliar residue, tasted peculiar too.

She tried to quieten the ramblings of her waking mind and shifted her focus. She was lying on her stomach in an unfamiliar and dimly lit room, on a red moquette couch. As she lifted herself gingerly onto her forearms her head pounded, but she turned very slowly and came face to face with Turner’s slave girl, Amelia, sitting elegantly on a chair beside her. She was now wearing a short white cotton robe, which was drawn tightly in at her waist and stretched tautly over her generous breasts. Despite her inner turmoil, Sarah’s eyes were drawn inexplicably to the deep shadowy cleavage that nestled within the slightly gaping robe. Amelia laughed musically as she noticed where Sarah’s furtive peeps were resting, and leant forward a little to stroke a strand of hair back from the patient’s damp brow. The movement only served to open the robe a little more, and Sarah couldn’t suppress a soft moan of despair and frustration as the soft perfumed valley hovered even closer.

‘Hiya,’ Amelia murmured smoothly, the simple greeting just oozing sex. ‘Are you okay now? You fainted.’

Sarah swallowed hard, panic and pain suddenly flooding her mind. It hadn’t been a dream after all. She could still feel the sensation of the branding iron touching her flesh; a white-hot lightening strike of pain that had unplugged her consciousness. Even now she could feel the remnants of its heat searing into her buttock, a knot of unspeakable rawness that glowed like a neon beacon in her mind. And yet there was also an odd fuzziness to her thinking, and for a second or two Sarah wondered if her thoughts were somehow being muddied by images from Beatrice de Fleur’s drugged mind.

Gently, she tried to twist herself around to look at the brand mark, but found it too difficult. All she could see was a thick white surgical dressing, and wondered if it had been Amelia or Chang who had tended to the burn. Her head spun from the effort of trying to crane around, and she closed her eyes to try and clear it.