Dr Casswell's Plaything by Sarah Fisher Page A

unfastened his robe the other held me, and then between them they manhandled me onto his lap and guided his cock into my poor exhausted body.
    I felt him slide inside me, my body closing around him. The old man had no need to move now, for the two young men guided me up and down on his shaft in time with his thrusts.
    The old king grunted and pressed home time and again, his old hands raking my bruised and throbbing flesh. With renewed vigour he thrust into me again and I heard his breath quicken and knew that such regal seed as was left in that dry old husk was about to be spent. He thrust up into me, moaning and grunting, holding tight to the instant of release, and it was over.
    Once the old man had stopped twitching and gasping, the young men pulled me away from his exhausted cock, and they set me down on the dais while they attended to their master, wiping him and covering his nakedness.
    I was forgotten, and all around the coupling and pleasure went on. I closed my eyes and curled like a cur at the feet of the king, his sons and his courtiers. In the half light the revels and feasting continued until who knows when. I must have slept, for when I was aware again it was darker and quieter and the old man and his entourage had gone.
    Someone had dropped a cloak or robe over me to cover my nakedness but even so, lying there amongst the reeds I was cold. As I roused myself, I saw my master looking down at my abused body and wondered if it had been his voice or his touch that had woken me.
    With unexpected tenderness he gently lifted me up and carried me to his chamber. In the months since my mistress had been banished from the castle I have shared his bed night after night, curled in his arms ever faithful, waiting for his command.
    Tonight he was as tender to me as any nurse, bathing my aching body and rubbing balm into the welts and bruises inflicted upon me by his king’s cruel sons.
    I sensed his anger at their treatment of my body, but not a word did he speak to betray his king. Rather when he was done, my master picked me up and set me in his bed. All night long I lay in his arms, feeling safe, his strength and touch brushing away my pain. When the candle burnt low and the sun brightened the eastern sky, he slipped his hand between my thighs, seeking the tender lips of my quim, and I opened to him like the budding lily…
    Casswell paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was about to hand over the finished sheets to Sarah when he realised she was not there. Instantly he remembered, as if waking from a dream; his delight on finding the new manuscript had made him forget that Mustafa Aziz still had her in his clutches. Sliding the book safely back into its cabinet, Casswell rang the bell the curator had left for him to summon one of the museum staff.

Chapter 4
    For once Sarah was glad of Casswell’s rule of silence. Not catching his gaze, she watched the rich tapestry of the Turkish port unfold on the drive back to Uri Weissman’s house. Beside her, Casswell seemed almost as preoccupied, although when his hand settled gently on her thigh she was grateful of his touch.
    It was not far from the museum to the Austrian’s home, but the streets were packed with people, locals pushed and jostled for position, their women heading back home to escape the heat of the day. But even though the street life was fascinating it was not enough to wipe out the events of the morning spent with Mustafa in the cellar beneath the museum.
    Sarah shivered in the cool blast of the air conditioning. She had assumed that once the fat little Turk had spanked her and forced her to put on the performance in the armchair her part of the bargain had been be paid. However, Mustafa had other ideas and insisted she join him on an impromptu tour of the museum. Knowing that Sarah was naked under her dress excited him and periodically, as they joined other groups of tourists to listen to the commentary from the