Dr Casswell's Plaything by Sarah Fisher Read Free Book Online

puffed out his chest. ‘And last but not least it gives me great pleasure to present you with a gift made by local craftsmen to remind you of your time in our humble town.’
    He clapped his hands and two lackeys appeared from the shadows carrying a wooden crate. Mustafa waved them to set it down and open it. Inside, amongst a great tangle of wood and wool, was a section of pillar, perhaps two foot high. ‘It is a replica of a roman pillar,’ Mustafa said enthusiastically. ‘Handmade at the local quarry. It will look very fine in your garden, yes?’
    It was a very peculiar gift, and polite as ever, Casswell gave his thanks and turned to look at the contents of the glass case, but the Turk had not finished. ‘And so today I will have Miss Morgan all to myself while you begin work. That was the deal made by Miss Weissman.’
    Casswell looked up momentarily and glanced at Anna.
    Sarah stiffened.
    Mustafa held up a hand to silence any protest. ‘It was the promise I was made. I have honoured you by opening vaults, by giving you a gift, by allowing you access to my most treasured possession. In return, today I have your woman all for myself and then later the two of them together. Miss Weissman, she has promised me.’ He glared angrily at Anna, who merely smiled at each of them.
    ‘You know you really owe me for this one, Casswell,’ she said.
    Sarah cringed at the prospect of what was developing; it was the most appalling thought, but Casswell’s expression was unreadable as he turned to the glass cabinet that housed the diary.
    Mustafa beckoned to Sarah. ‘You, you come with me.’
    Sarah looked from one face to another, but there was no right of appeal. It appeared that Casswell’s mind was elsewhere. He was busy putting on a pair of cotton gloves, his attention fixed on the contents of the display cabinet, Anna Weissman close beside him.
    Mustafa’s expression hardened. ‘Now,’ he snapped, and Sarah, feeling utterly abandoned, reluctantly followed him.
    Without another word, the fat Turk led her back through the maze of shelves, opened a doorway and took her into another part of the cellars, out through a tangle of ill-lit corridors to a darker, more isolated area. Finally, after what seemed an age, he opened a door in the stonework and beckoned her inside. What choice did she have? Sarah stepped past him and Mustafa immediately shut and locked the door behind them.
    She looked around with a growing sense of fear. They were in windowless room with a beaten earth floor, lit by a single bulb, and empty except for a camp bed, a low table, a chest of drawers on which stood a bottle of water and two glasses, and a battered armchair.
    ‘So, let me see what it is that I have traded my treasures for,’ he drooled, excitement thickening his accent as he settled against the chest of drawers and lit a cheroot. ‘Strip for me. I want you naked. Now.’
    Nervously, Sarah began to undo the elegant linen dress she was wearing. Mustafa watched her with dark eyes, mopping his slack lips with the filthy handkerchief.
    ‘Come on,’ he snarled impatiently, ‘ don’t play around. Let me see.’
    Sarah stood tall to face him, attempting on the surface at least to appear defiant and collected, while inside she was shaking like a leaf. She slid the dress slowly off her shoulders.
    Mustafa nodded appreciatively as she stood before him, naked except for high-heeled sandals. Sarah’s flesh seemed to glow like a candle flame in the shadowy room.
    ‘Good, that’s much better. Now turn around slowly. Let me look at you.’ Sarah did as she was told, her discomfort rising with every passing second until finally the sleazy man snapped, ‘Come here!’ He indicated the armchair. ‘I want you to sit down, like this.’ Stumbling over the words he showed her with his hands. ‘One leg over each arm so I can see you. I want you to touch yourself, play with your tits, finger your wet little slit, your whole body. I want you to stroke