Restored to Love

by Anna Rockwell

  ‘You came, thank the gods! Mistress, Mistress, Mistress, I need your help to save him – he is in grave danger!’

  Confused, Gillian looked around her, but apart from Marcus and herself there was no one else in the room.

  ‘Who? I don’t –’

  ‘The Lord Dalverton!’ Marcus was clearly agitated, only Gillian didn’t think a slap on the face would effectively bring him back to his senses. In fact, she had no idea what would work on a hysterical ghost.

  She tried speaking calmly. ‘If you tell me what’s wrong, then I might be able to help!’

  Another strong gust of wind shook the windows, and she felt the damp draught on her face again. Looking up, she saw several panes had been shaken out, and the holes had allowed a steady flow of wind-blown rain to get in. She followed the wet trickles until they stopped at the nearest bookcase, where they dripped from shelf to shelf, finally pooling on the wooden floorboards.

  Gillian looked back at the distraught form of Marcus. ‘I still don’t see …’

  There was a sudden burst of incandescence, which hurt her eyes, then he was over by the bookcase, pointing to a shelf. On it were scraps of the once-great library, and several books lay on their sides in puddles of rainwater.

  She reached up and carefully lifted the waterlogged volume Marcus had been pointing at. Even as she picked it up she’d felt the bindings disintegrate, the swollen papers falling away from the cover boards and detaching themselves from the spine.

  ‘You must save him, Mistress! I have seen you rescue other things from the edge of the Abyss. All I ask is that you save The Lord Dalverton, and I will bind my allegiance to whatever your cause desires!’

  Carefully, she opened the book and read the flyleaf. It was an autobiography of Daniel Mathias Dalverton, Third Lord of the Dalverton family, and the Seventh Viscount of Maracay. She thought back to when she’d first encountered Marcus and Daniel. She’d convinced herself they were just figments of her imagination. Never having opened any of the few remaining books scattered on the shelves, she’d had no way of knowing Daniel’s name, nor even what he looked like, let alone of fantasising about the Cavalier in such intricate – and personal – detail.

  Marcus, still frantic, started pacing again. ‘You must do something!’

  ‘But I don’t see what’s so important about a book.’

  Marcus stopped dead and stared at her. ‘You do not comprehend the importance? Do you not understand about anchor points? Sweet mother of Jupiter, I have allied myself to an imbecile!’

  Unperturbed by the emotional outburst, Gillian asked, ‘What points?’

  ‘Anchor points! That which is most precious to us as free spirits. The thing which gives us sanctuary, form, energy, being and life!’

  ‘And Daniel’s anchor point is a book?’

  ‘Yes, yes! Now tell me you can save him? Get to it, Mistress, for I believe he has little time left! He is already so low he is unable to escape from its pages in order to help himself!’

  All had suddenly become clear. Gillian also recalled Daniel mentioning that Marcus “resided” in a painting but only now did she grasp exactly what he had meant.

  She took the damaged book back to her workshop. There she carefully disassembled it, page by page, placing each one safely between sheets of blotting paper to dry. Then, with new boards and a simple green cloth, she carefully rebuilt the volume, reading about Daniel’s life as she went. It had been an experience, and it was clear that his adventurous nature had, to some degree, led to his downfall. Yet, from what she remembered of their first meeting, he didn’t seem to be unbecoming, or even undesirable. In fact the more she read, the more she felt she wanted to know the man himself.

  Later, Gillian went back to the library and took down the small Van Dessen from above the fireplace. Under the cracked brown varnish she was able to make out some sort of battle scene, with members of the Roman Legion fighting what she thought looked like Persians – or maybe Egyptians, it was hard to tell. She gave it a clean, which it desperately needed, and after a little strengthening of the canvas and frame, she left it in the workshop so Marcus could calm himself by standing guard over Daniel’s book.

  After two days, the glue had set completely and the pages were once again strong enough to be turned without suffering any damage. Yet, after four more days, Daniel still hadn’t appeared to Gillian, and neither had Marcus. During the daytime, she’d thrown herself into the restoration projects, and in the evenings, she sat in the workshop, silently willing them to appear. In the end, she gave up, convincing herself once again that they had merely been figments of her overactive imagination.

  Gillian ended the following day covered in dust and grime and, after a light dinner, she retired to take a long bath. The hot water was invigorating and the smell of lavender and citrus let her drift off into a fantasy world of bisexual men and uncomplicated sexual gratification. Her fingers became skilful tongues and eager cocks, made slick by the scented bath oils, and as she soaped her breasts with a flannel, she came hard and fast, in a flurry of suds and loud gasps.

  It gave her a much-needed release and she basked lazily in the afterglow for a good half-hour before finally getting out of the water and towelling herself dry. Dressed in her bathrobe, she went back into her room, still floating on the memory of her orgasm – and realised that Marcus was standing at the foot of the bed.

  He was wearing a short toga of deep burgundy, cinched at the waist with a plain rope belt. His manner was calm and his smile inviting, even a little mischievous.

  ‘Mistress, forgive me for being so inattentive this past new moon. Let me make amends and repay you with a paltry fraction of the gratitude my heart feels in return for what you have done for myself and The Lord Dalverton.’

  Before she had a chance to reply, Marcus moved in close to her, gently cupped her face in his large hands, and softly kissed her, allowing his tongue to slip into her mouth when she opened up to him. She reached up and felt his black curls as she pulled him closer, her other hand feeling for the knot of the rope belt, only to rest on his muscular hip as the toga vanished into thin air. As Gillian breathed him in – catching the hint of spiced oil mingled with his strong muskiness – she also took in his fighter’s physique. She felt the firmness of muscle, the round smoothness of his strength and, as her hand moved lower, the exciting, rigid heat of his erection.

  As he broke away from her, she felt another pair of arms encircle her waist and deftly untie the belt of her robe. And as Daniel eased it over her shoulders he kissed the nape of her neck and nipped at it gently with his teeth, slowly letting the material caress her body as he lowered it, finally letting it fall to the floor around her feet. She felt the heat from his body against her naked back, then his hard shaft as it slipped down over her arse, planting itself firmly between her thighs.

  Gillian pushed back, and Daniel ran his hands over her hips and down to her groin. Through half-closed eyes, she saw Marcus go down on his knees in front of her as Daniel’s fingers gently opened her up to the Roman’s enthusiastic tongue. She leaned back against Daniel’s chest and felt him move down to kiss and lick the side of her neck and shoulder, then heard him gasp in pleasure as she felt Marcus slide a hand up between her legs to fondle Daniel’s balls, his cock twitching and pushing against her as the centurion worked on them both.

  Finally, Marcus ran his hand up her thigh, fingertips fluttering against her skin, and she shuddered at the start of her orgasm, gasping and crying out as he slipped a thumb inside her, her hands forcefully pulling his face hard against her as she came.

  Carefully untangling themselves, Daniel and Marcus gently lifted her up and placed her on her side in the centre of the bed. As she blissfully recovered, she saw them switch positions – now Daniel lay facing her, and Marcus was behind her. The centurion wrapped his arms around her waist, spooning her while Daniel kissed and licked at her breasts, sucking and nibbling on one nipple, then purposefully moving to work on the other. Me
anwhile, the Cavalier’s fingers fluttered between her thighs like bees around a flower.

  Marcus edged in closer then raised her leg, and she felt him probe with his cock until he found her entrance, hot and wet from all the attention. Then Daniel’s fingers eased and guided him in until he had filled her with his length. With slow hip thrusts he started to work in and out of her as Daniel continued to suck and tease her nipples.

  When the little tremors had begun to build within her again, Daniel moved off the bed and Marcus, holding Gillian firmly by the waist, rolled onto his back, carrying her with him. Still with his shaft inside her, he entwined his legs with hers, using them to gently spread her wider.

  On cue, Daniel knelt between their thighs, head down, and in the dressing table mirror, she caught sight of him first licking and sucking on Marcus’s balls, then running his tongue up and down the exposed inch or so of the Roman’s cock that wasn’t buried inside her. Then he moved on to sucking and nibbling on her clit as he’d done to her nipples moments before.

  With Marcus’s large hands kneading and massaging her breasts, she crashed headlong into another powerful orgasm. Feeling herself grip and squeeze on the cock inside her, as Daniel tongued her clit like a machine gun, she arched her back against the centurion’s restraining arms and powerful legs before collapsing back down onto his muscular body once more.

  Afterwards, she rested for a while, lying back on the bed and lazily toying with both their cocks until, in a moment of impulse, she straddled Daniel. With eager fingers she guided him into her, settling herself down and working on his shaft, urged on by the look of bemused ecstasy on his face. Resting her hands on his chest she bent down and kissed him, hungrily sucking his tongue into her mouth and tasting herself on his lips. Then she felt Marcus behind her, running his hands over her hips, his thumbs slipping between her cheeks and parting them.

  A heartbeat’s pause, then she felt his hot tongue teasing, licking, then firmly plunging into her. The combination of Daniel inside her and Marcus tonguing her rosebud felt incredible. But when Marcus replaced his tongue with his cock, she started to pant in anticipation.

  He was gentle and caring, slowly inching backwards and forwards, stretching her painlessly until she felt the head of his cock slip through her ring. Then she raised herself, braced her hands on Daniel’s chest, and pushed back onto Marcus until she felt his muscular stomach hard up against her arse.

  The feeling of two solid cocks inside her tipped her over into another powerful orgasm, and she ground her hips as she felt both Daniel and Marcus slide in and out, the incredible sensation of their cocks almost touching, and the rush as Daniel teased and tweaked her breasts.

  Then Daniel was thrusting upwards, pushing himself as deep as he could within her, while Marcus wrapped his arms around her, enfolding her with his body and pulling her onto him, snorting and panting as he came – the sensation within her totally new and invigorating. Seconds later, Daniel arched his back, almost lifting the two of them off the bed, and she felt the heat of him exploding inside her. The rush of energy was like nothing she had felt before, and the ripples lasted for some time – long after Daniel and Marcus had bidden her goodnight and left her to drift in and out of a peaceful, restful sleep.

  Gillian never got the contract from Clive Rushington-Hydes. Money problems, the recession, tumbling property prices – nothing seemed to be going right for him. However, in recompense for the work she’d already carried out, he said she could have her pick of anything in Dashambly Hall that took her fancy.

  He was more than a little surprised when she chose to take only an unprepossessing Van Dessen oil painting, and a water-damaged book recounting the exploits of the Seventh Viscount of Maracay.

  Rite Place, Rite Time

  by Elizabeth Coldwell

  ‘If you really want to have a baby,’ Keeley said, imparting the information as if Melinda was a shy virgin who’d yet to learn about the birds and the bees, ‘you need to do it between the Lowdale Man’s legs when there’s a full moon. Everyone knows that.’

  ‘Oh, come on, that’s just superstitious nonsense.’ Melinda rose from her seat in the corner booth. She wanted to stay chatting for longer, not having seen her friend for ages, but according to her fertility thermometer she was at the peak of ovulation, and if she didn’t get home and into bed with Ryan in the next 30 minutes, their chance would have passed for yet another month.

  ‘You think so?’ Keeley asked, following her out to the pavement. ‘What about Jackie Mills, who works in the bookies’ on the market square? Or Mandy Graydon? Everyone knew her husband fired blanks, but they went up there, fucked like rabbits and next thing you know – twins. You tell me the Lowdale Man didn’t have something to do with that.’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe they just got lucky with fertility treatment.’ Giving Keeley a brisk hug of farewell, Melinda set off towards home at a trot. She didn’t believe in stories of mystical intervention where babies were concerned. It was like the one she’d been reading in the paper a couple of mornings ago, about the supermarket where six checkout assistants claimed they’d all fallen pregnant after sitting on the same chair. It was just random coincidence, nothing more. Life just didn’t work how people believed it did thousands of years ago.

  Yet, as she walked, she couldn’t help glancing up towards the vast bulk of Lowdale Hill, looming over the village. As she did, the moon came out from behind a cloud, briefly illuminating the chalk figure that gave the hill its reputation. The crude outline of a naked spear-carrier, his cock erect, dated back to pre-historic times. No one knew who had carved it there, or why, though it was believed to have been designed as the centrepiece of some ancient fertility rite. All Melinda knew was that it attracted visitors to the place and, indirectly, kept her in employment at the tourist information centre.

  Though she’d be happy to give the job up tomorrow, if it meant she was pregnant. She and Ryan had been trying for the best part of a year now. Every month she was convinced it would happen, and every month she was disappointed. It was putting an increasing strain on their marriage. Worse than that, it had turned their sex life – once so hot and inventive they’d fucked in every room in the house, played spanking games and even checked into a hotel under false names to enjoy a dirty weekend together – into one governed purely by her fertile periods. All the spontaneity, all the excitement had gone. She’d never imagined there’d come a time when riding Ryan’s cock would seem like a chore, but she knew the longer they went without conceiving, the more she would come to feel they were having sex because they had to, not because either of them particularly wanted to.

  Even so, she would never know quite why, as she straddled Ryan’s groin, guiding the round, lube-smeared crown of his cock between her pussy lips, she murmured, ‘How do you fancy taking this outside next time? You know, a blanket, a bottle of wine, just like we used to do when we were first dating.’

  ‘What’s brought this on?’ he asked, reaching behind her to unhook her bra and let her big, freckled breasts fall free.

  ‘Oh, nothing. I only thought it might be nice to try and bring some of the spice back, you know.’ She was careful not to mention her conversation with Keeley, or any indication of where she intended to take him for their al fresco fuck. Ryan had his pride, and she didn’t want him to feel she was resorting to desperate measures because he’d failed to impregnate her.

  Maybe, she thought as he slid deeper into her, tonight will be the night, then none of that will be necessary. But the moon would be full in two nights’ time, its pull impossible to ignore. Up on the hill, the Lowdale Man waited, seeming to beckon her through the gap in the curtains. She shut her eyes, put her fingers to her clit and brought herself to the orgasm that would, if she were lucky, drag Ryan’s sperm close enough to her freshly released egg to make the baby she craved.

  The walk up Lowdale Hill was longer and more arduous than Melinda had expected. Summer had returned with a vengeance and even now, well after sunset,
the air was still thick with unseasonable heat. The harvest moon hung low and unnaturally bright in the sky, appearing close enough to reach out and touch. Hand in hand, Melinda and Ryan made the slow ascent to the spot where the ancient warrior was carved, white chalk stark against the lush grass.

  ‘Here,’ Melinda said, placing the basket containing the picnic blanket and everything else she needed on the ground between the figure’s legs. ‘This is the perfect spot.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Ryan asked her. ‘We’re right in the middle of the Lowdale Man. What if someone looks up and sees us?’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to make sure to put a decent show on for them, won’t we? Come on, Ryan, doesn’t the thought excite you? Fucking out in the open, giving in to your animal instincts …’

  Brushing a hand over the front of his shorts, Melinda discovered a thick, promising bulge. Despite his protests, it seemed her husband was just as turned on by this adventure as she was. She hadn’t bothered with underwear tonight, and the knowledge that she was bare beneath her spotted sun dress was a horny little secret she’d hugged to herself on her climb, juice already slickening her pussy lips. When Ryan undressed her, she’d be more than ready for him; no need for her trusty bottle of lube tonight.

  Fishing into the basket, Melinda laid the blanket out on the grass, then produced a bottle and two plastic glasses. Searching for something alcoholic to get them both thoroughly in the mood, she’d discovered a bottle of home-made dandelion wine she’d forgotten they possessed. Ryan had won it in the tombola at the church fête the previous summer, and both of them had taken one look at the syrupy yellow liquid before consigning it to the back of the drinks cabinet. Still, it seemed to fit the “back to nature” mood she was trying to create, and she uncorked it and poured them each a generous amount.

  ‘Bottoms up!’ Melinda exclaimed, tapping her glass against Ryan’s.