Past Present

by Secret Narrative

  oOo

  Hand aching from writing, Matthew places the pen across the paper and walks through to the bathroom, admiring the pristine tiles and sparkling tub, a whirlpool, large enough for two or more…He turns on the taps and fills the tub.

  “Fancy a bath?” he returns to whisper in her ear.

  Immediately fully awake, she pulls him to her, parted lips meet, and familiar tongues joust in welcome.

  “Eleanor, let me bathe first, read the letter I’ve written you. It’s on the desk and after you’ve read, will you bring me a towel?”

  “Yes, darling.”

  Eleanor’s eyes travel Matthew’s distinctive hand as she reads the words he’s written. His haste is clear in the letter; the sure sweep of words is a little less defined than usual. She sits and reads, engrossed. Finally, laying the papers to one side, she walks naked to the bathroom where he is waiting. Echoes of his letter instruct, she goes to him and hands him a towel. He takes it and stands, small waves lap back and forth as he steps out of the tub. She wraps him and pulls him close, tenderly drying him as a mother with a child. Seeking out his secret places to drive out the moisture.

  The room is steamy, and apart from their hushed breath, and a dripping tap is silent. She allows the rhythm of the small splashes of water to beat a pattern in her head as she slowly makes progress down her lover’s torso, taking the towel with her; she drops it to the floor and kneels at his feet.

  His cock is erect, the deep red of the head glistens. She licks her lips and looks up through her fringe to gauge his emotion. His head is back, and his eyes are closed, she wonders if he is thinking of Annie as she takes his erection into the soft, warm tissues of her mouth. Carefully covering her teeth with her lips, she moves slowly along his shaft, aiding her tongue with light, yet firm strokes of her fingers, her other hand seeks his anus. His penchant for anal will be indulged today. He’s a little tighter than usual; the soapy bath has driven natural moisture away. She puts her fingers into her mouth alongside her tongue and wets them thoroughly before creeping back snurgling into his snug passage, simultaneously taking his shaft, deep, deep into her throat.

  “Oh, my god, oh, oh, Eleanor, I’m going to come.”

  She didn’t miss a beat but reflected on the words describing his first blowjob, the deep-throat that Annie provided, which changed his life. Heat gathered at the core of her, and she burrowed a finger deep into his rectum. Clamping her lips over his shaft, she sucked it so deep into her throat that there was nowhere else to go. Using her other hand to meet him, she times her own orgasm to receive the pulse of semen and breakfast.

  oOo

  Dawn on Christmas Day, aching from sex, and lack of sleep, I look down from our first storey bedroom. The garden below the window will soon throng with birds seeking winter sustenance. An ornamental pond sits in one corner and a tree of some sort that I still cannot identify stands central, circumnavigated by a bench seat. The sky is soft and pink, blossoming, a little as I did under Annie’s tutelage, the faintest blush slowing fades as white light intensifies. Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning. I silently recite the old saying as I watch the beginning day, slowly creeping forwards Falconworth is quiet, even the birds seem less vocal, and the usual, ever-present, distant hum of the motorway is absent on the one day of the year when modernity recedes and makes way for ancient tradition. I already know that the day will sit well at Falconworth. The manor is at peace with its surroundings, and there’s nothing left to do except look forward to the masked ball that Eleanor has planned for New Year’s Eve.

  I look at her neat form barely taking up any space in our bed. Her wraparound silk drapes one of the chairs and my mind travels to the task I set on the day she bought it. Her seamless metamorphosis as she carried out my tasks was, and still is, a joy to me. She immersed herself in the game, committing everything to record in the diary room. The perfect system, custom built into one of Falconworth’s priest holes.

  She bought Christmas stockings, which hang from the fireplace in our room. I’ve placed a gift for her in one, and she a gift for me in the other.

  “Can’t we use your stockings?”

  “No, Matty, we can’t. They’re far too sheer, they’ll tear. Don’t you think these are cute?” She held up the red felt Christmas stockings, trimmed in green and white.

  “I doubt that even you could make those sexy.”

  “Don’t frown so. You know they’re not supposed to be sexy. They’re festive and functional. I’ll hang them from the mantelpiece in the bedroom.”

  A grand ball is planned for New Year’s Eve. Apart from our private quarters, we hadn’t decorated Falconworth.

  “Next year we’ll be open, and I’d like to line the long gallery on both sides with Christmas trees. Real trees. Like the ones we saw at Hever.”

  We visited the Kent castle, and Eleanor had been almost childlike in her delight at the decorations, the numerous trees and exceptional grounds. Hever has a lake too, although it is far bigger than Falconworth’s; Eleanor blazed with inspiration and ideas.

  “Just think, Matty. Falconworth was originally built around the same time as Hever. It’s just been a little less cared for over the years.”

  “We’ll remedy that.” I squeezed her tight against me and kissed her hard.

  A giant Christmas tree had been erected in the courtyard in front of the small drawbridge. Parcel tags were provided so visitors could write wishes and tie them to the branches. Eleanor had delighted in reading them.

  “Let’s do that at Falconworth too. Adults only of course.”

  I jog myself back to the present.

  “We’ll sit there together,” I say, pointing the place beyond the window. “Drink tea and just be.”

  “Yes,” she says. “Come back to bed, Matty. Are you hungry?”

  “Famished.” And I prove it, eating at the core of her, her melting, writhing form, driving me onward. Her fingers lightly tangle my hair until at last, I move up her body, stealthily, like a cat-burglar on a fragile roof. Millimetre by millimetre, our glowing bodies, slippery from coddled sleep and lazy sex, my cock aches, is iron hard, and I’m eager to bury it, deep, deep within my lovely Puss.

  “Matty, oh Matty,” she sighs, grasping me, encouraging me home.

  I feel my way into the depths of her molten channel, and finally I am home, we sigh in completion as I ride her. She bucks up a little, meeting each thrust, sighing my name. A flash of Annie’s face enters my mind, and dances there, pirouettes en pointe, a prima ballerina in my brain. I banish her - as I always banish her. My puss is my life now. There will be no other in my head, even when we have others in our bed.

  I deliver the essence of my first Christmas gift as she presses to me, and place kisses, gently on her eyes, nose and mouth. Her tongue darts out and hooks me in, we roll together, and she playfully pins me down, and we are ready to face the world again, glowing, satiated. For the time being.

  oOo

  Later, in the snug, she lights candles while I light the fire. The flames dance in synchronicity as if choreographed, accompanying us as we tear the wrapping from our presents.

  “You first,” she says, glowing.

  My gift reveals a book. The bright yellow paperback gleams in the soft light. “I’ll open the absinthe,” I say. “And while we sip, we’ll play a few of these games, shall we?”

  “Ooo, yes, Matty. This time I’ll win.”

  “The book says that they are games I can’t lose, apparently.” I smile as if in jest.

  “We’ll see.” Giggling she prepares cocktails. “Hmm. ‘Pour one jigger into a champagne glass; add iced champagne until it has opalescent milkiness. Drink three to five of these slowly.’ Shall we do as Hemingway says?”

  “Yes. We should use saucer glasses, apparently modelled on Marie Antoinette’s breasts, did you know that?”

  “We don’t have those. Flutes will have to do.”

  oOo

&nb
sp; “Shall we have a game of chess?”

  I watch his fingers as we play. There is no hesitation in his scheme. His thought processes are not written for me to read, analyse, and plan my next move. I imagine his hands as they would have looked at the controls of his aircraft. A Tornado, built for two, pilot and navigator in tandem punching through the sound barrier with military ease.

  My tissues moisten. I wish I could have seen him in the flesh, known him then, held him in his flying suit as he sucked at me. Sometimes, I wish I was Annie. His Annie. Still, if I were, I would not have him. We would not have Falconworth.

  I cannot tame my mind; it hops, skips and jumps like a rabbit in a nursery rhyme.

  At the same time that I bought his little stocking-filler gift, I bought a little something for myself too. I do not let on to Matthew. I guess it may be cheating, but since he beats me, outright, when we play chess, I decided to give myself a small advantage. Not that he ridicules my ignorance of the game, but I don’t have an understanding of the inner workings. In a cunning pre-game move, I bought Chess for Dummies and memorised the chapter on Openings. Committing the first few moves to memory is better than nothing and an improvement on my previous zero knowledge factor. I also went online and followed a couple of podcast tutorials. I am nothing if not enterprising.

  Knowing that Matthew is ever the gallant and thinks of me as his White Lady, I always have the white pieces, and therefore, always move first. Usually, it makes no difference, but today, I implement my ad hoc lessons.

  “Oh, Matty, that’s superb early development,” I congratulate after a few moves, as suggested by the book and enjoy his startled rapid blinks as he tries to keep his face neutral.

  I make three more moves, managing to hold my nerve, albeit temporarily, and throw in a few more compliments designed to wrong-foot him.

  “Check and Mate.” He smoulders ruthlessly before I have a chance to resign with grace. “You lost magnificently, Eleanor,” he says. “Your first few moves were inspired.”

  I decide not to share news of my studies. “Oh dear,” I say, but smiling, remove my blouse and drop it to the floor, where it joins its comrades (do you want to say its comrades? Just my other clothes). My mute, discarded garments mock me and as yet, in a clear show of his superior gaming, he is fully clothed.

  I consider my options. Maybe I am out of my depth.

  “Shall we try another?” he says. “Something that may even up the score? What about Do As I Do?”

  “Oh, goodness, Matty, I’m sure to lose.”

  “It’s an easy drinking game. We need a top-up. Fetch the pitcher and pour us each another absinthe. Lovely. Okay, Puss, do as I do.”

  I watch as he takes a deep slug of his drink, and follow suit. He salutes again and raises his glass, and I take another swallow, only to see him spit his mouthful back into his glass.

  “I win,” he laughs out loud. “You swallowed.”

  “I always swallow, Matty. You know that.”

  “True. But you’ve got another forfeit. You’ll have to remove another delicious layer.”

  “I’m not terribly good.”

  “You look good to me.” He fixes his eyes on the ivory lace of my bra. The half-cups allow a swell of flesh; the underwire lifts and pushes me upwards. I am voluptuous.

  “Your bra next, I think,” he says, “We’ll leave the panties until last.” He eyes the scrap of lace that covers my pussy.

  Moisture trickles my answer. I smile too. He cannot see my desire. Not yet.

  “Shall we play another?” he says, “I like my present already. It’s a thoughtful gift.”

  “Am I going to lose?” I say.

  “Without doubt.” He smiles again.

  “There’s no need to be quite so cocky.” Smiling, I meet his eyes. I love him so. I swallow another mouthful of absinthe. Its milky iridescence disguises its true nature as it burns its way downwards. My toes curl, and I’m unsure if it’s the alcohol or the anticipation of Matthew’s hard, urgent cock pressing home.

  “What about this one,” he says, pointing to another section in the already well-thumbed book.

  “Matty, tell the truth, did you peek at your present? Did you read the book before today? Before I wrapped it up and put it in the stocking?”

  “Eleanor, really. What a thing to say. Are you suggesting that I would cheat?”

  “No, of course not, but the book seems a little, erm, used.”

  “Silly goose, I’ve just been a little hard on it. It’s quite flimsy, see…”

  He waves the book under my nose to prove his point. I suspect that all is not as it seems, and wonder if he too has taken advantage of a little extra-curricular.

  “Okay, you’ve made your point.” I pretend to sulk but can barely conceal my delight at the prospect of another game and the chance to even the score. “Let me pick this time.”

  “All right, but you mustn’t peek at the method, just point to the name of a game.” He hands me the book and I leaf through it.

  “This one.”

  “Okay, wait there, I’ll have to find a hat.”

  “Will my woolly hat do? It’s in the pocket of my coat on the peg in the cupboard.”

  “That’ll be fine. I’ll be right back. Refill our glasses while I’m gone.”

  Sitting opposite each other again, absinthe on the table in front of us, Matthew covers his glass with my hat.

  “I’ll bet you those divine little panties that I can drink my absinthe from that glass without touching the hat.”

  “Well, since I don’t see how you can possibly do that, I’ll accept your wager, and when I win, I want to choose your forfeit.”

  “When, eh?” Matthew chuckles. “Fine.”

  He ducks under the table and makes loud, drinking noises, slurping and glugging noisily. Reappearing, he wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

  “That’s it, the drink is gone.”

  “No, Matthew, it’s not. You’re just silly. It’s not possible.”

  “You’re wrong, Eleanor, but since you don’t believe me, go ahead and check for yourself.”

  I reach out and raise the hat, and in a flash, Matthew takes the glass and swallows the contents in one gulp.

  “You lose, Eleanor,” he coughs. “I didn’t touch the hat, you did…”

  “Oh, Matthew, I can’t believe I fell for it…” I can’t help laughing as his cough subsides. “Cheers!” I down my own drink in one swallow and rise to my feet. His eyes follow my fingers as I hook the panties and slowly pull them down.

  “Stop right there.” His words are a bark. My panties at my knees. “Turn around, bend over.”

  I do as he says, and halt the lace halfway down my legs, nestled against the nylon of my nude stockings, a few inches above the tops of my favourite knee-high boots.

  “Bend over a little more. Oh, Eleanor, you look ravishing. I’m tempted to stripe your pretty cheeks.”

  I anticipate the bite of bamboo and a ripple undulates my flesh.

  “You’re so damn tempting. I may have to break my own rules. Take them off, Puss and come sit on my lap.”

  My heart acknowledges the promise of pleasure and skips a beat as I settle myself, my bottom snug in the cradle of his lap, my spine supported by his chest. I lean my head back and allow him to play. He is trapped in his clothing, but I know he likes the imprisonment of his cock. My legs are wide; the light, cool air touches my pussy, her inner folds exposed. My legs, wide, wider, widest.

  His fingers find their target, he is dexterous, and within seconds, I am silently screaming for relief. I say nothing and let him play. I try to still the tumult of sensation twisting my cells. He slowly trails his fingers in the wetness of my longing.

  “Oh, god, Matty, oh, god…” I moan as my orgasm overwhelms me. I cannot hold back any longer.

  “Too soon,” he growls. “Onto all fours.” He gently pushes me off his lap and tumbles me to the floor.

&nb
sp; I right myself and do as I am bid.

  “I must punish you. Wanton, disobedient, Puss.”

  He fastens my collar around my neck, attaches the lead and ties the looped end around one of the upright chairs. I am his prisoner. My knees and elbows support me.

  “Do not move a muscle, Puss.” I hear him strip and suddenly he is there in front of me, my eyes level with his torso.

  “Look, Puss, look how I melt for you.”

  A bead of moisture nestles like a jewel in the velvet of his cap and I lick my lips in anticipation of a taste of him.

  “Greedy girl,” he says and seems mesmerised by the tip of my tongue as it makes a slow circuit of my lips’ tissues. “You must not taste yet. I have your punishment to see to.”

  He crouches. “Open wide.” He pushes my discarded panties into my mouth to form a gag, and jerks the lead for good measure. Moving out of my field of vision he comes to a halt behind me. I squirm. I know he adores buggery; he especially relishes my rectum since he took my anal virginity on a balcony in Venice. Mounting me against the balustrade, my shock gave way to stunning pleasure as he rutted and rode us home.

  He parts my cheeks. I want to grunt. My breath flares, burning in my nostrils. I leak. My eyes, my nose, my mouth, my pussy. His Puss leaks for him, secretions of lust drop pearls one by one. Moisture gathers at my hub and I may come again before he has even penetrated me.

  He lubes both his cock and my anus. I flinch when cold gel meets hot flesh. I sizzle silently as he sheathes his length and presses the latex covered head into me. Plunging, aided by his hands on my hips. The restraint at my neck intensifies the sensation as he plunders. I mewl as he fills me, his cock sheathed to the hilt in my heat. I am ripe and split like a lush fruit. He gorges on my soft, mushy, inner flesh, rocking his hips into me, against the swell of mine as he holds me and buries himself. I moan.