Slave of Darkness

by Francesca Lewis

  ‘No.’ Marianne realised she sounded irritable, but she couldn’t help it. She wasn’t interested in the modern couple down the road, but the bizarre couple from the past.

  ‘I’ll have to go, the line’s breaking up,’ said Steve. ‘Miss you lots, can’t wait to get back. Bye.’

  The line went dead and Marianne replaced the receiver. She wondered why hearing from Steve hadn’t been more pleasurable. Only minutes earlier she’d been desperate for someone to comfort her, yet when her lover had rung her all she’d felt was an unexpected surge of irritation with him. She ran her hands over her breasts and realised they were still tender and sensitive. Suddenly she had to have satisfaction, had to reach the pinnacle of pleasure. Hurrying upstairs, she threw herself on the bed.

  She didn’t even bother to remove any clothing but instead thrust one hand inside her blouse and the other up under her skirt, rubbing at herself through her panties until she could feel the swollen nub of her clitoris. Closing her eyes, she pictured Sir Edward, and immediately her senses tingled as though he was there, caressing her. She moved her fingers in rapid circular motions against the silk material, thrusting her hips upward while her other hand rhythmically squeezed and released her breasts. At the last moment she slipped her hand inside her panties and eased one finger inside herself while her thumb brushed her clitoris so that, with a cry of pleasure, she climaxed.

  She supposed she should feel guilty because Steve hadn’t crossed her mind once, but she couldn’t help it. It was Sir Edward Sharpe who’d triggered her desire and she’d needed to picture him in order to satisfy it. ‘I wonder how I can get back,’ she muttered to herself. ‘If only I knew how to control things.’

  All through the rest of the evening she kept hoping her surroundings would change, but nothing happened. The house remained resolutely the way it should be, and finally she locked up for the night. ‘Don’t stay away too long,’ she whispered as she closed the study door, and she sensed that he wouldn’t.

  She shivered as she made her way to bed, knowing she was allowing herself to be drawn into a dark and dangerous world where sexual perversion was the rule of the day, and where her pleasure would always be earned at a price.

  Chapter 3

  Marianne was on the phone to her agent when Steve returned home the next day. She was in mid-argument and scarcely had time to acknowledge his arrival as he walked past her and up the stairs. By the time he came down she’d finished talking and hurried over to greet him.

  ‘You’re very flushed,’ he remarked. ‘Who were you talking to?’

  ‘Angela.’

  ‘What were you arguing about?’

  ‘I’ve decided to change my book,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘Change it in what way?’

  ‘I want to make it an historical novel.’

  Steve blinked. ‘You’ve always laughed at historical novels. Anyway, you’ve done the outline and been paid the advance, you can’t possibly change it now.’

  ‘Funny, that’s what Angela’s been telling me. You don’t happen to be a literary agent in your spare time, do you, Steve?’

  ‘Hey, don’t take it out on me!’ Steve protested. ‘You must admit, this isn’t like you. Anyway, you told me Moorhead House was perfect for writing your book.’

  ‘It’s even more perfect for writing an historical one,’ retorted Marianne. ‘It’s not going to be my usual kind of book, either. It’s going to be more physical.’

  ‘Physical?’

  ‘Do stop repeating my words,’ she snapped. ‘It’s like having a parrot in the house.’

  Steve looked hurt. ‘What on earth’s got into you? It’s hardly surprising I’m finding this difficult to take in. Your books are popular because they deal with emotions. Are you telling me you’re going to have explicit sex scenes in this latest one?’

  ‘Do you think I can’t write them?’

  Steve shrugged. ‘How would I know? The point is, do your readers want you to write them? And there’s another thing. Without wishing to be rude, a lot of other writers deal with that subject and have far more experience of it, I’d have thought...’

  ‘Perhaps I’d have more experience of it if you weren’t away so much,’ she sniped.

  ‘I didn’t mean real experience. I was talking about your writing.’

  Marianne sighed. ‘I know that. I’m just being tiresome. I’m sorry, Steve, but this is something I feel very strongly about and Angela didn’t understand. I hoped you would, but you’re the same as her.’

  Steve put an arm round her shoulders. ‘I don’t know anything about writing, and if you’ve got a passionate desire to write an historical novel that’s more sexually explicit than your books usually are, then go ahead. I just don’t understand why you’ve changed your mind or how you can expect your publisher to accept what you want to do. Why don’t you finish the book you promised them and then write an historical one?’

  ‘Because I can’t! The original book isn’t working. I’ve got to do this.’

  ‘So, exactly how physical is it going to be?’

  Marianne looked away from him. ‘Not very,’ she said evasively. ‘Let’s face it, our ancestors did have sex, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Sure, but sex is sex whenever it takes place. If the only thing you want to change is the sex content, why not put a bit more in the novel you’ve already started?’

  ‘Sex wasn’t the same then,’ said Marianne, her voice passionate. ‘It wasn’t all out in the open, something people could read about and watch on television. It was quiet, furtive and...’

  ‘And probably bloody boring,’ Steve concluded dismissively.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ she demanded. ‘Anyway, modern sex can be boring, too.’

  ‘Well thank you very much. This is a nice welcome home, I must say.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that personally,’ Marianne said hastily, although she knew she did. ‘What I’m saying is, perhaps in the past they had more exciting sex lives than we realise.’

  ‘Perhaps they did,’ he agreed after a pause. ‘But since we’ll never know I don’t see why you’re getting quite this worked up about it.’

  ‘You don’t understand what it’s like to have a story in your head and know that you’ve got to get it down.’

  ‘No I don’t,’ admitted Steve. ‘I like my work but I never feel that passionate about it. That’s something I envy you.’

  ‘Then you’ll support me in this?’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with me. It’s Angela and your publisher you’ve got to talk round.’

  ‘If they don’t like it I’ll send back the advance for the original book and then show them the finished manuscript for the new one,’ said Marianne determinedly.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ Steve protested. ‘We need the money – you know we do.’

  ‘I know, but right now the way I feel about this seems more important than the money.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ sighed Steve, running fingers through his hair. ‘This is a fine homecoming.’

  They fell into silence for a few minutes, and then Steve changed the subject. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I saw our neighbour, Graham, when I stopped at the local store earlier. I’ve invited him and his wife over this evening for drinks.’

  ‘Oh no. What did you do that for?’

  ‘Because I thought it would be nice if we got to know some people around here,’ he said abruptly. ‘I don’t want to live in splendid isolation, even if you do. When I’m away you can shut yourself off from the whole world for all I care, but when I’m here I like company.’

  ‘And I’m not enough company for you?’ demanded Marianne.

  ‘We’re only talking about a couple of hours. We’ve been together too long now to need to be alone every minute of every day.’

  ‘I’m not in a mood for visitor
s,’ she said sulkily.

  ‘I don’t know what’s happened to you since we moved here,’ he remarked impatiently. ‘I’m beginning to wish we’d stayed in London.’

  ‘You never wanted to come here in the first place,’ she retorted.

  ‘True, but I did because I knew how much it meant to you. What I didn’t expect was that it would change you. I don’t think you realise how much you’ve altered. You’ve become absolutely obsessed with the past and the history of the house. You’re even willing to jeopardise your work for it. It’s as though this house has cast a spell on you. If you ask me, it’s bloody spooky.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t ask you,’ she snapped.

  Ever since the meeting with Edward and Judith, Marianne had felt constantly on edge sexually. She wanted to be aroused and used in the way the phantom couple had used her, and she’d been longing for Steve to come back, if only to give her some kind of physical attention. After their quarrel she realised this wasn’t going to happen and shut herself away in the study to begin work on her new novel, only emerging reluctantly to change thirty minutes before their visitors were due.

  When they arrived she knew at once why Steve had wanted them all to become friendly. They were about the same age as them. Sandra was short and slim, her brown hair streaked with highlights and cut in a bob, while her husband was around six foot tall, his fair hair thinning slightly, his face amiable and his eyes intelligent.

  ‘Hi,’ said Sandra, holding out a bottle of wine. ‘This is a rather belated “welcome to your new home” present.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ said Marianne, smiling back at the other girl. ‘Do come through. What would you like to drink?’

  ‘So this is what the house looks like,’ said Graham, gazing about. ‘We always wondered. It’s pretty big for the two of you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Marianne’s Great-aunt Dorothy left it to her. It’s not the sort of place we’d have bought.’

  ‘Do you like living here?’ asked Sandra.

  ‘I love it,’ said Marianne enthusiastically. ‘Steve isn’t as keen. He thinks anything north of Watford is foreign territory.’

  ‘But it’s so peaceful here,’ said Sandra. ‘And the countryside’s so beautiful.’

  ‘It’s always cold,’ Steve snorted, with a laugh. ‘Doesn’t the wind ever stop blowing?’

  ‘You get used to it,’ Graham assured him.

  The next couple of hours passed pleasantly enough but Marianne found it very hard to concentrate on the conversations. Once or twice she totally lost track of what was being said and Steve had to rescue her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘It’s because I’m writing at the moment.’

  ‘Steve told Graham you’re a writer,’ said Sandra. ‘Is it fiction?’

  Marianne wanted to laugh. ‘It always has been,’ she said cryptically.

  ‘It is still,’ said Steve abruptly.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course it is,’ said Marianne hastily. ‘I just meant that at some time in the future I might want to write something non-fiction.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Graham.

  ‘I don’t know. A history of this house, perhaps.’

  ‘That would be interesting,’ agreed Sandra.

  ‘God, it’s all she goes on about at the moment,’ complained Steve. ‘Since we moved in here she’s become totally obsessed with the house’s history. I’m sure nothing very dramatic ever happened here.’

  Sandra pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure that’s true.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Marianne eagerly, leaning closer.

  ‘Well, I was born here,’ said Sandra. ‘And when I was young I can remember there were a lot of stories about this place.’

  ‘What sort of stories?’

  ‘Well, apparently, some time last century there were some rather strange goings-on here. I don’t know the details, of course, but it had something to do with a man, his sister, his sister’s companion and two servants. Local legend has it that there were some very unsavoury practices being indulged in, and visitors were kept away. After the brother died his sister vanished – terrified, or so they say, that without his protection local people would invade the house and discover her secrets.’

  ‘What kind of secrets?’ asked Marianne, her mouth suddenly dry.

  ‘I don’t know, I can only guess,’ said Sandra. ‘But it seems that none of them were any better than they should have been.’

  ‘That’s fascinating,’ said Marianne.

  ‘Sounds like a load of rubbish to me,’ said Steve. ‘Probably they just didn’t want to mix and that upset the locals.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s true,’ said Graham. ‘It’s bad enough here now. God knows what it was like in those days. You wait, Marianne, they’ll try and rope you in for all the local fêtes, bazaars, jam-making competitions...’

  ‘Of course they won’t,’ said Sandra. ‘You’re lucky, you’re too far out to get cornered. Because we live on the edge of the village I’m the one who gets dragged into that kind of thing. Anyway, I’m sure your work keeps you too busy for anything else.’

  Marianne opened her mouth to answer but suddenly the room started to grow dark and she gripped the sides of her chair with terror. Surely it couldn’t be going to happen now? Not with other people present. ‘Shall I put the light on?’ she asked uncertainly.

  Steve looked puzzled. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s getting dark.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re not used to the evening light here,’ explained Sandra. ‘Also, your lead-paned windows make it seem darker than it really is.’

  ‘Not that dark,’ said Steve. ‘You’d better have your eyes tested, Marianne.’

  She didn’t reply. She couldn’t, because right in the middle of the room, between where she was curled up in the comfortable chair and the sofa where Sandra and Graham were sitting, figures were appearing. She felt her pulse quicken. It didn’t seem possible that no one but her could see the apparitions. She didn’t recognise the young man kneeling on the floor. He was a sturdy, muscular lad of about nineteen with blond, wavy hair. The upper half of his body, which was naked, was tanned, as though he spent a lot of time outdoors. After he’d knelt down, Sir Edward led Tabitha across the floor and Marianne watched with stunned incredulity as, right in front of her and her visitors, he forced the girl to lie across the young man’s back.

  Tabitha was totally naked and Marianne heard her give a nervous cry as she was stretched back like a bow, with her long hair touching the carpet on one side and her tiny feet scrabbling to keep a contact with the floor. The young man’s muscles rippled but it seemed he could bear Tabitha’s weight quite easily.

  Marianne began to tremble. Her hands shook and she spilt some of her wine down the front of her dress. ‘Damn!’ she cursed, brushing frantically at it as Sandra, Graham and Steve glanced at her.

  ‘It’s not like you to waste wine,’ laughed Steve.

  ‘Would you top my glass up, please?’ she asked him, trying to control her voice, which was quavering with excitement and fearful disbelief. She was terrified that, by speaking, she’d drive the ghosts away. But they remained there, seeming as real as Sandra and Graham and Steve.

  ‘So do you think that’s true?’ asked Sandra.

  Marianne didn’t have a clue what her visitor was talking about. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Do go on.’ Luckily it seemed the right thing to say because Sandra continued talking, leaving Marianne free to watch the tableau unfolding in front of her.

  She realised that Sir Edward was holding a riding crop in his hand. He tapped it impatiently against his leather boots as he watched the quaking servant girl’s body with cruel deliberation while she whimpered and trembled. Her large breasts were thrust upward and Marianne couldn’t take her eyes off them. Neither could Sir Edward,
but he continued his observation of the girl for so long that she started to cry, obviously unable to stand the rising tension as she awaited punishment.

  ‘What about coffee, Marianne?’ asked Steve.

  Marianne jumped. ‘Coffee?’ she repeated stupidly, horrified to see that the ghosts from the past had started to blur at the edges. ‘I – I don’t want any.’

  Ignoring Steve and their visitors she resumed concentrating on the figures, and their outline became firmer once more. She let out a small sigh of relief as she realised she wasn’t to be deprived of this exciting moment after all.

  ‘I’d better get it,’ said Steve. Marianne realised vaguely that she’d put him in an awkward position, but she didn’t care. Nothing counted but what she was seeing. She simply had to watch, had to know what Sir Edward was going to do to the wretched servant girl this time.

  It wasn’t long before she found out. Eventually, having obviously decided that he’d kept Tabitha waiting long enough, Sir Edward raised his arm and, with deadly precision, flicked his wrist so the crop fell over the girl’s ribcage, curling round her torso and causing her to cry out with pain and shock. She was unable to move, however, because Sir Edward was standing over her.

  Marianne’s heart began to pound in her chest and she watched while the crop rose and fell time and time again. Every time it did, it left a bright red mark on Tabitha’s flesh. These never crossed each other. Sir Edward’s aim was accurate, and as he worked his way down Tabitha’s stomach the girl started to tremble violently, and Marianne knew the wretched girl was excited despite her torture.

  Plainly Sir Edward knew this, too, because now the end of the crop trailed in a teasing fashion up over the abused flesh and then round each breast in turn. Those breasts had so far been left alone, and Tabitha moaned.

  ‘No... no...’ she pleaded, her voice trembling, but Marianne knew the pleas were useless, and her excitement grew.

  For a second Sir Edward turned his head and Marianne could have sworn that he was looking directly at her. Then he turned back to Tabitha and she heard the whip crack in the air just seconds before it struck the girl’s exposed breasts. This time the servant uttered a piercing scream, but as the scream died away her whole body shook from head to toe and Marianne realised the wicked punishment had actually caused Tabitha’s pleasure to spill forth.