"A moment to tidy my hair," I told him as he pulled at the cloak and straightened his hat.
And no doubt shocked him more than did my sexuality when I disappeared before his eyes.
I wish I'd found out if it was Danverson Castle. It felt like it.
I also wish I knew why I had "I'm available for sex" stamped all over me in the past, while here I am called Sister Abigail.
Just in time, for there were voices on the stairs, her boss, the client he had at 2 p.m., and Jane with tea on a tray. Best be done with such thoughts at work, Abigail Brandon! Back to serious matrimonial problems and road accidents. Back to the essentials of life. Yes, but the fucking is my essential of life. And don't you forget it. Talking of which ...
She paused, rested a hand on the desk, thought about Des, who had left a message that morning that he would like to talk to her.
Should she see him again, after the disappointment of Saturday night? Could she encourage him to turn her over and spank her, or use that belt he so obviously flaunted at times? Or is it only me who thinks he's flaunting it? To him it might be natural to wear such a belt! It's just that I know different.
Would he do what his predecessor had done - thrash her long and hard and bring her to an orgasm that once she could not have dreamed of?
I thought the priest was good, she reminisced, tapping the disk and then putting it safely in the drawer. I thought the priest was good, and the gamekeeper the best ever.
Then I went to the City inn and got belted and fucked. Damned if that wasn't better than any of them. Before or since. But that's for a later chapter.
In the end it was easier to agree to another date; after all, she would have met up with Des at the evening classes anyway.
"I've given a lot of thought to the other night," he said, leaning closer to her, almost whispering. The Cricketers was crowded. Abbey was sure a karaoke evening was about to start up, something she couldn't stand.
"Me, too," she said truthfully, meeting his look. She didn't tell him, couldn't tell him, how she had left her flat and gone back to the old Des, the one with the belt and the ability to bring her to the closest thing to paradise for the few seconds/minutes/eternity the orgasm lasted.
"I think I let you down." He pushed his half pint of lager around on the coaster, watching the movement of the drink in the glass. "I think I should read your books and try to understand."
"It's all right," she said softly, but quivering inside. Yes, yes, yes! screamed her body, her thoughts, her mind. Would they reach him? Even if he wasn't by nature a man who could dominate - an expression she had come to learn through reading her books - he could have a go, and who knew what might happen?
But only a true born dominant will do, warned a small voice. A man like -
Lord Danverson. Now there was a man. Gave an order and I went running. Before I knew what being a submissive was all about. I left the ball, I went to his room, I waited for hours.
I did what he told me.
Without question.
Because -
"What do you think of the evening classes so far?" Des abruptly changed the subject as a couple came close, sat down at the next table; cigarettes and lighters, sharp smell of whisky and lighter scent of sherry and perfume.
"Bit boring," Abbey shrugged. "Might get more interesting when we come a bit closer to our time."
And I learn more about Danverson Castle.
"I agree, I don't think I'd bother much, except you're going to be there."
More people crowded in. The noise became overwhelming, cigarette smoke and heat intensified. Abbey decided she had had enough. She smiled, held out a hand.
"Shall we go?"
It was as open an invite as she could give him. With luck, in the subdued light of the shaded lamps of her flat he wouldn't notice the lines left by his ancestor's belt, the deep bruises that throbbed and burned and gave her thrill after thrill, an adrenalin high she rode for the entire night after getting back. Even after his lovemaking she had rolled and writhed around the bed with memories and vibrator slick with her body fluids, thrusting, manoeuvring, hips raised off the bed, head pushed back against the headboard, crying aloud the sounds she had not dared make even while knowing the inn was empty of all but her and the man she had visited. Twice.
And then she slept nearly all of Sunday.
"Sure." He drained the lager, and pushed his way out of the bar, opening the door on the coolness of a late September evening. Dark,, yet not quite dark, sun not quite ready to give itself over to the fingers of black which probed and pushed it below the horizon. An owl hooted, a crow called and cawed before settling for the night. Clouds were building, heavy rain clouds belly down with moisture, ready to weep over Walchurch.
"Looks bad," Des commented, pulling his jacket around his throat. "Let's go!" But Abbey was reluctant to hurry too much, wanting to enjoy the chill, the sense of warmth of the man next to her, his arm through hers, his step matched to her shorter ones. Cars raced by, hyphen of headlight and dash of red before they were gone on whatever errand brought them out into the streets at night: mysterious business or sensible ordinary errands, a mother to visit, a hospital or pub to visit, or just a lonely empty home. Or a loveless one.
My, I'm romantic and spiritual tonight!
In the semidarkness, the King's Theatre loomed large among the shops and offices, much as the castle must have done so many years before. Lights gleamed in the downstairs windows, where the good (elderly) folk of Walchurch gathered to play cards, buy subsidised drinks, swap gossip, and where overhead the theatre lay in complete darkness, with only the ghost of the lady in purple to walk the silent aisles.
"Must have been like Caerphilly Castle," commented Abbey suddenly. Des paused in midsentence about the chill.
"What must have been like Caerphilly Castle?"
"There." She gestured toward the centre. "The guide on that walk, when we first met, he said Danverson Castle was standing right where the theatre is now. In that case, the village must have grown up around the castle gate, much as Caerphilly Castle is now. And Skenfrith."
"I missed that bit."
"I'm interested in the Danversons, which is why I went on the walk, why I'm going to the classes."
"Danverson. They've a chapel of their own in the church, haven't they?"
"Yes." Abbey opened her front door with a practised swoop of the key, despite the dark. "Unfortunately I can't get in there, remember? It was all shut off for maintenance."
"That's right. Plenty of time for that."
Abbey let him in, went swiftly to the bedroom and collected up some magazines. No sense in wasting time. Whatever he thought.
"Here." She pushed the magazines into his hands as he sat on the sofa, looking completely at home. "Have a quick look at the pictures, take them home to read the stories. I'll make some coffee. Or tea. Would you prefer tea?"
"Tea would be better."
"Sugar and milk in tea?"
"No sugar, thanks."
The arms were as thick as mooring posts, hands as rough as tarmac; they could hurt, they could be dangerous, they could be painful, they could be wonderful. Abbey moved round her tiny kitchen area with practised ease, watching the kettle, setting out the mugs, spooning sugar into hers (forget the calories), pouring milk, thinking thoughts.
What was so special about the second time I went back to the inn for Des Mark I to thrash me?
The anticipation.
I knew what I was going for.
I had time to think about it, to plan for it. As I sat here stitching a white skirt back into a condition sufficient to take me back, I knew what I was going for.
Anticipation.
Fear.
Oh yes, definitely fear. But fear of the most pleasurable kind.
What made Lord Danverson special, different from all the others? She paused, hand on the counter, wondering. Of all her travels to the past, the ones to Danverson Castle had been different. The first and second tim
es she had gone there it had been for the atmosphere, for the thrill of moving among elegant and beautiful people. She hadn't approached anyone until the third visit when Lord Danverson approached her. And that alone made those visits different, for on every other occasion she had found someone, got satisfaction and come back.
Anticipation. Was that the key?
But I didn't know he was going to hurt me.
Oh no? What did the Mrs Dawson-Page lookalike warn you of?
Yes, but -
I knew nothing then of pain and pleasure, of s/m and all that it implied.
But you knew it was likely to be rough.
And you went. You obeyed his order, and you waited, with wet pussy and aching need.
You obeyed.
There is something in you that recognised the masterful man even then, without prior knowledge.
The tea brewed. Abbey picked up the tray and took it into the lounge, where Des sat surrounded by magazines.
"I'm only looking at the picture stories for now."
"Of course, you don't have time to read it all. Read a few readers" letters, though?"
"A few." He looked seriously at her. "This is important to you, isn't it?" He waved at the magazines. "You'd not invest this money if it wasn't."
"It's become important. It wasn't, not at first, but... I've recognised a need in me, and I have to do something about it."
"What do you do about it?"
She handed him a mug and took her own, searching for a few seconds" thought. It was a question she hadn't anticipated.
She lied, but it was only half a lie.
"I have a master, someone I can go to."
"Would you tell me who it is?"
She grinned. "You wouldn't expect me to tell you, would you?"
"Can I learn to be a master?"
"Possibly, but it's something that comes instinctively. But you could learn to pleasure me."
"Give me a chance, Abbey."
"Why is it so important to you?" She spoke lightly but feared the answer.
"I - I think you're something special. I don't want you to dump me just because I can't give you what you want."
Good enough for now.
"Drink your tea." She gathered up the magazines, stacked them neatly on the coffee table. "The girls at work call me Sister Abigail; they believe I live a pure and chaste life. If they knew what we were discussing now, that you were here, that you'd been reading magazines ..."
He laughed, and put the mug down, empty.
"Come here." His voice was thick with lust, knowing in advance what would happen after. Even if it was all new for him he was eager to try it all.
Abbey stood up and walked over to the sofa, responding with her usual surge of anticipation/sex/fear/need.
"I'm ... bruised," she said softly. He shook his head.
"No matter. Over here." He gestured towards his legs, and she obediently lay down over him, toes just touching the floor, the usual fear churning away at her stomach, coupled with the thrills that reached all parts of her.
"Like this, isn't it?" He pulled back her skirt, slapped hard at her cheek and she gasped. Harder than she'd thought.
"Like that," she agreed, anticipating a firm spanking. His hand was as rough as tarmac, and it did hurt, a lot. Certainly more than if she hadn't had bruises. Before he had covered her bottom with red blotches she was squirming and fighting (but not too hard for fear of putting him off), feeling the now-familiar sensations of pain and heat, of wanting it to be over yet longing for it to continue, thrilled at being made to take the punishment, knowing she needed it. She also registered his amateur efforts. After the firm expert spanking given to her by Sir Anthony, this was erratic, indiscriminate, not covering her as he should; but he could and would learn. It was, after all, a solid spanking, and he acted as if he meant it.
Finally he let her slide to the floor, where she lay, red-faced, running her hands through her hair, looking up at him, wondering how he had felt.
He looked puzzled.
"Abbey, it felt... right."
"So will this." She held out her arms and he slid to the floor, stripping off her panties, letting his fingers find her wet dripping slit, knowing she had loved it.
It was good, very good. Abbey lay there, letting the waves of feeling sweep through her, half her mind loving every moment of it, the other half wondering how much had come through from the past. For someone not used to s/m, he had done well, spanked hard, and - said it felt right.
There could be possibilities here, she thought, clinging to him and then giving up all thoughts of trying to rationalise everything in the waves of orgasm that hit her.
"The castle, which was then known as Walchurch Castle, was started around 925, as far as we can tell." Sheila put up another of the endless slides on the screen. Abbey cast a sharp glance at Des, who was taking notice of the lecture, not of her, for the first time that evening. "At that time the village would have been stone-and-timber houses, built around the castle for protection. The lord of the manor at that time was a Stewart, as far as we can tell. He started the castle building, which went on for over 20 years. Then there is a long period of comparative quiet and peace for the village. The timber wall around the church came down - the one which gave the village its name, incidentally - and the roads were improved, so trade could carry on.
"A Danverson apparently went to war in the Crusades, and came home victorious. It was the custom at that time for monarchs to reward those who pleased them with land and buildings. The castle was empty, the Stewarts not having come back from the Crusades, so he was given the castle and grounds. There were Stewarts around but if any had a good claim to the castle, it didn't work, and anyway you didn't argue with the king. Danverson renamed it Castle Danverson, built even higher defences for it, added towers and courtyards, and the Danversons ruled the village and the area from their castle for close on 600 years."
Abbey heard little more. For some reason when anyone mentioned Danverson or she thought about it, all other thoughts disappeared, escaped from her mind.
I wish I could go back again, she told herself, but...
Wishing wasn't enough. Something was holding her back from "borrowing" the red-and-black or even the purple dress and going back to that time, to attending yet another ball at the castle. She felt she knew the castle. When she slipped back there to reclaim her dress, it had been like ...
Coming home.
Trade and merchants, local dignitaries whose names she recognised, all dated from that time, from the Crusades onward. Old families, well established, with roots deep enough to reach Australia. What had happened to the Danversons? Why hadn't they survived?
And the Stewarts? There had been Stewarts here, who once owned the castle. Jefferson Nathaniel Stewart? Mrs Dawson-Page would have liked that bit.
"Coming, Abbey?" She jerked herself back to the present, accepted Des" helping hand to get through the cluster of chairs pushed every which way by the departing class, and went out into the cold dark night.
Soft rain fell, coating the roofs and pavements with a lacquered shine. Cars cried tears, swept them away with a blink of windscreen eyelashes, went on crying as they dashed for home.
"Interesting stuff tonight." He held a huge golf umbrella over her as they splashed through the puddles towards her flat. Without speaking about it, Abbey knew that's where they were going.
"Yes, lots to think about."
"Think about? I don't think so!"
"Well -" Hastily flustering to cover her own thoughts, she said: "You know what I mean, names and families from around here to look for when we next go shopping."
"Oh yes, that kind of thinking about, of course."
"It seems some people's roots go deep around here."
"They sure do. Does your family have contacts here?"
"I didn't think so until this morning."
When the letter had arrived. Cousin Stephen, doing some family research, looking for birth date and mid
dle name confirmation, and telling her how far he had gone.
Almost to 1750. And a definite connection with the Danverson family. Could it be that they were linked in some way, which is why she had found it so easy to slip back to Danverson Castle, never having any problems?
"Abigail is a family name," he wrote. "There's been quite a few, and certainly one or two in the Danverson family, so if you could let me know what middle name you have and confirm some dates, I'll see how it fits into the chart, and then let you have a copy later on."
Time of Her Life Page 9