Time of Her Life

by Josephine Scott

  "I did." Abbey turned the pages slowly, accepted the glass of champagne, felt the bubbles hit her nose. I'll read it later.

  Des was waiting for her outside the door, smiling, doffing a pretend hat.

  "A true stage-door Johnny, that's me." He took her hand.

  "Never thought I'd be waiting outside a theatre for someone! You were good, Abbey."

  "Thanks." She patted her bag. "Mr Melville, the caretaker, gave me a book about Walchurch ghosts. He said I made a good ghost."

  "You're getting quite a collection of Walchurch books." He grinned. "Come on, we're going for a meal to celebrate your success."

  I hope that's all we're celebrating, thought Abbey, with a touch of anxiety. I feel he's getting altogether too serious about me.

  Over dinner, with the clink of silver on china, the murmur of voices, the rustle of linen - reminding Abbey of her lunches with Kenneth Thompson and making her wonder why he hadn't called lately - Des asked:

  "What are you doing about Christmas, Abbey?"

  "Christmas? That's two months away!"

  "Only eight weeks, in fact. I wondered if you'd be going home at all."

  "No. I left under a cloud. I shan't be going home."

  "Not even for the festive season?"

  She paused, knife and fork suspended above her plate, looking at the finely cooked food, wondering why she had a sudden craving for spit-roasted pig and boiled vegetables. Why the scent of mead and mulled wine should suddenly reach her. Why the dripping of greenery from stone walls should seem more desirable than paper decorations and tinsel.

  "Not even for the festive season," she said, and went on eating.

  "Would you ... spend Christmas with me?"

  "Des." She rested her hands on the edge of the table, looked at him, saw the longing in his eyes and smiled. "Shall we decide nearer the time? Right now I've just been in a play, I've a ton of work at the office, I don't really know how I feel about Christmas or anything." And that's the truth, she thought, if you leave out Lord Josiah Danverson and his curled beard, his castle and his strength. Leave out the daydreams I keep having about him, and the way I'm drawn to his tomb in the church. And I keep denying myself the sight of him, for it hurts to see him dead.

  Hurts more than I thought it would. The memory brings a pang that is almost a physical pain.

  "Okay, I'll ask you at the end of November."

  "That will be better. I might have sorted myself out by then. You came as a surprise; I didn't intend to let anyone in my life!" She smiled to counter the statement, saw his answering grin, hoped she had possibly placated him for a while.

  A couple at another table finished their meal, saw them, came over to talk. Friends from the party. Damn, thought Abbey, smiling and joining in the conversation, if I'm not careful we'll be talked of as a couple and I don't want that.

  What do you want?

  I want to go back for Christmas.

  The thought came with a jolt, made her almost spill her wine.

  "Are you all right?" Concern lanced across the table. She nodded, said goodbye to the friends, turned back to Des.

  "Fine, just a spasm. You know how it goes: too many tense muscles suddenly unlocking themselves."

  "I know of a good way to unlock tense muscles." He grinned, with a lascivious look. Abbey grinned back. Tonight it would be fun to surrender to Des.

  Partly, at least.

  The flat felt warm. The heating had come on while they were out, giving a welcoming feel to the rooms for the first time in ages. Abbey dropped her bag on the coffee table and turned to take Des in her arms.

  "Now, what was it you had in mind?" she whispered in his ear, feeling his tongue dart at her lips, his arms strong enough to lift her off the ground, as he had done several times.

  "I had this in mind." He touched his leather belt. Abbey drew in a breath. Des had not tried that before; he had stuck to smaller things - her slipper, his hand, a ping-pong bat which had stung like crazy.

  Fear shocked her to her bones. What if he isn't any good, what if the belt goes everywhere, what if - ?

  But there was only one way to find out. She kissed him again, took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

  "Let me." He gestured at her clothes.

  "Sure." She stood passive, raising and lowering her arms, lifting and lowering her legs, letting him slowly disrobe her, lips and tongue everywhere, around her nipples, her neck, her navel, her secret place, dry and cold right now. When he touched her shoulder she lay down and waited, scared, yet thrilled, clutching the coverlet with both hands.

  "I've been practising," he told her, as if he had read her thoughts. She heard the whisper of leather leave material as it slid through the loops. A pause while he wrapped the buckle end around his hand. She felt a moment of pure apprehension before the belt landed with devastating force clear across both cheeks.

  "Ouch!" she looked round, saw the devilish grin he wore, saw the belt fly through the air a second before it hit her again. Sight helped anticipation rush to meet the pain, causing an explosion of emotion. "You're hurting!" she gasped, struggling with herself to lie still, to take it. She knew she was getting wet immediately, felt the pain, longed for him to stop, longed for him to do it again.

  "Of course." The belt landed again, nearer her thighs, she tossed her head in denial, cried out, but took it, the leather landed again, and then twice more.

  "I think that'll do you," he murmured, pulling her toward him, examining the weals, running his hands over the hot flesh, letting his finger slide into her crack. She rolled on the bed, moaning.

  "That'll do nicely," she tried to jest, longing to rub, wanting to keep the sting as long as she could, feeling the shock of the pain reach her toes and her innermost places. "You have been practising! Who with?"

  "Not who, what." He rubbed gently, causing her to wince and then try to roll over. "Keep still, I want to look! I used a pillow, and perfected my aim before attempting it on you. I didn't want the belt flying everywhere and nor would you!"

  "Too right." She felt herself go even moister and then his fingers found her opening, found the sensitive pressure points, found her G spot.

  The coupling was swift, almost savage in its intensity, Abbey thrusting and writhing to gain every sensation she could, Des determined to pace her, to keep her going as long as he could. Abbey wrapped her legs around his waist, urged him on with urgent thigh muscles, breathed in his musk and sweat, saw the tattoos close to her face, and wondered fleetingly if she should question them, but let them blur as he moved against her, closing her eyes as they both exploded in a simultaneous orgasm that left them shattered.

  For a full 10 minutes they lay still, exhausted, while Abbey traced a finger down his back and he lay with his eyes closed, his hands resting on her breast and occasionally tweaking a nipple.

  "I'm beginning to get a feeling for what a dominant really goes through," he told her after a long silence in which their breathing was the only sound and movement to disturb the silent bedroom. "I'm now getting some pleasure out of actually beating you, my girl, so watch out."

  "Good," she breathed in his ear. "About time. You've had enough practice!"

  "Talking of time, it's time I went home." He stirred, got up, and began to dress. Abbey found some tissues and attempted to clean up some of the come, wondering why it was always such a messy afterglow. There has to be a way of having the glow without the mess!

  She put on her robe, saw Des off, and went to take a leisurely bath, letting the hot water soak away all her tensions. That had been good, but Des still had a long way to go. Still asking to do things, undress her, copping out at six. But then he was a novice, she warned herself, still learning. He would appreciate her reaction tonight, it was the best lovemaking ever. With him.

  Back in her bedroom, she slid under the duvet and picked up the ghost book, leafing through the pages almost idly, not really expecting to find anything, only wanting her thoughts side tracked for a little whi
le before finally giving way to sleep.

  It seemed there were a lot of ghosts in Walchurch; the usual headless horseman passing the White Hart; an old lady who supposedly haunted the park and the lake, and was said to have drowned in the lake in 1811; a child said to have died while cleaning the chimney of Dane House. But these did not interest Abbey. She turned the pages swiftly, looking for the lady in purple.

  The Kings Theatre-cum-Community Centre has its own ghost, a lady from the time of Charles I.

  On the site of the theatre was a castle belonging to Lord Danverson, a local dignitary and lord of the manor. The castle was destroyed by fire in 1750, but it did not stop the lady in purple from haunting the place. Various descriptions have been recorded. Overall it appears she has black hair caught up in a white cap, and wears a flowing purple dress with a wide lace collar, very typical of the period. She is said to walk what were the walls of Danverson Castle, now incorporated into the theatre building. She walks as if trying to be silent, looking around her as she goes. She then climbs the stairs and disappears.

  No one knows who the lady really is, or is supposed to be. One theory is that she was the wife of Lord Danverson, and is perhaps searching for something.

  Abbey closed the book, marvelling at how a simple act like retrieving a dress from the past could create a legend.

  She frowned, thinking over what she had just put into conscious thought.

  To me, the travelling comes easy. I accept it as a fact of life. But if I were to tell anyone, Des, or friends at work, they'd think me insane. To travel back, to have sex with different men, to come back here again, would be a wonder to them. Now look, I've created a legend, a real ghost! She got up, felt her bruises and smiled. Good try, Des, good try, but you're nowhere near as good as your ancestor, and never will be. He meant it, and he didn't stop at six, either. Nor would he!

  I have to somehow wean you away from me, divert you to another path. You're not the man for me, much as I'd like to think you were.

  You don't measure up to the men in the past. And that's one piece that isn't going in the commentary, for sure.

  I'd never hurt you, but...

  You're no Lord Danverson and never will be.

  The furniture glowed under the light of the afternoon sun, tassels, braids, covers, thick bulky furniture that looked as if it could only be moved by a strong man with strong arms.

  The man stood by the window, gazing pensively out at the topiary and clipped yews. He wore a cutaway coat, waistcoat, stiff collar and cravat and had an expensive gold chain holding it all in place.

  The room was heavy with the scent of pot pourri and the gathered blooms in the huge cut-glass vase on the highly polished table.

  The man turned as Abigail approached. She almost caught her breath for he was the identical twin of Alfred Fitzpaine.

  "I didn't ring, did I?"

  "No, Sir." She curtsied slightly, her heavy black dress scraping the floor, the white apron rustling stiff with starch.

  "I don't remember seeing you here before. What's your name?"

  "Brandon, Sir."

  "Brandon, eh? From Walchurch?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "New, are you?"

  "Just arrived, Sir."

  "So - what are you doing here?"

  "To see if there was anything Sir needed."

  "Nice of you. What have I done that you should be so attentive to my needs? Don't you have enough to do?"

  "There's always enough to do here, Sir, but -"

  "You came to see if there was something I needed. As it happens, there is." He slumped into a chair and waved a languid white hand at her. "A stiff drink, if you please, heavy on the whisky, light on the water."

  "Sir." Abigail curtsied again and crossed swiftly to the large cabinet, finding the drinks easily - no doubt they had been moved to the front for easier access. Abigail thought Lord -Fitzpaine? - had consumed a few drinks this afternoon.

  From outside came the sound of croquet mallets hitting the balls, cries of dismay or pleasure as a score was made or not made.

  Will I score?

  "Sir." She offered the whisky on a silver tray and stood back, waiting for approval or disapproval. He looked at her over the top of the glass, sipped the drink and nodded.

  "It'll do." She turned to go but he called her back.

  "Is Lady Fitzpaine eating with us?"

  "I - I don't know for sure, Sir."

  "Well, she wasn't that well at lunch, so perhaps it would be best if she ate in her room. In the meantime ..."

  "Sir?"

  "You seem vaguely familiar. You must have been here a while."

  "No, Sir. Just arrived today."

  "Strange. I could have sworn - "

  "You might have seen me in Walchurch, Sir."

  Come on, stop wasting time, thought Abigail desperately. Her thoughts must have reached him for he drained the glass in one swallow and put it down.

  "Come."

  "Where to, Sir?"

  "Wherever I say."

  She followed him through the ornate hallway, hung with rich brocade curtains and brooding portraits. A profusion of dead animals poked their heads through the walls, mute displays of prowess with guns.

  The stairs were smooth, polished dark with age and use, the bannister carved in flowing scrolls. They passed a worried maid, who stood back, eyes downcast, and greeted them with a small curtsey and a muttered "Lord Albert" as they went by.

  "Staff these days at least know how to keep their place," Lord Albert commented, throwing the words over his shoulder casually. Abigail smothered a smile.

  Albert. Alfred. Close enough. What if I were to tell him his descendant is a pompous accountant who becomes a human being only when he gets into a theatre and has a bunch of contrary and often turbulent amateur actors to direct?

  "If you're really not busy I have something I'd like to do this afternoon."

  The door of a bedroom was thrown open. Inside lay the opulence of gilt and brocade, rich carpeting, tasselled and beaded hangings, silk bedcover, mirrors everywhere. "Her" mirror was over the hearth. Abigail moved carefully around it, not wanting to be thrown back to the future, not yet.

  "I'm taking it for granted you know why we're here," he said, stripping clothes off so fast it was a wonder they didn't tear. Good tailoring, thought Abigail, as she unbuttoned her dress.

  "Of course, Sir."

  "And you don't mind?"

  "Why else am I here?" she murmured, stepping out of the dress and leaving it in a crumpled black heap, a discarded shadow by the side of the bed.

  He walked over to her, gripped both her arms, slid them around his neck, lifted her, pushed her back against a wall for support and fumbled with his cock, sliding it, ramming it, into her dry, unready body. Abigail automatically locked her legs around his waist, held on while he pumped away at her, worrying about this one. No foreplay, no anticipation, not even so much as a kiss!

  It was all too fast. Within seconds of entering her, he came, lifting her up and letting her almost fall to the ground. She stood still, saying nothing, not daring to move, not daring to think that was all she had come back for, that few seconds of feeling.

  Then he loooked down at her and sneered.

  "Not a movement, not a flicker from you." She watched him closely, detecting a familiar lustful look. "Right now what do I need to do to make you react to me? Hmm?" He walked around her, poking her breast, her cheeks, her arms. "Insolence! Not a movement, not a reaction to me! I know, I have just the thing for you."

  "But, Sir - " Abigail cut off the word when she saw his grim look. Obviously he had expected more, but hadn't given her the chance to do it.

  He crossed the room, pale buttocks jiggling in the late afternoon sun, his cock growing hard again as he rummaged in a drawer. Abigail watched with growing apprehension as he exclaimed, "Ah-ha!" and turned, holding a small plaited dress whip in his hand. "For those who dare to come brazen into a man's bedroom, even by invitation! A se
vere beating, don't you think?"

  Abigail was speechless. She hadn't experienced a whip before - she had no idea whether she could stand it.

  "Lie down." She still hesitated, watching as he produced cords from another drawer. "I won't ask you to be still, I'll make sure you lie still. Now, lie down!" She lay on the silk coverlet, feeling the chill silk against her skin, the roughness and tightness of the cord as he bound her wrists and ankles to the bedhead and the legs. He muttered as he worked, mouthing curses about insolent sluts who come to work for the upper classes and expect to be treated like equals, those who didn't appreciate a good man when they had one, whether he be their employer or not.