Belinda examined the idea, realising she had unconsciously been feeling the same way herself. It was tempting, but there were some practicalities to be considered. ‘What about the car? We’ve got to get it fixed. And we can’t just forget about Paula, you know,’ she said, referring to the friend they had agreed to meet. ‘She’ll be wondering what’s happened to us.’
‘She could come here,’ suggested Jonathan.
Belinda shook her head. ‘We can’t just invite someone else to stay. It isn’t our house. And whoever owns it might want us out today.’
Even as she said it, Belinda knew she was wrong. She didn’t know why or how she felt it, but she had a weird instinct that the priory’s ‘master’ – the sleeping man in the tower – desperately wanted them, or maybe just her, to stay in his house. A wave of desperation swept through her; not her own but emanating from elsewhere. She felt cold, very suddenly, and shivered.
‘Are you OK, love?’ said Jonathan, shuffling closer and sliding his arm around her. ‘You haven’t caught a chill, have you?’ He touched a hand solicitously to her brow.
‘No, it’s all right. I’m fine,’ she answered, despite the fact that she was experiencing a weird mix of emotions. Puzzlement; foreboding; excitement; arousal. They were all swirling around inside her, and she couldn’t understand where such a medley was coming from. Especially the huge rush of desire, which had just arrived, like a cyclone, out of nowhere. She had gone from a state of being mildly turned on by Jonathan to wanting him passionately, all in the space of a few seconds. Twisting in his hold, she slid a hand around the back of his neck and drew his face towards hers for a kiss.
Jonathan balked, his eyes filled with questions, then succumbed as Belinda tightened her grip. She could almost taste his confusion as his willing mouth opened, but he accepted the strong probe of her darting tongue. She felt him sigh as she pushed him back on to the bed.
In the tower, André von Kastel opened his eyes and smiled, feeling vital energy begin to flood through his body. ‘I am in your debt,’ he said, thanking his distant guests.
Stretching, he tested his capabilities. He was limber, and physically more powerful now, but not back to his full, normal strength. Though the curtains were tightly closed, he sensed that it was afternoon, so there was still some way to go in his restoration. When night fell, he would be all that he had ever been, thanks to a pair of stranded lovers beneath his roof.
Slowly, cautiously, he sat up, feeling a little fragile at first but after a moment gaining control of his equilibrium. Pushing his fingers though his hair, he untousled it a little, suddenly longing to bathe and refresh himself, and to dress again in newly-laundered clothing and to feel it crisp and clean against his skin. For all his peculiar affliction, he was still, in baser matters, completely human, and during his long sleeps he perspired like any man. What’s more, there were splashes of dried semen on his belly and his thighs, and its lacquer-like consistency tugged at him minutely.
Can I stand? he wondered, swinging his bare legs over the side of the bed. Leaning heavily on the carved oak bedpost, he put his weight on his feet and pushed his shaking body up to a standing posture.
His head spun and his knees felt like jelly, but reaching out from within, he drew more strength from his unknowing guests. They were inducing great pleasure in each other now, with their caresses and their strokings, and their growing rapture was a well-spring he could draw on. Bracing his legs, he stood straight, just swaying slightly.
André was just about to take his first step when there was a soft knock at the door. After a moment it swung open to reveal Feltris, the youngest and shyest of his three silent servants. She was carrying a silver tray with some small objects on it, and she bobbed a curtsey before stepping across the threshold. The blonde girl’s footsteps were feather-light and perfectly noiseless on the carpet, and as she advanced she smiled sweetly and seemed to glide. André smiled too. On the tray were a number of china trinket boxes, and he already knew what they contained.
Placing the tray reverently on the sideboard beside the rosewood box with its enchanted blue glow, Feltris went straight to André and knelt down to kiss his feet.
‘You are as clever as you are lovely, Feltris my sweet,’ he said quietly, urging her to rise again. ‘Thank you very much for anticipating what I need.’ Then, feeling weak again, he sank back down on to the bed, bringing a look of sharp concern to the mute girl’s face. ‘Do not worry,’ he said, drawing her down beside him, then accepting her supporting arm around his shoulders. ‘Our new friends will soon make me feel better.’ He looked at her steadily, then winked to reassure her. ‘They are very passionate. They will suit me very well.’
Glancing across at the blue-glowing box, André wondered whether to tell Feltris of his suspicions about the newly-arrived young woman, then thought better of it. He could be mistaken or it could all be wishful thinking – a figment of his desperate hope. And it was likely that Oren had already described to Feltris the special significance of their new visitor, and that the servant too was aware of what might very well soon be possible.
Against his will, André’s hopes surged wildly inside him, and with them came his reborn libido. His cool blood raced and his penis began to harden.
‘Caress me,’ he whispered urgently to Feltris.
Making a wordless murmur of assent, Feltris reached down and took his member in her fingers, delicately strumming him with all her considerable skill. As she fondled and stroked him, André slumped back among the bedclothes, his body arched and his bare feet kicking against the carpet. Hazed by pleasure, his thoughts flew irresistibly back across the years …
He remembered a night in summer, on a bench in a rose arbour, when he and Arabelle had eluded her hawkish chaperone. Her beauty and her freshness, and her innocent, open-mouthed kisses had inflamed him to a point where he had lost his reason. Unable to stop himself, he had released his manhood from its constrictions. He could still hear her startled squeak of horrified wonder.
‘What is it, André? What’s the matter with you?’ she had demanded, her lovely eyes agape as she stared down towards his penis. ‘Are you ill?’
‘No … There’s nothing wrong,’ he had gasped. ‘This is what happens when a man loves a woman in the way I love you.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ Arabelle whispered, still absorbed by his towering, aching member. ‘Are you in pain?’
‘No … Yes …’ he stammered, as confused by his intense feelings as she was. ‘It’s difficult to explain, my darling,’ he continued, feeling the blood pound in his heart and in his penis. ‘It does hurt, in a way, but it’s a pleasant kind of pain.’
Arabelle frowned and bit her lip, regarding his uncovered staff as if it were a serpent. Not an ugly beast, but a snake that was as beautiful and hypnotic as it was deadly. Despite his extreme discomfort, André watched her, fascinated, as she lifted up her slender hand towards him.
‘Is there anything I can do to help you, my love?’ she said, her eyes never leaving his erection.
A thousand things, thought André, imagining a scene where he swept up her perfect young form in his arms, then lowered her gently to the greensward before them. A scene where he lifted her skirts and petticoats, parted her smooth thighs, then plunged his tortured flesh deep into her softness. A scene where he rode her body until they soared in mutual ecstasy.
‘Just this,’ he whispered, taking her narrow white hand and folding it around his stiffness.
‘It’s so warm,’ he had heard her whisper. ‘So warm …’
And suddenly her words came to him across the echoing void of history, as his body rushed to pleasure in the here and now. Even as he ejaculated, he was aware of the poignant irony of certain contrasts. His coldness that had once been so warm; Feltris’s dexterity compared to the hesitant innocence of Belle. Waves of sensation poured up through him as his essence pumped and spattered, but in his heart, he was weeping for what was lost.
‘Oh,
Lindi, yes …’ moaned Jonathan as she ground her crotch against him. ‘God, that’s wonderful! Please do it to me! Oh God!’
Belinda looked down dreamily and smiled. They were both still dressed but she was squatting astride Jonathan’s hips in a far from elegant crouch, massaging her clitoris on his erection through layers of cloth.
You’re just using him, she thought, closing her eyes, throwing back her head and swirling her pelvis. He’s just an object, something hard to get off on. You’re a slut, girl. A nymphomaniac. Try to be kind.
As if privy to her inner debate, Jonathan cried out plaintively. ‘Please, Lindi, please!’ he begged, bucking up against her, his hands on her thighs. ‘Take your knickers off. Let me get inside you.’
About to comply, Belinda froze. She didn’t so much hear a second voice in the room with them as much as just feel a presence. Her eyes snapped open and she looked up towards the wall.
They were closed! she thought wildly. When I came in, those curtains were closed!
The red velvet curtains were wide open now, and maybe always had been, but the portrait that they flanked drew her attention. The blue-eyed man seemed to be challenging her again, the subtle curve of his sculpted mouth a mocking quirk.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ she almost heard him say, his eyes glittering like shards of aquamarine beneath his lashes. ‘Are you going to obey him, indulge him like the perfect obedient little servant? Or seize the moment, be a goddess … impose your will?’
You devil! she cried inside. Who are you? The cool, languid figure in the painting was most definitely the sensuously sleeping man in the tower. She knew that now, and realised that she had known it since the moment she had seen him on that great curtained bed.
Yet how could they be the same? This was the twentieth century, the 1990s, and above her, in the portrait, her nemesis wore the garb of yesteryear – an authentic costume from well over a hundred years past.
Was he in fancy dress?
It was an explanation, but not an adequate one. The condition of the paint itself suggested that both the picture and the clothing it portrayed were contemporaneous.
So how could ‘Blue Eyes’ still be alive and look so young?
‘Please, Lindi!’ came Jonathan’s pleading voice again, breaking into her muddled thoughts and eccentric fancies. She felt his searching hand find the edge of her knickers and suddenly felt a great upsurge of anger – a rage that seemed to double her sexual need.
‘Shut up!’ she shouted, fetching Jonathan a hard slap across his cheek. ‘Just shut up!’ she hissed, feeling his hands drop uncertainly from her body. Looking down, she saw his eyes were bright and staring.
Is that better? she thought, circling her pelvis as she looked up again at the enigmatic, blue-eyed figure in the portrait.
There was no answer. The paint was simply paint again, formed into an image that was handsome but inanimate. ‘To hell with you,’ she whispered, then leant forward to concentrate on subduing Jonathan. ‘So, tell me about these girls you met,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘Were they pretty?’
‘No … Yes … Sort of,’ he answered, moving guiltily beneath her, his hands disempowered and fluttering helplessly against the counterpane.
‘Pretty enough to fuck?’ she purred, putting her face close to his cheek, then catching the lobe of his ear between her teeth. Their bodies were contiguous now; her bare arms were resting on either side of his head and her breasts were pressed against his torso. Shimmying, she massaged her nipples against him, rubbing their tips over the muscularity of his chest.
‘Well?’ she persisted, not sure why she was asking, but asking anyway. Perhaps it was to vindicate certain feelings she had experienced in the tower – her instant desire for that naked, sleeping man.
‘I didn’t mean to, really I didn’t,’ faltered Jonathan. Belinda felt his penis twitch and lurch as he stuttered out the words, the tiny movements a subtle stimulation. Spreading her thighs wider, she bore down harder, loving the fact that her actions reversed their roles. She was the protagonist, the instigator; she was taking advantage of the man who lay beneath her, employing his desire and his hardness like a toy.
‘But you did, didn’t you?’ she taunted him. ‘I leave you for a moment and all you can do is stick your worthless dick into the nearest female body that’s available.’ She jammed her own female body down on to him. ‘You didn’t even have the decency to wait for me.’
‘It … it wasn’t like that,’ Jonathan gasped, half-whimpering and half-groaning as she tilted her vulva against him.
‘Then what was it like?’ She wriggled, making a minute adjustment to her awkward position that sent a wave of sweet sensation racing through her. Her teeth closed carefully on Jonathan’s vulnerable earlobe, and his body shook with concentrated tension. He was just a second away from losing all control. ‘Jonathan!’ she prompted, pulling delicately with her teeth as she pushed down firmly with her crotch.
Jonathan’s ‘Oh God!’ transformed itself into a long, falling moan, and through their clothing, Belinda felt his trapped sex pulsating. As he throbbed, she felt a sudden rush of warmth.
Afterwards, it took several minutes for Jonathan to compose himself, and knowing his sensitivity at such times, Belinda remained motionless on top of him. When he stirred again, she resumed her line of questioning.
‘Tell me what happened, Jonathan,’ she persisted, kissing his neck.
‘I heard a noise. Someone laughing … It woke me up.’ His voice was slower now, more mellow, but still sounded just a little shell-shocked. ‘I thought it was you at first, but after a minute or two, I realised it wasn’t.’ He paused a moment, then moved his hips, pressing his soft and sated member up against her. He shuddered as if enjoying his own stickiness. ‘Anyway, I got up and followed the sound until I found myself at the side of a stream … or a river … Anyway, whatever it was, there were two girls there sitting on the bank. They were laughing and kissing each other.’
‘Was that all?’ asked Belinda, feeling an unexpected frisson of emotion. She would have liked to have been there to see those girls.
‘No. No, it wasn’t. They did other things too.’
‘Such as?’ Belinda asked, even though she was now several steps ahead of him. She had an inner picture of the two women caressing each other’s bodies wantonly, their fingers probing and exploring. Her sex fluttered uncontrollably as she imagined them.
‘Well, one of them – the older one, I think – she put her hand up the other one’s dress and started touching her.’
‘Just touching?’
‘No, it was more than that … a lot more.’ As Belinda straightened up, she saw Jonathan was smiling, his face slack and dreamy. Between her legs, she felt his flesh return to life. ‘She was really … really working her,’ he continued, his breathing quickening. ‘Shoving her fingers right into the other one’s vagina. Fast. Hard. It was just as if she was fucking her with her hand.’
Belinda made a sudden decision. ‘Show me!’ she commanded, rolling off Jonathan and lying down beside him. ‘Show me what they were doing.’
‘I could see her fingers going in and out,’ murmured Jonathan, still shifting slowly and sleepily on the bed.
‘Show me!’ Belinda reiterated, dragging her skirt up to her waist and pulling at Jonathan’s hand until it was lying against the crotch of her panties. ‘Did she have knickers on?’
‘No, she was bare beneath her skirt.’
‘Do it for me, Jonathan,’ said Belinda, jiggling her lower body so his hand moved on her sex. ‘Take my pants off and do the same to me. I want it. I’m aching … Just do it!’
Galvanised, Jonathan sat up, his expression intent. With unsteady fingers he grasped the waistband of Belinda’s borrowed French knickers, then – while she lifted her bottom to make things easier – he pulled them down over her warm, perspiring thighs.
‘That’s enough,’ she said when they were bundled at her knees. ‘I can’t wait any longer.
Push your fingers inside me.’ The panties hampered her, but she opened her legs as wide as she could for him, then leant on her elbows, craning forward, to see her own sex and the fingers that approached it.
Jonathan looked nervous. He glanced from her face down to his hand and then at her vulva. Belinda saw his fingers flex as he lifted them towards her body, then he seemed to stare at his own hand as if didn’t belong to him, as if it was someone else’s hand entirely. Frowning slightly, he blinked once or twice, giving the impression that he was wondering if he was seeing things.
‘How many fingers did the woman by the river use?’ Belinda asked crisply, to bring Jonathan out of his fugue. She couldn’t wait any longer. If he didn’t act now, she would have to do the deed herself.
‘Th-three,’ whispered Jonathan.
‘Then you use three,’ she decreed, lifting her hips with an imperious little jerk.
Still appearing confused, Jonathan touched his fingers to her entrance, his actions diffident, unassertive, unsure.
‘For crying out loud!’
Belinda almost snarled with frustration, feeling a contact so faint it was almost ghostly; a tantalising tingle when what she required was brute male force. Jonathan’s fingertips were pale against the orchid pink of her sex-flesh. She looked fiery and his pallor looked like ice.
Suddenly, another wave of empathy washed over her. She was burning between her legs, and she longed for the cool, cool touch she had imagined earlier in this room, the liquid chilliness she had so associated with Blue Eyes. She couldn’t see him any more, but she could well believe that the portrait was ‘alive’ again, and watching closely as she gave her body to her boyfriend. She felt her innards jump impatiently with need and defiance, and with a hungry moan she thrust her sex towards its goal.
Jonathan’s fingers slid into her. First one, then two, and finally, with a wiggle, three. Ignoring the discomfort, she dug her heels in and pushed down harder.
‘So, what else did they do?’ she asked hoarsely, gripping Jonathan’s wrist for dear life, denying him the ability to move. She wanted him to be still for a few moments, perfectly still, so she could savour the sensation of being stretched.
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