Sleeping with the Past

(a tale of paranormal erotica)

Polly J Adams

Copyright 2012 Polly J Adams

James Grieve Press

Smashwords Edition

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Prologue

"Mr Huxley? Is that you?"

Estella sat at the end of the four-poster bed, wearing only a pair of knee-length white bloomers and a whalebone corset pulled tight, emphasising her narrow, waspish waist. Her dark hair was bundled up at the back of her head and held in place with a long pin. Her skin was almost as pale as her underwear, so much so that it appeared to glow luminously in the dim light from two candles and a small oil lamp by the bed.

The door, which had opened a crack and then stopped, now opened fully and a tall man entered the room. He had thick, salt and pepper hair and bushy mutton-chop sideburns, and his eyes burned passionately, like black coals.

A sheen of sweat on his brow caught the light and she saw that he was breathing heavily. He held a riding crop in one hand, and his cream riding breeches were spattered with mud from his ride.

"Mr Huxley," she said again, no longer a question.

"My dear Estella," he said in that knee-trembling baritone. "I fear we do not have long."

Her father was out, but Estella's maid Hannah must have seen Mr Huxley's arrival. Estella would have to have words with Hannah later; she must impress on her again the importance of loyalty.

"Then be quick, Mr Huxley," Estella said now, looking back across her bare shoulder at him, knowing the effect that exposed skin would have on a man accustomed to far more restrained behaviour from a lady. Glancing down his body again, she saw the telltale bulge in his breeches and smiled.

"Come to me," she said. "Now."

She remained sitting, so that when he came to stand before her that bulge was at the level of her head. She reached out, took the crop from his hand and rapped it lightly against his groin, smiling again as the bulge continued to grow.

"Expose yourself, Mr Huxley. As you rightly say, we do not have long..."

The riding crop continued to rap gently against Mr Huxley's steadily growing erection as it strained against his riding breeches.

Tap, tap, tap.

"I..."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He had one hand on a bed-post, his grip tight. She could see his fingers flexing and suddenly thought that this might be all he needed, that he would come right now like this if she carried on.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She paused. He looked down, she smiled, and then she hooked her fingers into the waist of his breeches and drew him close.

Discarding the crop, her hands stole round to his hips, his buttocks, and suddenly her mouth was on him. The fabric of his breeches was coarse, thicker than she had expected, and so she pressed hard, let him take the pressure of her face on his hard cock. When she started to rock her head from side to side the fingers of his free hand buried themselves in her hair, freeing the pin, letting her long locks tumble.

She found buttons, freed them, peeling his breeches away to reveal his white flannel undergarment. The drawstring at the waist was easily loosened, the buttons a little stiff and hard to release, largely because his swollen manhood was placing them under such strain.

Buttons finally released, the flap at the front fell open and with an almost animal twitch, his cock was free.

He groaned as she wrapped her fingers around it and gripped him tight. Slowly, she pulled on him, feeling the skin sliding over his hard, swollen shaft. His foreskin had rolled back to reveal a shining purple head, but now as she pulled it slid forward again.

Lowering her head, she kissed him, took the head of his cock in her mouth, licking at the foreskin, running her lips over it. Then she pulled away, paused, and then pursed her lips and pressed down on him, rolling the foreskin back as her lips slid over the head of his cock, her tongue pressing hard against the underside of his glans.

He groaned and arched his back, thrusting himself deep into her mouth. She paused briefly, but he was okay. She was impressed. Not too long ago that would have been all it took: a hand around his shaft, a tease of the foreskin-covered head of his cock, a slow rolling-back and he would have exploded in her mouth.

She had taught him well.

With his cock deep in her mouth, she let him feel her teeth around the base of his shaft. He flinched and his grip in her hair tightened. Then, as she drew her head back, her teeth dragging along his full length, he slumped as if he could take no more and was about to collapse.

The first time she had sucked him it had been far briefer. He had been surprised. He had been shocked at her forwardness. So much so that he had started to drag her head away. Later he had told her that despite his reputation no one had ever done that to him and how had she known what to do? Genuinely, she didn't know, but she had done it regardless, and she had smiled as she told him this, his briny taste still in her mouth.

But his shock that first time, his hands on her face, pulling her away... She had resisted, had sucked him hard as he dragged her head away, her lips tight on his shaft. Then he had hesitated and she had sensed a change in him and then he had thrust deep in her mouth, filling her with his juices, his cock pulsing over and over again with each spurt.

Now... She twisted the base of his cock with her hand as she concentrated on the head, drawing her teeth delicately over it and flicking with her tongue, enjoying the salty sweetness of his pre-come.

Then she pulled her head away from him, held him tight in both hands, and said, "I need more! Give me more. Fuck me, Mr Huxley. Fuck me!"

Sleeping with the Past

To any onlooker it must be obvious. Estella Haynes was having an affair.

All those nights away, the hotel names and other little indulgences itemised in intimate detail on her credit card bills. But look more closely, examine her mobile phone record or her email accounts: there were no surreptitious exchanges, no incriminating names on her speed-dial, no  smutty sexting—was that what they called it?—nothing.

If Estella Haynes was having an affair, then it was with herself: whisking herself away from a life of repetitive domestic tedium, spoiling herself with little gifts. Those diamond clasp Erickson Beamon earrings, the Breitling watch, the Acqua Di Parma Colonia perfume, the luxuriously indulgent Damaris lingerie... presents to herself to show that at least someone still cared. At least someone still wanted to delight her.

No one else was going to, after all. Certainly not Victor.

Maybe that was why Mr Huxley stole her heart when he entered her dreams that first night in Copford Hall.

*

She knew none of it was real: the chocolate box Victoriana, the charmingly diffident, deliciously shaggable Mr Huxley. It couldn't be. She was a respected professional woman. She drove an Audi and listened to Michael Buble. She cooked on an Aga and had an iPhone and a wafer-thin Sony laptop.

It was all in her head, the feverish workings of a mind fuelled by Andrew Davies adaptations on the Beeb and a lifetime reading Jane Austen, William Makepeace Thackeray, Thomas Hardy and all the rest of them. She had been named after a character in Great Expectations, for goodness sake, and had been reading Charles Dickens from an early age. It was only natural that her dreams, her very grown-up fantasies, should occasionally have a Victorian flavour.

A dream. Nothing more than that.

But that first time it had seemed so real...

She had found herself lying in the four poster in her room at Copford Hall, wide awake. It was her first visit and she had been unable to settle with her head full of plans for how they might restore the neo-gothic grandeur of the east wing from its current state of decay.

Her throat was dry, so she rose, clutching her long white night-gown around her.

The place was cold. The Finlays had commented earlier on how difficult it was to keep the Hall even remotely warm in the winter months but it was only now that she realised just how cold they meant.

She paused at the top of the wide wooden staircase, trying to remember the building's layout so she could make her way to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

Then there was movement, a sudden opening of doors, a tall figure barging in to the entrance hall below, his head down as if concentrating on his own footfalls like some comedy imbecile. He had been halfway up the stairs before he even looked up, long enough for Estella to take in his quaint manner of dressing. He looked as if he had stepped straight out of a costume drama.

He looked up and caught her smiling, trying not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, and then his jaw dropped and his eyes looked away to the side, down at the steps again. "I... I must apologise, Miss Estella. I did not know you were about. I..."

He was embarrassed. The poor thing seemed genuinely put out that he had barged in and seen her standing there in a night-gown.

"Why Mr Huxley," she said, wondering how she knew his name, "please do not be discomfited. It is I who should not be abroad in my current state of undress, not you who should be put out."

This time when he looked up he held her gaze. "Miss Estella. As you put it in those terms, I..." And he looked away again.

Why should he be so uncomfortable? She didn't understand.

"I had to come back," he said. "After dinner..."

And now she remembered: dinner of pheasant and then veal. Her father, her cousin Maud, the Reverend Peters and his bland wife Ruth; Mr and Mrs Waterford from the school board. Dinner when she had first realised that Mr Huxley might feel more for her than the mutual respect of two people who had known each other since childhood and whose parents owned half the land between here and Chichester.

Somehow it did not seem wrong that she remembered all this, even though this was not her life she was recalling.