The Tunnel Builder - Chapter 2 free porn video

I fear him.  He has never been a violent man but, were he to discover my secrets I fear his anger would know no bounds.  His manhood threatened would be intolerable to him.  We must remain cautious until I return to the Capital and to you, my love.  S delivered your letter to me.  You cannot know how it lifted my spirits.

“Oh, George.  Were you a bit of a kinkster?”  Leather straps dangled from the bed’s frame.

“I don’t think so.”  Polly looked at me with a question in her eyes.  “It was not uncommon for an insane relative to be held captive, hidden from public gaze.  I reckon that’s what this could be.”

“Of course.  Clever you.  I wonder who it was. I like my version better though.”

“That is going to make this story special if I can find out.”

I’d done a fair bit of genealogical work over the years researching different subjects and so I got to work on Gurnard, my attention somewhat distracted from the house and tunnel.  They could wait.  If this was as it might seem, then the story could be something very special indeed.

Back in the office, I changed out of my work clothes and back into my dress, cursing that I had chosen a long one that buttoned down the back to the waist.  Who designs these things?  They must have arms five feet long.  It looked good though, so I put up with it.

Polly had reached a critical stage in the restoration of her beloved Amati violin so I didn’t see her again that day, except for a brief cup of coffee late in the afternoon.  I went through the notes that I’d made while I’d been waiting for Erin, my publisher, to confirm the commission.  Part of the natural preparation for a  biographical history is the subject’s background and family.  

Harry Gurnard was born in 1803, in the reign of George III.  His father, also Harry, was a blacksmith, his mother, Dahlia, a seamstress.  Harry was the last of seven children of whom only two reached adulthood.  Infant and child mortality was exceedingly high in those times.  His surviving brother, George (named, in all probability after the King) was the firstborn.  Both brothers had, it appeared, worked in the family business but there had been early evidence of precocity in Harry. 

At the age of eleven, with no formal schooling, he had built a clock from the metals that abounded in his father’s forge.  At thirteen he’d designed and built a small bridge to span the mill stream that supplied some power to the forge.  He went on at incredible speed to develop his skills, studying at one time, with one of the Georgians’ most famous engineers.  The railway madness that followed the first viable steam locomotive’s development meant that engineers were in great demand and Harry became a much respected if not always easy man. 

His arrogance enraged investors but his skills were beyond doubt and he turned his hand, like so many of his contemporaries to a variety of engineering projects, including canals, railways, bridges and tunnels.  By 1826 he was a wealthy man, with a residence in London and, in 1828 he married Isabella Larkin, the daughter of a minor diplomat.  So, the farrier’s son had certainly moved up in the world.

He was commissioned to build the canal that is the subject of this story in 1837, the year Queen Victoria ascended to the throne.  In 1840 he went about the construction of the tunnel that was to become the Victoria Tunnel and that year the construction of Polly’s house began.  I’d recorded that he and Isabella had no offspring.  Infertility in both men and women was far from uncommon so it could have been that either of them was unable to produce children.  It certainly would never have been a matter of discussion in those prudish, repressed days.  

I’d never bothered up to this point to locate Isabella’s death certificate so I made a note to find it if I could.  I knew she had died in 1846, shortly before the tunnel was opened, so they had probably been living in this house at the time.  The local Parish Church might have some information  I made more and more notes as potential avenues of enquiry opened up.  I’d got lost in the research, excited by having found the anomalous cellar room so early in the project.  I was in a sort of heaven of discovery and hadn’t heard Polly come into the office.  It was when I felt her undoing the buttons on the back of my dress that I became aware she was there.  

“Do you realise it’s 9 o’clock?”  Her hands parted the back of my dress and her hand ran down my spine.  Her lips followed.  “Are you hungry?”

The thought of food had not entered my head.  The touch of her fingers and lips aroused another type of hunger though and I allowed myself to savour the sensations as they gently caressed my skin.  

Polly was naked.  She sat on my desk, directly in front of me and opened her legs.  “Take your dress down.”  I pulled it down to reveal my breasts and she put a finger directly above her cunt.  “Hungry?” She asked again.

“I am now.”  I leaned to her, taking her in with my eyes then moving closer and barely touching her with the tip of my tongue.  I let it lie there, motionless, for a while before licking her, my hands resolutely in my lap.  I kissed her wild thicket of hair, loved the luxurious nature of it as my tongue parted it to expose her.  She flowered as my tongue became firmer, more urgent.  Her fingers scraped my scalp and she emitted little mewling sounds as my ministrations became ever more intimate, ever more intrusive. 

Then I moved my hands to her knees and stroked up her long thighs as my tongue discovered and uncovered her clitoris.  I flicked it, caressed it and, as my finger curled into her, she started to tighten her grip on my hair.  I eased off a bit, slowing, and letting my finger just rest inside her until her fingers loosened then I got back to work in earnest and, with a bellow, she came.  Technique is everything.

I stayed the night so she could feed me then fuck me.  I never did get to sleep in the bedroom she had prepared for me.  Joy.

Over the next few weeks, a picture of Harry and Isabella began to develop.  I found her death certificate - heart failure.  Well, I thought, heart failure covers a lot of things.  I found the name of the doctor who had signed it.  Doctor Horace Martin had practised in Blackorchard, the village nearest to the house.  I found a number of references to his having treated some of the tunnel workers in their frequent accidents.  He was always paid by the canal company and, I imagine, it was lucrative work.

I traced his family.  The sole surviving member was a woman who lived in Oxford so I decided to pay her a visit.  Mrs Emily Tufnell was a childless widow living in a rather grand house on the banks of the Thames.  She was happy to meet me.  I asked her if she knew anything of her thrice-great grandfather.  

“For a practitioner in a small country village, he became unusually wealthy.  It may have been inheritance but I don’t know.  He earned a lot, apparently, from the canal company, there were so many accidents and he treated most of them.”

She knew this, apparently, because her father, also a doctor, Reginald Tufnell, had done some research into his forbears and had amassed quite a lot of information.  Dr Martin had become a magistrate, an MP and governor of a local school so he was a man of substance and influence.  Did her father’s research still exist?

“Yes, dear.  It’s all held by the Royal College of General Practitioners.”  I had tea with her, served as it might have been in the 1920s.  Small cakes, cucumber sandwiches, the works.  She was a lovely but lonely woman who talked as if she hadn’t had a conversation for twenty years.  But, while I was there, she wrote me a letter of introduction to the college authorising me to view her father’s work.

I finally got away late that evening and drove home, my mind buzzing.

The following morning I called the college and made an appointment to see the archivist, Dr Ruth Beckett.  She couldn’t fit me in quickly, so I agree to a meeting in a few weeks and sent her a copy of Mrs Tufnell’s letter and a brief note about what I was researching.

While waiting, I reverted to my daily routine of going to Polly’s house and working there. I was doing all I could to find out more about Isabella.  I’d always been surprised how little of Harry’s paperwork had survived.  He’d died suddenly and somewhat ironically.  One of his last commissions had been the design of a large station not that far away from the house.  It served a part of the Somerset coalfields as well as providing for passengers and livestock.  Now a visitor centre and relating mainly to the mining and farming of the area it had a huge archive and, with a bit of calling and emailing, I managed to get in to have a look through the material.

Jonathan Porter, the curator, was a delight.  He was about 75 but sprightly and hugely enthusiastic.  He told me that he knew a bit about Gurnard, including that he’d had an office in the station during its development.  Nobody had ever had a chance to do much with it, let alone catalogue it, but I’d be welcome to have a trawl through all he had.  Despite his age, Jonathan was still a ladies man and rather flirtatious.  I confess to having shamelessly exploited that.  

The documents were in a large store, covered in dust and cobwebs and other detritus that, I strongly suspected, included bat shit and worse.  Nonetheless, latex-gloved, booted and boiler-suited, I had a determined search through it.

Harry had died during the station’s final month of building when a large steel joist had fallen on his head.  He was killed instantly.  The engineer who replaced him had most of his possessions put into the store and they had never seen the light of day more than a couple of times since.

Gold dust.  I almost whooped.  I had found a large leather case that had the initials IG stamped on it.  Isabella Gurnard?  Surely it had to be.  I opened it and it was full of papers, mostly letters.

My Dearest,

Your absence from London is a constant ache in my heart.  When might you return?  I am grateful to S for helping us to communicate, but a letter is scant recompense for an absence of your physical presence.  I know we have to be discreet but I long to declare my love for you from the rooftops, promenade with you along the Embankment and let everyone see how much joy you bring me.

Letters like this were among a whole load of others from dressmakers and family members but, unlike those others, were neither dated not signed.  Nor was there ever an address on them which, in those days, was highly unusual  It was obvious Isabella was having an affaire but who her secret lover was remained a mystery.  A liaison of that sort in that era would have been scandalous in the society in which the Gurnards moved and so it was no surprise, if incredibly frustrating, that I could not identify the lover.  Who could he have been?

Jonathan allowed me to take anything I wanted away with me so I could work in greater comfort, with an absolute guarantee that I”d both catalogue them and return them when my work was done.

Triumphant, if mutedly so, I returned that evening to Polly’s house.  I spread the letters out on one of the long trestle tables in the office and started to catalogue.  With nothing else to guide me, I made a working assumption that the letters that had dates would give me a timeframe for the love letters that were interspersed among them.  So, for example, a letter from a milliner dated 3 August 1842 followed by a demand for payment from a grocer dated 12 August was either side of one of the lover’s passionate letters.  Reasonable then to assume the love letter was somewhere between those dates?  I worked late into the night, once more fired up with excitement.

Polly had to drag me away from my work at almost midnight.  She’d brought me a sandwich and wine earlier that I had totally ignored.

She led me up to her bedroom, stripped me and took me into her shower.  A combination of hunger, hard work, concentration and excitement had exhausted me and, dried and dressed in a pair of her lovely silk pyjamas, I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow.

The following morning, a Saturday, I woke to discover Polly kissing my forehead.  “A day off today, Polly’s orders and no argument.”

“But Pol, it’s just so fascinating.  I can’t leave it.”

“If you don’t do as I tell you, I will tie you to the bed.”

“Oh, Polly.  Are you a bit of a kinkster?”  My words mirrored hers when we had found the straps on the bed in the cellar.

“As it happens, rather more than a bit, so don’t provoke me or you’ll find out.”

She’d brought me tea and, as I sat up to drink it, she stripped off her robe and slipped into the bed next to me.  “The way I see it is your research is going well.  Today we are going to take a drive out into the country and enjoy a picnic in a spot I know and love.  If you need a change of clothes we’ll go past your flat.  You can stay here tonight and, if you’re very good, I will have my very wicked way with you.  Are you going to be good?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t be cheeky.”

The picnic spot was idyllic.  A small river gurgled past us as we sat on a rug and ate smoked salmon and horseradish sandwiches washed down with a crisp Chablis.  

“Take your knickers off and give them to me.”

“What makes you think I am wearing any?”

“Because, Cass, I caught a glimpse of them earlier.  Do as I say.”

“Pervert.”  But I took them off and handed them to her.  

She stuffed them in the pocket of her jeans.  “Now lift your skirt up.”  I did.  “Excellent.  A little obedience goes a long way.  Now, tell me where you are with Harry and Isabella.”

So, I did.  I brought her up to speed about the letters, the Doctor and tried to give her a feel of what I”d discovered so far.  As I reported my progress, her hand slid up my thigh and she stroked me, never once looking around to see if anyone might be passing.

It was a cocker spaniel that ended that little passage of delight.  I’m quite fond of dogs but, well, their appearance tends to suggest a human companion is not far away and even Polly was unwilling to let our activities be observed, so, as she withdrew her hand, she pulled my skirt down to a more respectable position.

Having gathered up the remnants of our picnic, we walked back to the car and drove back to her house.  

It was, by this time, about 7 pm and we went out into her garden with a bottle of red and a couple of glasses.  “When are you seeing the Royal College archivist?”  I told her.  “Can I come with you?  We could stay the night in an hotel and have a nice meal.  I don't mean that I’ll come to the college, just make a day of it.  I can see a few friends during the day.  Also, make a night of it.”  She grinned.

“That would be great but,” I hesitated.

“But what?”

“If we’re going to make a night of it, shouldn’t we do some practice first?”  As I said this, I lifted my skirt to remind her that my knickers were still in her pocket.

“Oh, you are such a tart.”  She took my hand and we made our way back into the house and up the stairs.  Once in the bedroom, she told me to stand, facing the wall and wait.  The first thing that happened was her placing a silk scarf around my eyes and tying it behind my head.  She whispered in my ear, “Oh, Cass, are we a couple of kinksters?”  I sniggered.  She licked my neck.  “Now, be quiet and wait.”

I heard rustling and recognised the sound of a zip being undone, of shoes being removed, a drawer opening and closing.  I wanted to see but, obviously, couldn’t.  The next thing I knew was that Polly was behind me again, her arms around me and undoing my blouse.  With her lips touching my shoulder, she opened the louse and her fingers began playing with my nipples.  “You have lovely little tits.”  A gentle squeeze of my left nipple.  “Perky little beauties.”  A less gentle squeeze of the right.  As she held one nipple between her fingertips, her other hand went under my skirt and stroked my cunt.

“Only bad women get as wet as this.”

“Is it bad to be bad?”

“Shocking.”  As she said that, I felt the tip of her strapon, too small to be her feeldoe, at my cunt.  Before she pushed it into me she withdrew it and I felt a cold, slippery sensation at my arse.  “Bad girls take it here, don’t they?”  I wasn’t shocked exactly, but it wasn’t something I’d been expecting, nor had I had anything bigger than a finger there before. “Don’t they?” she repeated, louder and at the same time, giving my nipple a firm pinch with her fingernails.

“Yes, Polly.”

“Good.”  Quietly, she whispered, “Have you had this before.”

“Only a finger.”

“I won't hurt you.”  She pulled my hips back and pushed hers forwards and I felt the dildo opening me, stretching me.  “Just relax, I promise you’ll be fine.”  I tried and breathed deeply and felt it pushing, hurting a little but not dreadfully and then, my god, she was in me and moving her hips gently and slowly.  As I got used to it, she got a little faster, whispering encouragement.

‘There, you see.  Feel it inside you.  and, when I do this,” ‘this’ was stroking my clit, “it starts to feel really good, doesn’t it?” I agreed because, well, because it did.  “We’ll teach your arse to love me, Cass.  Give it up to me now, let me have it.”

I don’t know now didn’t know then, if it was the penetration or the finger on my clit or the nails on my nipples but, after I don’t know how long, I started to moan with pleasure and she whispered again, “Ask me to let you cum.”

Well, I thought, I’ve never had to ask permission before, but, if it does it for her I will when I’m there.  She got faster and rough without actually hurting me at all and it all started to boil over and, in fact, it sort of took my breath away and I forgot to ask because, it was so sudden, so extraordinary.  

She held me through it, kissing my shoulder and neck.  She stayed inside me after it had blown me away for a few minutes or so it seemed.  Then she slowly withdrew and I felt open and vulnerable when she was out.  Turning me round, she kissed my mouth, hard and lingering.

“Next time I tell you to ask, ask.”

“Yes, Polly.  I’m sorry…”  I didn’t get any more out because she kissed me again.

I watched as she unstrapped herself and clambered on the bed, sitting, her knees up, legs apart and with her back to the headboard.  “My turn.  Tongue only.”

Well, what’s a girl supposed to do, argue?

~~~

Dr Ruth Beckett wasn’t by any means the stereotypical archivist.  She was about my age, tall, long-haired and quite striking if not beautiful.  She was wearing jeans and a white cotton blouse with flat shoes and was still three or four inches taller than I.  We had coffee which was surprisingly good.

“I’ve got all Dr Tufnell’s research in a room downstairs.  I‘m afraid you can't take anything away but you can make notes and copy anything you want.  My secretary, Beth, will help you.  Whatever material of ours you use you’ll need to ask formally for permission but you can be sure it’ll be granted.  You can use the office downstairs for as long as you like, but it might take you a while, there’s quite a lot of material.

As it happened, Polly had been unable to come with me so I”d booked into a small hotel nearby for the night.  Ruth led me to meet her secretary, then to the office I was to use.  The material was all spread out on a long table along one wall and, I thought, shit, this is more than I’d hoped for.  Ruth showed me the catalogue and I was impressed.  That was going to save me hours.

And then I was alone.  I hung my coat on the rack in the corner by the door, sat down at the desk and started on the catalogue.

I found mention of the records relating to Isabella Gurnard.  There were two records, one maintained by Dr Martin, the doctor who had treated her and one which was more of a resume of those records prepared by Dr Tufnell.  I found the latter first.

Tufnell could have been an historian.  Here’s an extract.

“Henry Gurnard had, I suspect, a rather inappropriate relationship with Martin.  Injuries among the tunnellers were frequent and often nasty.  Judging from the substantial amounts paid by the company to Martin, he was the doctor of choice and not, I suspect, because of his clinical excellence.  Many of Martin’s records suggest injuries, and most particularly deaths, were not a result of poor working practice by the management but occasioned by the workers’ carelessness or failure to abide by working rules.  The same applied to diseases that were brought about through the appalling conditions the men worked in.  

“It is not unimaginable that by, in effect, lying about causes of death or disease he helped the company to avoid responsibility and, even in those days when a lack of concern among owners for staff welfare was common, avoid opprobrium.”

So, Martin was, reading between the lines, a crap doctor, bought by Gurnard.

I stayed there for the next two days and had to go home, but Ruth assured me nothing would be disturbed and I could return when convenient.  I got in touch with a friend who said I could stay with her for a week and so, the following week, I returned on the Monday to try to work through the material in one big push.

Another extract.  

“When Martin first met Isabella it seems to have been social.  He records in his meticulously maintained journal in July 1841, that she was a ‘fine, beautiful woman, childless and rather sad.’  There is no explanation of that sadness except, by intimation, the fact she was childless.  However, in January 1845, he records that ‘Isabella has, according to Henry, been showing signs of erratic behaviour and delusional thoughts (note the use of Gurnard’s Christian name).  I prescribed laudanum.’  Later, in February, he reports that Henry has become increasingly concerned and fears she may be a risk to him and to herself.  ‘Henry is a devoted husband and will not countenance the thought of consigning her to an institution, preferring to hire a nurse to look after her.’

By the summer of 1845, it is felt necessary to restrain Isabella and confine her in ‘comfortable, secure quarters in the house cellar.’  Astonishingly he notes, ‘She begged me to help her escape, confirming my worst suspicions as to the extent of her mental decline.’  

This would not be as sinister had I not discovered something else amongst a group of papers that were, I suspect, in Gurnard’s own hand.  ‘I have discovered letters among her belongings, letters which are unsigned and with no address to reveal her correspondent but it appears she was and still would be in an intimate, adulterous relationship.  I confide this in you as a friend and aware of your sterling work with the company which will, no doubt, continue for a long time.  I know I can rely on your absolute discretion.’

It is my belief that Isabella was of sound mind but that the discovery of her adultery was so potentially shaming for Gurnard, that he took steps effectively to imprison her with the collusion of the good Dr Martin and with the latter seeking not to kill the goose that laid his golden egg.”

Dynamite.

By the end of the week, I had written all this up, copied the relevant entries and supporting documents and, with the continuing assurance of access should I need it, returned to Somerset. 

It was Jonathan Porter who found the next link.  

“Hi Cass, it’s Jonathan, Jonathan Porter.”  I said hi.  “I’ve found something that I think might interest you.  How would you like to come over in time for coffee tomorrow morning?”  I could tell from his tone, he’d got something that would be a surprise and wasn’t going to spill the beans over the phone.

I got to the station archive at 10.45 the next morning.  Before leaving, I’d called Erin, my publisher to tell her that the research was going well and that, in all probability, I was uncovering a Victorian scandal that would probably take this book from the mundane to the spectacular.  I’d already emailed her a synopsis and said, I thought she might consider asking the board for a bit more money.  Nothing sells like scandal.  She promised to read what I had sent.

Porter was waiting for me.  His twinkly eyes suggested he had something really rather good to tell me.

“Welcome, welcome.  Coffee is ready, let me take your coat.”  He fussed about, hanging my coat, pouring coffee and, I was sure, deliberately keeping me on tenterhooks.  “Your visit roused my curiosity, so I decided to see if there was any other material relating to your Henry.  I found another box, an old tea chest.  House removers used to use them back in the day. I noticed, by chance, that this one had Gurnard’s name written on it.  It wasn’t facing out from the other junk in there but I had moved a few things and there it was.  Anyway, I went through it.  Naturally, you can too because you’ll know if anything is important but,” here he pushed a large folder across the table to me, “I think, I hope that you’ll be excited by this.”

‘This’ turned out to be another file of letters.  The first one included this passage.

Isabella

I hope this finds you well.  We have often discussed how egregious it is that women cannot participate in politics.  Well, we have decided to do something about it.  We have formed a small association of women and we meet under the guise of a literary circle.  It is wonderful.  There are about twelve of us to date and you will know how much I wish you were here in London and could join us.  It is, after all, as much your idea as anyone else’s.  Our dear friend, Alexandra, is our chairwoman.  She was democratically elected of course since our association operates according to the principles that we all espouse. 

She is formidable; chairing our meetings with a firm but measured hand.  She has assigned tasks to all of us, the first of which is to recruit as many other women as possible.  This is with the caveat that they must be known to us and to be like-minded and discreet.  We all believe that, no matter how just our cause, were it to become known that we were acting in this subversive manner, our husbands might forbid further activity.  We want to move onto the public stage only when we are strong enough not to be silenced.

I enclose a note for you.  I seem to have become a sort of postal service and it is a pleasure to be so.   

I wish you well, my dear, and will keep you advised of the progress of our movement, firm in the hope and conviction that you will join us when you return to the capital.  

With fondest regards

Sylvia

’S’!  Surely this couldn’t be a coincidence.  The anonymous correspondent said he was grateful to ’S’ for assisting them to communicate, and here was Sylvia enclosing a note and admitting to becoming a postal service.  Equally dramatically, Sylvia had identified herself and I now had had her full name, Sylvia Grafton, and an address in Belgravia, close to Isabella’s London address.  

I looked up at Jonathan who could barely suppress his glee.  “I’m sure,” he said, “there will be more but I remembered that letter you found last time and felt sure this might be a revelation for you.”

I kissed him, lost for words.

“Goodness me.  Be careful, I’m not a young man and the attentions of a beautiful young woman could well be bad for my heart.”

“You dear, dear man.  I want you to come to dinner with me and Polly at Gurnard’s house.  I want her to meet you and thank you too.  You will come, won't you?”

“I’d be honoured.  Let me know when it’s convenient.  Thank you.”

Despite my protests, he carried the box to my car and, as I drove off, he promised to keep searching for more.

The women’s suffrage movement wasn’t something I knew a lot about but I was fortunate that a former girlfriend, with whom I had remained close, was an expert.  A zealous feminist herself, she’d made it the subject of her PhD.  Who better to contact?

May and I had split up simply because she got a job at Edinburgh University and I, at the time, was working as an archivist at an engineering company in Bristol.  We both knew the distance was far too great for our relationship to continue, so with a few tears after a night of drunken debauchery (which she proclaimed the best sex we’d ever had), I waved her goodbye at the station and promised, truthfully to keep in touch.

I sent her an email, telling her I had a job that was probably going to interest her as much as it did me and gave her a brief outline.

Her reply was prompt.  “I know quite a lot about Sylvie Grafton.   She was one of the very first suffragettes although they weren’t called that then.  Her literary society was one of a number of similar associations which began forming in the early to mid-nineteenth century and gradually merged to form the movement we all know about.  I’m fascinated to know what you’ve got and I’ll be happy to help in any way I can.”

She went on to tell me that she was engaged to a Scot called Morag (‘How traditional a name is that?’) and she hoped I’d come to their wedding.  I love a good wedding.  Never miss a chance to dress up a bit.

Talking of which, I dressed up a bit that evening because Polly was taking me out to dinner.  She’d never visited my flat and, since the restaurant was close to my home, I suggested she stay over.  She arrived with a small, leather bag and wearing a crisp, pale grey shirt and dark blue trousers and, consequently looking gorgeous.  I shoved her bag in my bedroom, we had a quick snog, a gin and tonic and went to eat.

As we were leaving, she said, “Leave your knickers.”  I lifted my long, dark green skirt.  “Oh.  Slut!”