The Tunnel Builder Chapter 2
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The Tunnel Builder - Chapter 3 free porn video
“I remember that first night we spent together, a stolen opportunity. I remember it with such clarity. You said, ‘I had no idea intimacy could be so, so exciting or satisfying. I have never experienced that intensity nor the physical explosion which marked the climax of my passion.’ I explained to you that the French call it ‘Le petit mort’ and you laughed and said, ‘I can quite see why, I thought I was having a seizure.’ I can truthfully say that your climax led to my own, a true reflection of our love. We are beautiful together and we must be together again soon.”
As we walked across the bridge leading to the restaurant, Polly held my hand.
“You called me a slut,” I reminded her.
“You don’t like terms of endearment?”
“So, what term of endearment could I use?”
“Ma’am would do.”
“Right, that’s just not going to happen.”
“I love a challenge.”
Dinner was French, expensive and delicious. We talked about Harry and Isabella and I mentioned how wonderful Jonathan Porter had been and that I’d invited him for dinner at her house.
“Moving in, are we?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to presume, it was just …”
“I’m teasing you. I’d love to meet him and, since he’s helping our project, dinner at the house would be perfect.”
After the meal, we had Cognac and coffee and then walked back across the bridge to my flat. I’d worn a long, dark green skirt and a pale cream camisole under a light white linen jacket. It was still warm and I’d left the jacket open. We stopped on the bridge and looked down into the river, the stars reflected indistinctly in the rippling, inky water. I felt Polly’s hand on my arse. Her mouth was close to my ear.
“Do you trust me, Cass?”
I turned my head to look at her. “Are you intending to throw me over the parapet?” Her look was stern, as if my jocular response had annoyed her. “Yes, yes, of course, I trust you.”
Her finger pressed. “Did you enjoy me fucking your arse?”
“More than I had expected. It’s always been something of a taboo.”
“Bloody British middle classes. All repressed.”
“Upper middle if you don’t mind.”
She laughed. “Whatever.” Her voice was barely audible. “I want you to throw your inhibitions over the parapet. Look down into the water. That’s where we shall consign them. We’ll do anything, anything at all that makes us aroused, brings pleasure, even things you might not expect to.” Her finger pressed again. “That was an example. You didn’t expect to like it, far less orgasm because of it. If you trust me, let me show you. Can you do that?”
I kissed her mouth. “Does that answer you?”
“A little, but from now on it’s important that if I ask you a question, you answer it. Answer it honestly, no thinking, no aiming to please. I will stretch your horizons. Hold my hand, literally and figuratively and we’ll be fantastic.”
“Is that why you and Dre... er, Deirdre split?
She laughed. “It’s ok, I know everyone called her Dreary and they were right. Did you ever see her?”
“No.”
“Physically, she was amazing. I pride myself on being pragmatic, but the sight of her body addled my brain. It took a year to see through her. And, yes, in part it was why we split. She has absolutely no imagination, sexually. She has the mindset that she was so, so beautiful, she didn’t have to do anything, give anything. You are a giver, aren’t you?”
“I believe everything should be mutual. I don’t mean that sex should be like tokens. You know, I’ve given you an orgasm, now I want one. I mean if you need something, I want you to have it, even if I don’t need or want it myself. It’s not like repaying a debt, is it?”
Her finger moved down so that, as I leant over the parapet, her finger stroked my naked cunt, through my skirt. “Right now, I want to take you to bed and do something incredible, just for you.” One of her signature taps again. “Pistons and cylinders spring to mind.”
“Good chance we’ll be arrested if we don’t get a move on.”
“Risk is a heady drug, Cass, remember that."
No sooner had the door of my flat closed than she had taken me in her arms. I barely reached her chin and she leant over me and kissed me, hard, intrusive, claiming.
“Lose the skirt and get into your bed. Leave the camisole on. If you drop off to sleep, I will never speak to you again.” Fat chance.
I got into bed and waited. I asked myself if she liked to make me wait, to hold the reins, choreograph our sex. The answer I gave myself was that, yes, she probably did and I didn’t give a fuck because it was fabulous.
She came into the bedroom, naked, her feeldoe erect in front of her. She was hiding something I couldn’t see. “All fours, please.” Please? Right ho.
Kneeling, face down, I felt her tongue licking slowly over my buttocks and then something slippery at my arse and then something cold and heavy pressing against my hole. “What….?”
“Shh. Trust me.” The thing slowly opened me, stretched me, a slight burning sensation before I felt myself close around its stem and I felt full. “Wait until you feel this properly before you say stop. If you don’t like it, I will stop, I promise.
My first experience of being fucked with a feeldoe whilst wearing a butt plug (although I had no idea what it was at that point) was, frankly, something of a success and a revelation. With nothing then to compare it with, all I could say to myself was that it felt like my entire body was being fucked. She entered me slowly, gently, just as she had introduced the plug to my arse. My cunt welcomed her. Hands on my hips she slithered into my wetness and then, gradually, she began to move. The dildo and the plug confused my senses, one moved, the other moved with it and her voice, always lo, close to my ear, her nipples hard on my back, her hands cupping my tits conspired to take me to somewhere special.
It was quick, too. One minute I’m calmly assessing the situation, the next I am blown away, riding a one-hundred-foot wave, bucking under her. It was mind changing. I heard myself scream, saw myself as it out of my body, writhing under her. I felt wet on the back of my legs and it could have been hers, it could have been mine. It might even have been both. I don’t know if I actually lost consciousness, but it felt like it.
We lay on our sides, her dildo and the plug still in me, and she held me. I recovered and tried to turn to face her but she held me still.
“You still didn’t wait for me.”
“You’ll have to get quicker then.”
Did she just slap my arse?
I was surprised and pleased when my ex, May, called. “I’m in Bristol. I could come to yours and bring what I have on Sylvia Grafton this afternoon, if you like. I’ve booked into the Fulborough.” The Fulborough was a pub/hotel not far from my flat.
She arrived looking predictably scruffy at around 3, wearing a worn, elderly linen jacket, jeans and a t-shirt. Mind you, May would have looked ok in a potato sack. Her wild, prematurely-greying brown hair was a mess. I poured her the gin and tonic I knew she’d appreciate, the hour notwithstanding, and we sat at my kitchen table, just like old times, except she was now engaged to Morag and I was falling in love with Polly (but we’ll keep that to ourselves, if you don’t mind).
We did the ‘how are you, how’s Morag, when’s the wedding, are you getting any’ stuff. I knew, though, that May was itching to tell me about Sylvia.
“Ok, well, I’ve dug up as much as I had time to. The stuff you sent me is interesting and fits with what we know and, thank you, adds a bit, so that’s great. Sylvia was married to Sir Reginald Grafton who was an MP. A Liberal, but that didn’t mean he would have approved of Sylvia’s politics. Sylvia had a reputation for being a bit of a wild child. The suffragette movement was stiff with intellectuals, bisexual and lesbian women. You need to remember that, back then, women having affaires with men had to be bloody careful and, if they were caught out, it was invariably the woman who paid the price. Intimacy between women was largely ignored. Oh, it was clandestine, mostly, but men largely thought it was friendship more than anything else. Like they couldn’t believe women would do such a thing. There is a rumour, unsubstantiated, that when they made homosexuality illegal, they left women out because Queen Victoria felt that such liaisons between women could never happen.”
“Inconceivable. No pun intended.”
She smiled. “So, the received wisdom is that Sylvia batted for both teams and I did look to see if I could find any suggestion that she and Isabella had been lovers but, I couldn’t. Now, one of my colleagues at UCL did a lot of work on Grafton the MP and among his papers was a journal kept by his wife, Sylvia. Journals were very popular then and thank God they were because they are fabulous sources.”
I told her that I had found that with Dr Martin’s journal as summarised by Dr Tufnell.
“Now, what I have done is draw up a list of things that might interest you. They’re all copied in this file. Here is the thing I think is going to make you cum in your knickers.”
She opened the file and passed me a copy of a page from Sylvia Grafton’s journal.
5th December 1840
“IG is leaving London. Her ghastly husband has summoned her to Somerset to share the new home he’s built for them while he is dealing with digging a hole somewhere. What IG will do there in the back of beyond is a mystery. Apparently, it is miles from Bath, the nearest outpost of civilisation.
Poor dear, she is so much in love and not, naturally, with her obnoxious husband. She confided in me that she will miss AF more than she can say. It comes as no surprise. They have been almost constant companions whilst HG has been away. I like AF very much but I trust they will be discreet. I can but imagine how HG would react to a scandal.
“So,” I said, “Isabella is close to AF, whoever he is.”
She passed me another.
23rd June 1841
Today we had the first meeting of our Literary Circle. I confess that R would be appalled were he to see through this subterfuge. Fortunately, I think the poor man is far too self-absorbed to do so.
We had a good meeting with ten persons in attendance. A few of us had worked to produce our constitution and, after discussion, it was agreed. Our guiding principle is that it should be democratic and that no woman, irrespective of station, should be excluded.
AF was elected chairwoman. She is very competent if a little overbearing.
We do not expect working-class women will join, to begin with. They are worked far too hard and, in all likelihood, would lose their positions and income were they discovered mixing with subversives like us. It will come though, of that we are determined because this movement is for all women not merely the privileged. In fact, the working classes need representation more than any of us.
“Wait. AF. Who is she? I know a woman called Alexandra was chairwoman.
“Yes, Alexandra Fortune.”
My head was reeling. “Could she and Isabella have been lovers?”
“I hardly think so. Fortune was a hugely active, heterosexual woman. She campaigned for single mothers. One of her famous speeches included something about single-motherhood being exclusively a working-class problem simply because the rich would pay to have the problem taken away. But, she said, any of us who love men as I do, know the risks and accept them. Her famous line was ‘pleasure isn’t a male prerogative.”
“You could take that either way. But if she isn’t, who the hell is AF? How likely is it there were two AFs?”
“I know, but I really think the evidence is against her being Isabella’s lover. Anyway, something else. This isn’t relevant to your girl but I thought you’d like it anyway. I said that it was felt that Sylvia batted for both teams, well, this tends, indirectly, to confirm it.”
30th October 1841
I decided to come down to the country [It is known the Grafton’s had a country house in Hampshire], R being still in London and, apparently, greatly engaged in debate of the so-called Opium war with China. What R knows of either opium or China or war come to that, could, I suspect, be written on the back a calling card. I received a visit from MJ this morning. I do so enjoy her company. She is so stimulating, so forthright. It is, perhaps, unwise to record the nature of our ‘conversation,’ suffice to say it was deeply satisfying.
I poured more gin. “Subtle.”
“But, I think, suggestive.”
May showed me a few more bits and pieces but none of them took me any further, but that could change when I had more data to put them into context.
~~~
I was lying face down between Polly’s thighs, doing something that needs no further elaboration, when a thought occurred to me. I looked up at her.
“What?”
“Isabella’s journal. Isn’t it curious?”
“What’s curious about it?”
“I haven’t found it. I mean, almost everyone kept one. We’ve got bits of Dr Martin’s, most of Sylvie Grafton’s but absolutely no sign of Harry’s or Isabella’s. I wonder why.”
“I’m not sure I approve of you thinking about work when you should be dealing with the matter in tongue.”
Well, back to work then.
But the truth is that the lack of their journals bugged me. By this time, I had amassed a huge amount of documents and records but still, I felt no nearer to working out the true story. That isn’t unusual. All too often research comes to an unsatisfactory close. After the best part of one hundred and eighty years, it’s hardly surprising that things have gone missing, even less surprising if people involved have things to hide. In this case, I felt there was a lot of hiding going on.
Gurnard had somebody imprisoned in his cellar and the available information suggested that might have been Isabella, because, probably, of her adultery. Martin was concealing his unfortunate relationship with Gurnard. Sylvia Grafton was, if not hiding, certainly circumspect about revealing her sexuality and definitely hiding her politics from her apparently dim-witted husband.
In the morning, I returned to the station and to Jonathan Porter. He seemed delighted to see me. I invited him to dinner the next Saturday, which he accepted, and I asked if I might have another look through the materials he’d found in the tea chest and, perhaps, see if any of the other chests were relevant. He was happy to agree and said that, when I had finished, he’d be delighted to make me some tea.
I much prefer digging alone. When someone else is there, it tends either to distract or, as in Porter’s case, they join in and somehow frustrate my methodology. Happily alone, I pulled on my overalls and started looking at the boxes that surrounded the one Porter had found. I opened a couple to find nothing related to Harry or Isabella. I was on the point of giving up when I opened another, probably the fifth I had got to, and there, almost smiling at me, was an A5 sized, leather-bound book.
It was closed by a leather strap with a tiny, gold-coloured lock. The letters PdD were printed in gold leaf on the cover. The initials meant nothing to me. Beneath it was a few sketches that bore Harry’s initials and, deeper still, large ledger that, on examination, seemed to be the household accounts from the Gurnard House that Polly now owned.
I took the two books, small and large, back to Porter’s office. While he made a welcome pot of tea, my mouth being dry from all the dust I’d inhaled, I asked him if he had any idea who PdD might be, He did not but he was happy for me to take them back to Polly’s to examine.
“PdD? Could it be French P de D’something?”
Back at Polly’s, I had a shower. She was in her workshop and unlikely to emerge for a while. I dressed in a pale blue cotton dress, the weather still being summery and warm, over a pair of loose knickers and sandals and went back to the office, a cup of coffee in hand.
I’d searched for a key to the smaller book’s lock in the packing case but to no avail. And so, I turned my attention to the ledger.
I couldn’t decide whose hand had made the entries but they tended to be records of domestic expenditure: food, coal, gardening, and various, perfectly mundane things. I noticed that, around the beginning of 1845, the hand changed. There were references to Dr Martin and payments to him for ‘medication.’ Payments to a Nurse Price also appeared as well as those to a Mrs Dando (a very common local name).
So, working hypothesis, Isabella maintained the household records until her condition deteriorated and she needs nursing and someone else, a housekeeper, Mrs Dando perhaps, took over and Isabella was increasingly isolated, then locked away.
Polly arrived, her dungarees dusty with sawdust, her t-shirt stained with sweat at her armpits. She still managed to look gorgeous.
“Hi, Cass. How’re you doing?”
“Puzzled.”
“Fancy some wine?” I looked at my watch and realised it was 7 pm.
“I’d love a glass, thank you.”
When she returned, she placed the glass near my hand and rested her arm across my shoulders and looked at the artefacts on my desk. She seemed captivated by the smaller book. “That lock looks beautiful, doesn’t it?” I agreed. “Who is PdD?”
“No idea.”
“I’ve seen it before. I saw it once on a violin case. Buggered if I can remember whose it was. I’m ravenous. Shall we get some supper?”
I told her I’d cook us an omelette and salad while she showered and changed. I sipped my wine as I prepared the eggs. I chopped up some mixed mushrooms and fried them in butter with a few herbs and seasoning. Two plates were set with salad, dressing in a small jug centre table. I put another glass of wine beside Polly’s plate and waited for her to return from her shower. When she did, looking fresh in cream trousers and a pale blue shirt, she sat and I cooked the omelette. Done, I cut it in half and served it, then sat beside her. We chinked glasses and ate.
“I remembered.”
“What?”
“PpD - it stands for 'promesse du dieu.' It is what a woman’s name means.”
“What name?”
She smiled a very self-satisfied smile. “Guess.”
“Oh, please, Polly, don’t tease.”
“Isabella.”
“So Isabella means ‘promised to god’ or something like that?”
“It does. The fiddle I worked on belonged to an Italian orchestral player. It was a Guarneri, Pietro actually. Beautiful. So was she and her name was Isabella.”
“Great, can we eulogise about fiddles a bit later. Do you think PpD was a sort of code for Isabella and, therefore, the locked book is hers?”
“Well, it could be, couldn’t it?”
“How do we get into it then?”
“Now there, I think I may be able to help but not until tomorrow so how about,” she stood up, “we see how I can get in here,” she slid her hand inside my dress and did something rather gorgeous to my nipple, “and then let see if we can't go lower?”
“You’re insatiable.”
“Is that a complaint?
“Not at all.”
I decided I was not going to let her have things all her own way so, when we got to the bedroom, I pulled her to me and kissed her, while simultaneously opening the buttons of her shirt. I’d noticed her nipples over supper so it was no surprise that I didn’t have to wrestle with a bra. She tried to take control but I was too quick, too determined. I sucked her nipples and, as I did, I undid her trousers and got them part down then turned us so she had her back to the bed and I pushed her, gently onto it and pulled her pants down. I was on my knees pushing hers apart before she could take back the reins and, I suspect, my urgency got the better of her.
I buried my face in her unkempt but lovely pubic hair and let my tongue find its way through the woods to the clearing that was her slightly puffy cunt. Curling, slithering, kissing, licking; I worked my tongue and mouth and latterly my fingers until my efforts were rewarded with a wonderful, almost silent orgasm which seemed somehow to slither from between her lips.
Later, as she spooned herself behind me and held my breasts, she said, “Don’t take liberties.”
“Isn’t that precisely what libertines do?”
“Oh, well, yes, I guess so. Well, only take them when I say so.”
We both chuckled.
~~~
Norman Queeg was a mechanic who had a bit of a shady sideline as what Polly described as an ‘unofficial’ locksmith. “If anyone can get that open without anyone knowing he’s been there, he’s the man. Don’t ask questions. He might even make us a key for it.”
“You keep dangerous company.”
“No, darling, you do.” Her grin was that of a hungry tiger.
Queeg was a man of few words. He spent a couple of minutes examining the lock and, having selected a tool from a canvas pouch, opened the lock with a couple of deft hand movements. “There you go. I’ll drop the key round later.”
“Thanks, Norm.” With a grunt, Norman packed away his kit and left. “I guess,” said Polly, “in his profession, silence can be golden.”
I couldn’t wait to get into the book, only to feel a sense of profound disappointment. The first page was written in, I assumed, Isabella’s hand.
‘I know Harry is concerned for me and I cannot hate him. He is a most caring husband. I have days when I cannot remember who I am, or who he is. Sometimes, he tells me, I become violent; to him or to my nurse, or to myself. I do not remember these incidents.
The truth is not buried, but it is here for all to see as I lie under the straps and blankets of my cot.’
There was more.
‘’Dr Martin looks after me so well. Sometimes I think he is trying to kill me but I know that that is not true for he is a wonderful doctor. He says I asked him to help me escape but I have no desire to leave this place. I know I am not lucid, but fear I am insane.’
So, what was that all about? It was undated, but I could only assume it was perhaps the last thing she wrote before her untimely death from ‘heart failure.’ I leafed through the book and noticed there were some pages torn out and others cut out very neatly.
“Come down to my workshop. I want you to help me with something and it will keep your mind off all this. If you take a break, maybe you’ll be able to work it out.”
Polly left and I went to change into overalls and boots, not wanting my decent clothes to get dirty in her workshop.
When I joined her, she was focused on a cello that looked as if it had seen better days. “I need to get you to hold this for me while I try to separate the neck without doing any more damage. This poor thing’s been in the wars a bit. It was a car crash.”
I squatted to hold the body of the thing, while Polly worked with first one tool, then another, as she tried to liberate the neck. I was enthralled by her concentration. Nothing could have taken her mind off it.
“There’s a stand-light on the bench. It’s special, it’s very bright and might just let me see better. I may have to give this some heat to melt glue but I don’t want to do anything until I have seen exactly what’s going on.”
The light was amazingly bright, concentrated precisely where she needed it. Having examined it using her eyes, then a magnifier, she did something with a hairdryer and the neck came away without any apparent damage.
“Excellent. How very gratifying. Thank you.”
“Polly, can I borrow the light?”
“Sure.” She was back in her own world, only half an ear for me, so I took the light and magnifier, and returned to the office.
It had occurred to me that although there was only one page of writing in the locked book, there might be indentations of more script, perhaps erased or maybe where pages had been torn or cut out. I set the light up so it cast its beam at an angle and slowly turned the pages. It was a great idea but, sadly, revealed nothing. I sat back, frustrated. What did the enigmatic text mean?
But then, something caught my eye. I’d left the book with the light shining on Isabella’s script. I saw small, indistinct marks under the text at apparently random intervals. Were they deliberate? Were they just scuff marks from, perhaps, her sleeve.
I took the magnifier and examined the marks. Surely, they were deliberate, even if indistinct? I’d never have seen them without the light, but magnified, they were there.
I started to note the words under which they appeared and something heart-breaking appeared.
In the first sentence, the words marked read, “I - hate - him.” The second paragraph, which made no sense at all, was still more disturbing. “Truth - buried - under - cot.”
In the passage that started, ‘Dr Martin’ it read thus. “Martin - trying - to - kill - me. I - desire - leave - this - place. I - am - not - insane.”
I ran down to Polly. “Polly, you must come, I think I have found something.”
“Bit awkward just now. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“I’ll be in the cellar.”
I grabbed the light and magnifier and found a screwdriver in the cupboard by the cellar stairs. I went down, plugged in the light and turned it on. I moved the bedstead. Moving the light revealed mostly dust so I grabbed a brush and carefully swept it away. The flagged floor under the bed looked completely solid so I tried using the screwdriver, gently, to see if any of the stones were loose. One of them, right up against the wall, moved slightly. With my heart in my mouth, I tried a little harder. It came up a short way then, annoyingly, slipped back down the screwdriver blade.
“Fuck.”
“Language!” said Polly. I hadn’t noticed she’d arrived. “What have you got?”
I was on my knees and turned to face her. “I think, Polly, we have a murder.”
Cheryl
- 15.09.2020
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