The Tunnel Builder - Chapter 4 free porn video

‘She was beautiful.  I’d never seen anything so beautiful.  Her hair was black, like a rook’s feathers and cascaded down her back almost to her waist.  Her eyes were black too and seemed to flash.  Her costume was exotic, the finest, shimmering silk of blues and golds and whites.  She took my breath away.  I felt that we were destined, intended.’  

“I think, Polly, we have a murder.”

“What makes you think that?”  So, I told her.  The secret messages I’d found in that little, locked book.  “Well, it still doesn’t mean it’s murder.  It could be that she was truly mad.”

“Yes,” I conceded, “it could.  But suppose, just suppose, AF, whoever he is, and Isabella were lovers.  Maybe, if Harry found out and feared a right royal scandal, not forgetting his being the laughing stock of friends and business people alike, maybe he decided to protect his reputation and business.  Don’t forget how he coerced and threatened Dr Martin.

“Then there’s ‘Truth - buried - under - cot,’ and I find a loose flagstone.”

“Which you still haven’t managed to get up yet.  Let me have a go, weakling.”  She kissed me as she took my place.

I guided the light as she dropped to her knees and began levering the stone.  Eventually, it seemed to yield to her, and I leant in to help her.  Together we finally managed to lift the stone.  Dust, nothing but dust.  No!  It cant let me down like this.  I reached down and scooped out handfuls of dust until, oh my God, I felt something.

I retrieved the something.  It was a filthy, oilskin packet, like the one my grandfather used to keep his pipe tobacco in.  Shaking, I stood up and opened the packet on the bedstead.  More papers, some with jagged edges as if they had been torn from a book, THE book.  With the papers were two small pencils, chewed at their ends, and a knife, like the sort used for peeling apples all those years ago.  My heart lurched.

I sat down on the bedstead, unaware of the harsh bare springs and tried to sort the papers into order, easy, since they were all numbered.  It wasn’t a journal, it was a story.  I began to read out loud.

“Harry discovered my affaire.  I feel no shame.  If someone finds this when I am gone, then let this be a testament of the truth and love between two human beings.”

“My name is Isabella Gurnard.  I was born Isabella Louisa Larkin.  My father was a mid-ranking diplomat, my mother Italian, the daughter of a similarly ranked Italian diplomat, resident when they met, at Italy’s London embassy.  She passed away when I was six years old and my father, a dear, kind man, raised me alone although I had a governess called Miss Percy who was also kind.  I never felt unloved or unwanted but I know in my heart that I held my father’s career back.

“Miss Percy educated me to some extent but my true education came from my father’s library, in which I discovered countries about which I knew nothing, literature that opened my eyes.  That would never have been, but for Percy’s teaching me to read and I am forever grateful.

“My father was a very liberal man who did not conform, privately, to all the establishment’s rules and customs.  He despised the church.  He thought it scandalous that women were undervalued, treated as broodmares and denied education and, consequently, the opportunity to contribute to society.  He paid, though how he managed I know not, for me to be educated further in France and Italy, where I met and lived with some of my poor mother’s family.  Those two years were, perhaps, the happiest of my life.”

Polly gently placed a hand on my shoulder.  “Let’s go upstairs and you can continue to read it to me while we have a drink?”

“What?  Oh. Okay.”

“Come on, Indiana Jones, let’s go.”

I was trembling.  I had no idea what her story was going to be but this felt like a momentous discovery.  I followed Polly up the stairs and we went into the kitchen where I sat at the table while she opened a bottle.

“While I was in Italy, I met a woman who taught at my college there.  She taught me Italian language and history.  Her name was Maria Giovanna and she was the most beautiful thing, human or otherwise, I had ever seen.  She had alabaster skin, a neck like a swan’s.  Her figure could not be concealed by the dresses she wore.  If it sounds as if I were in love, that is because I was.  I was totally enamoured.  She made me laugh, made me see, made me feel things in literature that I’d never felt before.

“She was beautiful.  I’d never seen anything so beautiful.  Her hair was black, like a rook’s feathers, and cascaded down her back almost to her waist.  Her eyes were black too and seemed to flash.  Her costume was exotic, the finest, shimmering silk of blues and golds and whites.  She took my breath away.  I felt that we were destined, intended. 

“Maria Giovanna was the first woman with whom I made love.  It began one evening, in her apartment.  We’d been talking over a simple supper and the conversation turned to my family.  For the first time, and it must have been fifteen years after the event, I cried over my mother’s death.  She comforted me, held me, and kissed me.  That kiss turned from comforting to passionate.  I can still feel her lips on mine, her hand holding mine.  Until then, I had never felt lust.  I had never so much as touched my private parts, nor had anyone else except perhaps my mother when bathing me.  I’d never felt aroused.  I had no idea what was happening to my body.  My nipples became engorged, and rubbed against my chemise.  Between my legs, unfamiliar, alarming sensations developed and at one point I felt I might have wet myself.

“I was shocked, somewhat ashamed, and embarrassed.  I broke away from Maria and stood.

“She was gentle.  Standing, she took me back into her arms.  ‘Don’t be alarmed or ashamed.  I know what you’re feeling.’  She then described precisely how my body had reacted to her touch.  “I feel the same.  There is no shame in physical love, only joy.’

“She did not take me to her bed that night.  Nor the next.  It was perhaps a week after that, during which we had clandestinely embraced and kissed at every opportunity, that she finally took me to her bed.  Those evenings we spent together, she explained physical love to me.  She told me that for some, it was a feeling that could only be shared between a man and a woman, but for some, like her and like me, the love of two women could be expressed that way too.  Dear God, how I wanted her.  I was aching, burning to feel her skin against mine.  And so I did.  Clothing felt like a prison and it was Maria who released me from it.  She explored my body and allowed me, encouraged me to explore hers and my own.  It is hard to express the liberation of touching myself without feeling shame or self-disgust.

“I felt her hands on my naked flesh, on my back, on my breasts and my legs.  Her touch between my legs made the fire of lust burn ever brighter.  I was uncertain when I felt her hair on my stomach, her lips in my hair.  When her mouth covered my vagina, which she pronounced in the Italian way, I nearly died.  The thought of her being prepared to lick where I pissed seemed both appalling and exciting.  The thought was nowhere as moving as the feeling.  Any reservation I might have had evaporated in the warm Italian night air.  

“She warned me it might hurt.  Her finger pushed inside me, gently, slowly, the wet lubricating me, while her tongue swirled around me.  She asked if I would give her my virginity.  I knew enough to know what that meant.  I’d have given her my life.  I felt a second finger enter me and then, suddenly, a sharp feeling, like a knife’s tip had been pushed into me and I gave a small cry.  She didn’t stop, she continued to lick me and work her fingers into me and then I felt a sudden surge of physical pleasure, such as I had never felt before.  I believe I screamed but that may simply have been an illusion, I cannot know now.

“When we had finished, I told her that I had never before felt anything so passionate, had never known such feelings.  She told me the French call it the ‘petit mort,’ and I confessed that I had felt as if I were dying.

“For more than a  year I stayed in that small Italian city and loved my Maria to distraction. An epidemic of influenza took her from me.  I nursed her, willed her not to leave me, tended her, washed her sweating body but to no avail.  I closed her dead eyes and sobbed.  I sobbed for days.  My family was distraught, unaware of the passionate nature of our relationship, although I suspect my aunt had an inkling.

“I returned to England, to my father’s house in London.  A grown woman, I began, when he needed me, to accompany him on official engagements, receptions, dinners, and the like.  My languages helped and I had learned manners and behaviour and conversation.  He was very proud of me.

“In May, 1827, we attended a foreign trade dinner.  Many great industrialists were there, attempting to sell British manufacturing and engineering to foreign countries.  A man approached me, Harry, and conversed with me.  He was, I thought, slightly arrogant, full of himself but he was, I could tell, the sort of man that other women would find attractive.  I did not.  At least not physically although, I confess, his achievements were impressive and his self-confidence manifest.

“With my father’s consent, he invited me to dine with him and a few days later we did.  He was attentive, thoughtful.  After only a few weeks, he asked me to marry him.  God forgive me, but I agreed.  I knew my father wanted me to marry, perhaps needed me to.  Father was not a rich man and, although I’d inherit some assets, they would not keep me as I knew my father wished.  To be single and rich was one thing, to be a spinster and poor, quite another.”

Occasionally, it was obvious that the light had failed as Isabella wrote.  Her writing conveyed to me that she had written quickly, as if afraid she’d be discovered or interrupted.  I sensed that the quality of her hand diminished when she could not see properly.

Polly placed her hand on mine.  “You haven’t touched your wine.”

I looked up into her eyes and felt the tears running down my cheeks.  “It’s a tragedy, isn’t it?  I can feel it.”

She nodded.  “Yes, I fear it is, but it’s your tragedy, you found it.  You will be her voice, won't you?  You’ll tell her story and people will know Isabella Gurnard was not mad, had never been mad.  Come to bed.”

I shook my head.  “I can't leave her, Polly.”

“She smiled.  “Go on then but, please, drink some wine.”  I sipped some wine and started to read again.

“Harry asked my father for my hand.  Father was delighted.  He liked Harry and knew him to be a successful man who would provide for me.  In July 1828 we married.  I moved into his house in Belgravia after our honeymoon.  That had had to be short, for Harry was committed to a large bridge project in Scotland and so we honeymooned there, in Edinburgh.  I did my wifely duty, although I found it loathsome.  Maria had taken my virginity.  Harry seemed not to notice but, I suspect, that was because, no matter how successful he might have been as an engineer, as a lover he was totally inexperienced.   How, looking back, I am glad she had taken it.  At least I gave her that, if I could not, in life, give her more.

“I dreaded that I might become pregnant but, thank the stars, I did not.  Our honeymoon concluded, I returned alone to London and, I am ashamed to confess, revelled in Harry’s absence.  Whenever he came home, it was the same. We would retire to bed around 10, he’d come to my room, have me and, apparently satisfied, leave to sleep alone.  There was no tenderness, no explosion of sexual or sensual excitement.  He’d grunt, expel his seed and go.  I used to go immediately to my nightstand and wash myself, as if I could scrub him away.

“Did all women live like this?  Some of the literature I had read in my father’s library suggested not, intimating that passion was real and reciprocated but it was not like that for me.

“I met Sylvia Grafton in 1830.  We had attended a concert, I was accompanied by my father, Harry being away.  I liked her immediately.  She was exceedingly sophisticated and amusing, light-hearted but not in a frivolous way.  She seemed to laugh at anything that smacked of pomposity or self-satisfaction.  She invited me to visit and, over time, we became close friends.

“My life continued thus, dull, mostly uneventful but punctuated by Harry’s departures and returns.  Each time he came home, it was the same, joyless coupling and, to my enormous relief and his increasing annoyance, no pregnancy.

“It was at a dinner for the French Ambassador that things changed dramatically.  Harry being away, in Somerset building a canal, I accompanied my father to the dinner.  I remember that I had worn my favourite dress, pale blue silk with a white lace collar.  Her name was Anneka Farroqi.  She was Algerian, very dark-skinned with the deepest brown eyes and long, black hair.  She reminded me a little of Maria.  She wore a pale yellow dress, very much a la mode.  She was polite, with beautiful, accented English.  Her husband was a French Diplomat, stationed in Algiers after France had colonised the country.  She told me she was seen by many in her country, as a traitor to have formed a relationship with a Frenchman but, she said, he had lifted her from poverty, despite her family’s ancestral wealth which had, effectively, been lost during the turmoil after the occupation.”

I almost shouted, “Anneka Farroqi!  AF.  My God, she had a lesbian affaire.  Can you imagine how Harry would have reacted to that?”  

“We met often after that dinner.  We would visit museums and the theatre.  We became lovers after a very short while.  I had grown, very quickly, to love her.  With both our husbands away, we shared moments of intense pleasure.  More than moments, hours of lovemaking; sometimes frenzied, sometimes gentle and languid.

“In 1841, May I think, Harry ordered me to join him in the house he’d built, this very house that is now my prison, so he could be near the tunnel.  It was the very last thing I wanted.  I was in love, ridiculously so.  Anneka was passionate, liberated, imaginative.  Our lovemaking was beautiful, rewarding.  How it contrasted with Harry’s cold, dispassionate violations.  Yes, I came to see them as violations.

“I wept when he summoned me, wept again when Anneka and I had our last tryst and wept all the way to Bath in the coach that battered for two days along the road to Bath, there being then, no railway link.

“My arrival was met with his usual chilly disdain.  I spent my days managing the house and reading, but, in the main, pining for my Anneka.  We took to writing and Sylvia Grafton was kind enough to act as a go-between.  She alone knew of our liaison.

“That changed one fateful day in July 1843.  I had been writing in my bedroom to Anneka.  I had her letters bundled on my escritoire so that I might refer to them.  I had written a long, passionate letter to her and was about to place it in an envelope to Sylvia when our housemaid, Gladys, burst into my room in a state of great anxiety.  She told me the cook had collapsed.  I abandoned my work and made my way to the kitchen to find Mrs Gray prone on the flagged floor, blood coming from a wound to her head.  I helped her into a chair and washed and bound the nasty gash.  Satisfied that she was safe and well, and followed by her apologies, I made my way back to my room where, to my horror, I found Harry standing over my writings.

“On my entrance, he turned, his face black with rage.  And that was how my affaire was uncovered and my downfall began.”

“The poor, poor woman.”  I was weeping with her now.  Polly took my hand and stood me up, holding me gently to her.

“We’ll go on with this tomorrow.  Time we went to bed.”  I looked at her.  “No argument.  Do as I say.”

She took me to bed, and we made slow, gentle love.  No dildo, just two bodies enfolded, thigh to cunt, mouth to mouth, hand to skin.  Our bodies rocked and twisted languorously at first, the pace increasing only as our orgasms approached.  My own was precipitated when Polly, biting my nipple, slid a wet finger into my arse and that, cooperating with the two already in my cunt, took me over the cliff and down into the abyss of a wonderful, peaceful climax.  No post-orgasmic rest for me until Polly came.  I found that my own climax made me long to bring her to the same euphoric state and my inventiveness grew as I learned more and more about her body. 

The following morning, I woke up early and, leaving a sleeping Polly, pulled a dressing gown over my nighty and returned to the office.

I went through the remainder of Isabella’s story.  Henry’s rage was boundless.  First, he forbade her any more contact with Anneka, took to reading all her correspondence before it was despatched, and opening incoming mail before she could.  Then he set about her incarceration.  It turned out that Nurse Price, afraid though she was of Gurnard and the good Dr Martin, conspired with Isabella a little.  She, it was, who tore the pages from the book and delivered them to Isabella with the pathetic stubs of pencils.  She tried her best to make Isabella comfortable but when she tried to escape, threatening to tell the world of her husband’s cruelty and the doctor’s connivance, they, Dr Martin and Harry, gave her large doses of laudanum and strapped her to her cot.  Writing became increasingly difficult.

The last page read,  “I am lost.  I have tried to escape and return to my Anneka but Gurnard will never allow it.  I will return these pages to their hiding place and hope that someone, someday finds them.  I know I have wronged my husband but I have no regrets. He is a vile man and I found true love in the arms of Anneka.  I know I am going to die.  I go to God, of that I am sure.  A loving God could never punish me for loving.”

Later that day, Polly and I took flowers to Isabella’s grave.  I’d found it sometime before.  The gravestone read, “R.I.P. Isabella Gurnard.  Beloved and loving wife of Harry Gurnard, Engineer.”

Even in that beautiful churchyard and before his God, Gurnard could neither tell the truth, nor conceal his own self-importance.

“Engineer!” Polly almost spat the word.  “Should I move out of the house?”

“No, please, no.  You found Isabella, you gave me the chance to tell her story and there is now so much more to be done.  She’d love to know we were there, loving as she would have loved.”

Polly looked at me.  I’d said ‘love.’  It had slipped out and her face was utterly unreadable.  “You’d better move in then.”

“Is that a suggestion?”

“Think of it more as an instruction. As,” she stressed the word, “we’re loving, we might as well make it permanent.”

“You old romantic, you.”

“Less of the old.”

My publisher, Erin, was putting some pressure on me to finish the book about Gurnard and Isabella.  We argued about the title but I was adamant it would be called, Promesse de Dieu in honour of Isabella.  The history of the house, the steam engine and the Victoria tunnel was far more about her, after all, than her talented but wicked husband.  

Before it was published, Polly and I went to see Emily Tufnell and told her the story, showing her a few of the documents, original or facsimile, and leaving some of those copies with her.  She cried when we told her the story of Isabella’s death, sad beyond words, that her ancestor, Dr Martin, had been complicit in it.  

Like Emily, Jonathan Porter got a big thank you in the book’s preface, as did Ruth Beckett, the archivist at the Royal College of General Practitioners.  My ex, May also figured.

For the book’s launch, Erin’s publicity machine hired a large room at the Royal Society of Civil Engineers headquarters in London.  Erin was convinced it was going to be big and had already closed negotiations to sell the film rights.  One interested party, the one who ultimately bought those rights, was an actress, a very famous actress, and also a producer called Faye Millerton.  She was at the launch and told me she intended to play the part of Isabella herself.  

On the night of the launch, Polly and I had a suite at a fine hotel overlooking Hyde Park.  I’d bought, unbeknown to Polly, a pale blue, silk evening dress with a white lace collar, a token gesture to the dress that Isabella had been wearing the night she met Anneka.  I insisted on dressing in the suite’s dressing room, alone, because I wanted the dress to be a surprise.

It worked.  I came into the suite’s sitting room and there was Polly, immaculate in a dark blue pinstripe trouser suit and white silk shirt.  I turned slowly to let her take in the dress.  

“Oh, you are such a romantic.  It’s beautiful and Isabella would have loved it.”  I stood, facing her and slowly lifted the dress to reveal, first, tan stockings, then red suspenders, and finally, a distinct lack of knickers.  My pubic hair was, as she insisted, untamed and I could see the lust in her eyes.  She looked at her watch.  “You deliberately arranged this so that I haven’t got time to fuck you, didn’t you?”  I grinned.  “So, I am going to be hot as fuck all evening.  You are so going to suffer for this when we get back.”  I love it when a plan works.  

We took a cab to the launch.  I’d never been involved in anything so impressive before.  Most of my work was definitely ‘niche interest.’  But, as I had felt, the subject transcended engineering and became a human interest story that appealed to, of course, the engineering nerds like me, but also to gay people everywhere and romantics.  

I asked Millerton, who attended the launch, to read a passage from Isabella’s journal.

“Love is love.  Pure and simple.  It is not dependent on sex, status, wealth, or the lack of it, nationality, colour, creed, but, purely and simply on the meeting of two minds.  If the two bodies that bear those minds then express that love physically, how can it be wrong, how can it be bad?  

“I have no idea what happened to Anneka after Gurnard prevented me from communicating with her.  I hope against hope that, in her life, she found love such as ours again.  Here, in this ghastly prison that has been fashioned for me out of brick, steel, and leather, I take comfort that in laudanum-induced delirium I am with her, mentally and physically; I relive the ecstasy, the wanton sensuality we shared.

“No tyrant can deny me that.”

The assembled crowd applauded wildly and Millerton and I hugged.  I whispered to her, that I felt a bit of a cheat, being applauded for Isabella’s words.

She smiled.  “You gave her her voice.  There can be no greater act of love.  I shall do everything I can to do justice to her.  You have to promise to work on the screenplay for me.”

I was proud to be on Polly’s arm that night.  I had to endure a press conference.  I say endure because it is the nature of the historian or biographer that she is not the story, rather her subject is.  I sat between Polly and Faye and we fielded the questions as we had planned.

Back at our hotel, Polly kissed me.  Little darting touches that didn’t allow me to engage in the kiss until I put my hands behind her head and held her to me so I could kiss her properly.  As we kissed she undid the zip that ran from my mid-back to my arse and she opened the dress so her fingernails could rake, gently across my skin.  It was a feeldoe night.  She took off her suit, unbuttoned her shirt and, as I watched attentively, slid her panties down and inserted the bulb, her eyes dark, so dilated were her pupils.  She turned me around, quite roughly, and bent me forward so my hands were on the bed.  She hefted up my dress and flipped it over my back and then began slowly to stroke my cunt until the inevitable lubrication began to flow.

“I love how quickly you get wet.”  She gave my arse a stinging slap, then another, then two more in quick succession.  “That is for making me sit in wet knickers al evening, knowing you were naked under that dress.”  Another two slaps.  “And that is because I want to see your arse go red, and it has.”  She kissed my hot skin.  Then, her hands firmly on my hips, she entered me, firmly but without hurrying.  She fucked me, slowly at first, her hands moving to my tits, then one of them to my clitoris.

“Wait this time, or your arse will be redder still.”

“Bully.”  Another sharp blow. 

“Behave.”

Her body bent over me, her nipples hard against my skin and I could tell she was getting there so I bit my lip and made myself wait for her.  I didn’t wait because she’d told me to, I waited because I wanted to make her happy.  She started panting and said, hoarsely, “Wait just a few seconds.  Oh, fuck, wait, wait.”  She drove into me and waiting was getting hard but then, loudly, she said, “Now, now, give it to me.”  I gave it to her and she gave me hers, noisily, violently.

After, naked, lying together, we held each other and kissed and talked late into the night with a lovely second, languid finger fuck to round off a perfect night.

Erin, my publisher, and Felicity Caterham, Millerton’s agent, sorted out the business side of our arrangements.  Faye came to stay at Isabella’s house with me and Polly for a weekend.  I’d had no idea she owned a country house fairly nearby but it turned out she had grown up in Bath and loved the City as much as I did.  She came because she wanted to see, as she put it, the scene of the crime.  She was great company and we all got on really well.  She loved Polly’s workshop, was impressed with the steam engine, but it was the cellar that made her cry.  They weren’t actress’s tears, they were real, silently trickling down her cheeks as we looked at the cot and the hole where we’d found Isabella’s journal.  

She hugged me.  “The film is going to be a wonderful tribute to her, just like your book is.”

~~

I had two projects now.  One was to write the screenplay, a task I had never attempted before and so Faye arranged for me to have guidance from a well-established screenwriter called Barry Cohen.

The second was to research and, if possible, write the story of Anneka Farroqi after Isabella’s death.  

One great by-product of all the excitement was that Polly became even more well-known in her own sphere.  She was able to pick and choose the commissions she undertook and that meant she got to deal with finer instruments, and became the restorer of choice for some famous names in the music industry.

It was almost two years to the day after the launch of my book, that filming started on Isabella’s story.  The film crew recreated the cellar in a studio but scenes involving the house and Polly’s workshop were to be filmed at the house itself.  This meant we had to sort Polly out with a workshop and, in the end, it was decided we’d relocate to Faye’s country home and set up Polly in one of her outbuildings.  I had had no idea how complex filmmaking was, nor how hard screenwriters work: constant re-writes, new scenes, removing old ones.  It was endless.  I had to be on set all the time, but it was fun, if exhausting.

In the screenplay, I’d arranged things very differently from the book.  It began with Polly asking me to write the story and the discoveries through Mrs Tufnell, Ruth Beckett, and Jonathan.  As the film developed, more of the action centred on the nineteenth century including of course, Isabella’s relationship with Maria in Italy.  It was, I felt, important to explain her sexuality and the fact that society, constrained as it was then, would not allow that relationship to be overt.  The culmination was Isabella’s incarceration, leading inevitably to her death.  The closing scene was Isabella standing by her own gravestone, reading that same line that Faye read at the book launch. 

By the time filming concluded, I had no idea how the finished product was going to look.  Even when the filming was over there was still more writing and re-writing to do as the director and editors worked their magic.  

Liberated from the tyranny of film-making, I turned my mind to Anneka Farroqi.  She had retained her maiden name after marrying her French husband.  I was to discover that French colonialists maintained impressive records but many had been lost from the era that Anneka inhabited.   But it was important to me, for Isabella’s sake, to find out what happened to her.  I set things in motion, emailing contacts and developing new ones in France and Algeria.

Finally, the night of the film’s premier arrived.  Once again, Polly and I stayed at the same, fine hotel in London before the show at the Odeon, Leicester Square.  

“Got to love expenses paid trips,” said Polly, sinking into a deep, bubbly bath.  I took her a glass of Champagne and, kneeling naked beside the bath, washed her back between sips from my own glass.  “Get your arse in here, girl.”  The taps were on the side of the huge tub, designed, it seemed, for sharing, so I clambered in and sat, facing her.  We raised our glasses to each other.

Her foot slithered up my thigh and mine wandered in a similar direction.  “How long can you hold your breath?” she asked.  We experimented a bit with that, but my lungs were too small so we decamped to bed.  She was clearly feeling very horny and her strappy was on in seconds.  No foreplay worth the name since we’d dealt with that in the bath.  This, I could tell, was going to be one of Polly’s ‘fast and furious’ efforts.  These happened occasionally and they invariably led to her having a very quick, noisy orgasm.  I wasn’t mistaken.  She literally pushed me onto the bed, lifted my knees, and drove straight into me, resting on her hands and starting with long, deep thrusts.  I wrapped my legs around her and helped her, pulling her into me.  I loved watching her face.  Her expression started out as severe and determined but then, gradually, the ecstasy took over and her eyes rolled a little.  

“You always tell me to wait.”  She’d cum, fast as expected, and she’d then slumped on me, into my arms and I caressed her back as I kissed her face.  

“Well, do as I say, not as I do.”

We dressed, Polly in cream trousers with a black button-down shirt and conker-coloured belt and shoes, me in a long, dark red dress that was slit to my thigh, barebacked and cupping my tits.  I don’t think I had ever spent so much on a dress before but Polly had encouraged me and, well, thanks to Isabella, I could afford it.  A limo was waiting for us outside the hotel lobby and we whispered across town to the cinema.  We were in plenty of time for the private reception at the small restaurant nearby.  Faye was there, looking bloody gorgeous in dark blue, her co-star, who had played Anneka, was a woman called Mina Karzai, a Tunisian beauty who fitted Anneka’s description perfectly.  Her white dress contrasted beautifully with her dark, Arab skin.  Most of the cast was there and we drank champagne.

Faye gave me a hug. “Nervous?”

“Terrified.”

“Me too.  I always am.  It’s natural but you did a fabulous job.  How’s the book selling?”

“Oh, it’s amazing.  I had no idea how much the film would publicise it.  Historians don’t get sales like it normally.”

She kissed Polly then looked at me. “Keep your eyes on this one.  She’s right up my alley.”

The film was amazing, moving, startling and beautifully shot.  

After, there was another party which went on into the small hours at a local hotel.  It must have been around 2 in the morning when Polly took me by the hand and led me to a toilet.  “What are you doing?”

She literally pushed me into a, thankfully sparklingly clean cubicle, shut the door on us and leaned against it, undoing her trousers and pushing them down.  “Get on your knees, I want you, now.”

Lifting my dress, I dropped to my knees and she pulled my face to her cunt.  “Lick me, eat me.  It won't take long.”

I used my tongue, fast hard, and probing and she came with a sort of suppressed groan, surprisingly quickly as she had predicted.  Lifting me up, she kissed me.  “God, but I needed that.  I liked that you didn’t argue.  You’re learning.”  She kissed me again and then, as if nothing had happened, opened the door and led me back to the party.

A short while later, she said, “That was hot.  Sometimes quick and dirty works, doesn’t it?”

I think it took me a week to come down to Earth after the premier.  Reviews were fantastic.  Quite rightly, Faye got most of the press but I didn’t mind one bit.  Thanks to her I was now well known and the advance for my next book had been negotiated at breakneck speed and I was astonished by the amount.  Apparently, according to Erin, my publisher, there had been a raft of literary agents vying to get me to employ them but, well, Erin had shown faith in me and I refused to be disloyal.

At first, the hunt for Anneka was frustrating.  I couldn’t discover anything about her or her husband, the French Diplomat.  I decided to visit Algeria myself and contacted a historian at the University of Algiers.  His name was Dr Ahmed Bengazil and he’d graduated from Harvard so his English was perfect with an American accent.  I’d contacted him because he was an expert on the colonial era.  He said he’d be delighted to see me and a week or so later I flew out.  

“Hi, come on in.  Coffee?”  A small cup, almost thimble-sized, was delivered to each of us by a woman in a simple, black abaya who then sat quietly at a table in the corner.

“Thank you, Amina.  So, quite a few of the colonialists married local women.  It wasn’t always popular with other locals.  Sleeping with the enemy and so on.  But for many, it was a route out of poverty.  I think I may have found a few things that will interest you.  In 1840 the French occupying power had a staff of about five hundred in Algiers, backed up with a variety of military contingents.  It was known as the ‘regime du sabre’ or rule of the sword and it was pretty brutal.”

Ahmed had gone into lecture-mode and I wasn’t going to interrupt his flow.

“If men wanted to marry, either at home or in Algeria, they had to seek permission from the governor general’s office.  There are a lot of records relating to this but none mentions, so far as I can see, an Anneka Farroqi.”  I must have looked disappointed.  “No, no, it’s not a disaster.  Names were a bit complex back then.  And, don’t forget, it’s been transliterated so it’s often the case that names get muddled.  Amina and I think your girl may be also known as Annike Farsaqi.  She’d have been about the right age.  There was an application, which was denied, for a diplomat called Michel DuChamp to marry that Annike.  It was rejected because her family was deemed to be ‘unsuitable,’ which could mean anything from terrorists to prostitutes.  It seems DuChamp returned to France and was later, 1839, posted to England.  

“So, we did some more on Farsaqi and family.  The father had been a wealthy merchant but had all his land and business sequestered by the French.  So, I went back through some commercial records and found that he, Farasaqi as he was also known, had married and he and his wife had three children.  One, Annike, was educated in London.  She attended a girls’ boarding school there and did well.  She returned to Algeria but nothing more is available so far.  Would you like to see the family home?”

“I’d very much like to see it.”

Ahmed and I took a cab from outside the University building and drove for about twenty minutes.  Telling the cab driver to wait, Ahmed ushered me out of the car angled me along a dusty track, maybe 100 yards long and pot-holed, hence the need to walk.  At the end, the lane turned sharply left, and there, in front of us was a large, single-story, sandstone villa surrounded by what would have been gardens but which had grown wild.  The villa’s windows were blind, a front door hung from one hinge, the rest broken, its paint peeled.

“Farasaqi, or whatever he was really called, lived here before the occupation.  The house was commandeered by the French for one of the senior members of the regime.  We think that Annike’s father was killed around that time. It is quite possible that she stayed on here with her mother and acted as a servant to the French, probably to keep a roof over her head.  It’s not certain.  She might have moved into the city and found work, or shelter but a lot of women turned to prostitution, so who knows?”

We returned to his study at the University and Amina who, I realised, was one of his research students, had arranged a small room for me to examine the documents.

Later, she brought me coffee and placed it beside me as I read what little there was.

Mysteriously, Amina closed the door and sat in a chair beside my desk.  She placed her hand, clenched in a fist, close to mine, and for one moment I thought she was going to touch me, but I was wrong.  Her hand opened, palm down and a piece of crumpled paper fell onto the desk.

She looked me in the eye and whispered,  “If you can, come this evening around 7.”  Then, like a wraith, she was gone.