Past Present by Secret Narrative

was recording the last of the action.
    He took close-up shots of the lad’s penis stretching Eleanor’s mouth open. Spunk oozed out of the sides of her lips, with Matthew’s spunk drying on her still erect nipples.
    The aftertaste of cum was salty in her mouth, the sides of her lips sore where she had sheathed the enormous cock. Her face stinging from the harsh scratches left by the lad’s stubble, but her cunt was soaked with the aftermath of her orgasm. The Italian’s cock had been massive, and she had enjoyed the feel of it stretching her hole as he pushed up high inside her.
    Matthew ordered the lad to dress, showed him to the door, and pressed another pair of fifties into his hand, before hissing a warning about keeping his mouth shut. Agreeing, Angelo pocketed the money with a wide smile.
    Closing the door, Matthew went to the bathroom and turned on the taps for a bath. Pouring a generous amount of oil onto water, he called her. She went to him without a word, immersed herself and sinking down, let the oily warmth lap up to her neck.
    Eleanor met Matthew’s eyes in silent agreement of his plans as he started to talk.
    “We’re going to open a hotel. Not on the scale of this one of course,” he said. “But I’ve bought a manor house in the country. It is to be an exclusive enterprise with just half a dozen guest rooms. Each will be themed. I’ve already discussed the interiors with a designer and an architect. Everything should be ready by the end of the year. You can rent out your house. That way, you’ll have an independent income from the rental. You’ll have no expenditure. I shall take care of everything. Your main obligation is to obey me in all things and to play host with me for themed weekends.”
    “What sort of themes?” she smiled.
    “Wait and see. We’d best hurry and dress, or we’ll miss the flight.”

Falconworth: Restoration
    The heels of Eleanor Grant’s knee-high boots clicked a purposeful tattoo on the tiles of the entrance hall as she made her way towards the rear of the building, hips swaying gently beneath the second skin of a black wool dress. Scores of workmen, tradesmen and builders, paused to watch her progress, a swivel of heads followed in her wake, each mesmerised as she nodded a brief greeting, and her brightest smile. None dared whistle. The politically correct UK had dispensed with builders’ whistle, along with builders’ bum and other so-called unpleasant aspects of previously acceptable workplace antics.
    Falconworth Manor, nestled in a clearing, amid fabulous grounds, surrounded by dense ancient woodland, comprising hundreds of trees, some more than six hundred years old, and close to coastal paths, running alongside the ebb and flow of the tide. Eleanor adored the location of the manor Matthew bought prior to their first meeting. Now, in a whirlwind of just a few short weeks, she had resigned her post at the hospital, let her house, and moved with Matthew into lodgings close to the Manor while architects, designers and the rest of the team oversaw the alterations. That morning, the interior designer, was in conference with Matthew, discussing the finishing touches, to achieve their scheduled opening in time for Christmas.
    Skilled at multi-tasking, efficient, yet caring, Eleanor had carved out a successful career as a military nurse, perfectly suited to the armed forces, she had a knack for compartmentalising. Although the Royal Air Force had tamed her natural effervescence, the bubbles had risen spectacularly to her surface virtually from first contact with Matthew Fletcher. Her previous life of order and rigid routine had undergone a complete transformation, and now life without Matthew was unimaginable. Amazed and full of wonderment, Eleanor had fallen thoroughly and irrevocably in love with a man old enough to be her father and her intoxication was absolute. Scarcely able to breathe in his presence, a vice-like grip clenched her heart, which contracted with