Past Present by Secret Narrative Page B

cellar from the kitchens. The underground store was the only room that had remained untouched during alterations. Racks for wine, Champagne, and other bottles lined the walls. Areas were earmarked for barrels of sherry, port, beer, and cider. The ceilings bristled with appropriate modern lighting and recesses held sconces, which had been in place since completion of Falconworth Manor in the sixteenth century. The alterations commissioned by Matthew had cost a fortune, all in keeping with the status of the listed building, complying with every requirement set out. The result would be impressive, all being finished when the grounds had been sympathetically restored.
    The medieval structure had been in poor repair when Matthew came to the rescue, but the interior had been transported to the future, without compromising the outer fabric and other original features. The result promised to be astounding, cleverly incorporating modern facilities while retaining the ancient atmosphere.
    Using carefully sourced materials for the fabric of the building, and proud of their accomplishment, Matthew’s wealth had allowed an indulgent, harmonious refit of Falconworth. Materials were costly, and value added tax had to be paid on everything used in the restoration of listed buildings. Matthew and Eleanor thought it disgraceful that relief wasn’t granted for projects that brought neglected ancient properties back into full use.
    “Busy?” Matthew’s gaze fixed on his girl standing beside the oak table occupying the centre of the room. Enraptured from the moment of their first meeting, his jaded palate refreshed, he allowed the familiar fizz to settle around them, eyes duelling in mutual admiration.
    “No.” Her slow smile hastened his heartbeat. “I was just absorbing the atmosphere. I can hardly believe we’re here. It’s so exciting, there’s an aroma down here that’s heady as if spilled wine and intoxicating liquor has permeated the stone of the walls, seeping and settling for hundreds of years.”
    “Heady yes, but not as exhilarating as you,” he said, encircling her waist with one arm, pulling her against him. Clutching her chin with his other hand, he pressed his lips against hers, prizing the trophy of her tongue.
    Yielding, Eleanor tangled tongues, savouring the familiar, flavoursome taste of him, detecting whiskey, knowing that he’d shared a dram with the interior designer and aware of his hard cock.
    “Turn you on again did she?” Eleanor teased. The vibration of a small giggle fuelled him, her lush ponytail danced and bobbed. She knew that Simone’s exotic colouring enthralled Matthew. His fantasy driven by imagining the designer’s lustrous dark head buried deep between Eleanor’s creamy thighs.
    “Yes. Fix me.”
    Needing no second invitation and pulling away; she dropped her hand to his crotch. Moisture flooded her panties, ever-ready for Matthew. Acute longing sizzled her senses, always eager, desire thrummed messages into her cells. She sank to the cellar floor, kneeling before him in worship, released his cock and took him into her mouth, always amazed at his ability to achieve a proud hard on, in spite of his advancing years.
    Matthew closed his eyes. Splendid isolation settled into a fuggy haze in his mind, head tilted back in ecstasy. The distant noise of men at work faded away, and everything else, even his latent lust for Simone, vanished. All that remained, all that touched him was Eleanor’s hot, wet, silken mouth and darting, expertly twisting, swirling tongue. It was as if his cock had never been serviced by any other woman. That she alone was created solely for his service. Ever grateful that, in spite of his age, he achieved and maintained a proud erection, filling any of her eager little orifices, time and time again. His penchant for multiple partners would never entirely disappear, but the divine Nurse Grant had kicked it into touch. For now.
    Ejaculation threatened after a few moments of