Restored to Love

RESTORED TO LOVE

A collection of five supernatural erotic stories

Edited by Antonia Adams

Published by Xcite Books Ltd – 2012

ISBN 9781909335745

These stories also appear in Dead Sexy

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

The stories contained within this book are works of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the authors' imaginations and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

Restored to Love
by Anna Rockwell

Gillian ran her hands over the cracked and damaged oak wall panelling. Even though it was impossible to replace, she still felt she could save the 15th-century woodwork that was an important feature of Dashambly Hall. If she was successful, Clive Rushington-Hydes had promised to give the rest of the contract over to her and her company. Certainly a challenge as the Hall had been derelict for some time, so it wasn't going to be a simple lick-and-spit job.

She was about to head back to the small workshop she'd set up on the site when she heard a voice somewhere behind her. Indistinct and whispery, as if close by, yet somehow distant.

Apart from Gillian, no one had been prepared to live in the old place until more than just the basics had been reconnected. Even Mrs Newly, the housekeeper, only worked weekdays part time, and she always left by noon. As it was nearly 4pm, there shouldn't have been anyone else in the rambling old place.

Cautiously Gillian looked around for something to protect herself with. The only thing to hand was a length of broken curtain pole, which she used to test the floors in the more decrepit rooms before walking on them.

Straining to hear anyone moving around, she stepped out into the Long Gallery. With grime coating the tall windows, the main corridor was not bright, but it was light enough for her to be able to see well enough.

She heard the sound again, louder and to her right this time. Another burst of whispered muttering, now obviously coming from the Library. Her anger took charge, and she immediately burst into the room, curtain pole held high, ready to do battle.

Hurriedly she looked around for whoever had been making the noises, but all she saw were rows of empty bookshelves, the soot-stained marble fireplace, and the old Victorian wallpaper peeling off the almost-bare walls.

The library itself had been stripped bare, with almost all of the paintings, along with the majority of the books, taken away and sold off before the Hall had been abandoned. She turned back to the door. The only footprints visible in the dust were hers.

Even with no one there to see her blush, she felt a mixture of relief and embarrassment, amazed at the way she'd let her imagination run away with her. Then she suddenly gasped in surprise as something small ran up the inside of her jeans and over her inner thigh.

Immediately, she unzipped them, then kicked them off along with her canvas pumps, trying all the time to control the panic she felt. Wherever the bloody mouse was, she'd beat the little fucker to death the first chance she got! Yet, when she checked, she found nothing small and furry trapped in the folds of the material at all. Even so, she poked at them several times before she bent down to pick them up.

As she did so, she heard a distinct male voice coming from behind her.

‘What fine, rounded globes, encased in such a diaphanous prison. They cry out for release!'

Gillian spun round, conscious that she was now only wearing her T-shirt and light pink knickers. In front of her stood a Roman Centurion, in full ceremonial dress and helmet. His shoulders and arms were imposing, and the hand resting on the pommel of his short sword had long, slender fingers. As he strode forward and removed his helmet, Gillian caught sight of his muscular calves, circled by the straps of his sandals, and just above the knee, she could see where his thighs disappeared under the metal and leather skirtle he wore.

Gillian's anger pushed her embarrassment to one side. ‘Who the hell are you, and how the hell did you get in?' For some reason she couldn't put her finger on, she found herself becoming more than a little aroused by the sight of this man. He was probably some clown from one of the local re-enactment societies, she thought, out to play some kind of practical joke. With his helmet now under his arm, she was able to see his face more clearly, and under a mop of short, curly black hair, he seemed to have a hint of olive darkness to his complexion.

Before the Centurion could speak again, she heard another male voice, again coming from behind her.

‘His name is Marcus Quiltillus. He was one of the Colosseum chorus line. He now resides in the Van Dessen oil painting, above what's left of the fireplace.'

Still brandishing the curtain pole, Gillian spun on her heel and turned to face the new voice. Now she found herself looking at a Cavalier, in full King Charles collars and cuffs, with shoulder-length straw-blond hair. Out of fear, she lashed out with the wooden pole – which, to her surprise, did not hit the Cavalier but passed through him.

The Cavalier coughed discreetly into his handkerchief, then put his hands on his hips. ‘That's not a very polite way to introduce yourself, now is it?'

Still confused, Gillian turned around again and prodded the Centurion firmly in the stomach. At least, she tried to, only the wood pushed through his breastplate with almost no resistance whatsoever.

She looked up to see the impassive expression on the Centurion's face, then spun back around to the Cavalier, angry now. ‘I'm not into stupid tricks!' she snapped. ‘I don't know who you are, or how you're doing all of this, but stop it right now! I don't believe in ghosts!'

The Cavalier bowed formally to her. ‘Madam, I can reliably assure you that ghosts, revenants, apparitions and free spirits such as ourselves do most assuredly exist. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Daniel Mathias Dalverton – the third Lord Dalverton, in fact. And were all this but simple trickery, would I be able to do this?'

He stepped forward, took her face gently in his hands, then bent his head and kissed her. His mouth met hers softly, but when she instinctively parted her lips he became become more assertive. His hands moved over her shoulders, fingertips brushing down her back, until she felt him firmly cup her arse beneath the thin material of her underwear.

Next, she felt warm breath on the back of her neck, then two firm hands had closed around her breasts, thumbs brushing upwards to rub at her nipples, making her gasp at the unexpected pleasure.

As Daniel pulled away from her she felt her heart rate increase. Whoever he might be, he certainly knew how to kiss. Smiling, he'd then said, ‘And if it was all just smoke and mirrors, would we be able to do this?'

For several seconds it felt as if electric fire was dancing through her body, sparkling and vibrant, yet as cool as peppermint in a breeze. Then Daniel was standing behind her, and Marcus Quiltillus in front, both having passed through her at the same time.

Behind her, Daniel's arms encircled her waist, and this time she felt the unmistakable pressure of his stiff cock sliding down the centre of her panties, and nudging firmly at the tops of her thighs.

‘We can be as real as you want us to be.'

Marcus moved forward and put his hands on her hips. They felt warm and eager as they worked their way under the pink elastic waistband. His tongue flicked over his lips as he said, ‘For as long as you want us to be.'

In her ear, Daniel whispered, ‘He is very gifted, and doesn't object to being mounted. Or doing the mounting.'

Gillian's breathing became deeper and more rapid as she felt herself building towards an involuntary climax. Then, shaking her head several times, she broke away and stepped out from between the two of them.

As they straightened up to look at her she realised that both were now quite naked – and with no sign of any discarded clothing, except for her crumpled jeans and dirty canvas pumps on the dusty floorboards.

‘This isn't …' she started.

Marcus Quiltillus, legs slightly parted, cock jutting proudly, looked confused. ‘Isn't this what the Mistress requested this night just gone? And didn't her invisible lover reject her resoundly on hearing of her wishes?'

Daniel, less brawny, but with an athlete's wiry physique, tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘And did we not both agree this sunrise
not
to discuss this matter in front of her? Sometimes I think it would be best if your mouth kept itself to a simple diet of manhoods and doxies.'

Gillian looked at the two of them in disbelief. ‘This is about Malcolm and that stupid fantasy I told him about the other night? Oh, now it starts making sense!' She snatched her jeans and pumps up off the floor, and without stopping to put them back on, stormed out of the library almost in tears.

Marcus Quiltillus, having re-dressed himself instantly in a flowing Empirical toga, glared out of the dirty window. ‘I swear to the Gods that the Spartans were right. Women are for procreation, and men are for pleasure!'

Daniel, still naked, walked up behind him and put his chin on Marcus's shoulder. ‘You shouldn't have told her about our eavesdropping. She is still obviously fragile and in need of some comfort before we can move on. Give her time for her pain to ebb. Time is something we still have on our side, after all.'

Marcus sighed. ‘I suppose you are, as usual, right.'

Daniel grinned. ‘Yes, as usual, I am. Now, I feel it's time for some pleasure.' Marcus felt Daniel's hand slide up his thigh and over his hip, bringing the toga up with it.

For three days, Gillian retreated into a world of chocolate, white wine and self-loathing. Drifting from one possible repair to another, she wandered around Dashambly Hall until, running out of sympathy, Mrs Newly had reminded her she was now well behind with her restoration projects.

She had entered the library several times in her aimless travels, though she had not heard the whispering again. The dusty floor still showed only her own footprints, and although she'd tried to blot out all thoughts of the fantasy she'd had, it was easier said than done.

Whenever she closed her eyes, she found her memories were strong and sensual enough to get her aroused, and more than a little wet. Though any time she felt she was on the verge of coming, she'd remember what Malcolm had said, which brought her painfully back down to earth.

It had happened on the previous Saturday evening. Alone, with Malcolm still away working on a major contract, she had filled the old Victorian enamel bathtub, dropped in several fizzy bombs, lit a few candles, then settled down into the glorious, fragrant water before calling him on her iPhone.

When the video link had sprung to life she'd been a little disappointed to see he was already lying naked on the hotel bed, and in the back of her mind had wondered why she'd made the effort, if he himself so obviously couldn't be bothered to wait for her. Still, not wanting to be a killjoy, she'd kept quiet about it.

He had propped his phone up on the bedside cabinet to allow her to watch as he'd grasped himself and started working his fist up and down the shaft of his cock. Then she'd started talking dirty to him, encouraging him on while her other hand slipped beneath the water.

She stroked at herself with a fingertip at first, softly and gently across her sensitive labia. Then it slid between her lips and brushed up against her engorged clitoris. The bathwater made it slippery, and she'd massaged it by squeezing it between her thumb and forefinger – letting it almost slip free before pushing back down on it again.

Her breathing had become excited and rapid, and she had mentally tuned the physical Malcolm out, replacing him with the beautiful fantasy that had been turning her on so much recently. Then his cries had broken through her own imagination and she'd been treated – to use the term loosely – to a picture of him flopping around on the double bed like some kind of strange, landed fish.

As she'd watched him paddle off to the bathroom to wipe the come off his stomach, she had felt her own climax retreat out of reach.

When he'd returned, he'd sat on the bed, still naked, and had been about to say goodnight when, from out of nowhere, she'd asked him what he thought of when he brought himself off. He'd told her it was usually a collection of images, mostly from magazines. Realising that none seemed to involve her, she'd felt herself start to crumble inside. Then he'd asked her almost the same question. ‘OK, so what's your most intimate fantasy?'

Like a fool, she had finally told him. She had started off slowly, letting herself be picked up and swept along by her own description of how she dreamed of being repeatedly taken by two men. How she felt exhilarated at the thought of four hands and two tongues travelling and exploring her body – the feel of someone kissing her passionately on the mouth, while someone else was down between her thighs, parting her lips with his tongue and then licking and working on her with just the hardened tip of it. Or the thought of two men kissing each other while she watched, or fondling their balls as they stroked each other off, the musky smell of them strong and their come salty in her mouth. Then there was the idea of taking both men inside her – how they would position themselves, stretching her, one sliding in as the other slid out, their cocks coated in her lubrication, rubbing up against each other. Then both of them would come, filling her to bursting with their hot fluid.

Her hand had been busy working overtime under the water, and her orgasm had been a wonderful crescendo of release, mental and physical, which had sent waves of water over the rim of the tub, soaking the bathmat.

Malcolm had at least waited until the aftershocks had passed shudderingly through her body before he'd started to sound off at her. He'd never realised she was so perverted, nor how unnatural her kinky desires were. He didn't know where she'd got them from, or worse, if she'd been practising them while he was off on various business trips, because her descriptions were pretty bloody graphic when he thought about it.

Gillian had felt outraged, and at the same time, dirty – though she found she couldn't help but listen to Malcolm ranting off. That was the moment she'd realised she just didn't love the ungrateful, selfish, monotonously repetitive little bastard at all. Hell, even the sex had been vanilla. No, worse than that. It had been vanilla, with a side order of vanilla, and an extra helping of vanilla just to make it even more bland and uninteresting. And once cracked, the dam had collapsed in seconds, releasing a tidal wave of resentment which had then crashed down onto the unsuspecting Malcolm.