On Display

Dr. Phyllida Stone reached into the drawer of the old oak desk and pulled out a tissue. Removing her glasses, she gently patted the perspiration from her face, neck and from around the opening of her blouse. Glancing up at the clock on her wall, she collected together the brown files from the heavily patinated desk top, briefly fanned herself with them, and then placed them neatly in the “out” tray. She straightened her skirt and walked out of her office and down to the fresh air outside.

She stood in the middle of the doorway and as she closed her eyes she felt the welcome chill of the November air. Leaning against a sturdy stone pillar, she contemplated the breathtaking view in front of her. Goodford Estate’s imposing landscape stretched as far as the eye could see, flanked on either side by two rows of mighty elm trees. On this clear day, the early afternoon sunshine was working its way westward across the lawn and thawing the previous night’s frost. Phyllida was appreciating these few moments away from her duties in the house, as well as the chance to take some of the weight off her feet, which were starting to ache in the long black velvet boots. She sprung to attention, however, when she saw Professor Lancing striding across from the courtyard towards her.

“Professor…” she began. “Ah, Dr. Stone, I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to let you know that I won’t be able to stay and help you with cataloguing in the East Wing tonight. Something’s come up, I’m afraid”. Phyllida frowned. “However, young Mr. Andrews has agreed to stand in for me”. Her face wrinkled again.

“Very well, Professor, I’m sure he’ll cope with the task” she replied. He went through the building’s main entrance, while she remained a minute or so outside. She took a few steps and looked up at the façade of the huge Italianate palace, an excellent example, she reminded herself, of the Palladian style and the work of the Venetian architect Leoni. It had become her consuming passion over these past eight years; she was familiar with the provenance and location of every detail, inside and out. From the acres of woodland, parkland and formal gardens to the interior with its renowned eighteenth century rococo decoration, she was a true expert on Goodford.

Returning inside, she lingered outside the door of her office and the brass plaque attached to it. She ran her fingers over the letters and felt a small swell of pride at them: “Head Curator of Collections”. A clock somewhere struck two. She was disappointed not to be working with Professor Lancing after closing tonight, more so because of the last minute change – Ben Andrews. Such an amateur, she thought to herself. And no respect for what was sacred. He didn’t care for the estate the way she did, he had barely been in the job for three months. But one couldn’t really expect any better considering his background. A second-class degree from one of the so-called “new” universities…hardly qualified for such a job. He certainly wouldn’t be here if she had any say in the matter, but Professor Lancing had gone behind her back. Andrews was so unprofessional, didn’t even bother to wear a suit to work. Thought he could get his own way just because he was attractive. She checked herself. Attractive to some.

She went to her desk and read some new emails. They related to a long-awaited project of hers, the restoration of the Great Bed. It was over four hundred years old and badly in need of some upkeep. The memos were confirming that it would be removed from the Red Bedroom the following day and taken to the restorer’s.

At six that evening, most of the house was in darkness. The last visitors, cleaners and other staff had left. Ben Andrews knocked loudly on Phyllida’s door and strode in before waiting for a reply. This was a habit of his that she found particularly irritating.

“Hi, Phyl, ready to get started?” he enquired, flashing his usual wide grin and sparkling grey eyes. “Good evening, Mr. Andrews”. She looked him up and down, and slightly shook her head. She felt it more than a little inappropriate to turn up for work in those dark jeans, black loafers and white shirt with no tie. He sensed what she was feeling and quietened his tone.

“I’ll just wait in the Heaven Room,” he said, as he tried to keep sounding cheerful.

The house’s exhibits hung in silence. All the house’s owners had been prolific collectors. A large numbers of the works of art on show were acquired by the fifth earl, John Lawrence, on the Grand Tour undertaken by all young men of aristocratic families. He had taken in the classical sites of Rome and Athens, and consequently brought an immense collection of antiquities and paintings back to Derbyshire on his return.

It was these which Phyllida gazed up at admiringly as she made her way, laptop computer under one arm, through the Blue Gallery towards the East Wing. The collection of oil paintings, varying from allegorical and religious scenes to family portraits, was her favourite aspect of her job. She paused in front of one of them. The small plaque underneath read “Thomas William Lawrence, Sixth Earl of Goodford, painting by Pompeo Batoni dated 1774”. A young man in an expensive and sumptuous silk suit, adorned with lace and bows, reclined arrogantly next to a marble Venus. The painter’s hand skilfully suggested every fold and curve of the sensuous fabrics and surfaces. Phyllida stepped over to the next painting on the wall. Its label announced it as “Mrs Mary Robinson by George Romney, 1781”. A woman of about thirty years old stared out at the viewer, her features strong and well balanced, but not exactly pretty. Phyllida recalled that the woman had enjoyed a brief fling with the Prince of Wales around the time of the painting. She felt uncomfortable at this thought, perhaps even experiencing a pang of jealousy. She had been single and living alone for what seemed like an age. She surveyed a few more works, the floorboards underneath her creaking loudly until she came to what was by far her favourite.

“Jane, Lady Lawrence. By François Boucher 1743” read the legend. Phyllida’s heart fluttered at the sight of the huge framed canvas, a large as life representation of the notorious wife of the Fourth Earl who was rumoured to have had her husband murdered so she could marry a French duke. She lived a life of idleness and pleasure, and in the painting she reclined lazily on a couch, absentmindedly leafing through a book while gazing at her reflection in the mirror next to her. Around the voluptuous Lady Jane in her beribboned green silk gown, flowers were dropped to the floor, a letter sat half-written, and one of her tiny pink slippers hung off her foot. She was clearly a kept woman, her porcelain-white skin and luxurious apartment testifying that her lifestyle was one devoted to indulgence and beauty. The dress was typical of its time in that it showed off the bosom, which was made more prominent by the restrictive corsets. Phyllida noticed that she had begun to blush, and to breathe a little more huskily. She admitted to herself that she had a little crush on the beautiful Lady Jane.

She continued through to the Heaven Room, so called because the walls and ceiling were completely covered by painted trompe-l’oeil murals of columns and a host of putti and other angels, intended to give the impression that one had stepped into the afterlife. Ben sauntered over to her, his hands in his back pockets. She laid her computer down on a table and they walked in silence to a panel in the wall that opened up into a small hidden room. This windowless chamber originally housed an on-call manservant to attend the master, but these days it contained part of the house’s archive. Coughing slightly in the oppressive, dusty air, the two searched the shelves for the volumes they needed.

“I’ve never stayed here after dark,” ventured Ben in an attempt to break the awkward silence. “I hope we don’t have any spooky visitors”.

“Do you refer to that old wives’ tale about the murdered earl?” said Phyllida, tutting. “Whole load of nonsense…”

“Don’t you think it’s an interesting idea, though, that he fell from the bell tower in such suspicious circumstances? And that so many people claim to have seen him, accompanied by the sound of tolling bells?” He related this last remark in a dramatic tone and with his eyes bulging out, while wiggling his hands in front of her.

“Mr. Andrews, if I was susceptible to such superstitious and exagg…”

Suddenly in the Heaven Room, a clock began to strike. Phyllida was startled and dropped the book she was holding as she grabbed Ben’s arms for support. Her heart pounded in her chest as he began to chuckle. He saw the expression on her face and asked gently if she was OK. A quiet “yes” was all she could manage. She looked into his eyes for a moment. She noted that his arms were very strong and well toned. Composing herself, she picked up the heavy leather-bound tome from the floor and dusted it off.

Half an hour or so later, the pair were deeply involved in their work, cross-referencing the centuries-old purchase ledgers with their own inventory of the East wing. Phyllida was perched on the edge of a chair, keying information into the laptop, while Ben preferred to sprawl on a rug, while he scribbled notes onto a pad. She was finding it difficult to concentrate on the screen because Ben continually played with his shaggy brown hair. She was thinking how the few grey strands were the only giveaway to his years, as his face and figure remained irritatingly youthful. He had rolled up his sleeves to reveal his tanned arms and hands, which she was admiring when he looked up at her.

“Do you live locally?” he enquired, trying once again to break the tense atmosphere.

“Yes, in Dilton Village. It’s only a ten minute drive”.

“Oh, I’ve just moved into a house in Penley. We’re practically neighbours. You should come round for a drink some time”.

“Perhaps”.

“I’ve found some interesting information about a few paintings bought by Fatty up there”, he said as he gestured toward a portrait on display of a corpulent middle aged man with a stern expression. Phyllida was irritated.

“That, Mr. Andrews, is Lord James Lawrence, Ninth Earl of Goodford, and Marquis of Matlock, a very highly respected nobleman who perhaps you should not speak of so insultingly!” she snapped. Ben smiled another of his wide smiles and looked back to his work. “I’m going to finish something important in the costume gallery,” she announced “I’m sure you can take care of this by yourself for a while”. With that she strode out of the room.

The Costume Gallery was a relaxing place where Phyllida went to relieve such petty irritations. It was eerie and yet calm due to the special preservative light conditions that the delicate fabrics required. She found it very calming to examine and stroke the clothes and imagine what it must be like to wear them. Opening one of the glass cases, she touched the trimmings of a French silk ball gown. Out of the blue, a mischievous thought ran through her mind. However much she attempted to dismiss it, it grew increasingly appealing. She unzipped her boots and let her pencil skirt slide down her long shapely legs to the floor. She slipped her hands inside her silk stockings at her thighs and slowly rolled them down. Next she unbuttoned her blouse and threw it to the floor, before taking off her bra and exposing her firm breasts.

Ben yawned and put down his pencil. Looking at his watch, he thought to himself that he was well due a break. He walked down a corridor towards the cleaning staff room where there would be tea and hopefully some snacks. On his way, he spotted a shaft of light emitting from a door left ajar. He was about to shut it when he happened to catch sight of someone inside. He was astonished when he realised it was Phyllida wearing one of the dresses from the exhibit! Ben could not take his eyes off her; her dark silky hair and long neck were the first things he noticed when he met her.

Twirling around and around, she listened to the delicious swish of the silk. The many glass surfaces in the room allowed her to observe her reflection from every angle. The bodice was particularly flattering as it pushed her breasts up and forward. She stood and contemplated them for a while. They were definitely her favourite feature, apart from her long jet black hair which was always tied tightly back for work. She unfastened her hair and let it fall down her back and shoulders. She ran her hands slowly over her breasts, caressing them lightly. She let her imagination wander to how Lady Jane would have worn such a dress as this, perhaps when she met her lover, the Duke.

Ben could not believe the sight before him. This was the woman he had fantasised and dreamt about so much in the past three months and here he was enjoying his own private show while she touched and pleasured herself. He longed to reach out and touch her; the frustration was almost unbearable. Instinctively, his hand was straying where it shouldn’t.

After a few more very enjoyable minutes wearing the dress she began to unfasten it and let it slide down her body.

There was a sound from behind her. She spun round to see Ben in the doorway, smiling. He stepped slowly towards her.

“Mr An…I was just er…that is I meant…this is…” she stammered as her face burned ever more red with shame. She looked down at the dress on the floor around her. Words escaped her grasp. How the hell was she going to get out of this? How would she ever live it down? What must he think?

This panicked chain of thoughts crashed to a halt as Ben lifted her chin with his finger and kissed her.

His lips were soft and tasted sweet and salty all at the same time. She gasped for breath as he squeezed her tightly. He began peppering little kisses all over her face as she ran her hands up his back and into his hair. Suddenly he stopped and pushed her away.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“No” she said softly, and drawing him closer to her whispered “take me to bed”.

…

The Great Bed was an imposing structure, rising almost ten feet up to the high ceiling of the Red Bedroom. A table lamp was the only light in the room, and the long velvet drapes around the massive four-poster could just be made out, suspended from the gilded pelmet to the floor. The light cast a pink glow over Ben and Phyllida, kissing passionately.

Ben kissed, bit and squeezed her bare breasts, licking and sucking her nipples while she groaned with pleasure. He was Phyllida quickly unfastened Ben’s shirt and jeans, fumbling with the buttons as she hurried to undress him.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered hoarsely as she took in the sight of his naked body in front of her, her eyes wide and hungry, her lips slightly parted. She took hold of his hand and placed it on her hip.

“Take off my panties” she commanded, then blushed, a little shocked at her own forwardness. He smiled and obeyed her, caressing her round bottom as he slid down the lace garments and threw them to the ground. Phyllida closed her eyes as he slowly ran a hand down from her breasts, across her belly to between her thighs, now hot and wet with excitement. He leant down and softly kissed her there, noticing that one of her hands gripped the bedcovers tightly, while the other unconsciously rubbed one of her pink nipples.

Her breathing escalated. It was loud enough in her own head to block out any thoughts other than the feeling of him massaging her, his rough stubbly chin, and the delicious smell of masculine sweat on her body. She moved her hips in rhythm with the movement of his hands, and pulled him closer to kiss him again.

Pressure began to mount in her belly. She felt so sensitive that his touch was pleasure and agony at the same time. They kissed harder and deeper. Hands and feet took on a life of their own and her hips bucked uncontrollably…

“Don’t stop,” she moaned, grabbing his hands and pulling them closer into her. Another moan. Welling up inside. Nearly ready to burst…

“Fuck! Oh fuck I’m coming!”

The shockwaves reverberated through her whole body, right to her fingertips, eventually ebbing away.

Her head spun for a minute; all she could feel was the warmth and her pulse beating between her legs. When she finally opened her eyes, Ben was gently kissing her chest, neck and shoulders. She went to embrace him and felt his erection warm against her thigh. She ran her fingers over his cock as she licked her lips hungrily. He gave a little moan of pleasure. The head of his cock was very smooth when she felt it, and his balls seemed to jump away at her touch. She stroked them, her fingernails gently scratching.

Phyllida sank down the silken bed covers and planted little kisses all over it, before rubbing it back and forth across her lips. She paused and looked up at Ben with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes…yes I want that” he stammered, his voice a hoarse whisper.

She slid her full lips down his shaft, savouring his musty male smell. She used her tongue to explore him inch by inch, alternately swirling it round his cock and then gently biting. Ben, watching intently, tangled his hands in amongst her long hair and gently guided her up and down. She continued this way, tasting his tender flesh with her warm lips, enjoying varying the pressure and sucking, until she felt the stirrings of her second climax.

Just then, unexpectedly, he pulled away from her mouth. She exclaimed, assuming he was displeased, when his cock exploded in front of her, jets of his hot cum covering her tits and stomach. They fell asleep together, both exhausted and covered in sticky juices.

…

Ben was woken by the hot sun beating down on his face. Stretching and opening his eyes, he realised where he was and slowly the events of last night came back to him. Phyllida and her clothes were gone. His watch read 8.34 am. He quickly dressed and went next door to the costume gallery. The dress was back in its locked case. In the Heaven Room, the laptop and the books had been put away. Ben’s brow furrowed and he scratched his head.

At the end of the corridor, Phyllida’s office door was ajar. He tapped lightly and looked inside. On the desk was a small envelope bearing his name. He opened it and stepped over to the window.

Ben Last night was a mistake. Never should have happened. Please never mention it again. P.

Ben looked out and could see Phyllida getting into her silver Ford Mondeo. He ran out of the fire exit and across the gravel driveway, to see her car coming out of the courtyard. He ran into the road in front of it and the car screeched to a halt. He flung the passenger door open, his face red with anger. “You were just going to leave? Just like that?” He noticed her eyes were red, and his tone softened. “What’s up? Did I do something wrong?”

“I have to go.”

“Why? I thought we both enjoyed last night…”. He grabbed her arm. “Phyl, I saw the real you, didn’t I?”.

“Yes!” she shouted, pulling away from him. “Yes, and it bloody terrifies me!” She turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. She slumped against the door, her head in her hands. Ben walked over and pulled them away from her face, holding them against his chest. She blinked back the tears which were welling up, avoiding his gaze. “I didn’t want you to see this”. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.

“What, that you cry? You’re a human being, Phyl, of course you cry. And last night you were the most beautiful, sexy woman.” He brushed a tear off her cheek. “Why hide that?”

“Ben, I’m your manager. It would become very difficult professionally if we…if there was any other type of relationship between us. I’ve worked so hard to build up my reputation...”. A smile crept across Ben’s lips. “What’s funny?”