The Tunnel Builder Ch. 01

"I have now."


"Yes, so you have. Come on." With that she removed her finger, and led me, almost naked, back to the house, straight upstairs where she hurriedly stripped off her dungarees and t shirt and pulled me to her. She pushed me, fairly gently, to sit on the bed and dropped to her knees, pushing mine apart and assaulted my cunt with her tongue. Several minutes of that passed before she hooked her arms under my knees and lifted me, turned me so I was prone on her bed. She opened a drawer and pulled out a pale blue feeldoe and I watched as she worked it into herself.

She smiled. "Fuck, it's almost as good putting it in as using it." She stroked the phallus. "You okay with this?"

"No, that's why I am running away screaming 'rape.'"

"Gobby bitch. Time Polly fucked some manners into you."

And, oh, did she? She knelt on the bed, looking at me, stroking her dildo, then, placing her hands on my shoulders, lowered her naked, lithe, hard body over me and entered me. She knew I was ready, knew I was wet. She'd done a bloody good job of making sure I would be. Then she started to fuck me, her hips moving slowly at first, a slight circular motion and her mouth came down on mine. Her nipples were long and hard and I could feel them, like little bullets, pressing against me. I lifted my legs around her, urging her on needlessly. She moved faster and harder, then, without warning, withdrew and turned me bodily, lifting my hips. She fucked me from behind, her long arms reaching under me so she could grip one nipple and strum my clit.

"Wait for me. Don't cum until I say." She pressed down on me and fucked me with increasing vigour until I knew I was a lost cause and wasn't going to be able to hold it back any longer.

"I'm the piston, you're the cylinder. Take it, love it."

It's rare that two people's orgasms are together. This was pretty much as near as it gets, in my experience. She started hardening, her body straightened, my neck arched. I couldn't stop myself, I bellowed and my orgasm burst from me.

"I told you," she said, but then became incoherent for a second or two before saying, with a sigh, "to wait for me."

We lay together. "You didn't wait for me," she said again.

I was licking her nipple and looked up. "Your fault."

"You're blaming me for your disobedience?"

"I'm blaming you for being too good. There was no way I was going to hold myself together."


She smiled. "We'll work on that."

It was gone noon and I still hadn't got to work and so, reluctantly, I got out of bed. "Can I borrow a dressing gown? I need to go and get my dress."

"Oh, God, yes. You wear my robe," she pointed to a long, red robe hanging on the back of her bedroom door. "I'll go and get it and put in the washing machine. Sorry about that but, well, it was fucking hot, wasn't it?"

"It was okay."


Polly was surprisingly agile. She was out of bed and had me hard by the arm and kissed me. "You really are a gobby bitch. I can see I have work to do with you." She slipped the robe over my shoulders, slapped my arse surprisingly hard and told me to get to work.

Around 3, she came into the office, bearing tea. She'd changed out of her dungarees and was wearing shorts and a t shirt with desert boots. "I'm not working this afternoon so I am going to cook us dinner. Your dress has washed up well, so I'll dry it on the line and then you can look almost respectable when we eat. Did you forget to wear a bra?"

"Not something I really need to worry about."

"Perfect. I washed your knickers too. Some filthy bitch seemed to have left fingerprints on them."


"Got to love a dirty woman."

"We're going to get along.

When I got home that night, there was no masturbating for me. I just drifted off to sleep with delicious memories running through my mind.

The next morning, Polly was not in the house when I got there so I got to work. I had decided to go through all the house plans to see if there were any quirks or points of interest. Eventually, after a few hours study, I was rewarded. Two plans of the cellar revealed conflicting information. One showed the cellar as being the same size as the house's foot print, another showed that at one end, under the kitchen, it extended beyond the house's shape, and a door in the wall that was below the kitchen's exterior wall led into it. I'd taken the precaution of bringing work clothes to avoid another laundry incident and stripped off down to my knickers. I was about to pull my jeans up when the office door opened.

"Do all historians reveal their arses to their subject?"

"Invariably. It's the only way to get to the bottom of things."

She laughed. "Smart arse."


"Thanks, I've always been quite proud of it."

She gave it a slap. "So you should be. What are you doing?"

I showed her the plans. She thought it odd because she hadn't noticed such a door, although, to be fair, she hadn't examined the cellar minutely because it was empty aside from a few empty wine racks.

"Where are the racks?

"Oh, yes, I see. They might be covering that bit of wall. You were, I assume, going to go and take a look."

Together, having grabbed a powerful torch, we went down the rickety staircase into the cellar. The torch revealed that it was pretty clean, very dry. A musty smell was the worst feature and that was by no means revolting. We oriented ourselves using a quick sketch I'd made of the plans and, sure enough, the wine racks were along the correct wall. They were not fixed to the fabric and moved away easily and there it was, a heavy wooden door that obviously opened away from us since no hinges were visible. There was a keyhole and a handle. There were also two bolts, one near the top and the other near the foot of the door which was locked.

Polly was tempted to break it open but I tried to dissuade her. There might, I suggested, be a key somewhere in the house. Failing that we could get a locksmith to open it.

She was, however, determined and, having rushed away to her workshop, she returned with a large lever which, after a couple of tries, she managed to insert between the door and the jamb and, with a couple of heroic efforts, the door gave way with a loud crack followed by the creak of the hinges.

The room was a sort of cell, its walls painted white. An iron bedstead, no mattress, lay along one corner. There was a large wardrobe, a dressing table with a bowl set into it, a chair before the table. Another chair sat in one corner with an oil lamp suspended from a bracket on the wall. A large rug covered most of the stone floor. A small table, circular and a chair sat in another corner. Polly swept the room with the torch and stopped as its beam covered the bed.

"Oh, George. Were you a bit of a kinkster?" Leather straps dangled from the bed's frame.