'Til Death

"Hello, miss," he said.

"John, this is—"

"John?" he said. "You keep calling me...John?"

She blinked.

"Is that my name? John," he said, as though trying it out.

She brushed his hair back, touching his face. "Yes dear, of course. You're Lord John Covel."

"I am," he said, evidently unsure. "And who are you?"

"I'm your wife!"

"You are?" He pondered this, eventually appearing not displeased with the notion. "And where are we?"

"Darling, don't you remember anything?"

"I don't seem to," he said. "I'm sure I've never seen you before in my life. And I have no remembrance of ever being called John. Although now that I think about it, I don't recall ever being called anything else either. The last thing I remember is...being here with you. There's nothing else."

She looked into his eyes. "John, you can hear me, can't you? This is real, isn't it?"

He nodded, but his expression was blank. "Maybe if you explain more I'll remember?"

She smiled. "Well, darling, you've been...gone. For some time. Five years. But now you're home again."

"I see."

"Oh, but you must be freezing in those rags! Here, put these on. They're yours, I saved them."

She handed him a bundle of clothes. He seemed fascinated by the workings of the buttons and laces as he dressed. "Just as handsome as ever," she said when he was done. He smiled like a child.

She led him into the house. Every other step she looked back at him, smiling. "It's no wonder you can't remember, you've been through so much. It will all come back to you soon, darling, you'll see."

"I'm sure it will," he said. Then he gaped when he saw the interior of the grand entrance hall. Porphyria rang a bell by the central staircase. After a minute a tired looking maid appeared.

"Wake the kitchen staff," Porphyria said.

The maid looked surprised. "Are you sure? You've had them up once tonight already."

"Don't talk back to me!" said Porphyria. "Do you see this man? This is my husband."

The maid nearly fell over. " Have you remarried? We had no idea. Which is to say, I had no idea. Which is to say—"

"Wake the kitchen staff. Tell them to begin breakfast. The sun is almost up in any case. Let them know that they're cooking for the new master of the house. Don't just stand there catching flies, go!"

The maid gaped again, but hurried away.

Porphyria took John to the dining hall, where he inspected each and every fork and candlestick on the table with rapt fascination while she talked the morning through, touching his hand every few seconds.

"This, of course, is Marblehead Hall," she explained, "built by your grandfather. You lived here all your life, except when you went to France for your education."

"I see," he said, balancing a silver butter knife on his finger.

"I've kept everything in order while you were away, and—oh darling I just can't believe that it's true, that you're really here again. I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you too. Or I imagine I did," he said, tracing the pattern on the tablecloth with the utmost concentration. "Why did I leave?"

"Let's not talk about that now. Let's just enjoy being together."

John agreed that this was an excellent idea. At breakfast he ate enough for three men, and paid no mind to the stares of the servants. After, Porphyria showed him the entire house.

"John, do you remember the garden? Do you remember when the duchess gave us this fountain as a wedding gift?"

"I may..."

"John, do you remember it was this window where we stood together to watch the sunset our first night here?"

"Perhaps, just a bit..."

"John, do you remember when I fainted here, and you carried me up five flights of stairs to my bed and then rode all night long to find a doctor?"

"I can just barely remember something like that..."

It was well past noon when they reached the bedchamber. Porphyria shut the doors and threw her arms around her husband's neck, kissing him. "Do you remember this?" she whispered.

He smiled. "Perhaps if you refresh my memory some more..." he said.

"Darling, you know you left before we could even have a proper wedding night."

"How monstrous of me," said John.

"Help me with this." She indicated the laces of her dress. When her petticoats were taking too much time to remove she ripped them off instead and pushed John onto the bed, climbing on top, straddling him with splayed legs.

"I've been waiting so long for you," she said.

"I would imagine."

"Of course there have been others, but you must know they meant nothing."

"Of course," he said. She had stripped him half-naked before he could even think of objecting (not that he would), and she had his stiff cock in her hands, stroking it and running her fingers over the swollen head. His expression conveyed complete disbelief that he was, in fact, this lucky.

Porphyria had no patience to undress fully. She freed herself up just enough to allow access between her legs and guided him in, gasping as his cock filled her from one end to the other. Her head lolled to one side.

"It's just like I imagined..." she said.

"Is it?" he said, face flushed. "I still can't quite remember everything."

"I'll jog your memory," she said, smiling. Working her powerful thighs she pushed herself up and down him. Her breasts strained against her corset. She felt him throbbing inside of her, the pulse from his body giving her a deep and abiding satisfaction.

"Tell me when you start remembering," she said, kissing his fingertips and bouncing over and over. Up and down, in and out, slowly, from the tip all the way in. John's eyes rolled back and he stammered something incoherent.

"Oh, God, the nights I've spent thinking about this." She tugged the pins out of her hair, letting it fall. The bed frame groaned under the weight of their bodies and the constant, steady, rhythmic thumping.

John felt hot and flushed, the heat generated by all this activity trapped under the layers of clothes he still had on. He worked as fast as he could to free himself from coats and shirts without disturbing Porphyria, who was riding him with single—minded abandon. She caught one of his hands and stuck two fingers into her mouth, full red lips closing around them.

She moaned and continued to push herself up and down, up and down, her outer lips gripping his shaft. He thought her quite wanton for a well—born lady, but he did not disapprove.

Porphyria was almost doubled over now, lying across him, her face only a few inches from his. Her mouth was open and she was moaning again and again: "Oh John, John, John!" He felt something stirring. Her expression was disarmingly intense. "I want you to fill me."

"I am!"

"But more than this."

She clamored off of him and turned away, moving to all fours and gripping the headboard. He thought she might dent the oak. John positioned himself behind her. He put a hand between her legs and she moaned. My, my, he thought, rubbing and admiring the symmetry of her back and the firm, rounded flanks of her thighs and backside.

He put the tip of his cock inside of her and grinned when she squealed. Easy does it, he thought, sliding in. She pulsed around him, and her voice died in her throat when she tried to talk, although he was reasonably certain that all she was going to say was his name again anyway.

He reached under her body and took hold of her large breasts. What a sumptuous feast of a woman, he thought, pumping her from behind. She was wonderfully receptive, and when he accented his thrusts by bringing his hand down on her flank with two solid smacks she cried out and trembled. There was incredible power in her body, but she felt almost helpless to him.

When he sped up, so did she. When he slowed down she matched. She never seemed to tire, or more accurately, she seemed to be in a state of constant satisfied exhaustion, her head lolling to one side, eyes closed, mouth open, a growling moan her one constant utterance. Her legs, hips, and shoulders rocked back and forth with machine—like rhythm.

He squeezed her hanging breasts, tweaking each of the swollen nipples. She whimpered. He dragged the length of his cock out of her, all the way to the tip, and then slid it all the way back in at the same time that he twisted them, pulling down. She cried out again.

Her arms gave out and she half—fell onto the bed, smothering herself in the pillows and arching her backside in the air. John responded by going even faster. As afternoon became late afternoon he found himself exhausted. His limbs ached and his hair was drenched in sweat, but Porphyria showed no sign of giving out. Every little movement he made excited her more and more. She racked the headboard again, screaming

"Yes! Oh God, yes! Just like that! Fill me completely."

"I will," he said, "momentarily I think."

"Oh yes, John, yes, yes!" She rocked back on him again and again, and he felt the pressure swelling, expanding, pushing, looking for release. She was going harder and harder, and in fact she had never decreased her pace even once, the entire process being one great quickening from beginning to end, until now she was going so hard and so fast that he believed she would harm herself if she continued.

That hazard was avoided when he felt himself swell and spurt, and she froze, keeping completely still, his cock buried halfway inside of her as it released. Her body jerked and twitched a few times as he groaned and continued gushing up into her, and when he was done she fell over, grabbing him, rewarding him with kisses and caresses and words of endearment, and finally she fell asleep in his arms, and whispered his name in her sleep.

Three days passed, and John professed to remember more and more. Porphyria followed him everywhere, answering all of his questions. He began to learn (or remember) the layout of the house, the names of the servants, and the details of his affairs. He commented how well she had got on in his absence, and she beamed.

He became a late riser because of the long nights she kept him up, and took to afternoon naps to recuperate from their daytime trysts. She, on the other hand, never seemed to tire.

On the morning of the fourth day Porphyria woke, smiling, to the sight of John's face, but her smile vanished as soon as her eyes were fully open. She felt cold all over, and hugged herself. He put a hand on her arm and she pushed it away.

"What's wrong?" he said.

She looked at him. "I saw your face, John. I saw how you looked at me when you thought I was sleeping."

"And?"

"You really don't remember me at all, do you? You don't remember anything, still?"

He hesitated. Then: "No. I don't."

She got out of bed. "Why did you tell me you did?"

"Well, it seemed so important to you. And you were sure that I would remember soon anyway..."

Porphyria dressed in a hurry. "I have somewhere to go. I'll be back in a few hours."

"Very well," he said. He was staring out the window, distracted. Then, as an afterthought: "Where are you going?"

"To see someone who has a lot of explaining to do," said Porphyria.

***

Porphyria pounded on the door of the cottage. Hester's lips were already set in a sneer when she answered.

"I—"

Porphyria swung her arm, and the riding crop hit Hester on the cheek with so much force that it knocked her down.

"You lying bitch!" said Porphyria.

Hester rolled over and picked herself up.

"You cheated me!" said Porphyria.

"Why? Didn't it work?" Hester said.

"Yes, for all the good it does me!"

She almost hit Hester again. She set the riding crop on the sideboard instead.

"He doesn't remember me. He doesn't remember anything!"

"Why did you think he would?"

"Because that's what I wanted!" said Porphyria.

"Ah," said Hester, applying a towel to her face.

"You tricked me," Porphyria said.

"I did not. I said that a bezoar that old could cure a body of anything, even death. And it did. But you never asked about his soul. Even I don't know how to heal that."

"But you knew what I wanted, and you knew what would happen, and you didn't say anything! You didn't warn me!"

Hester looked away. "Why should I have, after you cheated me?"

Porphyria grabbed the crop up again. "Cheated? I gave you everything what you wanted, you disgusting slag!"

"No!" said Hester, coming at Porphyria so fast that she actually backed away. "I wanted you, but all you gave me was your body. So that's what I gave you; a body. Like for like."

Hester squared her shoulders, expecting another blow. It didn't come.

"Isn't there any way?" said Porphyria. A second ago her voice had been black with rage. Now it was dull and cold. "Isn't there any way for me to really be with him again?"

Hester looked away again. "I don't know," she said. And then: "I'm sorry."

Porphyria stood at the window again. She looked out at the cliffs.

"Hester, you really do love me, don't you? You shouldn't, but you do."

"Some days I do."

"Is there anything you wouldn't do to be with me, if you could?"

Hester shook her head. Then she said: "Porphyria, what are you thinking of doing?"

"The only thing I can," said Porphyria.

She went to the door, then stopped, came back, and, without warning, kissed Hester on the lips. Hester nearly fell over. Without another word, Porphyria turned and left.

She rode hard all the way home and found her husband reading at a sunny window in the study.

"John," she said, taking off her riding gloves, "I want you to listen very carefully. There's something I need you to do for me."

***

Lord Covel counted the seconds. He looked at Porphyria, slumped in her chair, examining her vacant eyes and blue lips. He checked her pulse. Nothing. He picked up her empty glass and sniffed the inside.

"Ah!" he said. "Oleander."

After ten minutes were up, he reached into the little leather bag that Porphyria had given him and took out a black object about the size and shape of a walnut. Exactly as instructed, he crushed the bezoar in his hand. It left a black mark on his palm. Then he fed it into Porphyria's open mouth and sat back.

He watched, fascinated, as her skin flushed pink and her eyes began to move and her limp limbs unwound themselves. Then she began to breathe again, and all at once she was alive. She sat up, eyes shining, and looked at him.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I'm your husband, John Covel. You're Lady Porphyria Covel."

She blinked. "You are? I am? Are you sure?"

John considered this. It was, all things told, a very difficult question.

"You have always said so," he replied, eventually.

"Oh," she said.

He kissed her hand, and she blushed.

"And this is Marblehead Hall, my ancestral home, where we live."

"I see," she said. "Have we always lived here?"

"For as long as I can remember."

"Well then," Porphyria said, and stood. "I suppose if things are as they always have been then we have nothing to worry about."

"Not a thing," John said, and kissed her, and she kissed him back.

"To think," she said, "we're married, and yet it's almost like meeting for the very first time."

"I thought the same thing myself, not long ago."

Porphyria picked up the little leather bag from the table. "And what's this?" she said.

John took it from her. He remembered the last instructions Porphyria had given him before drinking the poison.

"Nothing we will ever need again," he said. And threw the bag into the fire.