Ladies’ Circle
by Kaycie Wolfe

The first time I was invited to the Ladies’ Circle within the exclusive gated-village that was our new home, I was left in no doubt as to the ground to be made up before I could truly regard myself one of them. They were a pleasant enough coven, dripping in designer wear, who spoke proudly of their boob-jobs; they even cooed over my little Ford Ka parked on Mirelda’s vast drive: ‘What a cute little car, Kate, such fun. How are you finding the new BMW Roadster, Lisa? Livelier than the Merc?’ A less determined young woman might have cowered in the face of such footballer-wifery; I, however, just took it all in and, after they’d gone, began to re-assess my situation. Merely buying one of the lesser properties in this most desirable of locations was clearly not enough; I had to find a way in.

There are, of course, the more traditional responses the first time a husband strays: scratch the other woman’s eyes out; commence divorce proceedings; pitch up at the doctor in tears and get stuck into the Valium, being amongst the most common. Some wives simply decide that two can play at that game, but I had little interest in playing tit-for-tat with Stephen, still less in getting rid of him. What I needed was to get him back under my control, and find a way to keep him there.

As affairs go, it would appear it hardly had time to establish itself. I realise Stephen isn’t the sharpest knife in the block when it comes to carving up a life into safe, self-contained little compartments; a necessary skill, I should have thought, for anyone wishing to conduct a successful extra-marital liaison. Not that I consider myself expert in these matters, you understand; my own sexual appetite having been more or less satisfied by twice-weekly congress with my husband, and, when necessary, I’m more than capable of satisfying myself. Orgasms are easy; it’s social status that I lust after. Stephen’s domestic appetite requires an orderly regime. Sunday roast observes a strict rota over the course of a month: lamb, chicken, beef, pork, in that order, and his sexual needs follow much the same lines, albeit with less variation: on Friday nights, as long as tiredness or alcohol hasn’t got the better of us by bedtime; and without fail each Sunday morning.

Stephen’s appetites might require an orderly routine, but he is physically untidy by nature, a trail of pens, reading glasses, socks, car keys or diary revealing his progress around the house. If I didn’t know him better, I’d almost think he wanted me to find out. Anyone can have a fling, but it takes attention to detail, and bullishness in the face of censure from one’s conscience, to maintain an affair over time, and Stephen has neither. Perhaps those aspects of his character are expressed and contained at work, but it’s the messy and rather pathetic little boy in him who comes home to me each evening. Stephen is weak; deep down I knew as much when I married him, but mistook it for sensitivity. Oh, he ticked all the right boxes: good looking (he retains a boyish charm even into his thirties), well-mannered, and respectful to women. This was no swaggering, bragging, male I met at a friend’s engagement party; this was a fine example of well-bred, prime stock, and I snapped him up. Nine years later, Stephen has progressed to regional manager at the bank, and what with his new salary and annual bonus, and my salary as a primary school teacher, in another year we could think about starting a family. But for now, we’ve got ourselves a foothold in the kind of neighbourhood I’ve always set my heart upon. Eden Court Village, with its neat trimmed lawns, elegant water features, and wide drives sporting an array of Range Rovers, Mercedes, and BMWs. And I’m here to stay.

It was his mobile phone, left on the cistern in the downstairs loo, that alerted me, and of course, with the door safely locked, I looked. Well, what proprietorial, keen-eyed wife wouldn’t? And there it was, sitting snug between ‘Kane’ and ‘Keith’, the solitary, female name Stephen had never seen fit to mention: ‘Karen’, and with a ring-tone all of her own. The calls history showed numerous conversations over the previous few weeks, but interestingly, no record of any text messages; presumably deleted. When Stephen was in the shower the next morning, I examined his diary, left in his open briefcase in the study. Such trust, such naivety. A ‘K’ appeared in several lunchtime slots, the most recent followed by a single line struck through the remainder of the afternoon. Not content to deal with vague suspicions, it was evidence I was after, and it wasn’t hard to find. Their next assignation was penned in for the following Wednesday at 1.00 p.m. ‘K, The Swan.’

My head teacher could not have been more obliging, taking my class from midday to enable me to get to the emergency dental appointment I’d got at one o’clock; she even thanked me profusely for coming in to work so stoically that morning, despite toothache. Around twelve-thirty, I observed Stephen’s car pulling out of the bank’s private carpark and followed him along the High Street, several cars behind. Twenty minutes later, he turned off a country lane alongside the canal into the car park of a black and white timbered pub. I pulled up in the lane just the other side of the hedge and wound down the window. Almost at once, I heard two car doors slam. The trickiest part was observing them without being seen myself. I eased the car forward past the hedge just as they were striding across the gravel, hand in hand, engrossed in each other’s faces. As they reached the entrance, I noticed Stephen hold the door for her, and he gave her arse a proprietorial pat as she stepped inside. I removed from my handbag a pad and envelope and scribbled a short note, ‘Be home by 6.00 p.m., or your marriage is over.’ Taking the spare set of car keys, I strolled over to Stephen’s car, and placed the envelope on the driver’s seat.

Back at home, I reversed into poll position at the very front of our embarrassingly narrow drive, leaving Stephen to park on the road, then went inside to run a bath. As I lay basking in the warm suds, I considered how to play my hand. The landline downstairs was first to ring, then a few moments later, my mobile. I ignored them both. By the time my deliberations were complete I felt no need or desire to check voicemail.

Six o’clock is early for Stephen to be home, but he was there on the dot, looking appropriately sheepish; ashen, in fact, as he approached me at the kitchen table.

‘Get me a drink,’ I ordered.

‘Kate …’

‘Did you hear what I said? Get me a drink!’

‘Yes dear, of course; what would you like?’

‘That’s better. Dry white wine, it’s in the fridge. I’ll be waiting in the lounge.’

I settled myself on the sofa over by the window, and waited. Stephen soon appeared with a bottle and two glasses, set upon a small round tray.

‘Did I tell you to get yourself a drink?’ I asked, sternly.

‘No,’ he answered solemnly, eyes downcast.

‘Well then, take it back.’

‘Kate … please, I can explain.’

‘If I want an explanation I’ll ask for it,’ I snapped, ‘Now do as you’ve been told!’ My role model for this tirade was my high school headmistress, Miss Grimshaw, and I’d got her to a ‘t’. It did the trick, for Stephen retreated into the kitchen, re-appearing a moment later with the same tray minus one glass. He poured the wine and proffered the tray but I made no move to take the glass.

‘Put it on the floor at my feet, and do not dare speak until I give you permission.’ Stephen’s eyes widened and, for one awful moment, I thought he was going to protest, but I sealed his lips with one of Miss Grimshaw’s most penetrating glares. I reached for the glass, took a sip, sat back, and embarked upon the speech I’d spent the afternoon rehearsing, and all my life waiting to deliver.

‘Stephen, you will neither explain, nor apologise; you will merely listen to what I have to say. Her name is Karen, she is young, pretty, has long dark hair, a wide smiling mouth, and a firm round arse you cannot take your eyes off. You know the moist desire of her lips and tongue, for you have tasted them.’ Again his eyes widened, and again I stayed any protest by narrowing mine. ‘You make love to her in your dreams,’ I continued, gravely, ‘and you kiss and fondle her in your car. You nurture your mutual desire over clandestine lunches, texts and phone calls; I have the dates and times. Your next step was to find a bed. I know all this, and more, Stephen, for I have had you followed. I have all the evidence I need, and your dear, sweet parents will be interested in seeing copies of the private detective’s report; I’m sure it will do your father’s heart condition the world of good. There is no point in protest, Stephen, you are a man undone.’

Countless couples face this moment in their marriage. The wife confronts the errant husband with damning evidence, he confesses, splutters profound apologies for his stupidity in being ‘led astray in a moment of weakness.’ My own mother bought the line, complete with hook and sinker. And, of course, less than two years later, after it happened again, there she was at her GP, topping up on the Valium; she was on it till she died. My mother was weak, but I am not. I had no interest in eliciting any apologies, or heart-felt promises to toe the line, given under sufferance. I knew I had one chance, and one chance only, to teach Stephen a lesson he would never forget: he may swim freely, and even make the odd splash, but only within the territorial waters of our marriage, where I remain both harbour master, and mistress of the tides.

‘Listen closely to me, Stephen,’ I went on. ‘I neither desire, nor will accept, any apology or excuse. You are guilty of marital treachery and must be punished. Either you leave this house for good this very hour and never come back, or, you will do exactly as I say, in all things great and small, for a defined period of time. There will be no discussion, and no negotiation. Should you choose to leave now, then first thing tomorrow, I shall commence divorce proceedings and, believe me, there will be no going back. However, should you opt to stay, you will obey me without question, regardless of what I ask of you, for a period of precisely one calendar month. Whenever you are in my presence, you will address me as ‘Madame Kate’. Remember Stephen, this has been brought about by nothing other than your arrogant assumption that you were capable of carrying on a sexual relationship behind my back, and your misplaced belief that I was weak and dumb enough to allow you to get away with it. You must be taught a lesson, Stephen, until you see once and for all, that I am no naïve, impressionable wife whose needs and feelings can be disregarded at will, but a woman of substance, a woman to be reckoned with. Oh, and one more thing, you shall not touch me in any way, shape or form unless invited to do so. Obey these conditions to a fault, and after one month, the slate will be wiped clean, and you will be fully restored to your former status. Otherwise, leave now, for good. The choice is yours, you have ten seconds and your time starts now.’

If ever I saw a face etched in pain, this was it. Of course, it would have taken next to nothing for Stephen to break such a spell, merely laugh in my face, or fetch another glass and pour himself a fat slug of my wine; next to nothing perhaps, but a lot more than Stephen had in him. I had gambled correctly, for as the eighth second ticked by in my head, Stephen’s chin sank to his chest and his lips trembled.

‘Yes … Madame Kate,’ he whispered.

‘So be it,’ I replied, ‘Now go and prepare supper; the fridge is full, make me something I’d like.’

Stephen is not a bad cook, in fact there are very few things he is truly bad at; it’s just that he is pretty average at everything. The fact is, he’d become bland and boring, whereas what I now saw I needed was a husband I could be proud of; a husband my new friends would be impressed by. I’d often wondered how Stephen had got to where he had in the bank, with so much emphasis on sales figures and performance targets in banking these days. I suppose there must be more to him at work than he ever shows at home. Well, if it takes firm management and clear targets to whip him into line then the next month will ensure that he gets it.

It’s hard to adequately describe the sense of power I felt in those first few days of Stephen’s sentence, knowing I could just click my fingers, order up any small treat or service, and he would obey, without question. I didn’t even have to be polite, or smile sweetly, although I often chose to do so. Sometimes, however, I just snapped my fingers, and barked an order: ‘Make me a cappuccino/run me a bath/clean my shoes/draw the curtains.’ But after a while, I grew used to ordering him to perform such small services, and began to experiment with other commands, such as telling him to do twenty press-ups, or go back upstairs and change his clothes.

‘What should I put on, Madame Kate?’ he asked, meekly.

‘Something I’d like. Surprise me,’ I teased, knowing full well that whatever he chose, I would purposely not be impressed. Having made him get changed twice one Saturday morning, I made him drive me to town, where we toured several menswear departments from which I selected various items more stylish than anything he’d have chosen himself. I made him try them all on and come to the changing room entrance to model the results for my approval. I made the final choice, and, of course, he paid for everything. I took him to M&S, where we scoured the lingerie section. I headed off to try on a couple of bras, whilst I sent him off to fetch the matching briefs, knowing how much this would embarrass him. I emerged from the changing room clutching my new bras to find him waiting for me, two pairs of silk and lace panties in hand. ‘Good boy, Stephen,’ I beamed, and in that moment I almost thought I detected a gleam in Stephen’s eye, indicating that, despite the humiliation, he might not be as averse to his punishment as I’d first thought. However, the gleam soon disappeared when I handed him the bras and delivered his next instruction.

‘Now take all these across to the check-out and pay for them, I’ll meet you in the car.’

It was when Vicki called around a fortnight into Stephen’s sentence that the idea really took shape. Stephen was upstairs in the study, doing paperwork for the bank. Of course, I called him down at once and ordered him to fix us both some drinks. Vicki, who is an expensively clad golf widow to a young up-and-coming tour professional, seemed highly impressed.

‘Well, I must say, you’ve got him well trained,’ she whispered, as I sent Stephen back to the kitchen for some nibbles to go with our drinks. ‘Good-looking too,’ she said with a wink.

‘You think so, Vicki? Then when he returns you must tell him.’

‘Are you sure?’ she asked, a little taken aback.

‘Quite sure. The occasional compliment is good for a shy husband, it brings out the best in him.’

Vicki gave me an inquisitive stare.

Stephen appeared with a small bowl of stuffed olives, and the remainder of the bottle of wine.

‘Madame Kate, Vicki … your tapas; I trust you both like olives, and may I top up your drinks?’

And as Vicki lifted her glass from the tray, and slowly brushed a moist olive along her bottom lip, she gave Stephen her most seductive stare, but her words were addressed directly to me.

‘I must say, Kate, you have the most charming husband, and so very attentive.’

I smiled back at her, and gave a tiny tilt of the head, much as royalty does in the face of a compliment from a visiting dignitary. Stephen, poor thing, simply blanched, then looked across at me for how to respond. It was then that I realised how completely all the recent discipline had brought him under my control.

‘Vicki’s given you a compliment, Stephen, aren’t you forgetting something?’ I nodded in the direction of my guest, whose eyes were still trained on my husband.

‘Thank you, Vicki,’ he said, ‘it is my pleasure and privilege to serve two such fine, beautiful ladies.’ And I swore I heard Vicki purr.

‘Stephen, leave us alone now, for Vicki and I have important matters to discuss. But first, you may kiss our hands, my guest first.’

Vicki’s eyes widened in astonishment, as Stephen leaned forward, proffered his palm, into which Vicki meekly placed her hand, and I watched his fingers fold around it, pull it slightly towards him, then plant a brief but tender kiss on the back of her hand, before performing the exact same ritual upon me.

‘Wow,’ enthused Vicki, once Stephen had left the room, ‘How on earth did you manage that? I’m almost wet for God’s sake, Oh, oh my God,’ she put her hand to her mouth, ‘I’m sorry, Kate, I shouldn’t have said … please forgive me, I didn’t mean …’

I decided to put the poor girl out of her misery.

‘Of course you meant it, Vicki, please don’t apologise, there’s really no need. Stephen is mine, in all things and in all ways; I am honoured that you find him desirable. It is a wonderful compliment, and I take it as such.’

‘Wow …’ Vicki whispered again.

I’d instructed Stephen to be home by five on the Friday afternoon, exactly one month to the day since the commencement of his sentence. I had invited Vicki, and four other women from the Ladies’ Circle whom she considered the most broad-minded, and I wanted Stephen to prepare canapés. By six-thirty, he had stowed the platters of food in the fridge, along with several bottles of champagne.

‘There you are, Madame Kate,’ all ready for you when your guests arrive. I’ll go upstairs and make myself scarce.’

‘Oh no, Stephen, that won’t do at all. You are going to wait on us. Now go upstairs and shower.’

‘Yes, Madame Kate.’

‘Just one more thing,’ I said, as he reached the door, ‘I want you shave your pubic hair, above and below, every strand. Your attire is laid out on the bed in the spare room. Listen to me, Stephen … you have done well this past month, I have been impressed with the commitment you have shown in obeying my every command. This evening is your last hurdle. Much will be asked of you; rise to the occasion, and you shall awake in the morning with the slate wiped clean. Your smooth-look genitals shall be maintained on a daily basis, as a permanent reminder of your status: not merely a man restored, but indeed, a new man; a man and husband we can both feel proud of.

I looked up from my House & Gardens magazine and smiled, approvingly, as Stephen presented himself before me. The chef’s apron was one we’d brought back from Barcelona last year, and never used: a plain calico background and, on the bib and front, a black outline drawing of a Spanish bull with a pair of bright purple cojones the size of aubergines.

‘But Madame Kate, I can’t wear just this!’ Stephen whimpered.

I gave him the most penetrative stare over the rim of my reading glasses. There was no need for any further reprimand; Stephen lowered his eyes, and recited his mantra.

‘Whatever you say, Madame Kate.’

‘That’s better. Now let me inspect your handiwork with the razor.’

It was as if the whole room fizzed with champagne bubbles; I’d never known a bunch of women so lost for words. Not that the room was silent, as Stephen went around each seat in turn, topping up each woman’s glass. Far from it, only the woman he served at any one moment fell silent as he carefully filled her glass; the other four tittered and giggled with schoolgirl amusement at the sight of my husband, naked from the back, apart from the thin red apron strings that dangled tantalisingly just below his buttocks. I, of course, retained a calm aloofness, as befits the composer present at a gala performance of a new composition.

‘Another bottle, Stephen, there’s a good boy.’ My order was dispatched with the quiet authority of one who knows her subject has been well and truly bent to her will, and as soon as he’d left the room a cascade of gasps and giggles erupted from my guests, and they all focused on me, eyes agog.

‘How on earth did you manage that, Kate?’ pleaded Mirelda.

‘Ooh, do tell!’ the others cooed.

Vicki, who I thought looked more than a little flushed, simply gushed, ‘Wow, Kate, you’re amazing, and what a gorgeous arse your man has. Quite hard to resist, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘Then don’t resist, Vicki, you have my permission to give it a little fondle when he returns, it’s quite all right.’

And as Stephen stood before me replenishing my empty glass, Vicki sidled up behind him and gave his cheeks a soft caress with the palm of her hand. Stephen’s gave a start, looked to me wide-eyed for instruction, and I gave a little nod and smile of reassurance. It was only as I ran my hand up the inside of his thigh and cupped the loose ball sack that rested butter-soft and smooth in the palm of my hand, that the front of his apron gave a first small twitch, like a hungry squirrel waking from its winter hibernation.

‘Hmm, very nice Stephen,’ I said, approvingly, ‘but I think you should see if any of my guests need topping up.’

Stephen blushed, and as he turned to commence another tour of duty of my Ladies’ Circle, I held out my hand and received Vicki’s glass, a gesture that not only affirmed my authority, but freed her to fondle him with both hands as he filled their glasses.

‘Hmmm, nice cojones,’ purred Mirelda, as she stared at the bull on the front of the apron, whilst he replenished her glass. ‘And, if I’m not mistaken there’s something in there trying to get out!’

At this the others collapsed in giggles, their eyes darting back and forth between Stephen and myself, but it was me they were looking to for guidance.

‘Well, perhaps we all have a chance to see,’ I said, and gave my most regal smile.

Vicki snuggled so close to Stephen that her crotch now pressed against the cheeks of his arse, and Mirelda reached forward, lifting the apron hem to reveal my husband’s hairless ball-purse, nestling below a brilliant hard baton, looking her directly in the eye.

Mirelda gasped, but before she could reach out and examine the goods, I issued another command, in a voice all sweetness itself.

‘Stephen, I think you’ll find Lisa’s glass needs filling!’ Mirelda looked at me and gave a mock grimace. Deferring to my authority, Mirelda let go of the apron, but her eyes were now on me, and bore a look of undoubted admiration.

As Stephen poured Lisa’s champagne, the apron now resembled a circus tent, and Vicki’s arms reached around him, raising the hem once more up to his waist.

At the sight of my husband’s richly veined cock just inches from her face, Lisa’s eyes widened, and a little groan issued from deep in her throat.

‘Ohhhh … these olives, look … just wonderful,’ she gushed, and glanced across to me for consent.

‘Then try one, Lisa,’ I said, ‘I think we would all need to know if they’re as ripe and fresh as they look.’

Mirelda’s face was a picture of envy as Lisa calmly placed her hand under Stephen’s erect penis, cradled his now hairless balls in the palm of her hand, and began fondling them gently between her thumb and fingers. The others were no longer giggling but straining to gain a closer look and, like a master conductor, I pressed the Hi-Fi remote. As the soft strains of Ravel’s Bolero began to fill the room, Vicki reached around Stephen’s waist, grasped the shaft of Stephen’s phallus and began easing the foreskin to and fro over his dark ruby glans. Her slender wrist moved back and forth with the sweet suppleness of a violinist, as she played him in accord with the music’s rising rhythms, and all the while Lisa massaged Stephen’s smooth balls.

I stood up, drained my champagne glass, and the other three onlookers began a slow, rhythmic handclap. I walked slowly and purposely towards the living tableau; Stephen’s eyes were now closed in pained ecstasy and his pelvis began swaying to its own inner beat.

‘Not quite yet, Stephen. Wait for the word,’ I called above the din. I observed Vicki’s and Lisa’s every movement, and praised their technique, before leaning forward and whispering in Stephen’s ear, ‘Now … now!’

When Stephen came, he made to lurch forward but Vicki clung to him like a lioness bringing down a buffalo, and his hot cum shot straight into my glass in a half-dozen fierce spurts. Lisa shrieked, Vicki groaned, and the three observers gasped in admiration, while Stephen sank to his knees, and I, like a proud matador, rested the sole of my shoe gently upon his thigh, and raised the glass to my lips to savour the spoils. And as I sipped my husband’s nectar, I drank in the appreciative, rapturous applause of my new best friends and ardent admirers.

‘Stephen,’ I said, addressing him directly, ‘you’ve done exceedingly well. Now run along upstairs, take a shower, and wait in my bed until I bring you your reward.’ Stephen’s face was still flushed from his orgasm, but his eyes smiled up at me, like a faithful spaniel.

Ten minutes later, as I said good night to Vicki and the others, I felt a deep glow of

satisfaction at my month’s work, and was not at all tired, but felt a certain spring in my step as I climbed the stairs, thinking only of the new strap-on dildo and jar of KY jelly waiting under the bed.