Chapter One

My Wife Will See You Now

It was almost dark when the man arrived. He was late, something about a delayed train out of London. I hadn’t expected such apathy, and not being in the mood for lame duck excuses, wasn’t really listening to his explanation. His appointment was for three – it was now close to four. While he burbled away, I used the time to decide whether to allow him to proceed. He stood at the door, looking harassed, swaying from one leg to the other. He was slightly made, short, and younger than I had imagined, with swiveling eyes that suggested he was fearful of being waylaid. First impressions were that he was innocent enough – more like a bungler than a burglar or troublemaker.

I took a chance and let him in, reasoning there wasn’t much of him to handle in the event of trouble. He was still apologizing as he hung his coat on the stand in the hall. On the phone, he had said his name was David. Maybe; it didn’t much matter. Nobody would reveal a correct surname under these circumstances, but I assumed they would use their real Christian name. But one name is as good as another; so, David it was. He handed me the money in a plastic see-through bag, the kind they use for change at the bank. I checked it. This was not the time for politeness over expediency.

I could tell David was nervous. He walked on wobbly legs as we crossed the hall. His unease alleviated my apprehension. I don’t mean that in a nasty way, but it gave me confidence when I needed it most. There was a lot riding on what was about to happen. Hand on the door handle, I turned to face him, saying, “My wife will see you now.”

Forget all the planning: those were the words that started it all. You can spend all night loitering in a casino, but you only gamble when you place your money on the green baize. That’s what I was doing now: spinning the wheel, rolling the dice, buying a card. I ushered David through the door to where my wife was waiting.

Offering a reminder as to whom the central character in all this was, Stephanie took a step forward. The sound of her heel on the hard floor pierced the stillness. Under the circumstances, it was a step to strike fear in the most robust heart.

My wife was dressed as a school teacher, complete with mortar board and gown. As always for such an occasion, she looked stunning. Her long legs were elevated by high heels and elegantly shaped by black stockings. The skirt was also black, contrasted by the stark whiteness of a crisp blouse. Her face was finely made up with a touch of rouge. She moved with all the assurance of a woman who is used to being the center of attraction. That one step arrested both David and myself. Stephanie halted, arms folded, impatiently drumming the fingers of her right hand on her left forearm.

I made the introductions in a voice that had turned croaky. I then withdrew, treading softly as I climbed the stairs to take a position on the landing, from where I could ride shotgun overlooking the room below. From my vantage point, sitting on a small portable step behind the shelter of the cloakroom door, I could see everything. The idea was that I could be available at a moment’s notice should intervention be necessary.

We had cleared the reception room below so that it contained little. The coffee table and the bookcase had been removed, leaving the two-seater settee. We had introduced a couple of backless chairs and a low stool, and I had installed a row of hooks on the wall, upon which various implements could be hung. In its neutral color, the idea was to leave the room looking innocently minimal.

One of the stairs belatedly creaked as Stephanie began to speak. “You’re late, David!”

“I know. I am sorry, Miss.”

“What happens to boys that are late for detention?”

“They are p… p… punished, Miss.”

“Exactly! But, of course, in your case, seeing as you are already here for such a purpose, that means punishment on top of punishment, doesn’t it, David?”

I could see he was shaking now. And, come to think of it, so was I, but for different reasons. Stephanie was a normal person with all the hang-ups we all possess, yet here she was: presenting a master class in dominance!

“Tell me what you have come to see me about.”

“I have been sent to you for misbehaving in class, Miss. And for not handing in homework on time.”

“I see. It looks like you have a problem with time, doesn’t it, David?” She wagged an admonishing finger in his direction.

“Yes, Miss.” He hung his head as he uttered the words.

There were more clicks from my wife’s shoes as she stalked the room in order to remove a slipper from a small bag. Grasping it firmly, her every move watched by a spellbound David, she curved the slipper with one hand and then flipped its underside on her other open palm. Her movements were slow and exaggerated. She tutted under her breath with mock indignation as she placed one of the chairs into the center of the room. Apparently oblivious to two pairs of eyes burning into her, she took her time to arrange her gown and smooth her skirt as she sat down. She crossed her legs to reveal a flash of stockinged thigh. Then she extended her arm and crooked a finger at David, beckoning him to step forward. Once before her, she told him to remove his jacket.

It had been a tense ceremony. Never mind David, I could hear my heart hammer in my chest, feel my blood race through my veins. Confined to my cubicle of drifting darkness which apprehension sucked clean of air, my hands were trembling; there was the prickle of cold sweat on my brow as I ogled the scene below.

My wife – Stephanie – ordered the hapless David to stand by her right side. I knew what was coming. Such knowledge only increased my fervor. Stern, cool and manipulative, my wife’s hands were on David’s trousers. She removed his belt and shucked his trousers and pants down to his ankles. She uncrossed her legs. A delicate feminine hand – porcelain-white, etched with red-tipped nails – worthy of the lips of any Prince Charming, reached for his ear as she spun him downwards to meet her knees. And just like that, in a trice, David’s pocket-size meant he flopped down neatly.

Oh! I knew how those first moments felt, supported by the softness of my wife’s thighs, face swirling toward the ground, but eyes following the line of her legs to her pointed shoes. But this was the first time I had witnessed her as she was actually about to spank someone else. Mesmerized, I watched as David was hoisted clear of the ground, stranded and dangling over my wonderful wife’s knees. Clasping the slipper by its heel, I saw her lift it above shoulder height so it curled backward before flashing through the air, its flapping sole striking David’s waiting bottom with a squelchy slap that made a delightful thwacking sound, filling the room as it landed. Then, with David balanced, his legs paddling, his arms pumping, face screwed up with indignation, Stephanie walloped that slipper down on his bare bottom once more. She steadied David’s jerking head with her free hand and pushed it down. It took no time to subdue him. Bent low, David’s hair flopped over his forehead. His face contorted into a mask of supposed (or possibly genuine) agony as his legs danced in between his yelps and protests. And all the while his bottom changed from moon-white to blush-pink and then an angry red. Stephanie was in total control, causing David’s head to snatch up each time the sole of that slipper engulfed its target. Watching my wife handle David with such ease was a revelation – one that I found enthralling. I always knew how erotic she could be, but viewed from a distance she was even more striking – as fiery, and, right then, as distant as Venus in the night sky. I looked on with real admiration and longing, my heart ready to burst from its chest, my pulse seemingly haywire.

I should explain. In the early part of the new century, Stephanie and I were living above our means. Back then it was a familiar story for young go-getters with what looked like a sound future. With a good job in the City, I was the breadwinner. My prospects were bright; we had no reason to assume, although costing more than we could afford, that the house we had put ourselves in hock over wouldn’t be affordable within a year or two. Then, just like that, in the sort of twist that life loves to enact, cutbacks at work meant I lost my job. I assumed finding something similar would be easy, but it turned out to be anything but. Even slap-bang in affluent England, my credentials counted for little, particularly after three months of unemployment. Following the financial excesses of the Blair years, I found myself in Broke Britain. Employers wanted something for nothing. Firms weren’t hiring. And if they were, they could afford to be extremely choosy. There was work of sorts, but nothing that would realize the kind of money I was used to. Time passed quickly and I became accustomed to not working. I moped at home, occasionally buoyed by positive newspaper horoscopes (features I wouldn’t ordinarily give credence to, but that I found heartening when they spoke in my favor). My routine as well as my fortune altered rapidly. I started rising late, scanning various publications for jobs, rejecting most, responding to those that meant my application became one of hundreds before the predictable flimsy rejection letter containing the usual well-worn phraseology.

Midsummer, and it was hot. With a mind cluttered by thoughts of insolvency, Stephanie and I were caught in the cleft stick of a life temporarily on hold. We tended to stay up late, watching DVDs, listening to music, playing sexual games – something we often indulged in – and reflecting that life always looks better at two in the morning after a bottle of wine or a couple of vodka and tonics.

Unnoticed, the clock that only moves in one direction kept ticking. The nights began to draw in. We fell into arrears with the house payments and unwelcome letters began arriving on the doorstep. The time had come when it seemed appropriate to hammer out a late-night plan. Not the sort you forget or discard in the morning. What we needed was drastic action. I was tired of bleeding my life away on the pages of my CV, only for someone with half my experience to reply with a standard rejection letter. I put it to Stephanie that we had to create our own future, and I proposed we toasted to it as we somberly drained the last from our remaining bottle of Shiraz. What I had in mind was radical.

As mentioned we are a sexually adventurous couple. Why not? We are young – late twenties – and attractive. We had experimented with BDSM and enjoyed it and bought various articles and outfits to further this interest. Although there is nothing inherently dominant about my wife – sometimes it takes her an age to decide what to wear or what to eat for dinner – having decided she didn’t care to be on the receiving end, she began taking the lead in these sessions. No dragon complete with unsightly tattoos who had to resort to harsh language at the top of her voice to be obeyed, Stephanie’s quiet, secretarial insistence became increasingly alluring each time she switched personas. And seemingly without effort, just by being who she was, she could bring new and unexpected twists to our scenarios that I found ever more erotic. I admit I loved what she made me do. Whether it was when she placed me face down across her knees for a hand-spanking that I found more delicious than I should have, or had me kneel and kiss her foot or boot, to leaning over a stool or chair for the strap, or bending before her awaiting the whistle and swish of the cane which she handled so deftly.

I had thought about the possibilities for some time, and finally one night chose to put it to Stephanie that we could consider exploiting this untapped side of her personality to fund our lifestyle. I suggested that with careful planning, it was possible to offer a private service to a select band of individuals right here in our home. By charging up to £200 per visit we could easily and quickly replenish our depleted income. Five such appointments a week – less than one day’s work as it used to be for me in the City – would mean we could make the repayments on the house each month – a house that otherwise we would surely lose. Furthermore, without the considerable expense of travelling into London each day, we could sustain our cash-thirsty lifestyle and even keep the Porsche.

There was an army of people out there desperate to see someone such as she, whether it be as the strict schoolmistress, the babysitter or the stepmom. I didn’t claim to be an expert, but felt it important to emphasize that one of the advantages of this speciality service was that a dominant could avoid sexual contact with her clients. No one expected a woman taking the dominant role to supply oral or anal, to get down on her knees, to allow the defilement of her body. After all, why would they? Such a demand was a contradiction in terms. Those employing the dominant woman relinquish any rights – that is part of the deal. A woman can expect nothing but humility and humbleness from a true submissive. She can expect and command him to slobber an eager tongue over her shoes or boots as he begs for forgiveness for some long-embedded infraction – not to request she acquiesce to a round of cheap sexual tricks.

Stephanie is one of those women that plays a waiting game with men. She lets them take the lead, scrutinizing them silently with the intensity of a prosecuting counsel, relying on their natural exuberance to lead them into trouble. Now, throughout this discussion, curled up on the sofa like some long-limbed lazy cat waiting to be fed, she dissected me with one of her intense stares without speaking. Her brow furrowed as she adopted a puzzled expression – one I was familiar with. The spinning whirlpool that her eyes created cut through me as she raked her fingers through her indolently long hair and pouted.

“You mean you want me to become your whore while you become my pimp?” she asked as she savored what was left of her wine. It was the sort of carefully couched, partly rhetorical question she would ask. But there was no malice attached. If anything, I thought I detected the vaguest of sly smiles.

I countered by saying it was something we could manage as a duo. The trick was not to let this proposed activity infringe on our lives. We could section off a suitable part of the house and I would vet candidates closely before they arrived, and oversee developments from a discreet distance when they did. There were plenty of places where we could advertise. We would reserve a mobile phone specifically for the business; I would handle all calls, encouraging clients to be specific about their requirements, always aware they would be prone to lying and could neglect to mention any real and possible unsavory cravings. Those deemed to be in search of the distasteful or downright perverted (there would be some) would be summarily rejected irrespective of financial incentive. That way we would only deal with those we considered suitable. We would be in a business where no-shows were the norm; therefore, we would require a secure, non-returnable down-payment online before making a firm booking. I realized this arrangement would not be universally popular, but too bad! After all, I continued, we were hardly likely to be reported to the Office of Fair Trading.

As I made my presentation, I was aware of an unspoken undercurrent running through it. True, I was addressing a fiscal problem affecting our marital home, but what I had neglected to mention was a dark and subliminal longing to see my wife take part in the sort of action outlined. Presumably unaware of this, Stephanie continued to play the feline part, widening and narrowing her leopard-like eyes, yawning with a hint of big-cat boredom, and stroking her folded-up legs that shaped her training bottoms so well. We were both tired; in part our senses were dulled by the wine and the late hour. When she spoke, Stephanie remarked that I seemed to have covered every detail as if I had deliberated on the matter for some time, which was of course accurate. It was something I was not keen to elaborate on, having no wish to confess to my mounting excitement. Accordingly, I nodded, reminding her any business was a serious undertaking that required comprehensive forethought. I had done that to the best of my ability and considered the beauty of the scheme was that, aside from the purchase of a few inexpensive items that could mostly be found in charity shops, it required no outlay whatsoever – something few, if any, fledging businesses can lay claim to. I ended by adding the decision should be hers. But in acknowledging Stephanie had the final word, I remarked that if we went ahead we would be reclaiming our independence, in which case we had to be prepared to depart from anything we had ever done before. In short, it meant crossing a Rubicon or invisible line.

She chewed this over for a while, so much so that I thought she may have lost interest or even dropped to sleep. However, such action was not typical of my wife. Present her with a challenge and she will at least meet it head-on. Before setting a metaphorical seal on her decision, she suggested she would need a nom de plume. “Something with a bit of bite,” was how she put it. “How about Miss Sharp? Miss Patti Sharp?”

The name sent a shiver through me. I could imagine myself as a client making an appointment with Miss Sharp, and experiencing a mixture of nervousness and excitement as I walked up the drive to our house. And then of feeling an overwhelming burst of exhilaration when confronted by the stunning figure of my wife in person.

Oblivious of my musings, Stephanie remarked how we seemed to have crossed a number of lines recently. There had been lines she had seen in my rejection letters: lines in the sands we had drawn up together. But then, in between toying with her empty wine glass, leaving the impression she had reached some sort of decision, she concluded the hardest lines to negotiate were invariably those you had to read between …

On that first ‘live’ weekend, we received nine calls. I dismissed three out of hand, reckoning the callers sounded drunk or crazy. One dismissed me – I think he hoped to gain some titillation from talking to the woman in the ad. On a similar theme, two went cold when they realized they were required to deal with a man. One I was unsure about, so being over-cautious I told him my wife was not available. That left David, who I instantly rated as a safe bet, which his visit, after a poor start proved, and his successor, Andrew, who sounded genuine but whose requirements were complicated. I felt it was crucial to find out about prospective clients. The reason was two-fold. Firstly, it reduced the risk of admitting nutcases into the house. Secondly, it made Stephanie’s task so much easier if she knew in advance how to handle the men who visited. Consequently, I had decided to employ the sensible enough tactic of asking callers to detail what exactly they were looking for. I quickly discovered most were reticent to elaborate. But I soon learned a little coercion opened them up. If all else failed, I told them it was their money – their experience – and by confiding in me it was one they were guaranteed to get the most out of. Sometimes gaining such knowledge was like pulling teeth. Don’t ask me why, but some men expect others to be psychic. Even though they must know they have willingly agreed to divulge their secrets, and that their fetishes are destined to be known, shyness or embarrassment can present a barrier. Andrew had no such qualms. He knew what he wanted and was damn sure he wanted Stephanie to know as well.

In summary, he wanted her to be head girl at the school at which he was supposed to teach. She had discovered he allowed his pupils to frequent the local betting shop – an establishment it transpired he was in cahoots with. Such contravention of rules would get him fired should it come to the attention of the board of governors, meaning, as head girl, Stephanie could exert considerable power over him.

Andrew’s fantasy meant a meeting to discuss a solution. He requested Stephanie dress in a short, school skirt as she disclosed what she knew, revealing details slowly, piece by piece and teasingly in a ritual that was to last for forty-five minutes.

Again, I was edgy before his arrival. But I need not have worried. As is so often the case his voice – which had been direct and precise over the phone – failed to match his appearance. In person, he was a small but stocky man in his mid-fifties that wore a blue suit and a white shirt that probably came ready-boxed with the bold, diagonally-striped accompanying tie. He shook my hand with a damp palm and shifted awkwardly at the door. I could tell by his wide eyes, his unsteady gait and his over-expansive gestures, that Andrew was unsettled. He acted as if the whole scenario – although of his making – had become too vast for him to deal with.

In comparison, looking stunning in a little gold skirt and white shirt with a pencil-thin black tie, Stephanie was relaxed as she towered over her subject. As I made my tactful withdrawal, creeping up the stairs to my lookout spot on the landing, Stephanie was already finding it simple to engineer what followed. Taking unobtrusive but distinct charge, she slipped into the role of head girl, insisting Andrew addressed her as such. Already armed with the bones of the plot, she relied on her conversation with Andrew to flesh it out, holding his attention with a kryptonite-type glare.

“I shall have to report your behavior,” Stephanie informed Andrew as I became reunited with their dialogue.

“Please, don’t do that.” Andrew answered in a hoarse voice.

“You leave me with no choice.”

“Surely there must be an alternative – that is, if you think about it.”

“Really?” Stephanie crossed to the low stool and extended her left foot, her heel digging into its leather surface, making a small indentation. She raised and bent her knee so her flimsy skirt rose to expose a slab of a generously-shaped thigh. Leaning forward, left hand cupping her knee, she concentrated her gaze on her subject. “What did you have in mind?”

Andrew coughed a nervous cough, palpably withering under her scrutiny. “We agree I have erred. All that is left under such circumstances is to settle on appropriate punishment – my punishment that is …” The mere mention of the word seemed to unnerve Andrew, who took a few moments deciding what to say next.

For her part, Stephanie maintained her pose and gaze while he stewed where he stood.

“Perhaps, as head girl, you could consider punishing me as you would an errant student. You do have that authority I believe; that way we need say no more about my … transgression.”

“It is somewhat irregular for a head girl to punish a teacher, wouldn’t you say, Andrew?”

“I won’t say anything if you don’t.” He looked away as he spoke, inviting the floor the open up and swallow him.

“Do you know how I punish naughty students, Andrew?”

“Not … not entirely.”

“Let me tell you. It varies … But those that are very naughty – as you have been – can expect the cane.”

Andrew gave out a sharp intake of breath then swallowed hard.

“That’s what happens to people at school who behave badly. If they break the rules, they can expect punishment. Proper punishment. The same should apply to teachers as it does to pupils, don’t you think, Andrew?”

“Yes, Head Girl.”

Without waiting for further comment, on her precise heels, Stephanie speared her way toward the wall, where three canes and a strap hung from the row of hooks. Taking her time, she selected the thin, whippy, crook-handled cane, which she hissed through the air before slowly returning to the center of the room. Her eyes still blazed in Andrew’s direction as she stood before him, tapping her right leg with the shaft of the cane. Then she raised it, one hand holding its handle, the other its tip, as she flexed and bent it into a semicircle. Andrew seemed hypnotized by the instrument, bent so compliantly in her hands.

“That’s right; take a good look at this cane, Andrew. Before long you will be very well acquainted with it.” Her voice was lemon-sharp, whilst her intense look and flashing eyes cut what was left of him down in an instant.

Stephanie set the final stages of the procedure in motion. She paced the floor, reiterating the ultimatum they had jointly set. She told him his choice was simple: obey her or face ruination. It was nonsense of course, but judging by his reaction, Andrew seemed immersed in this work of fiction. Confused and tongue-tied, he stammered acceptance, and Stephanie ordered him to remove his clothes. Stripped bare, there was nothing appealing about Andrew. Despite its supposed eroticism, there was no sign he found the episode alluring. With a penis the size of an acorn, he had all the signs of the middle-aged man who should have known better. There was an excess of hair in his nose and ears – a thin map of varicose veins forming on his stocky, pale legs. Little patches of sweat stained his rumpled shirt that lay on the floor. Once instructed, he had difficulty bending over without some form of support, which Stephanie supplied in the form of one of the chairs.

Andrew tried again, his red face staring at the hard floor. Fists clenched by his sides, he spluttered and puffed with exertion and pain as Stephanie struck his naked buttocks with the first and subsequent strokes of the cane. Andrew grimaced as Stephanie slowly patterned his blushing bottom, striping it with carefully placed searing welts of red. Six strokes later he was dancing round the room, yelping and howling, causing Stephanie to seek him out in order to continue. He gritted his teeth as she grasped his hair, yanking him back to position. He twisted in tame protest, failing to settle into his position on the chair. Exasperated, she led him to the small stool, planting her left foot upon it and tipping Andrew across her raised knee, a move, in between the rise and fall of the whistling cane, which awoke the hibernating acorn.

After the success with those first two clients, we were more relaxed, even confident about continuing. There followed a steady stream of eager callers. I can’t remember them all. There was Adrian, who wanted Stephanie to slowly remove her belt from the waist of her skirt before thrashing him with it. A scientist, whose hair stuck up like the quills of a porcupine, who wanted to kneel at her feet and worship her shoes whilst she glowered at him. Someone else wanted to wear short trousers and have his legs slapped then sit at a makeshift table and write out a hundred lines. Another man only wanted to be scolded and placed in the corner of the room, facing the wall for half an hour while Stephanie moved about the room and rifled through a sheaf of papers. There were those that wanted to taste the strap or cane, but, who, presumably married, set Stephanie a challenge as they were desperate not to be marked. There was nearly a disaster with someone that wanted to be whipped to tears. It turned out there was a good reason why he had never cried before under such circumstances: namely, it was something he could not do. There were no tears but pain that took him beyond his threshold and left him in a broken heap. (It was a warning that under such circumstances we should employ the use of a safe word.) And there were those whose veneers were disguised from the world at large that just wanted my wife to treat them like naughty boys. Some of them were good-humoured, others deadly serious. Irrespective of age or status, most left walking stiffly toward the door and rubbing tender bottoms. There were the usual business travelers and away-from-home dreamers in search of relief from dingy and dark motel rooms; those escaping momentarily from marriages that failed to satisfy their desires; the most difficult of all – those who thought they knew what they wanted but weren’t sure. Stephanie conducted sad little silhouetted ceremonies with these men. Under such circumstances, she said as little as possible, shrugged, keeping them at arm’s length whilst attempting to fulfill whatever flimsy fantasies inhabited their minds. To this end, some of the men ended up confused and disillusioned – puddles on the floor as cold reality meant long-harbored dreams failed to live up to expectations.

It was not Stephanie’s business. She did her best with the material presented – tried to animate the bare sketches before moving on, regularly leaving them with the same skeletons they brought with them.

As for my relationship with Stephanie – that had altered drastically. I was sharing her with her gentlemen callers. Sharing her with the men that paid for her attention.

My wife will see you now. From then on, the sights and sounds that followed comprised a conspiracy that to a degree excluded me. It started with the casual exchange between visitor and host. It progressed as my wife manipulated the men into accepting the punishment they craved but were often too timid to request. There was the waft of her perfume, the rustle of her clothes, followed by the raising of her voice, the slap of her hand on flesh, the crack of the cane or strap, the dull thwonk of the slipper, and on rare occasions the crack of the whip. And from my position at the top of the stairs, my eyes feasted greedily on the theatre below. I watched … watched it all. Watching emptied my mind until it only contained one set of images – one set of thoughts. I was consumed by eroticism that featured Stephanie: my wife – the beautiful dominatrix. For, just as she was to those that paid for her attention, my wife had become a fantasy figure to me.

Not long into this new life, one evening as we were unwinding, watching an old movie, senses heightened by the day’s activity (Stephanie had entertained two clients), I asked her if she would grant me an appointment of my own.

“You should get out more. You’re spending too much time here alone,” she told me.

“Thinking of you?”

“It looks like it.” She ran her hands through her hair as she sipped from a mug of tea on the sofa, before informing me she was a little tired. I was deflated! Maybe it was my timing. But, too tired! Twenty-eight years-old, and there she was acting like some middle-aged housewife with a convenient headache! That was my silent reaction, but, with hindsight, my attitude was probably unreasonable. You wouldn’t ask someone who worked in a cinema out on a date to watch a movie. I opted to wait it out. There was time enough for her to recover her libido.

Meanwhile, secretly, my obsession (as it had become) persisted. I began taking matters into my own hands – sometimes twice or three times a day, including whilst watching my wife from my eyrie at the top of the stairs. It wasn’t ideal and I take no pride in this admission, but I had an animal lust that could not be contained. We had been married for six years. Up to now it had been an equal partnership. But that was shifting. Suddenly, Stephanie represented the sum total of my life.

Within two months our financial circumstances had also changed. We paid off our mortgage arrears, cleared our credit cards and even hired a cleaner. Left unchecked, the mobile phone would ring incessantly. After a flurry of calls, I would turn it off mid-morning, only for it resume its endless chirping when switched back on in the evening. It soon became clear we could have secured any number of appointments had we so chose. We didn’t. We had a target of ten a week, which we considered quite enough. Besides, although we were secluded, we did have the neighbors to consider. We lived in Royal Windsor, with its castle, its parks and Eton college close by. It was not a place that would tolerate our behavior. To that end, I let it be known I was now working from home as a freelance accountant; therefore, for those with twitching curtains, explaining away the increased volume of visitors to our house. To all intents and purposes, we had come through a dark period in our lives and were about to live happily ever after. But this was real life. It’s not quite how it turned out …

I had learned a great deal in a short time. I had learned not to be too friendly with the men who trooped through our door. I was polite – nice – no more than that. Jealous of my arrangement with Stephanie and of my closeness to that which they desired, many of them wished to strike up some sort of alliance – never a good idea. I told Stephanie to assume they were all married and that whatever they told her amounted to lies. They weren’t about to cast her in a television series, a movie, or put her on the cover of Vogue. Turn the key on the fancy car they have parked up the road and the only time they would think of her, I said, was when they woke with a hard-on in the middle of the night.

But there was more to know about our little operation. And I should never have lost sight of the fact that complacency can be the biggest threat to any enterprise. Just when you think you are on top of any game you become most vulnerable. Perhaps things had trundled along too easily for us, or I was too immersed in the excitement of the pursuit we were in to see clearly. Whatever was responsible, without warning I was hit by a severe setback. The sort of thing that occurs when you are riding high and life longs to bring you down to earth when you least expect it.

In the sex business – which, however I dressed it up this was (failure to appreciate that might be the root cause of my downfall), there are two types of men that should be avoided where possible. Some customers start out nice but end up ugly. The mindset of a man who is about to empty his scrotum can change quickly. It might be the shame of the act he is intent on – the lifting of the lid capping a private desire he would prefer not to face, or the stark knowledge of a betrayed wife back at home. Whatever provokes such men – they often hate themselves for their weaknesses, but hate those who have exposed them even more. The second – and worst category – belongs to those that are angry: the types that cannot express themselves through normal sexual activity – those that feel life has dealt them a raw deal.

He called himself Mr. Sand. He had come across as another routine punter on the phone who required nothing out of the ordinary. But with his thin gash for a mouth and narrow rodent eyes, once I saw him in person I formed a different impression. He was brusque from the moment he shouldered his way into the hall, failing to show any respect for our house. I should have refunded his initial payment there and then and sent him on his way. For some reason I hesitated, allowing him access to the reception room and to Stephanie. Nice, was all he said when he saw my wife. It was his one and only pleasantry. Once alone with her, his face became serious, precise and threatening. I was already at my viewing spot, but could tell he had created a sour atmosphere and that Stephanie was wary. She reverted to the tactic of stretching time; spearing the floor with precise stiletto steps as she walked toward the wall, from where the cane Sand had expressed an interest in receiving hung.

My mind was racing as I went through what my options were. The most obvious thing to do was to tear down the stairs in a bid to eject him. At that moment, something stopped me. Meanwhile, Sand quietly and quickly sat himself on the settee. Suddenly the man had taken over. “You can be my teacher,” he stipulated to Stephanie, hardly deigning to look her in the eye but scanning her hungrily, flecks of sweat beading his brow. “I can sit here while you teach me. In that tight little leather skirt and that white blouse of yours – teach me! Show me how you handle that cane. Put on a show for me! Do it right, little girlie, or I might have to do the punishing. What you think about that?” This was a departure from his original request. He grinned. It was not a grin you would recognize, more a zombie-style leer. He sprawled where he sat, sweaty hair curling in front of his eyes, his rapid breathing filling the room.

Stephanie flexed the cane waspishly but silently, her eyes wandering upwards to the gallery, presumably attempting to seek me out.

Still I waited to see what would follow. There remained a chance Sand would settle down – that perhaps his outbursts were part of the ritual he desired. That afterward, over a pot of tea for three, he would talk about a miserable childhood and nod sagely whilst gathering his things together. But looking back, judging by the way my mouth had gone dry and the rate at which my heart was pumping, I don’t think I believed that. In fact, worse was to come.

Sand took out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, allowing one to dangle from his lips. This prompted Stephanie to inform him of our no-smoking rule. The cigarette was untipped; it was attached to Sand’s lower lip by a thread of his skin.

“I haven’t lit up yet,” was all he said. I wondered if this was a ruse, an invitation for Stephanie to correct his misbehavior. One look in her direction told me she didn’t see it that way. The man’s face was practically melting under the ceiling lights. He already looked crazy – raving mad even. His eyes were fixed on Stephanie now – had never left her body. They traversed up her legs, over her skirt to her blouse, below the neck to the point of her cleavage. He never looked at his own body as he replaced the packet of cigarettes to his jacket pocket. But the jutting cigarette remained in place and a distraction.

A portcullis of doom descended. Aware events were lurching out of control I prepared to get back downstairs. He must have heard me on the landing; heard the creak of the stairs that I took two at a time – my snatched breathing – but he continued to direct his attention to Stephanie.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you, little missy?” he was muttering in her direction as I burst into the room. There was spittle around his top lip, sweat on his brow.

Stephanie continued to angle the cane. “You really are a bad boy, aren’t you,” she said to Sand, in a wafer-thin voice, ignoring the slow movement of the man’s hand that now contained a lighter and my sudden appearance.

“Too much of a bad boy for you!” Ugly now. The words were more of a growl between his spit-bubbled lips.

He was on his feet, hands by his side as I interrupted. “This is not what we discussed, Mr. Sand,” I began to say. They were the only words I had the chance to speak.

Don’t believe those stage-managed fight scenes in the movies. Somebody’s world can be turned upside down with one punch.

At first there was no feeling – just the sound of knuckle on flesh. Rust melted into hot blood in my mouth; another fist flew out of the mist; a knee to my body; a rabbit punch to my neck. Then it was the hard floor zooming up to meet me as I fell...

As I was unconscious and oblivious at the time, I am reliant on Stephanie’s account of events to know what happened next. It goes without saying my capitulation left her in a difficult position. Therefore, my inadequacy was not something I ever wish to dwell on.

It seems Sand was not a client at all – he had been sent by a competitor to frighten us. I heard Stephanie’s version lying partly-bandaged in a bed in the spare room through the ignominy of a broken tooth, an enlarged rubber lip and a blackened eye, and whatever damage had been done to my nose. At least I knew Sand was not a rogue punter I should have seen through, more a man on a mission that come what may he would have accomplished.

But even the merest blip of consolation was only temporary. Apparently, whilst I lay on our floor with blood oozing from my injured face, Stephanie had listened to him issue a solemn warning through the blue smoke of the cigarette he had defiantly lit. We were to stop trading! It was that simple! Sand left with the promise of returning with even more venom in the event of our refusal to take the warning seriously. As I listened to my wife I felt impotent. We had run a risk and lost. Bitten off more than we could chew, stepped out of our league. Wrap it up how you like – we didn’t know what we didn’t know and that had been our undoing.

I spent two days lying in shadow on that bed. Two days to ruminate on my failure. Naturally, I knew I should have acted sooner with Sand and been more effective. I was aware my effort against him had been pathetic. I had failed in the most spectacular of circumstances and right in front of my wife. No man can recover easily from such a defeat. I grunted as Stephanie brought me up to date and debated whether I should attend Accident and Emergency at the local hospital.

We decided against it. Stephanie brought me soup. She felt my temperature, brushing my brow with her slender fingers. She changed my dressings in the evening and again in the morning. I watched television during the day, occasionally hearing the pad of unknown feet outside the room. The heating was on but I was cold. When the temperature dropped, I became hot. I only left the bed to use the toilet. It took the best part of a week for me to partially recover. With my puffed face, it looked like I had gone ten rounds. I was badly bruised; my nose had shifted position; my eye was not fully open and I sported a shiner. And Christmas, with all that entailed, was less than a fortnight away.

Christmas was a quiet affair. It came and went. We cancelled several engagements, keeping ourselves hidden behind our front door. I can’t remember which of us suggested it (I would like to think it was me), but I stayed in the spare room to ease matters for Stephanie. By mutual consent we cancelled any festivities and became ships in the night.

The mirror was my biggest enemy as I still looked something of a mess. Stephanie thought I could manage without the services of a doctor. She played down my condition: I was the victim of a dust-up, a street brawl, nothing more. The scars and the swelling would heal within a few weeks. But I felt wretched.

Before Sand’s intervention, in keeping with those that start earning plenty of easy money, we had got back into the habit of spending liberally, meaning it was siphoned fast from our accounts. A new year loomed and we were back to square one: staring impending eviction in the face.

I was up and about not long after Christmas. I shuffled carefully between rooms. The house seemed busy, crowded even; before long it became obvious why: I was sharing it with someone else. To this day, I am not quite sure how Stephanie became acquainted with him, but acquainted the two of them most certainly were. Not the sort of person I was used to encountering on the trading floor, he was a co-founder of a security firm that operated around the fringes of London. A big unit – someone whose size was accentuated by the bulk of muscle he carried – he moved with the ease of a jungle cat. There was a small tattoo of a dagger on his forearm, giving him the appearance of a fugitive from the S.A.S. or some similar outfit. Habitually dressed in black, he was molded from granite.

Stephanie introduced him as King Marino. Embarrassed, I shuffled beside him, feeling inadequate as I shook hands and felt the pressure of his vice-like grip. I referred to him as Mr. Marino. It was Stephanie who corrected me, laughingly stating I should refer to him as King. King! I ask you! Having to call another man King does put you at something of a disadvantage! But, held together with bandage and tape, broken and moving feelingly, that didn’t take much! So, King it was. I later learned he had been recruited to assist Stephanie in a bid to resurrect the business. Up to this juncture I had not even been aware that Stephanie had designs on such a move – revitalizing something that appeared to be dead. But now, in a reversal of our earlier roles when I had pitched the scheme to her, it was Stephanie who was selling the concept to me. She claimed King could kick-start our venture back into life. He knew all about Sand – someone that represented the Maddox family – described by him as a two-bit bunch of travelers operating a team of immigrant girls from a caravan site near Hounslow. He said we shouldn’t worry about Maddox and his tribe and that he would deal with them after he squared matters with Sand.

This seemed like an idle boast to me, but I was heartened at the prospect of earning money again. Once alone, naturally assuming I would be playing a part in this, I pitched a few ideas to Stephanie, but she seemed unenthusiastic, even distant. When I asked her to explain her reticence, she said these were dangerous times and that consequently King would be taking the lead from now on. I asked what that was supposed to mean. She said King was used to handling such matters. Regaining my health and strength should be my priority. We were at a delicate stage. Stephanie underlined the need for me to play my part. To that end she firmly suggested I should start to obey her without question.

I said that mostly I did, and that given the chance and the incentive, I would gladly make a career move out of it.

“No,” she replied. “I mean obey me properly. Not just when I dress up and play games for you.”

That stung as surely as if she had lashed me across the face with a whip.

But I took her advice. Although still fragile, I felt better and frequently left my new quarters, wandering about the house but always keeping a low profile. There wasn’t much to do. I read the newspaper daily, and tried to keep abreast of current affairs by watching political programmes on the television in the kitchen. Given the time of year, most days were quiet news days, so the regional TV station was only too keen to seize on the story of an apparent mugging and assault. Two men had been found badly beaten-up near the river. One was named as Sand, the other as a businessman from West London called Maddox. Both men were in hospital where they were expected to recover from injuries. Police were appealing for witnesses. Neither King nor Stephanie spoke of this incident, but of course it was understood that King had been responsible for what happened. Although I did not entirely approve of his methods, in Stephanie’s eyes, his status was immediately elevated.

I began to see more and more of him. He was hard to avoid. He strutted from room to room, looking smug, handling the telephone and booking appointments in a glib, often pugnacious manner. He was a man of few words – there were no question-and-answer sessions for clients prior to them turning up at the door. Once they arrived, in combat trousers and a black T-shirt, King vetted them with an implacable stare, flexing the muscles on his bare arm that casually rested on the door frame.

Then Stephanie broke the news to me that King would be moving in. While I remained in the spare room, he would occupy the guest room. It would only be for two, maybe three weeks at the outside. Enough time to ensure there was no chance of a repeat performance by any of Maddox’s henchmen.

“Okay. I get it that you find his presence helpful. But he doesn’t have to live here! I mean, King! Moving in! Why?” I was dumbfounded.

“In case of trouble. Someone has to oversee the business.”

“Surely, that’s my responsibility.”

“Hardly, darling. And certainly not in your current condition.” The words dripped from Stephanie’s lips like honey, but their nectar was poisonous.

“But I am getting stronger by the day,” I pleaded. “I know things went wrong before, but it will be different this time, you’ll see.”

Stephanie offered no response, signing off the conversation with one of her hard stares.

Working arrangements changed – or, as I was excluded from them, presumably they had already changed without me knowing. Stephanie began operating from the study. The closest I got to her was when I heard her voice, raised in rebuke from the other side of the door, or when I listened to the cane singing its mournful and howling song in flight. When I was content I was not about to be detected (I was never sure where ever-present King was), I took to creeping close to the door to hear these and other sounds: the slap of her hand against skin; the scythe-like swish of the strap, the clunk of Stephanie’s stingy slipper (no soft little ballerina pump, I can tell you; it was far more painful than those that have never experienced it can imagine).

Business picked up quickly. A steady stream of customers turned up at the door. Money trickled back into our bank account – enough to clear our mortgage arrears and bring our payments up to date – but I couldn’t help but feel some income was unaccounted for. Rendezvous were made without my knowledge or input. King and Stephanie invariably met in the mornings to discuss the day’s programme. I heard their subdued voices from the other side of the door but was unable to pick out what was said.

The three of us spent our leisure time separately; we ate independently, watched our televisions in isolation, there was no social interaction whatsoever. I lacked the confidence to approach Stephanie, and in any event I was regularly too tired in the evening to do anything but curl up and watch whatever the television was pumping out. Occasionally I heard King mumbling into his mobile – that was about it. I kept out of his way; getting used to his timetable so I could sidestep him when he took his coffee breaks in the kitchen.

It was seven weeks since that fateful day with Sand. January left in a blaze of sunlight during the day, and with a bone-white frost and ice covering at night. A lot had happened. Although still convalescing, my health improved. The dressings had been removed; the marks on my face remained, but were nowhere near so bad. I merely looked like someone that had recently undergone a particularly savage game of rugby. I took this as my cue to consider reverting to normality with Stephanie, which meant sharing our marital bed. To that end I was on alert for the ideal opportunity to tackle her. I didn’t have to wait long. One day, early in February, I seized my chance when discovering she was alone in the sitting-room. She looked up as I entered, greeting me with an encouraging response. “Toby, just the person I wanted to see…” she began.

At last, I was thinking, some interaction between us and I had caught her alone (that is without the ubiquitous King) and in good heart.

“How are you feeling, dear?”

“Much better.”

“Excellent! Are you well enough to run a small errand? It means getting some fresh air – which should do you good.”

“Of course; but, first, I was wondering if we could discuss the sleeping arrangements.”

At this she looked genuinely puzzled as if her mind was elsewhere. I soon realized it was. It seemed a client was due later that afternoon. Stephanie told me plans had been made to pick him up at the train station. I nodded, understanding I had got my priorities wrong. Our discussion about my moving back in with her would have to wait. Instead I proposed changing into more suitable clothes in preparation for the meeting.

Stephanie took a step backward at the suggestion. “Don’t you understand anything?” she asked. “For goodness sake, give me one good reason why, if you were an employee, I shouldn’t dismiss you. After all, it seems you are incapable of grasping simple instructions.” Those three sentences cut me to the quick. Did she really mean to be so vindictive? Or was this just another ruse? Another page from the script that detailed the game we seemed to be playing? For a moment I had difficulty in distinguishing between fact and fantasy. “Let me be clear…” she butted in on my train of thought. “King is busy right now, but he will meet the punter. He has requested you clean the car and put petrol in its tank.”

“But … but …”

“Just do as King asks. He needs the car. Take it to the service station, put it through the washer, fill it with petrol and return here by one o’clock. The meeting is scheduled for two.”

“Is King insured to drive a Porsche?”

“He is insured to drive any car.”

“Why can’t I pick up the client?”

“Be sensible! He doesn’t want to be greeted by the Hunchback of Notre Dame!” Any conviviality was suddenly absent from Stephanie’s voice. “And while I am about it, the house needs cleaning. From now on that will be your responsibility. I am afraid, with all that is going on, we can’t risk re-hiring Mrs. Parson.”

“So now I am the skivvy. Nothing but an odd-job boy and the cleaner?”

“If the cap fits …”

It seemed like it did …

So it is two, maybe three days later. I admit to losing track of time. Mid-morning and I am cleaning King’s room. Allow me to correct that. He doesn’t actually have a room here. What I should say is I am cleaning the room King is staying in. He keeps it neat and tidy, I’ll say that for him. There is a set of weights in front of a rolled-up work-out mat in the corner of the room. The bed is made, his clothes put away. There is a grey suit and a couple of smart jackets in the wardrobe. There are no socks or pants lying on the floor. The en-suite is similarly orderly. The lavatory seat is down, there is a razor on the ledge by the sink, toothbrush in a glass, aftershave and toiletries in the cabinet. On his bedside table there is a small notebook I cannot resist opening. His writing is legible but not without its grammatical flaws. I suppose in saying this I am only proving how desperate I am to find fault with the man. There is reference to his tenure here, to Stephanie, a line or two about me, but nothing incriminating. Not as incriminating as me flicking through the pages as I look up to see Stephanie standing there. Too late, I replace the book. She has obviously witnessed my actions.

She is dressed for lounging: leggings tucked into pumps, a jumper rolled up to the elbows, hair, waiting to be styled, tumbling over her face. “Are you looking for anything in particular, Toby?” She asks the question with a soft voice. There is no hint of anger.

“No … no, I was in the process of placing the book in the drawer … for safe-keeping.”

“From whom?” Her voice was gathering momentum.

“No one in particular … I didn’t think it was a good idea to leave personal details lying around, that’s all.”

“Obviously not. After all, you never know who is going to be snooping in your room, do you?”

“I wasn’t snooping. More a case of fulfilling my new function. As directed, I am cleaning the room.”

“Cleaning and hoping to see something. I tell you what, Toby. You want to see something, maybe I can oblige. Let me show you something. King!”

He couldn’t have been far away. Maybe he overheard our whole exchange. He was standing by the door within a few seconds, hands tucked into his waistband like we were in Dodge City and he had moseyed into the saloon.

“How’s the schedule for today, King?” asked Stephanie.

“Quiet.”

“I thought so. Turn off the phone for a few hours. I think it’s time we educated my husband.”

“Educate – how?” I blurted out.

“You’ll see.” Stephanie’s voice was sarcastically authoritative. King invoked his trademark – that of silence. “All three of us will freshen-up, change, then meet on the landing one hour from now,” she concluded with the sort of confidence that did not invite contradiction. With Stephanie facing me and King staring at her back, the two of them conducted their conversation without looking at one another. It was almost as if it had been rehearsed.

We met on the landing, King Marino and I – the man I secretly referred to under my breath as King Marion. After having showered, King’s face had a newly-waxed sheen to it. He was in his somewhat limited uniform: a clean pair of combat trousers and a fresh black T-shirt. There was no temptation to speak. But, distracted earlier by the task of getting ready in time, I now began to wonder what this so-called meeting could be all about. There was no clue in the cliff-face that represented King’s features. And not for the first time I felt the outsider in this spooky little ménage a` trois we had fashioned for ourselves. We waited for Stephanie as if we were on a platform and she was the morning train.

The door to what used to be our bedroom – a room I reminded myself I had to return to – opened a crack.

“King!”

Her voice, so sharp, so incisive, made my pulse quicken. But I was quickly disheartened to think Stephanie had chosen to summon King rather than me to be the first to enter. He moved forward, taking up too much space and I caught a whiff of his aftershave, which smelled expensive. In another crushing blow to what was left of my ego, he told me with alarming conviction to wait where I was. Then he was through the door and closing it behind him, leaving me smarting with the realization that I was no longer able to determine when I could enter my wife’s boudoir. Numbed and hollow inside, I paced the landing, feeling this situation was untenable and the time had come for a showdown.

I had been sick! Time had anesthetized me to my situation. Now, as surely as if someone had hurled a bucket of cold water over me, I was reminded of how long it had been since I last crossed the threshold of the marital bedroom.

A showdown with Marion! Maybe! But with King Marino – the man that had committed Sand and Maddox to hospital – that was surely a different matter. There was little time for idle speculation; the door opened for a second time, and King beckoned me forward.

Our bedroom looked different somehow. It was as if I was seeing it for the first time. Overlooking a private street, the shades were drawn. A bedside lamp glowed, otherwise, in the bleakest period of the year, even tinted with subtle shades, the room contained the creeping dullness of winter.

At first I was unsure whether my wife was in the room. Then my eyes sought out the direction of the sounds: a click of heel, a creak of leather. She was in the shadows. This made me think how appropriate it was we should be meeting like this – in near darkness – where all that is shady so often begins. Just then, stunning Stephanie took a step into the light. A gossamer wrap had been slung over her shoulders, barely covering a black basque and matching stockings.

“Come in, Toby,” her voice was soothing as chocolate. I intended to stride forward but ended up moving tentatively, as if reliant on crutches.

Stephanie swung her hair backward. I watched her hand float through the air, apparently in slow motion. “Do you know what you are doing here?”

“N ... no … not exactly.” My voice sounded foreign as it drifted thinly across the room.

“It’s been a long time since Christmas,” she informed me. “There have been changes.”

“I know … but what sort of changes are you referring to?” My voice was a dry branch of wood.

Stephanie slinked into our chaise longue, crossing her legs, winding one ankle round the other.

My legs and hands were trembling. I stood, camouflaged in the shadows of a space lit by only a bedside lamp: an imposter of a husband, stooped and awkward, grateful the gathering darkness outside and the gloom of the room disguised my demeanor.

“King, demonstrate one of the changes to my husband, will you.”

Crazily, I had forgotten about King. There was that waft of his aftershave as he moved darkly toward Stephanie, who was now on her feet. Without further prompting he dropped to his knees. On all-fours he bowed down to her extended left foot, planting the softest of kisses on the patent leather of her high-heeled shoe. “Watch carefully, Toby. Watch the King worship his Queen. Watch, Toby. Watch and learn.” Stephanie addressed me from behind the manly figure of King. “You see, I have no need for a cane or whip here. King has responded to his training. He is serving me willingly. He understands what I need.”

Stephanie’s eyes took on a glazed look. “Show him, King. Show my husband how you please me. That’s it … kiss my foot, kiss my hand, work your way up to my neck.”

I stood, swaying with dizziness as King licked then nuzzled my wife’s foot and then traced a course up her leg with his lips and tongue. He obeyed my wife’s instructions with meticulous precision. As his head rose, he followed the shape of her leg with his hands as if appraising a tall fluted champagne glass. After he had kissed her outstretched hand, Stephanie encouragingly sketched a sensuous line across his face with fingers I knew to be magical; she stroked his hair and cradled his head. His lips reached her naked thigh, a neon strip of white blazing through the darkness. Above the sound of my own scratchy breathing and the thump of my heart, I could hear King whispering soft words to Stephanie.

So, here was the perfect proof of what they had been doing during the dead hours of my enforced existence in the spare room, when I had lain in bed, as lonely and forlorn as The Man in the Moon. This was their secret – one I should have been able to predict.

King, the quiet man, the mute, was even then planning his takeover which, to my horror, he was now cementing within a yard of where I stood. I could feel my face drain of blood. I suppose I could have killed him then. With what, you may ask.

He moved slowly, his hands soaking up my wife’s skin as, with his lips gliding over the softness of her throat, he continued to whisper how she was his mistress, a woman to be revered, worthy of adoration. The words – they could have been part of some French love song – were barely audible. I hated him then but could not look away.

“Now, my thirsty lion, lap me.” Through the whole procedure, Stephanie remained in control. She might be submitting to bouts of pleasure, but she always directed the action.

King knelt beside her again, neck straining upward to reach her vulva. He removed her panties and there was the sound of his tongue, the sight of my wife leaning on his shoulders as she sagged with pleasure.

I couldn’t move – was turned to stone.

Responding to a signal to halt, King became still. Stephanie left him where he was, making her way back to the chaise longue – the seat where she had so often draped herself in our set-ups like some spoiled film-star waiting to be hand-fed with a grape. Walking unsteadily at first, she swanned over its edge, her head resting on its seat, arms, bent at the elbows, resting on its sides.

King’s shadowy figure was moving toward her.

No! No! I was thinking. Not that! Please, not that!

Too late! King’s arousal had swelled his trousers. Any fool could see what was about to happen.

There was the onset of a twitch to one of my eyes as I heard the rustle of his combat trousers sinking to the floor. He had another trick to play! The bastard had been in commando! His chunky, lengthy penis sprang into view.

King was behind my wife, his hands, surprisingly delicate for their size, skimming her buttocks. Then he was taking aim with his weapon and penetrating her. Stephanie shifted her lower body, encouraging and helping him to ease into her.

“That’s it; fuck me hard and deep, King. Do it like it’s your first or last time. Show my husband how it should be done until he is ready to explode.”

King’s loins slapped against my wife’s buttocks. He lifted her, re-positioning her so his lunges had the maximum effect. He withdrew his piston of a penis to its tip, teasing the lips of her vulva, then sank it back into her up to its hilt.

As for me: abandoning all restraint, my fingers hungrily delved into my trousers. There was the rasp of my zip. I wasn’t sure what was happening to me. It was like someone else had performed these actions. But, there I stood, my penis throbbing in hand.

“Get a tissue, Toby. Don’t you dare make a mess.” Stephanie could see my reflection. She spoke to the wall mirror – uttering those words as if she knew all along what my reaction would be.

Just in time I reached out to the dressing table. My knees buckled as I tried to remain upright.

A film of fog descended before my eyes. Stephanie and King had moved to the bed. I could hear the moaning, the thrusting, the sound of bedsprings. When I looked with a clear head, my wife was on her back. Her legs were scissored open and King was lodged between them, his clenched bottom pumping up and down. Stephanie raked his body with her nails. I watched her scratch lines down his back, saw her score his tense muscly skin. She whispered under her breath, she cried out, she arched her body, she beat King’s back with her fists, called him a beast – an animal, clamped his ear with her teeth and chuckled softly.

Her words and actions made me come again. I don’t know how, but they turned me into Superman. Perhaps it was the intense look on her face. That face, directly ahead of me, normally so serene and implacable, now contorted, its complexion broken like a shattered mirror. The way she wriggled and writhed like a speared fish, the way she squirmed in ecstasy, the way she clenched her fists as waves of desire overcame her. And King, eyes closed, panting but breathing steadily, was counting his thrusts, reliving a sporting event, or whatever he was doing to regulate his rhythm and prevent a premature climax.

The ritual seemed to have no end. Just when I thought it was finished they found another position. Stephanie was underneath then on top, taken from behind then from the front again. She rode King, he rode her. She screamed, she grabbed his hair until I thought she would tear it from its roots. She dug her heels into his flanks as if spurring on some giant beast. She was tender then ferocious. She slapped him, stroked him, suckled him and shredded him. Finally, with King close to exhaustion, using her fingers as if playing a rare and ancient musical instrument, she stroked his shaft and allowed him to come. The relief from King was palpable as he threw his head back, his mouth gaping open, his eyes rolling wildly.

The three of us took time to recuperate. My wife and King had thrashed together for what seemed like an hour or so. Perhaps it was less, but their bodies looked wrung out and wasted. They dressed slowly – the wrap and panties for Stephanie. King slipped back into his combats.

Stephanie was the first to regain her composure.

“Sit!” she gestured to me. She was sprawled on the chaise longue – the one that would never be the same again; King was on the chair. Apart from the bed, which I assumed was out of bounds, there was nowhere for me to sit. I squatted on the floor.

“That’s right. I see you appreciate where your rightful place is.” Her voice was edged with ice, then it warmed a degree or two. “How are you feeling, Toby? Are you surprised?”

“By everything.” There was a tremor in my voice. My fingers fumbled as they wiped my damp face.

“That’s realization for you. The realization of who you are. You do know who you are now, Toby, don’t you?”

“I … I am beginning to see it …”

“The truth presents us with the hardest realization of all. Once you have crossed the Rubicon – the one you told me about – there is no going back. If you decide to stay here with us, this will be your fate, Toby. Once a week, you will either bear witness to what King and I do, or you will report to me in the study where, in his presence and under his supervision, you will serve me. You must understand what you will become, indeed, what you have already started to become. Have you any ideas what that might be?”

I thought I knew but was reluctant to say. In any case no sound was forthcoming from my mouth. I moved my clacking tongue. My mouth was dry – too dry to function.

Stephanie stepped in with the prognosis. A prognosis that up until now I could have refused to fully accept. “Just to be clear: to spell it out for you: you will be a cuckold.”

Stephanie stands over me. She is in thigh-boots and the pinstripe blazer I have known her to wear when assuming the character of the lady boss. I look up like a dog crouched by a table awaiting scraps of food. Addicted, I am enslaved by my own longing.

“Kneel at my feet.”

I do so, hardly daring to look up.

She stands between my outspread arms.

“Kiss my boots.” The words are sweet yet intimidating, inviting but fearsome.

These days, such words and those like them are the only ones I wish to hear. The boots are licorice to my lips; the white flesh of her thighs cream. They burn my flesh as my lips stray from the leather and I dare to kiss them. I pay the price with an opened-handed slap to the face that makes my teeth judder.

“Did I tell you to kiss my thighs?”

“No, Miss.”

There are tears in my eyes. I cannot explain them. I cannot explain any of this. I only know I live for these moments. It makes no difference that King is in the room, watching – doubtless gloating. And I don’t care what occurs outside this room, this altar, this shrine as it is now. I surrender to this exact moment, to what I am, to my wife, yes to King, and the mounting pressure swelling in my groin that demands release.

These are nervous times as I try to come to terms with all that has happened and what I have become.

I’ve heard it expressed that gamblers furtively shelter a desire to lose. I wonder if the same charge can be levelled against cuckolds – that they secretly want to rescind control of their wives. From my viewpoint, all I can add is that that part of my life was unintentional.

Being realistic, I have lost everything now. There is no going back. Excluded from financial arrangements (I have no idea how the mortgage is being paid or who is receiving the money earned), I am nothing more than a lodger in my own house. As such, I know my position here is temporary. Sooner or later I will be sent crashing to earth, just like the chicks in the nest that are my namesakes. Irrespectively, because I know this can never be recreated, that whatever subsequently occurs in my life can never match this experience, I have sacrificed what I once had. I spend all my time fantasizing about my wife, be that in the form of Stephanie or the awesome Miss Sharp. This means I deserve to be where I find myself, which, frankly, is nowhere.

Right now, it is that time of the week once again. I am kept in a state of anticipation – made to wait. I am on the sofa in the sitting-room until I get the word. This time it comes from King. I look up to see him walking towards me. He stops. I prefer not to look him in the eye under these circumstances.

My gaze drops to see his durable boots beneath the drawn bottoms of his combat trousers. He stands with his hands on his hips.

I am not sure whether there is a trace of pity or one of amusement in his voice as he says, “Your wife will see you now.”