Chapter 1.
An ordinary detached house in a plain, unremarkable suburb, 65 miles from London. 44 Green Meadows was built, along with hundreds of others after the war. Rows and rows of neat, adequately maintained windows and neatly manicured lawns. Apple blossom trees evenly spaced outside every other house, and a post-box on the corner. You can hear the blackbirds on the telegraph wires and the odd crow on the tops of the Douglas firs down in the valley by the local newsagent.
At exactly one minute to ten an unremarkable event took place. The doorbell of No.44 rang, ding dong, pressed by the finger of a handsome 23 year old man. Slight of figure, shy and with a flop of black hair over his eyes. A minute passed, two, a robin landed on a fence, bobbed and flew away over the rooftops and the lines of washing and neat little patios and acres of decking. Three minutes.
Inside, Mrs Eleanora Martin smoothed down her plain cotton dress, checked her hair in the mirror, with a quick upward pat at the back and opened the door.
'Come in Simon'.
Silently and with head bowed Simon entered the hall, and stood there, unable to move, holding his suitcase in front of him like a shield, staring into mid-space at the light, well vacuumed powder blue carpet that smothered the floor and stairs in a sweetly scented veil of feminine control.
This was the first time they had met. The air was full of anticipation. An electric atmosphere of expectation. Simon breathed in the warm, almost stale air of the place. The radiators were on, all the double-glazed, hermetically sealed windows were shut, locked, with their little keys hung on tiny brass hooks high above each curtain pole. The house was filled with dainty objects. Neat clean little porcelain figurines on intricately carved mahogany veneer shelving.
The house looked like a page from the back of a Sunday paper colour supplement. You half expected to see a glamorous granny wrapped in a towel emerge from a side entry bath, or be offered a set of commemorative mugs depicting some deeply depressing memory from a bygone age.
Silence screamed in the hallway.
"I will show you to our bedroom, Simon.'
The word 'our' tore through Simon's brain, and a sudden rush of adrenalin and near panic made him glance almost imperceptibly behind him, as if trying to map out his escape route. He need not have bothered. Mrs Martin had already shut the door, put across the chain, locked both the bottom and top bolts and pulled across the thick curtains. The house was now sealed. Locked down, airless, oppressive and silent.
'Yes Mrs Martin", Simon whispered, following her up the staircase to the first floor landing.
Mrs Martin wore a neat mid-blue lined cotton skirt, a flared hem just below the knee, plain tan tights and beige court shoes, with a modest heel. On top a cotton blouse with sleeves locked tightly down with a neat row of satin buttons, and a high frilled neck. At the top of the stairs Simon noticed every room was shut. The powder blue carpet continued to create a uniform feel of feminine control and each identical door, painted white, with small brass handles gave away nothing.
Mrs Martin opened the door to her bedroom. Neat, clean and orderly. A double bed dominated the room. Plain, sturdy with a padded pink headboard. Simon noticed the bedclothes immediately. Not a duvet but an old fashioned eiderdown neatly tucked over traditional pink blankets and cotton sheets. Every sheet perfectly tucked in, ironed, wrinkle free. Each pillow perfectly aligned.
The curtains were open. Pink, ruffled and tied back with large satin ribbons. Heavy net curtains obscured the view of the rear garden. The windows tightly shut, locked. Silence. The ticking of an alarm clock by the bed. A long cotton nightdress neatly arranged on the left-hand pillow. Casting his eyes around the room, a plain oak dressing table with an assortment of stiff wooden hairbrushes and clothes brushes. A matching wardrobe. Locked. The key missing, presumably in the possession of Mrs Martin. Everything was in it's place.
Simon had been in the house less than 5 minutes, but could already feel the control that Mrs Martin exerted on him. It felt as if everything that was happening had been carefully choreographed, arranged, it almost felt as if the house itself had rules.
'As we discussed Simon, you will live with me for 6 weeks as my...... 'husband', and we will see whether you really do want to live in a household where every detail of your life is controlled by your..... 'wife'. Indeed we will see if you suit my needs as well."
'Oh, I do, Mrs Martin, I do", Simon whispered, and he meant it too. His feelings of nervousness completely overwhelmed by the erotic pleasure of this domestic scene.
For months they had corresponded on the Internet. A chance meeting on a dating chat-room where Simon had admitted to this lady, late at night, intimate admissions of his submissive feelings. They flirted with each other. Became more confident with each other. They revealed their fantasies to each other. Layer by layer they peeled away their inhibitions, and slowly, in thrilling whispered prose, their desires were laid bare.
Two weeks ago it became clear that both of them were really able to test their desires in reality.
