I lay strapped down on a leather-padded bench, my ankles spread wide on its two lower arms, my upper thighs attached to sturdy straps just below my groin, my upper body strapped down by two more straps going across my shoulders and through my armpits. My head was resting on an inflated rubber pillow. I was naked and, embarrassingly for me, displaying an eight-inch erection. I was quite comfortable, but had an apprehensive feeling that this would soon change.
In the large room in which the bench was centrally placed, sat six women, one of whom was my darling wife, Tanya Taylor, at 38, five years younger than me. She was lounging on a couch between one of her girl friends and her younger sister, Vanya, 35. On another couch three more of her female friends sat, waiting with what looked like eager anticipation to witness what was going to happen to me. All were fully clothed, a factor which seemed to my nervous mind to increase my own nudity.
It was all my own fault, of course. My name is Rupert Taylor, I'm a 43-year-old bookshop proprietor, and I married the money which enabled me to start my bookshop. My dear wife sank thousands of her fortune from her late father's estate into my business venture. In turn she has title on our house in Surrey, she owns the snazzy little Lotus I drive into town every day, she even pays my golf club fees. In return, I give her sensational sex, which is not hard because she's got the body of a goddess and the behaviour - in the bedroom - of a whore.
My bookshop is situated in a high-rent street in London's Soho, which is now a very much tamer red light district from its seedy days of the 1930s through to the 1970s. And, fittingly for Soho, it is a "specialist" book store.
It's called Book Domain for Serious Masochists, but everyone in the business of "kinky" erotica and pornography knows my little store as BDSM Books. And I do very nicely thank-you.
I have only two staff helping me, one a lovely 25-year-old lass named Naomi, an ebony temptress who wears a different leather outfit to work each day. The "straight" male clientele are often drooling by the time they've been served by her.
The male help is Dominic, a lovely gay man aged in his early 20s, who is there to help cater for those of his sexual preference - and there's more of them involved in the SM scene than you can shake a stick at. He's short, but good-looking, well built and has a very trendy hair do for his blonde locks. If I wasn't a womaniser, I'd go for him.
It was, of course, my womanising which got me into this predicament on the leather bench. Let me explain - briefly, because it's a familiar story to so many of you philanderers out there, I'm sure.
Each Wednesday, my wife went with three of her friends to play golf. I arranged - stupid, stupid, stupid, I know - to have an assignation with a "lady of the night", if you get my drift, on one of those afternoons. I usually went to her apartment not more than five miles from where we live, but this time I decided on a liaison at home. OK, I admit again - stupid, stupid, stupid.
The lovely little blonde worked under the name of Natalie - Naughty Natalie, her ad read, from memory - and she gave great head and took it up the back passage. "Rear door entry", as her ad also read. Anyway, I always took advantage of those two specialities of the house, as it were.
This particular afternoon in question, Natalie had given me a nice sucking with her hugely experienced mouth and I was just mounting her from the rear when it happened. My wife, of course, returned from her golf and caught us going at it in the guest's bedroom. I was so deeply stuck into the lovely little whore's arse that I couldn't escape before Tanya had taken three or four pictures of me with her digital camera.
Then, ominously for me, Tanya told Natalie: "Please get dressed, my dear, and come downstairs. I need to have a little chat with you."
Next she turned to me and in a voice made all the more threatening by its lack of loudness or stridency added: "And you get into our bedroom. I'll deal with you later."
Well, it seems that Tanya and her foursome had been about to tee off when an ugly thunderstorm struck the course. Rather than risk electrocution all four decided to cut and run. Usually they would have settled into the 19th hole for gins and tonic, but as my luck would have it, the other three had things they'd rather be doing that afternoon than sucking on Beefeater.
Tanya, it turned out, had suspected something was up - something to do with the way I was often "not particularly busy" on Wednesday afternoons, and decided to creep into the house and surprise me. Hence the digital camera at the ready.
I got dressed then, about half an hour after I'd been "nobbled", my wife called me downstairs. I found her in her office off the lounge, sitting in front of her computer screen.
"Oh, hi darling," she smiled sweetly - an ominous sign, I realise now, "have a look at these. They're rather rude."
And there, glaring from the screen in hideous colour was me with my cock buried in Natalie's lovely little arse, her firm little breasts hanging seductively beneath her. The next showed me half out, my cock shaft gleaming in the light of the flash. The third was a sharp and totally damning picture of my cock standing erect in all its glory, my foreskin pulled back to the ring by the tightness of Natalie's arsehole. The helmet was shiny, and a strand of pre-cum was linking my cock head with Natalie's brown puckered anus. Talk about being totally fucked!
"Rather damaging for you, eh Rupert?" smiled Tanya. "And this isn't looking too good for you either, I don't think."
With that she thrust a sheet of A4 notepaper to me. It was a typed message which read:
"This is a statement made by Naughty Natalie, real name Winifred Wimble, in my profession as a prostitute. I have for several months been entertaining as a client a man I now know as Rupert Taylor. He pays me for my services which include fellatio and sodomy. I have been offering him my services on a weekly basis. I did not initiate the meetings, it was always Mr Taylor who called me to arrange a meeting."
It was signed by W. Wimble and T. Taylor and dated.
"It's got no weight in law at all," I blustered, but Tanya laughed.
"This little piece of paper and these pictures from my camera are all I need to crush you completely, you fucking miserable philanderer you," Tanya snapped, displaying for the first time that afternoon a flash of temper.
"So don't give me any cock and bull about 'no weight in fucking law' you cunt," she said, this time almost screaming.
I shut up.
"Now get out of my sight while I make some phone calls to organise what I intend to do with you, you pathetic excuse for a fucking husband. Fuck off!"
I fucked off.
But not far. I hovered around in the lounge and heard Tanya making a phone call. It was obviously to her best friend, Paula Pain.
"Paula, it's me, Tanya," I heard her start. "Guess what? I've caught that fucking bastard of a husband of mine cheating on me, just as you suspected."
Paula obviously replied, then Tanya continued: "Exactly - so I was wondering if that dominatrix who helped solve your husband's behaviour problems is still around? She put on such a superb demonstration with your Jack and I thought it would be a good idea to give Rupert the same dose of mistress medicine."
Another pause, then Tanya asked her friend: "And you've had no problems with Jack since, have you? He's an obedient little puppy now?"
Tanya laughed, a cruel laugh which sent shivers down my spine. "Great, yes I've got that number, I'll give her a call. And I thought we'd do something similar to the way you whipped Jack in line. I'll invite you and my golf friends along and I thought I'd ask my sister, too. It should make for a fun afternoon or two. How many did it take with Jack? Six, wasn't it?"
I slipped out of the lounge. I'd heard quite enough, thank-you very much.
