I missed my fiancée while she was away and welcomed her home with a three-course meal; I toyed with an enormous bouquet, but ordered a Metallica T-shirt and bought her an expensive lingerie set instead, which I knew she would appreciate more. We kissed when she returned, ate our food over candlelight, and then snuggled together to play a board game.
Although we stuffed our lifestyle full of kinky bisexual promiscuity, there were plenty of wholesome, ordinary evenings where we could have been any romantic couple in the country. Our love for each other extended beyond the BDSM adventures we had.
The following day, I had a frank discussion with my fiancée. Natasha was very fond of her car, but I argued about replacing it with a new, practical vehicle. It was the biggest thing anyone had ever given her as a gift, and the small Fiat 500 had an emotional value attached to it, as much as a practical benefit, but leaning into the back to put a baby into a car seat was easier on a five-door hatchback than a three-door supermini.
Despite my logical arguments, the punk rocker tearfully begged me not to replace it, and we compromised when we purchased her a brand-new family car without part-exchanging her existing vehicle. The pristine condition of her replacement wheels more than compensated for the mothballing of the Fiat 500, that she simply did not want to part with.
Less than a fortnight after the trip to the gay bar with Adam, Robin Heaton's secretary contacted my company and asked if we could return for a meeting about our platform. Reluctantly, I travelled across the city to the large banking headquarters, where my colleague and I restated our pitch from the previous month and answered technical questions from the assembled audience. "I've got to put it to the board, but I will recommend that we adopt your service on a three-year trial basis. I'm particularly impressed by your commitment to privacy and discretion."
I understood what he meant, and his fear of being outed had cost his employer a seven-figure sum. I had no intention of disclosing his sexuality, but his insecurity gave dynamo their first big customer, and I was the toast of our small office when I returned with a signed provisional agreement.
At Easter, we travelled to Natasha's family home for a seven-day break, starting on the day before Good Friday. My fiancée found and rented a two-bedroom flat in Windermere for the week; her belly had grown and to me, my gravid partner looked more appealing than ever. She said she felt "fat" and her engorged torso distorted her tattoos as the skin stretched, but she was still incredibly sexy and our voracious sex drives were out of control.
Svetlana and Mary, the button-nosed bi-racial lover of the innocent medical student, travelled to the Lake District by train and stayed in the second bedroom of our rented holiday let. Natasha believed her homophobic father would not react well to the news that his youngest daughter had a two-year-old serious lesbian relationship and she was keen to keep her little sister safe. After my discussions with Adam, I agreed with her.
I liked Svetlana. The naïve blonde had a kind and impish personality, which was the complete opposite of the sceptical and outspoken natures of my fiancée and her mother. The youngest child was also the most studious and was top of her class at medical school.
The two lesbians were cheery, and didn't mind that Natasha demanded my nudity in the holiday let. The three clothed women teased and tormented me, and on our second day in the flat, my dominant lover handcuffed me in the bath, and the ladies drank wine and urinated into my mouth until my stomach screamed in bloated agony. I had never drunk so much pee and found the humiliating torment strangely enjoyable.
Mary had a more cosmopolitan history than she originally told me in London, and her life story, that stretched from smuggling on the Spanish coast to a nude modelling studio in Copenhagen, was an enchanting, gripping tale worthy of Netflix. The streetwise barista adored the gentile student, four years younger than her, and the passionate kissing and loud sex from the adjacent bedroom advertised their sexual chemistry and overactive libidos.
We attended the familial church on Easter Sunday for their celebration. Natasha and I sat at the back of the religious service with our holiday companions and my fiancée spent most of the two-hour sermon on her phone, while I zoned out and fantasised.
Ruslana made dinner for sixteen guests. Svetlana, her father and my partner had a quiet discussion in the garden. I know the youngest child revealed her sexuality to her parent and the rotund preacher scowled and puffed, wagging his finger at his daughters. However, when my fiancée's body language shifted, he quickly lost his aggressive posture and strode inside to escape from the punk rocker's wrath. There was no doubt Natasha could look after herself.
He was quiet over dinner as he watched Mary and Svetlana at the other end of the long dining table. The two lovers held hands, and Natasha ensured she dominated the conversation about her recent awards triumph. It stopped her father's bigoted thoughts from surfacing.
After the meal, Ruslana and my partner chatted as they cleared the dirty dishes. The matriarch sent all of her guests upstairs and when the room emptied, the pair of conspirators spoke about more sexual matters.
"I need the details for Jamie and Nessie," Ruslana said. "With our video subscription, two-thirds of the money goes into the swingers' club, but we give a third of our royalties to the participants in our videos. It's not lots of cash, but we owe it to them."
Natasha messaged our friends as she looked at me. "You can pass mine and John's portions to Svetlana and Adam. They need it more than we do."
Ruslana hugged her and checked the kitchen door before retrieving four packets of photographs from the back of her drawer. "We are filming all day on Wednesday if you want to come down. Alfredo wants to do some young male sub, pregnant femdom scenes. We have another girl who's knocked up. Occupational hazard of attending swinging parties!" She chuckled to herself, as she waited for a reply.
I knew my partner would love to return to the swingers club. It sounded very taboo to film pornographic content in front of your family, but Natasha admitted to me that she adored the opportunity to anonymously and yet publicly express her sexuality. She loved the idea that hundreds or thousands of people would get sexual gratification from the videos of our sordid activities, taken at the club. "We'd love to," I replied for us both. "Yes?"
"Yes," Natasha added as Ruslana passed her the sordid photos. My fiancée is broad-minded; there is little that shocks her, but the hardcore extreme sex her mother had performed in front of the cameras caused her to gasp and squeal. Restrained by rope and cuffs to a table as young men used all three of her holes was not an image which Natasha expected. Neither was the milk enema, or the candid shots of her bottomless parent in Carlisle town centre, subtly flashing the photographer with a butt plug twinkling between her buttocks.
"Alfredo's son took that last four. He's nineteen, and he had a party at his dad's house. The challenge was from sunset to sunrise for him and his mates to go through a box of 72 condoms with just me, Maria, and Kat. I've not been so sore. Those boys can fuck and fuck and fuck. Amazing time." Natasha squirmed as she saw the expressions on her mother's face and the rows of used contraceptives hanging behind them. "One of their friends is an art student, and she wanted the full johnnies for their final year project. I do like to encourage young creativity."
