From the porthole window as we flew above the city, Aberdeen looked bleak. The captain told us that the ground temperature would be just ten degrees, a far cry from the twenty three in London.
The taxi kept its windscreen wipers on, all the way from the airport pick up point to my hotel. Grey stone buildings were drenched in rain. People trudged the streets, huddled in their coats, collars up, umbrellas up, avoiding puddles. Five hundred miles south, the sky had been blue and the air warm.
Five hundred miles south was where my wife and children were. Louisa, Kate and David, thirty four, seven and five respectively. By now, Louisa would have collected Kate and David from their school, would have them in the kitchen, eating their dinner, before giving them their evening baths and settling them in bed.
What should have been happening then was that Rebecca, the teenage daughter of friends three houses down or street, would have arrived to babysit. I would have been home, and Louisa and I would have gone to our bedroom to change ready to for the Wednesday night "Brief Encounter" at the club.
Louisa had even planned to wear her new black bodysuit, if yo could call it that, the one that had arrived from Amazon the week before, and that she had modelled for me at the weekend. It would have been perfect for the club. The hips were cut so high, they were bare at the sides all the way to her rib-cage, with a narrow front that cupped her cunt so closely that her labia were in danger of escaping. The neckline was high, covering her cleavage, but the back was non existent, just two elasticated, black string ties, one from beneath her hair, running down her spine to disappear between her buttocks, the other crossing below her shoulder blades, to hold the fabric taut across her breasts.
Wearing it to the club, her two inch wide areoles, inch wide landing strip of jet black pubic hair, and protruding nether lips, all visible through the minimal, sheer, black material, Louisa would have received all the looks that she could wish for. The men at the club would have loved the look. More daring than most women, and far sexier than being naked.
That, sadly, would have to wait. This issue with our Aberdeen subsidiary needed urgent handling, and I had been asked to do it. At nine o'clock tomorrow morning, I had my first meeting with the senior staff, and instead of enjoying the mid-week club night, I was stuck in a drab hotel, watching rivulets of rain water streaming down the misty glass of the hotel windows.
At least the hotel restaurant was reasonably good. I sipped on a burgundy while waiting for the duck pate starter that I had ordered, thinking of what I was missing. Louisa would have worn stockings with the bodysuit. She always wore stockings to the club. That way, with her coat already buttoned in the bedroom, she looked dressed for a restaurant or the theatre, as we said goodbye to the babysitter. Outside, the neighbours would not suspect a thing. Only at the club would she removed the coat, safe in the knowledge that anyone who saw her was also in the lifestyle.
Not that we were yet full swingers. We had been going to the club now for two years. We both enjoyed the voyeurism, and the exhibitionism, the looking, and the being looked at. We had discovered that before the kids, finding ourselves comfortable on naturist beaches in France and Spain, then realising that the early evening, on one beach, was the time when the more adventurous sun lovers began to play.
Watching another couple making love just ten feet away was a turning point. Two days later, that couple was ourselves, and an audience of four guys stood watching as I brought Louisa to the strongest climax of our relationship, the turn on of other people seeing my cock sliding in and out of her slick cunt, making all the difference.
Having children limits your activities, especially on beaches when on holiday. We missed the opportunity to watch others, or to be seen, and so we tried the club. It did exactly what it said on the tin, or at least on the website. It provided a venue for like minded people to meet up.
Other couples swapped partners, or invited single guys to join in the action, and we liked the ambience of sexual activity, whether vanilla in the main rooms, or with restraints of one kind or another in the dungeon, but we never felt the need to get involved with anyone except ourselves. The opportunity to suck and fuck each other, while others were close by, some watching, some otherwise engaged, was all we felt we needed.
But, instead of enjoying the mid-week club just outside London, I was in bleak and rainy Aberdeen, I was at a table in an old style restaurant, spreading pate on my warm toast and adding a touch of orange jus, on my own. The pate was good, and my wine complimented it beautifully, but I knew where I would rather be.
Like most lone diners in the era of technology, I had my phone to hand. I had checked the headlines on a newspaper app while waiting for the food, but had set the phone down to eat. Halfway through my toast and pate, it vibrated on the wood of the varnished table. At least it was set to silent, so as not to disturb the other diners. My wife was checking how I was, and wondering if I would mind if she went there on her own, since Rebecca had arrived to babysit.
That set my head whirring. Going to the club together was one thing. Louisa going on her own was something different altogether.
It happened, of course. There were women who went alone, and the pricing structure was even geared to encourage them. Single guys paid eighty. Couples paid forty. Single women paid just ten. It was simple market economics. There were always more guys than women, and more single guys than couples. The club could afford to charge the single guys that much more. The male sex drive opened up their wallets.
In contrast, the club needed willing women to cater for the men. Single women were at a premium, but those who dared to come solo knew exactly why they were there. One woman would leave several men sated and satisfied that their eighty pounds had been a good investment.
My mobile vibed again while I was picturing all of this. Louisa was saying that she just wanted to get out for a while, enjoy being seen in her new outfit, and watch a little, before coming home to bed.
Marriage is a game of trust. I had to trust her. I texted back, that it was fine with me, and I hoped that she would have a good time. Immediately I had touched "Send" I wished that I could take it back.
A waiter came with my steak. He took my unfinished starter away before I my head was back in the restaurant, a second time that I was caught off guard. The steak looked good, however, with dauphinoise potatoes, trimmed green beans, and a white porcelain dish of pepper sauce.
A final text came in. It said a thank you, and that she loved me. Suddenly, I no longer felt so hungry. I was picturing Louisa at the club.
I am lucky. At thirty four, two children delivered to the world, my wife still looks to me as good as the day that we were married. Her breasts may be slightly fuller, and her nipples a little more motherly, but she has retained her figure, and I always feel proud on the beach with her, and even more so at the club.
I like the looks she gets. I know exactly what other men are thinking. I know what they would like to do to her. That is part of the whole turn on. Showing her off is part of the fun. That is why I buy her the things she wears. That was what I liked about the bodysuit. Whatever little of her body it covered, would still be visible through the translucence of the fabric. I had been really looking forward to the looks that she would have received, walking around beside me.
She would still get those looks, but walking into that club alone, she would get a lot more than looks. Any woman on her own was fair game. The expectation would be that she was there to fuck. The club rules might be that you should ask before touching, but the unwritten rules were much more lax.
Basically, exposed flesh could be touched if it was close enough to do so naturally. Caressing a woman's buttock was a compliment, as innocuous as looking, even if she was with a guy. Proximity at the bar, or while standing around the dance pole to watch an act, or at one of the places you could fuck, to watch the action, allowed guys to get close enough to women to get away with the casual touch or gentle caress of any flesh that she had left bare.
Louisa had once worn a corset that left her breasts and pubis bare, with suspender supported stockings, heels, and a leather collar. Walking through a busier area of the club, her breasts, buttocks, and cunt had all been fondled, even while she held my hand. One guy had even managed to slip a finger part way inside her, not that she had told me at the time, not until we were fucking later and she whispering in my ear, telling me just what had happened.
This time, in her new body suit, Louisa's breasts and cunt would not be bare, but they would be on show. As a woman on her own, she would be homed in on from all directions, like a bitch on heat amongst stray dogs. My wife would have no need to buy her drinks. They would be bought for her, by someone with his hand on her bare buttock, who would be looking for pay back later, when alcohol had lubricated her sufficiently to let him slide inside her cunt.
Wherever she walked, to watch whatever other action, she would have guys following. As soon as she would stop to enjoy a scene, someone would move in close, and their hands would not respect the bare flesh only rule. I could envisage the ease with which a hand could slip beneath the strip of bodysuit that held my wife's labia flat against her pubic mound, and explore the wetness that I knew they would find there.
I poured the pepper sauce over the steak and began to slice, deciding that I could, after all, retract my text, and let Louisa know that I would prefer her not to go. It was just a few minutes since I had replied, and she would not yet have left.
The steak was succulent and tender, the sauce nicely hot, and I picked up my phone, thinking of something else that is succulent and tender, and nicely hot.
Talking is always better. A text can be too easily misunderstood. Talking to Louisa, I could explain the dangers that I foresaw, the reason why I thought it inadvisable for her to go to the club without me. I touch dialed, and waited for my phone display to show that hers was ringing.
My wife's mobile did not ring. She was unavailable. The monotone voice message told me that her mobile had been turned off.
Like so many others, we had long ago dispensed with a house phone. No one had called on it for years, and then we changed providers and went for a television and broadband package without a phone, so now there was no phone to call.
"Fuck!" I swore to myself, or at least I thought it was to myself, except another diner looked at me, puzzled.
She was also in her thirties, blonde, eating alone, and after the initial look of puzzlement, she sipped her wine, something white that went with the sea-bass, she had only just begun, and gave a smile.
When someone smiles at you, it is only polite to smile back, so I smiled, trying to look a little apologetic for what she had just overheard.
She used a slender hand to indicate the seat opposite her own, and an angled look to convey the invitation. I smiled again. Right then I was more concerned about where Louisa was going, but it was flattering to receive such a direct invitation from another woman, and after a moment considering how to go about moving my food and drink, I got up, and transferred to her table.
Her name was Sarah. She was a sales representative, touring the Scottish cities to visit the department stores for her company. She was from Glasgow, but had a refined accent. She had the pure white complexion that went with blonde hair and the Scottish climate, and was making the absolute most of her looks with Marilyn Monroe curls, brilliant red lip gloss and perfectly matching nail varnish. Even her cleavage suited the Monroe role. I suspected that her sales figures would be high and wondered if she ever used more than her looks to seal a deal.
