"Where the bloody
hell
are we?" Tamara looked across the divide between the front seats.
Her husband turned to face her, "Nearly there." He focussed on driving again.
"I don't believe I'm doing this," Tamara muttered. 'I must need by bloody head testing,' she thought as she stared out into the dark.
Graham, Tamara's husband, had finally convinced her. "It'll be an adventure," he attempted to reassure his dubious spouse. "Something to spice things up, you don't have to actually get involved, we could just watch, and if you really don't like it we can just leave."
Graham had eventually worn a reluctant Tamara down. He had wheedled, sulked, even attempted bribery -- every trick he could think of -- and at last, to his delight, Tamara had succumbed.
"OK, OK," she had finally shouted, frustrated by his endless obsession. "I'll do it. I'll go along with it, but. . ." her eyes blazed, "if it's all fat old men -- slimy, lecherous men -- then you can fuck off."
"Anything you say," Graham acquiesced. "You're the boss."
And so, on a summer Saturday evening, just after dusk, Tamara found herself in the car with her husband bound for a rural car-park -- at thirty-two, married for eight years and she was going dogging.
<'Dogging,'> she thought. It
disgusting. 'Why am I doing this?' Tamara envisioned dirty lechers with leering faces --'The grubby mac brigade,' she thought and let out a snort as she tried in vain to hold a sudden onset of giggles in check. Graham looked quizzical but remained silent, concentrating on his geography. 'Fuck it,' Tamara's internal monologue continued. 'I can always play the disgusted card and demand that we leave.' Plus Tamara was sure Graham would look after her. He might be a perv, but he wouldn't allow anything nasty to happen.
"Here we are," Graham said, grinning. "We made it."
He swung the car into the area of anonymous open ground. It looked like a wasteland to Tamara. There were several cars parked nearby but no visible sign of anything happening.
"Now what?"
"We wait," Graham responded. "There's supposed to be a girl turning up in a red beemer, she's the attraction tonight, we have to wait for her. . . "Unless," he added with a smirk, "unless you fancy being the centre of attention?" He parted the overlap of her coat and ran his palm along her thigh. "You're sexy enough to be the star event," he continued.
Despite her misgivings Tamara experienced a swell of liquid warmth between her legs. Graham's thick voice as he stroked her thigh told her he was aroused. The sordid scene she found herself partaking in, and the fact that she had dressed as per Graham's instructions -- skimpy, backless dress, FMB's and sans knickers -- turned her on. It was all so kinky.
Tamara heard the distant murmur of a car approaching. As soon as the car passed the wooden fencing that bracketed the entrance the driver extinguished the headlights.
With a jolt Tamara identified the vehicle as a BMW, the chosen chariot of tonight's draw. Tamara was curious as to what sort of woman would do this. 'Some slapper from a run-down estate,' she imagined.
The low grumble of the car's engine suddenly died. All was still.
"What happens next?" Tamara asked.
"There's a short wait," Graham answered. "To make sure that everything's OK. Then, when you see the interior light come on, that's the signal."
"And then what?"
