The Farmers Maret

HEALTH WARNING. This story contains gay activity, lesbian contact, infidelity, cuckold practices, pagan ritual, fetish elements and a cult theme. If your tender susceptibilities are liable to be offended by any of the above than go directly to the nasty comments section, do not pass Go, do not collect 200.

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I place the start of the whole thing near the end of an ordinary evening that Sylvia and I had spent pleasantly socialising with our friends James and Krista. It was as we were getting ready to leave that Krista suddenly said, "I nearly forgot, have you tried the new farmers market. It's every Saturday in the car park behind the Brown Cow pub?" and, when we said that we hadn't heard about it she insisted, "You really must go along, they sell wild boar meat and venison, as well as the usual organic produce."

When we met Sylvia was undoubtedly an exceptionally attractive girl but it was her who made the better catch because I was already on track for a remunerative career in surveying when she didn't even make it to university. My earnings have made possible a four bedroom house in a good area with her wages from a high street patisserie contributing mainly to the cost of the two good holidays we enjoyed each year. Near the start we used to fuck like rabbits but now after seven years of marriage we make love twice a week in a regular Monday and Saturday routine. Other interests during the rest of the week seem to sap the energy required for that particular sport.

Tuesdays we always go out for a good restaurant meal, to give Sylvia a break from cooking and Thursday evenings are regularly spent with our friends on a reciprocal basis. I like golf, so on Sunday I try to get at least one round in on the links and Friday evenings see me in the clubhouse catching up with my golfing buddies. Sylvia's night out is Wednesday. She starts out at the gym with some girlfriends and they generally go somewhere for drinks afterwards. On those nights I tend to stay late at work to catch up on paperwork, and avoid a boring evening at home by myself. I think everybody will agree, that is a very pleasant lifestyle with little to be dissatisfied about.

The farmers market was pretty standard. After we had been wandering around for about twenty minutes, Sylvia tugged my arm and said, "See the guy standing over there, the one handing out leaflets who looks a bit like a hippy. Well he keeps watching me; I can feel his eyes everywhere I go."

I looked over at the tall youngish male. He was dressed in jeans and a caftan type top, complete with the obligatory strings of beads, and on his feet he was wearing sandals instead of the ubiquitous trainers. His hair was dark, long and wavy and he had a stupid wispy beard on the point of his chin. I had actually noticed him before when it had struck me that he was rather passive for a leafleteer, not bothering to intercept potential recipients, seemingly content to casually proffer a leaflet only when someone happened to walk close. I pointed out to my wife that this was almost certainly her imagination. "He's just scanning the crowd and you keep glancing at him just when he happens to be looking in your general direction," I argued reasonably.

Five minutes later Sylvia insisted, "I knew it, he is watching, he hardly takes his eyes off me," and when I again looked dubious she said, "I'll prove it, you stay here and check while I walk past him."

She set off walking in a parabola that skirted his position and I quickly had to admit that I was mistaken. Then, as my wife reached the closest position he kind of beckoned her with his head and she changed direction to walk up to him. They exchanged only two or three sentences before Sylvia turned and, with only one glance back, walked back to me with a funny kind of smile on her face. "So what did he want," I asked, only mildly interested.

"He said he wanted to fuck me,"

"The cheeky bugger," I said. This wasn't the first time that Sylvia had been blatantly propositioned so I did not immediately become irate. "What did he actually say?"

"Just what I told you he said, 'I want to fuck you,' just like that."

"What did you say to him?"

Now she did smile. "I asked, 'What did you say?' and he said, 'You already know and I don't want to repeat because it was crudely put. My problem was that those are the only words that state exactly what I want. I don't want to make love to you because it's your husband's job to keep you happy but I do want to give you more pleasure than you ever dreamed possible.' Then I came back to you," Sylvia finished.

"Didn't you say anything else?"

"I thanked him for the offer," my wife told me but then her inherent honesty made her add, "And said I would need to think about it."

Now I could feel my anger bubbling. "Why the fuck did you say that. It will have given him hope when all you needed to do was to tell him to Piss off.'

"I didn't want to do that. He wasn't really pushy, he's got rather nice eyes and he did seem really sincere. Anyway, I only said what I always say when I don't want to buy what a salesman is pushing."

We went to the car with Sylvia obviously a bit exhilarated by her mini encounter. "Why do you think he picked me," she asked, unwilling to let the subject drop.

"He probably says it to any half decent female that walks near him It costs nothing and he might score say one in twenty. They say that lots of married women are easy and screw milkmen and window cleaners while their husbands are at work, so they're exactly the kind he might pull." I had ploughed on with my speech even though I knew I had dropped a clanger. I would have been better advised to say 'every beautiful woman' rather than the disparaging 'any half decent female'. Sylvia was already accusing me of not appreciating her and little slips like that didn't help. She probably didn't notice though because that night's scheduled rumpy-pumpy was the best for quite a long time.

The week passed without any further mention of the leaflet guy but while getting ready to again go to the market I noticed that my wife was now wearing a dress and taking more care with her make-up than she had the week before. "Tarting yourself up for your admirer," I asked sarcastically.

"Don't be ridiculous, Dave," she snapped back. "The weather has changed so I dress differently and that means slightly different make-up. You're not a woman so you wouldn't know. Apart from which I do intend to speak to him again."

"What the fuck for?"

"I want to ask why he picked me. For my peace of mind I'd like to know if it was because he thought I was special or because I seemed like just any old scrubber."

The angry response died in my throat on the realisation that my ill chosen words the week before had indeed earned me a black mark. At the market we meandered past several stalls until coming in sight of where the hippy had his pitch, upon which Sylvia muttered, "Wait here," and made a beeline towards him. While still several paces away she very clearly shook her head and I assumed that was to forewarn that she hadn't come to surrender her body to him. The conversation was again relatively brief, and although the guy did at one point look over towards me, for the rest of the time his attention was fixed firmly on my wife.

Sylvia returned looking very pleased with the exchange and reported, "He claims that he can sense vibrations emanating from me and he said that I'm like a volcano inside with a vast reserve of untapped sexual potential waiting to burst out."

"He must have said more than that. You were talking for three of four minutes," I said, keeping my temper under control.

"I accused him of saying the same thing to all attractive women but he denied it. He admitted that he has picked up the vibrations from other females but said he has only made a cold approach once before.

Then he told me something about his Earth Magic group." Sylvia held up a leaflet to illustrate.

"I don't know why you bother giving that jerk the time of day. As far as I'm concerned he's just another pick-up merchant and a pretty crude one at that."

"A lot of far more obnoxious types have tried to get me into bed, most by describing the size of their todger," Sylvia shot back. "Roscoe is different. He is rather attractive and I think he's an essentially nice guy."

"So its Roscoe now is it, and I suppose you've told him your name," I spat out through gritted teeth.

"Dave if you carry on like this we are going to have a row. As far as I'm concerned it's just a bit of harmless fun and anyway, I'd have thought you would have learned to trust me by now," she said sadly.

We drove home in silence and for most of the day existed in a state of armed truce but by bedtime relations had become normalised enough for sex as usual. Life followed its customary pattern until the next Saturday morning when Sylvia again started getting ready to go to the market. Suddenly my animus came flooding back. "Why do we have to go every sodding week, as far as I can see it's just so you can get chatted up by lover boy," I said nastily.

"I'm only going for what they have to sell; I bring home a carrier full every time. If you're that paranoid, I promise not to do anywhere near Roscoe," Sylvia offered, obviously struggling to keep her temper.

We went to the market and she kept to her word. I know because I positioned myself where I would see, even if they only tried to exchange smiles from a distance. Eventually I abandoned the vigil and set out to find her. My wife was at the opposite side of the market and seemed to be staring fixedly at a particular stall but I could not see what it was that she was debating whether to purchase. However, as I approached from directly behind her, I saw that the real object of her intense scrutiny was Roscoe. He was in the distance but perfectly framed in the gap at the side of the stall.

"Can't keep your eyes off him can you?" I said from just behind her.

Startled Sylvia whipped round and had the grace to blush, "It's not what you think. I was only watching to see if he did chat up other girls despite what he said," she tried to explain.

I didn't argue but made it obvious that I didn't believe her. In the grip of jealousy, I think I had become somewhat irrational. We skirted round each other for the rest of the day, without overt hostility but little warmth either. We did not make love that night and I think that Monday was a wash as well. We had a good night on Thursday with James and Krista and things seemed to be improving but Saturday morning once more found Sylvia dolling herself up just to go to a scrappy local market. "Not again, you've got a fixation about that punk."

"This has nothing to do with Roscoe. I want some more of those large duck's eggs and that goat cheese that you enjoyed so much on Thursday. I'll only need to be there about ten minutes."

"I don't fucking believe you," I said flatly. "I'm certainly not going to stand around again looking the fool while you gaze at him in adoration. If you go, you go by your bloody self."

"Aren't you afraid that I might run off with him and let him have his wicked way," Sylvia said with a grin, making a last attempt at lightening the atmosphere.

"Do what the hell you like. Let him fuck you, I don't care. Perhaps that's the only way to get the bastard out of your system," I told her with all the venom I could muster.

"If that's how you feel then I damn well will," my wife said angrily, and so saying she snatched up her bag and was gone.

I sat fuming but fully expecting her to get to the end of the road and come back. When it became obvious that that would not happen I was still not worried because, knowing my wife, I could see her dawdling at the farmer's market to frighten me but then bringing back some little delicacy as a peace offering but when more than two hours had passed, the panic kicked in. Running out to my car I drove at speed in the direction of the market.

Only a couple of minutes from my destination, I was held at traffic lights and had time to notice a psychedelic painted car at the head of the oncoming traffic. With great consternation I saw my precious wife sitting in the passenger seat next to the gigolo. She was looking down at her lap and did not see me. At the next roundabout I did a full circuit and set off in pursuit, rather dangerously switching lanes to gain a one or two car advantage, but every traffic light seemed to be against me and I eventually decided that attempting to catch them was futile.

That afternoon was the most horrendous of my life. I sat with constant images of them copulating flitting through my brain, some extreme, involving pentagrams and the picture of Sylvia's lovely stretched out naked and bound in the style of a virgin sacrifice. Perversely, I had an erection, not just any erection because my penis was painfully stiff and this fact added an element of shame to my other torments.

It was 7 p.m. when the phone rang and I heard my wife's welcome voice, "Can you pick me up love, I'll give you the address?"

"Are you still with him?" I asked.

"Yes I am but.."

Before she could say more, I snarled, "If you want to spend the afternoon fucking another man, don't expect me to provide a taxi service afterwards," and with that I slammed the phone down.

I poured myself a full tumbler of whiskey and sat down but didn't take even a sip because something was niggling at the back of my mind. That niggle revolved round the word 'but'. What was the sentence my wife was about to say when I cut her off? What possible sentences might have followed on from the words, 'Yes I am but?" There was only one that I could think of and that was, 'Yes I am but I haven't done anything.'

If she was still faithful to me then I had to rescue her pretty damn quick but I had no idea where she had called from. I sat fretting for several minutes with the answer staring me in the face -- last caller redial. Belatedly realising what to do I jumped up and ran to the phone but as I stretched out to reach it the damn thing rang. My first reaction was relief, believing that Sylvia must have decided to give me another chance but the caller was not her and compounding my frustration was the fact that it was a fucking wrong number.

Now I was in a real panic because I believed that if I could not get to Sylvia in time then her virtue would be forfeit. Pushing the whiskey glass aside, I sat and forced myself to be calm. Slowly going through all that I have written above in my mind, I remembered that after the second time my wife spoke with Roscoe, she had walked away from him with one of his leaflets in her hand. That leaflet was almost certain to contain an address or telephone if only I could find it.

I looked in all the places where she might have put it and I checked out every waste paper basket, all to no avail. As a last resort I sorted through the big outside paper recycling bin. It took nearly an hour but I found it. Almost tripping over in my haste I ran out to my car and hurried to the Earth Magic headquarters. When I got there I was disappointed to see no sign of the psychedelic car and a very pleasant girl inside confirmed that Roscoe had gone home 'some time ago', taking Sylvia with him.

She kindly provided me with the relevant address.

Maybe I drove with my mind too concentrated on what might be happening at my destination but I was unfamiliar with the area and managed to get lost on the way. Many minutes later than I need have been, I finally drew up in front of a block of flats. The distinctive car that I had chased earlier was parked to the side. Although it was becoming dusk there were few lights showing and they were all in the upper floors. The helpful girl had warned me that the lift was out, "But his flat is not too far up."

I switched off the engine and my hand was on the car door handle ready to dash to the rescue but I forced myself to pause for a moment, to decide my strategy once I got up there. Suddenly a light came on up on the third floor and a male figure, naked at least from the waist up, moved forward to pull closed what looked like bedroom curtains. At that distance, without his caftan top, I couldn't be sure that it was Roscoe, but whoever the male was he looked lithe and fit.

That sight should have imbued me with an even greater sense of urgency but instead I found myself in the grip of inertia as doubts flooded into my mind. What if he reacted to my intervention with violence because he was taller than me and seemed the sort who might have dabbled in martial arts? How did I know he was the only male up there? What if Sylvia refused to leave and I was forced to make a humiliating retreat? Would I be in time to save her fidelity in any case? He was already apparently naked so they might have already fucked in another room before retiring to the bedroom and although they had spent all afternoon at the Earth Magic HQ, I had only seen the ground floor and there were undoubtedly bedrooms upstairs so they could easily been shagging even before going to his flat.

So I sat watching that lighted window for hour after hour, imagining what was happening behind those lighted curtains and yes, I had a stiff erection for all of that time. Luckily I had a full pack of twenty cigarettes but they all went and I was eventually reduced to sorting through the ash tray for butts with un-smoked remnants. The lights eventually went out not long after 2 a.m. and I must have taken that as a signal to fall asleep, mentally exhausted. Unfortunately my dreams provided no respite.

It was light when I woke, cold very stiff and with my mouth tasting like a cesspit. I was also so desperately parched that I had to abandon the plan to maintain the vigil until my wife emerged from that den of depravity. I was also encouraged in this decision by the fact that two black boys, aged about nine or ten, were standing near to the car curiously peering in at me. At home the first priority was a cup of tea and a smoke. After that I had a long hot shower, dressed in fresh clothes and then cooked myself a decent breakfast of bacon and eggs. Finally feeling human again I sat down and waited.

Sylvia got home at nine o'clock. At first glance she looked no different from the last time I saw her but closer inspection revealed that her eyes looked tired and she also had an air about her that I can only describe as serene. Without speaking she walked slowly to about six feet from where I was sitting and halted.

"Did he fuck you?" I asked. She nodded.

Looking straight into her eyes I asked the single word question, "Why?"

"I suppose the short answer is because I wanted to."

"What's the longer answer?"

"Perhaps because I'm every bit as stubborn as you and I ended up feeling that I had no choice. After I left the house there were times when I wanted him badly and others where I hoped desperately that you would turn up and rescue me."

Sylvia looked so resigned and forlorn that despite myself I could not suppress a feeling of pity. "Do you want to talk about it?" I said more gently.

She nodded. "I'll tell you everything that you want to know but I don't think you'll like it."

I made us both a cup of tea and then we sat facing on the settee as she told me, "When I left the house I had no real intention of doing what I threatened, I just wanted to frighten you and wipe the smug look off your face. I was sure that you would come running after me. At the market I went to Roscoe, we talked and I even helped him hand out his leaflets. He is incredibly attractive because he has an aura of power about him but I was convinced that you were bound to turn up before the market closed."

"But I didn't," I interrupted.

"No and then I couldn't face the thought of coming home to your triumphant smirk so when Roscoe invited to show me round his headquarters I agreed to go, just to show that you couldn't call my bluff that easily."