Trying to Relate

Warning:

This is rather a long story. It tells of a wife financially forced to become a high class whore and a husband who falls sexual prey to a dominant gay male. If this is not to your taste then now is the time to leave. For those who have elected to stay, I would like to mention that this is one of my favourite tales.

*****

I was employed as a marriage guidance councillor helping couples in trouble to relate to each other better but at the end, after twenty years, I had become rather jaundiced in my work. Before I begin there are a couple of myths that need exploding. The first claims that the incidence of infidelity has fallen based on the fact that since the introduction of 'no fault' divorces, the reasons given are 'unreasonable behaviour' or 'irreconcilable differences' rather than the previous preponderance of nookie on the side. This is nonsense because I can state categorically that in over 90% of current divorces, whatever the given reason, somebody's genitals have been in action outside the bounds of the marriage. I can't understand this cover-up terminology - I mean if it was me I would far rather admit to having had illicit carnal knowledge of some luscious red head than confess to being a mean cantankerous old git.

The other myth is that men are the main culprit. 'Men keep their brains in their pants' or 'Men are incapable of keeping their zips done up' are the popular catch phrases but in fact it is a relative small number of serial philanderers who give the rest of the male sex a bad name. However, on the other hand, I am quite prepared to believe that the vast majority of wives have a built in mechanism, which springs their legs open at the slightest opportunity. Remembering a history of headaches, you may say ruefully, 'Not my wife', but I would point out tactfully that a great many husbands can't seem to operate that magic trigger - at least, not with their own spouse.

Even when sex is not the primary cause of discord, even at trivial levels, it soon becomes part of the equation. A volatile young couple is arguing about television - he wants to watch the match but she had planned her evening round the soap omnibus. They have a flaming row, she insists on her program so he storms down to the pub and finishes up leg-less. Or he insists on the match and it is she who storms down to the pub - but she finishes up getting laid. How many girls who run home to mother could say, "I came home without any money and the guy who gave me a lift really went out of his way - it was the least that I could do." In her absence, the husband gets some beer in to console him and waits for her to return.

Some times it is the husband who returns to his parent's house for comfort and understanding. If he is not home within twenty-four hours, the abandoned wife thinks, 'I'll teach the sod', and in a woman's mind, allowing some other man to explore her garden of delights is always the first recourse.

It cannot be proved but I would bet that amongst couples with twenty-five years stable marriage behind them, less than 30% of the husbands will harbour some guilty secret but easily 60% of the wives will have had at least one little dabble on the side along the way. The reasons are easy to understand. As long as a wife does not keep her husband short, with little unaccounted spare time and lacking the cash to pay for an affair most are men content with the faithful life. His mind strays but not his body. He sees the pretty face, the bouncing breasts, a flash of long legs or tight clad rump undulating before him down the street, he remembers and in bed, in the dark that night, mentally he can be humping any woman in the word. Not so a woman. It is hard for her to imagine that she is being screwed by a thick nine inch monster dick when she can hardly feel her husband moving inside her. So next day, it is easy to understand why she wonders if the window cleaner will be able to unerringly find her G-spot every time because her husband patently cannot.

The above was a bit of philosophy which I had to get off my chest. It has little yo do with the following tale, which is not about infidelity in the conventional sense. Let me say immediately that there is more than a little sexual activity to relate - lest I lose the bulk of my readers at this point.

This was to be my last case of the day. When the knock came on the door I saw from my pad that it would be Mr and Mrs South - Charles and Fiona. I had not yet met them but already I knew that they would be another very ordinary couple, just one in an endless stream. However, when they entered I rapidly revised my opinion because they were not ordinary at all. The word 'extraordinary' can only rarely be truly applied, but it fitted here - at least it did to her. She just under average height with shoulder length slightly waved honey gold hair and a face with classic if sensuous beauty. For old film buffs, I think that the name Lana Turner might give just a faint impression. And it was not just her face. The tight white skirt ending a tasteful two inches above the knee revealed legs as near to perfection as I had ever seen and her brightly coloured opaque blouse could not conceal a small waist nor the outline of ripe firm breasts. Some women have facial beauty, some have good tits and with others their best assets are found further down - but few have it all. This lady had the lot - and in spades.

To preserve objectivity, I suppose that I must describe him. At around 40 he was possible five or six years older than his wife, 5' 10" and slimly built. He had short hair, a serious intelligent face and he wore gold wire rimmed spectacles. With both, their clothes were of obvious quality and her expensively delicate high heeled stiletto shoes brought her height to roughly the equivalent to his.

Breaking my tradition, I stood up to wave them to the two chairs that stood in front of my desk. As we all sat down, my eyes were inevitably drawn to the woman's legs as she very slowly crossed them but without showing a thing. I had the strong impression she had done it in such a way deliberately to provoke me. This seemed to be confirmed when I looked up to find that she was gazing at me with dark fathomless eyes and with a knowing smile playing round her lips.

I was disconcerted be being so easily caught in the act and said hastily, "I take it that you have a bedroom problem." I did like to start with a provocative remark because, whether well or badly received, it broke the ice and moved quickly past the initial stilted conversation stage.

This time however I had been too crass and left myself open to a well-founded rebuke.

"You are completely wrong Mr Scott," she said coolly. "Our problem is primarily financial. We have been married for twelve years, we have no children and we are devoted to each other. In the bedroom - as you like to put it, our sex life is good, some would think exceptional. If you habitually jump to such hasty conclusions on negligible data, perhaps we have come to the wrong place. "

Her voice was like honey and I could so easily imagine it softly whispering endearments. I could not let them walk out of my life now so I metaphorically slipped into my naughty puppy role, lying on my back with legs in the air by saying, "I'm sorry Fiona. It's been a long hard day and I am tired but that stupid assumption is unforgivable."

The smile that she gave me showed that I was indeed forgiven - and it made my toes curl into the bargain. "Perhaps you would like to tell me about your situation," I said, having trouble with articulation due to the sudden excess of saliva in my mouth.

"Our problem started out as strictly financial but since then there have been other developments...ramifications, shall we say," she said, re-crossing her legs the other way.

Despite myself I could not control my eyes and blushed slightly knowing that she was fully aware of my weakness. Fiona had paused leaving me an opening to prompt her but seeing that I was incapable of speech, she continued. "My husband lost his job just after we had taken on very heavy commitments. Perhaps you would like to explain to the man darling," she said reaching out and giving her husbands hand an encouraging squeeze.

Despite any impression given above, I had taken note of her husband. He was very restless, His eyes flitted here there and everywhere but seemed reluctant to meet mine - and held within them was what I can only describe as a haunted look. "I was a damn fool," he said, making a real effort. "I gave up what was real to chase a dream despite everybody warning me of the dangers."

Charles went on to describe how he had been at the same firm since leaving school and had worked his way up to be the financial director in charge of computer systems and accounts. He was on a comfortable salary but might have expected a lot more had not the firm operated in a very competitive market. This meant those salaries and other costs had to be cut to the bone if they were to stand a chance against a larger firm called Sherwood's, their only real competitor in the UK.

"One day," said Charles, "I got a phone call from a woman who asked me to meet her in a pub, saying that she wanted to make me an offer that I could not refuse. It seemed that I was being head hunted by Sherwood's. They needed a new financial director fast. My salary would be more than doubled; there were substantial guaranteed bonuses, share options, a heavily subsidised mortgage and generous relocation expenses. It was out of this world - I could name any car that I wished as my company vehicle."

"I am not an underhand type of chap so I went back and walked into my boss and put my cards on the table. He said, 'I can see why you are tempted because it is a bloody good offer - perhaps too good. I've got to tell you there are persistent rumours in the market that Sherwood's are in trouble. They say that someone screwed them for a stack of money and now that firm is living hand to mouth. If they do go under, the sky will be the limit for you here. I am not going to offer you more money to stay because I can't but please try to find out all the facts before you do something silly'."

"At my official interview I put this to the Sherwood's MD right at the start.'It's all true,' he said. 'Your predecessor had a gambling problem and embezzled half a million before we caught him. There was £140,000 left which he paid back, we didn't prosecute to avoid publicity and he cleared off abroad in case we changed our mind. We have also been pushing credit to the limit with our suppliers but only because we have no idea where we are - he very effectively scrambled all the fucking files to cover his tracks. As for going under - that can't happen. Over the years we have built up a three million contingency fund from retained dividends. It is in a very high interest account under my personal control. As soon as you let me know what moneys are required, then I will authorise transfer of the required funds. One other point, when this happened we were on the point of a major expansion - that will still go ahead and when it does your current firm is going to find that the market is a very cold and lonely place'. There was now no question of me not going."

At this point Fiona took over and I was pleased to again feast my eyes on her instead of studying her husband's harassed features. "We bought a fabulous house - it was only possible because we had an effective two per cent mortgage. My husband's salary may have tripled but almost immediately we were living as near to the limit as we had been before. Of course when we wanted to sell again the market had dropped and the houses on either side went on the market at the same. Those two other families leaving in a hurry was not a coincidence because both husbands left with the other man's wife - so why there had to be so much aggravation about it I don't understand. The net result was that we couldn't sell."

Charles came back to explain why they needed to sell. "I worked like a crazy man untangling files and even got down into the program code to remove the little bugs he had planted. After nearly five months I went to the MD to tell him that I needed £500,000 transferring to clear our obligations with little more than £60,000 unquantified debt left remaining. He looked puzzled. 'You make the transfer and then I contact the bank to give final authorisation,' he said.

"I did not know which account he meant and I said so. 'The one encrypted 'SA' for 'Special Account' there is only the one,' he told me. I dug and dug for almost 48 hours non-stop and finally found it in a hidden dustbin folder containing deleted files. With that reference, I went to the bank to be told that the account had been cleared some nine months before. Dutifully I reported my findings to the managing director and within the week Sherwood's went into voluntary liquidation."

"Charles got three months salary in lieu of notice," Fiona took up the story again," - and then when he could claim unemployment benefit, due to new government regulations concerning expensive houses, we were not entitled to any help with the mortgage. I hadn't worked for years and the money due to the building society each month was so horrendous that it was impossible for him to find a job that paid sufficient, especially in view of his very specialised experience. After six months we were completely broke, the building society was threatening repossession and others were after us for money. It was at this point that I saw a possible way out."

As his wife said that last sentence, I saw Charles visibly wince. "I think that I have got the initial picture so we will call it a day for now. It might be best if I should interview you separately next time," I said and it seemed that both of them were relieved at my suggestion.

For the next appointment, it was Fiona that I arranged to see on her own first - did you honestly think it would be otherwise? Thinking ahead, I was torn between escorting her to a chair with opportunity to touch her arm or remain at my desk with best vantage for seeing her cross those fabulous legs. The latter won. This was crazy because I had not reacted this way to a woman for years. She was wearing a figure hugging cream jersey dress of the same demure length but with higher even more flimsy stiletto heeled shoes. Her nipples showed clearly through the clinging material and I was grateful to God for the sudden colder weather.

When she crossed her legs it was quite deliberate, slowly and flamboyantly. For a moment I convinced myself that she had done a Sharon Stone on me, perspiration broke out on my forehead and I was very glad that the desk between us hid my embarrassment.

When I finally dragged my eyes up to her lovely face, she was openly laughing at me. "I'll come back later if you need to take a cold shower," she said.

In my besotted state I took this as a come on. "We don't have to stay here. I can easily interview somewhere more relaxed," I offered with all the sophistication of a gauche schoolboy.

"Mr Scott. I already told you that I love my husband deeply. Despite what I am going to tell you, I think we should establish at the outset that I remain faithful to him - in my fashion."

"Please call me Tom," I said. "I am sorry that I have embarrassed you. I have never had a woman quite like you in this office before and it has made me act rather out of character. I promise you that I will behave myself from now on." To cover my confusion I fumbled myself a cigarette and then realised from her raised eyebrow that I had neglected to offer her one. I quickly walked round the desk to repair the omission and then proved my new control by passing up the chance to touch her hand while lighting it for her.

"You haven't embarrassed me in the slightest...Tom," she said with a smile when I was back in my chair. "I'm flattered by your admiration but I feel that you may pay more attention to my problem now that you have stopped entertaining false hopes."

I gave her a genuine grin. She may have turned me down flat but it had been done it in the nicest possible way and at the same time established an easy rapport between us. With an effort, I made my voice deliberately professional and said, "Last time I got the impression that the solution you have found bothers your husband more than the actually financial problems."

"You are very astute," she said. "It may be better if I just tell my story without interruption and you can ask questions at the end. I assume that you have a tape recorder running." I confirmed that to be the case and what follows is a direct transcription of her words.

"I started working for an escort agency. From your face I can see that you have made certain assumptions and they are not wrong but I must have been pretty naïve because I did not realise at first all that the job could entail. It was my last trip into town because the petrol tank of my car was almost empty and there was no cash to put more in - I had five pounds left in my purse and when that was gone we would be totally dependent on the DHSS. Walking along I stopped to admire a flash new red two seater sports car and it was only when I started to move on that I realised that it was parked outside an exclusive coffee shop that I used to frequent often during those far richer days. On the spur of the moment I went in resolved to blow my fiver on a good cup of coffee and one of their delicious but exorbitantly priced cream cakes. Before I could sit down a female voice called out excitedly, "FEE. FEE. Fiona is it really you? God it's been years."

It was the voice rather than the face that I recognised but I still said, "Cynthia?" hesitantly as I moved in her direction. At school in a town far removed from this one, Cynthia had been my closest friend. I got my looks and figure very early and was the acknowledged leader of the in crowd. In those days she was a plain thin girl, wore spectacles and came from a far poorer background. Nobody else wanted to let her into the gang but for some reason she appealed to me so I insisted and rather took her under my wing. We went around a lot as a pair - when we met two guys it was nice having a friend always willing to settle for the other one. I made use of her unmercifully but because she had been accepted on my say so, I could do no wrong in her eyes.

The difference in Cynthia was unbelievable. Her hair was immaculate, her face had an elegant beauty and her clothes reeked of exclusivity. She had a figure that was nicely rounded in all the right places and I presumed that she had switched to wearing contact lenses. She looked like a million dollars. I still had my extensive wardrobe and was so glad that my attire did not reflect my current impecunious circumstances. Joining her at her table we reminisced happily until the waitress came, upon which my old friend insisted that it was her treat. "You look as if you have done well for yourself," I enthused after our order had come, "Rich husband?"

She shook her head. "No - this is all down to me. There are no men at all in my life - at least none with any degree of permanence."

"You must have a bloody good job then, what are you - a high flying executive or something?"

"Much simpler than that - I work for an escort agency."

"And it dresses you like that?" It seemed incredible.

"Clothes, a beautiful flat and the red car that's parked outside - all that and more. I take at least three holidays every year and only stop in the very best places."

I shook my head enviously and said, "What wouldn't I give for a job like that right now."

"There is nothing to stop you," she said. "I know that the people I work for are on the look out for new escorts. They will fall over themselves to get you. With me a lot of what you see is artifice but you are the real thing, right down to the bone."