Party Piece

“Oh, do stop whining”, my wife snapped. “ All you have to do is follow the satnav. It’s only another three miles, even a child of five could manage that simple task!”

“Except it wouldn’t be driving,” I muttered peevishly to myself. “Not at that age, and if it could and had even a single atom of common sense, it wouldn’t be out in this bloody muck!”

The rain—no, forget that— the relentless monsoon had started soon after we set off. Patricia was in a foul mood, one of her increasingly frequent bad moods, and threw the car keys at me before settling firmly into the passenger seat, even though she knew I hated driving to unfamiliar destinations. Nor was I very comfortable behind the wheel in the dark, or even in daylight, for that matter. I’ve never been a boy racer, no hot rod Harry. It took me five attempts to pass my driving test. Avoiding the need to drive was the main reason I insisted we buy a house within walking distance of an outer London suburban railway station for the daily commute.

“How do you feel?” I risked a sideways glance at her. That was the second time she’d asked me that in what seemed like mere minutes, and why was she still looking at me like that? Had I grown a second head or something? I was about to reply when she raised her hand.

There,” she suddenly pointed at a brightly lit, solitary roadside building on the left. “The White Horse, the turn-off is on the same side as this pub, about a quarter of a mile further on. Do try not to miss it, darling. This is a narrow road with ditches on either side, and we both know what your track record is like when it comes to three-point turns and ditches!”

I grunted and slowed the vehicle slightly, ignoring the impatient sigh from beside me. There was no need to dwell on that little mishap from a few years ago. Ancient history, and what were breakdown company memberships and recovery trucks for anyway, if not to sort out those minor accidents that could happen to anyone? Besides, if she had paid more attention to the map on her lap, he wouldn’t have had to stop and make that damned turn in the first place!

The lights of the solitary country pub faded behind us. Okay, so I hadn’t been going all that fast in the first place, but she was the one telling me not to miss it. It was just as well I had slowed down because I nearly missed the turn-off. At first, I thought it was just another farm track, but some sixth sense made me slow down even more, and we both saw the faded sign saying ‘Grange Manor’ one and a half miles ahead. Thank God, I thought, as I was starting to feel a bit strange — light-headed, woozy even — and I was thirsty, only about another mile or so. At least I wouldn’t have to drive back, not with so much as a single drink in me. I could rely on my wife to steer us home; she knew how I was with alcohol, so that was one consolation!

It couldn’t come quickly enough for me; I needed a drink. Patricia had thrust one at me just before we left, and I’d gulped it down without a second thought. Odd, now that I thought about it, and then her insisting I drive! God alone knows what was in it—possibly a cocktail of some sort—but it had left a strange lingering taste in my mouth. Patricia said it would calm me down, and at that moment, boy, did I need calming down!

I never drink and drive; well, I don’t count having half a lager with a BLT sandwich at the local golf club as drinking! Strong spirits, though, I usually wouldn’t touch, but it barely registered because I was so pissed off. Bloody funny taste in my mouth, though—bitter—and what was wrong with Patricia? Why did she keep looking at me like that and asking if I was alright?

It wasn’t exactly a rutted farm cart track I was following, but it was definitely a close relation. I carefully manoeuvred the vehicle down the narrow, winding lane, ignoring my wife's growing impatient irritability. The innocuous approach road contrasted with our destination as I rounded the final bend and drove through a large pair of ornate wrought-iron gates to the imposing building beyond.

Up close, it was an imposing country house, built of weathered grey stone, showing signs of numerous additions over the years. Nearly all the large front windows were illuminated, and muted music could be heard. There were already many cars parked around the wide gravelled forecourt—expensive ones, costly, I noted absently—as the pair of us hurried across to the front door, splashing through a few puddles on the way. A Porsche, no, two Porsches, a Jaguar,  a Bentley, a couple of gleaming Range Rovers, and was that a Rolls near that big tree? That looked like the winged lady on the front! Our modest four-year-old French family hatchback was undoubtedly lowering the tone a bit!

Entry to the house was blocked by a large, antique-looking studded door that seemed to have been repurposed from a medieval castle. I was about to press the illuminated bell push when I suddenly leapt back in shock after a loud, agonised scream echoed from right behind the door. It didn’t matter, as the door was immediately swung open wide anyway.

“Trisha,” a deep, booming voice exclaimed delightedly. “Finally, I thought it was going to be a case of calling for volunteers and sending out search parties into the dark and stormy night. Come in and welcome once more to our humble home.” A grey-haired older man in a smart dinner suit stood framed in the open door and took my wife by the elbow, steering her into a vast, open hall with a grand staircase at the far end. I hesitated for a second, then followed, ignored, unwelcomed, and seemingly regarded as the unacknowledged appendage! ‘Once more’—that was odd—had she been here before?

I knew the distinguished-looking fellow, of course; he and his wife were clients of our agency. Their company was by far the largest account on our books and one my wife handled exclusively. Sir Rodney and Lady Danvers, of the Danvers hotel, restaurant, and property chain, along with numerous other ventures, of course. These included sizeable shareholdings in several major global companies, ownership of a herd of successful top-tier racehorses, half of a very upscale ski resort, a well-known old UK football club, and a private island in the Caribbean, among other notable and highly profitable assets.

“Trisha has finally arrived, darling, so lovely to see her, and doesn’t she look gorgeous?” he boomed. Sir Rodney had a deep voice on par with a foghorn. Another face I recognised was Lady Antonia Danvers, the youngest daughter of a mega-rich Argentinian family, a former model, actress, and accomplished singer in her youth. Now in her mid-fifties, a full-time businesswoman, philanthropist, and international socialite.

‘Trisha?’ I wondered. My wife hates that abbreviation, so why.... My train of thought was interrupted by another ear-shattering, agonised scream, followed by a second that ended in a gasp, followed by a series of racking sobs. I jumped again and whirled around, seeking the anguished source.

We failed to notice it upon entering, partly because the magnificent, not to say immense, vaulted hall immediately caught my eye, giving the impression that it wasn’t just the front door that had been taken from some medieval castle. Additionally, that massive studded front door, when open, partially blocked the source of the noise we had heard from view.

Over by the wall in the shadow of the door stood a large cage constructed from thin metal bars, and inside crouched a naked man. A completely nude man bent low on his hands and knees, and he was the one making the sobbing noises. He was in that position because he had no choice. The narrow cage was only a couple of feet high and not much longer, so he could neither stand, sit, nor turn around. He must have been terribly uncomfortable, but that was the least of his problems.

I stopped abruptly and nearly fell flat on my face as my body mass suddenly fought against forward momentum. Gob-struck, I suppose, would be the suitable slang for staring at this surreal sight: the naked sobbing man, the black iron cage, and the two young girls standing beside it. Two very pretty girls, possibly around eighteen years old, dressed similarly in tight, fashionable, ripped blue jeans, knee-high boots, and nearly identical simple, short-sleeved white tops. Neither of them seemed at all concerned about the sight or the plight of the poor fellow in the cage. They looked slightly bored, if anything!

“Rodney," Lady Antonia snapped reprovingly, pointing downwards. "Manners, Trisha probably needs a moment for a quick spruce-up before we join the others. It’s still raining extremely hard, and her shoes have caught the mud."

“Sorry, old girl wasn’t thinking, thought being late, she might be thirsty”, he reversed course and steered Patricia over toward the caged man. “Yup, looks like you did get a tad spotted en route to the front door. Stick your pretty little foot through that opening; dog here will clean you up; go on, just through the gap down there. No need to be shy. You’ve seen him before, but not au-natural, minus his nice furry doggie suit.”

“Not all of us feel that need to head straight for the bar or the cocktail cabinet, dear!” his wife told him with a rather acid-looking smile on her beautiful face.

I watched in amazement as my wife smiled at him, then calmly allowed herself to be led over to the cage. Without the slightest hesitation, she lifted her right foot and placed her soiled white patent stiletto through the opening in the front, resting it on a small, raised ledge. My astonishment continued as the man in the cage immediately stopped sobbing and instantly dropped his head down to her foot. What! He was licking it, licking, I could see his tongue. Not just licking, he was slavering over her shoe, his tongue going at it like an engine piston!

“Harder, dog, faster, you lazy animal. The lady has better things to do than watch you being inefficient all evening”, one of the girls snapped.

“Looks like the useless cur still needs a bit more encouragement”, the second added. She had a long stick-like device in one hand with a couple of metal prongs on one end. She jabbed it through the bars against the man’s right buttock cheek. I heard a click, and he suddenly screamed aloud again while bouncing up and down at the same time, smashing his head and body against the bars that imprisoned him. I noted that he immediately resumed working on my wife’s shoe, licking it even faster if that was possible.

“Cattle prod”, Lady Antonia observed clinically as she moved beside me. “A handy tool when dealing with stubborn or lazy animals, although it will never supplant the whip. Not on my estates anyway.”

I turned and gaped open-mouthed at her. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my wife twisting her foot one way and then the other to ensure her shoe received full coverage. Patricia didn’t seem the least bit bothered or concerned by the bizarre situation.

In contrast, I was flummoxed, my mouth opened again, but nothing came out except an unintentional grunt. Something was very wrong. I shook myself, becoming aware of a strange sort of fug, if I can describe it that way, affecting my thought process, and tried to clear my head. Not just my head, as a sudden lethargy came over me, “What the fuc...I meant what… what the hell?” I stammered in confusion. “Who is that poor guy? Why is he.... what? I don’t understand!”.

“No, I don’t suppose you do.” Lady Antonia’s ice-blue eyes flickered up and down my ill-chosen suit, lingering on my poorly fitting jacket for a second. Her expression did not change, but I could see it in those gorgeous eyes. How the hell could someone sneer like that without seeming to move a single facial muscle?

“Come, let’s take a closer look, shall we?” Just as her husband had done with my wife, she took my arm and guided me forward. The difference was that her husband had done it with gentlemanly grace. Her grip was more the vice-like hold of a nightclub bouncer firmly escorting an unruly punter towards the exit, and my body seemed to have no strength to resist.

We approached the cage, where my wife was swapping one now gleaming, spike-heeled shoe for the other, mud-splattered one. The stunning young blonde with that cattle prod looked up as we drew nearer, flashing her impossibly white teeth in a beaming smile at our approach. That was for three of our party, but was quickly replaced by a cool, thoughtful look as she finally turned her gaze to me. It lingered, and I felt a chill come over me.

“Delightful girl”, Sir Rodney chuckled and adores older men, the older the better, eh, me dear, so long as they’re still capable of firing the occasional full broadside, what?”

The blonde girl giggled and gave him a mischievous wink while his wife sighed and said, “Now behave yourself, Rodney, and cease your silly boasting!”

I hardly heard, for I gasped again, peering down into the cage at the top of the man’s bald head as he frantically slavered away. His position left his back and posterior slightly elevated, and I saw his pale skin was covered in a crisscrossing, irregular pattern of livid red and purple weals. Some oozing thin tendrils of blood. He’d been savagely whipped, and as I stared, I saw he was covered in many such marks, some fresher and others older. The man's legs were bent double, his thighs and calves held together by a peculiar leather garment, and his upper and lower arms were secured by similar devices around his elbows. A heavy leather collar encircled his neck.

“Speaking personally, I prefer it when he’s fully masked and suited up”, Sir Rodney mused, taking a sip from a large brandy goblet that had somehow appeared in his hand. “Seems more natural and far better to the touch when you stroke him or take him for a stroll round the garden to do his business on a nice evening. Sometimes, if I’m in the right mood, we’ll stop by the bench at the lily pond so he can show his master how much he appreciates his nice warm kennel and regular delicious doggie chunks. His tongue never appeals to me quite so much in his au natural state!”

“The girls disagreed”, his glamorous wife said, shaking her head. “People have seen him earning his keep on other occasions, so they decided to be a little different this time to stop all the tiresome questions! Besides, his new doggie suit hasn’t arrived yet and fitting it on him can be terribly tedious. Personally, I don’t care as long as that tongue of his does what it’s supposed to do for my guests!”

“Does he, I mean, no”, I struggled to get the question out. “Does he enjoy this? I realised it was a lame question before it even left my mouth, and at the same moment, something hit me hard in my stomach, not physically, although it felt like it—fear, sudden, absolute, gut-wrenching fear. I felt like Daniel must have felt when they’d told him he was only visiting the local cat rescue!

My companion gave a short, derisory laugh. “Of course not, would you?” She looked directly at me and laughed again. Despite her age, she was still a gorgeous woman, but that contemptuous look scared the pants off me. She nodded towards the cage. “My guests always seem to enjoy this simple service, and given the weather forecast, it seemed even more desirable to provide it this evening. That wretched forecourt always retains rainwater despite our spending considerable sums trying to improve the drainage. Honestly, sometimes it's like a lake out there!”.

She shook her head in annoyance and then continued. “My youngest daughter and her bestie were busy in the stable with a newly arrived filly I’d bought. However, they kindly took time out to fetch this animal from its kennel and deliver a little reminder to ensure it would perform to the required standard before bringing it over ”. She paused and then snorted in momentary anger.

“Unfortunately, two of my guests felt its performance was somewhat inadequate. My daughter there has taken that as a personal slight. One that she will attend to when they take it back! She is as proficient as I am when it comes to correcting those lacking in, em, what shall we call it? Enthusiasm’. Ah, Trisha’s finished, shall we go in and join the merry throng?”

Merry throng? I shook my head. What the hell was wrong with my brain? Why did I feel like someone tapping busily away on a PC keyboard while staring impotently at the thing like it was frozen? Blue screen of death syndrome seemed to have set in with a vengeance. Nothing was appearing on the monitor screen as it should, and I knew it, but somehow, it didn’t seem to matter. I carried on tapping, knowing I should stop and think about it, but I couldn’t. One and one were not making two; they were not adding up to anything! It was weird, for something was very wrong here, and yet I seemed to be calmly accepting it!

Acquiescent, yet not entirely. A small warning bell sounded somewhere deep among the little grey cells. I instinctively knew what I wanted to do at that point: grab my wife and rapidly head for the door, but the hand on my arm didn’t release its grip, nor did I seem to have the will to resist its pull. We followed her husband and my wife through another sizable door into the room beyond, and the gaggle of voices.

As we passed through the wide portal, my strangely lethargic mind noted that my mud-splattered footwear remained splattered, unlike my wife's gleaming white stilettos. Then it jumped back an hour or so, wondering what the hell Patricia had gone and gotten us both into.

*****

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, hurry up, Jack,” my wife shouted. It’s we women who are traditionally supposed to take an age to get ready!”

She wasn’t being very fair, I thought. I’d known nothing about this event, and I was pretty damn miffed, truth to tell. Well, more than miffed, so make that bloody angry with bells and whistles on! I’d returned from the golf course expecting my dinner, only to find Patricia all glammed up to the nines, ready to party and shrieking blue murder at me for being late. Of course, we’d had yet another row there and then. She swore blind that she had told me all about it at breakfast a few days before, but I’d obviously missed it completely. Doubtlessly, being too engrossed in looking at the latest football news on my iPad or whatever, to pay any attention to what my wife was saying about improving our near non-existent social life. 

Bullshit, I told her. Well, actually, what I roared with angry emphasis was ‘bullllllllshhhhhite!’. Anyway, to cut a long story short and stop the shrieking after ten minutes of futile arguing, I’d raised the white flag and stamped upstairs to change, even though I knew I was in the right. Six years we’d been married, and it was beginning to feel like twenty-six! What’s that line in the ceremony, for richer or poorer, better or worse, something like that? I recall that I wasn’t paying much attention at the time. Yes, we were both certainly a good deal richer, but unfortunately, of late, a bit too far along the ‘for worse’ route.

During the ceremony, Patricia looked so drop-dead gorgeous, so sexy in that white wedding dress and all the accompanying get-up. All I could think of was how long would all the usual customary crap, service, reception and the like last until I could get her into bed. Hell, I even had a hard-on throughout most of the service. Probably the one and only time I have been thankful to the big guy upstairs for running short of building material when it came to constructing that one vitally important bit to my male anatomy. No noticeable big bulge in my pants to embarrass both me and the vicar and set the choir to giggling!

Regrettably, my erection didn’t make it to the bridal suite. Patricia was even more gorgeous that night when she swapped the white dress for a translucent black baby doll pyjama set sans panties. Her dad had a significant streak of the Victorian in him, and she’d inherited some of his prudery. Consequently, she was a virgin, and she still was one the following morning. If she were disappointed, she’d hid it pretty well, blaming the champagne at the reception because she knew I hardly ever drank and then only the occasional half pint of beer. Sweet of her, but bloody embarrassing for me and not the best start to a life of marital bliss!

She was still sweet, well, sometimes, although time wasn’t appreciably making the heart grow fonder. An inability to have children was one unspoken, but ongoing sore point that wasn’t helping. My fault; we both suspected, although that was yet to be medically confirmed, that I was firing blanks with not much of a bang at that. My continued inability to raise my somewhat inadequate flagpole regularly didn’t help our relationship much either. The pills I’d got from the doc were a bit hit and miss, and if we did get a hit, you could forget about any form of foreplay. It had to be a quick in and out before the droop set in!

I knew she was extremely frustrated and used a vibrator when I wasn’t around. She kept it hidden and supposedly secret, but I’d found it by accident one afternoon when she was out. I had a headache coming on and couldn’t find anything in the usual place, then I remembered that Patricia kept some Paracetamol in her bedside cabinet. I remember sitting on the edge of our king-sized bed, looking at the bloody thing, feeling so damn inadequate, more so because it wasn’t just the bed that was king-sized! How the hell could she even….yeah, inadequate was the right word as I stared at the monstrous pink thing! She even had a spare set of bloody batteries!

Our rows grew more frequent. We talked less and less. Romantic evenings, dinner out, trips to the theatre together slowly withered. I took up golf after caddying for an old friend a couple of times, primarily to get out for a few hours on the weekend. Patricia spent more and more time at the office, while I spent less time there. That’s where we first met. Her father had been the remaining senior partner in a well-established accounting firm; the other two elderly partners having passed on, and three years after our marriage, so did he.

Patricia was two years older than I and quite shy. We were both accountants; Patricia, through choice or, more likely, due to her dominant father’s considerable influence. Me as an ex or washed-out trainee fighter pilot. Well, that’s what I told people when they asked what I did for a living, just substituting 'ex' for 'failed'! I mean, who admits to being an accountant through choice?

I’d been a keen member of my local air cadet unit, but my Top Gun ambitions had fallen at the first hurdle. When they asked me about sports and hobbies at the initial appraisal interview, I should have mentioned something like rugby, cricket, or rock climbing. On reflection, collecting beer mats and Pokémon cards was probably not a good answer for the trio of beefy-looking officers facing me. Not that it mattered, as I also failed the initial accompanying medical.

Indeed, looking back, I rather got the impression from the military doc that he was surprised I was still breathing! I suppose aviation had never been a serious option, just like all my other more adventurous ambitions. Sadly, I was that kind of guy. Had I taken up acting, I’d have been the uncredited extra who always gets killed off by the monster or the bad guy in the first five minutes of the episode!

I opted for a Uni place instead and somehow drifted into financial management. A year of boredom in a high street bank, then a junior position with Patricia’s dad’s firm. That first Christmas office party, unaccustomed boldness through equally unaccustomed liquor and, well, you can guess the rest. My promotion was meteoric after that. Daddy was desperate for grandchildren, and we’d failed him in that. Patricia felt that much more keenly than I had, and things started going downhill more or less immediately after the old man’s funeral. By that time, Patricia was the senior partner, and I was the junior partner, and not the most popular person in the office either, having jumped ahead of more qualified, talented, and loyal long-term employees by marrying the boss’s only daughter.

“Will you get a move on? We’re going to be late,” she shouted upstairs. I ignored her, sitting morosely on the end of the bed, one shoe on, one off, and wondering if the awful, striped suit I’d chosen to spite her was a good idea. It was subtle in colour, but the stripes were a little broad and a shade too loud. I’d never gone in for ‘made to measure’, so it was like all my suits, ‘off the peg’ as they used to say in the old days. In this case, the peg had belonged to a prestigious chain store I favoured. I’d succumbed to a buy one suit and get another half-price offer, but later regretted my choice as I did now.

I put the second shoe on and decided to swap the suit for something more tasteful. This do, or whatever it was, sounded like it might be a posh event, and did I really want to spend the evening looking like I was wearing something made from a faded old seaside deck chair?

“Get-Your-Fucking-Ass-Down-Here-Now!” Patricia shrieked from the bottom of the stairs. I jumped up, Christ! Jesus, C almighty, never had I heard her talk like that. I couldn’t even recall her even swearing before. Never, not once!

“NOW!” I hurried towards the bedroom door. Shit, no time for the other suit now, bugger! Well, I’d got richer, not poorer, and also better, maybe at least for a time, but although I didn’t know it as I headed downstairs double quick, the worse part was about to get a whole lot worse. My part in that concord was about to drop right off the scale!

****

Like the enormous entry hall, it was equally vast, possibly another surviving part of the original building. Once the more mundane part of a medieval monastery, the only significant remnants that had survived Henry VIII's destructive minions had been incorporated into the present structure in the early eighteenth century. A large log fire blazed in a massive stone fireplace next to a small bar, staffed by a smart, red-jacketed attendant. An arched, doorless opening led into another spacious room where soft music played, and I could see some couples dancing very formally. However, something was wrong, and I didn't notice immediately due to other distractions and that irritating feeling of having my head stuffed with cotton wool while my legs turned to jelly!

“Trisha”, another deep male voice called, and a tall, dark, swarthy, ruggedly handsome man in his late-thirties bounded over. He grabbed my wife and, without so much as a ‘bye your leave,’ kissed her passionately on the lips. No brother and sister stuff either. “You look gorgeous, drop-dead gorgeous, honey”, he exclaimed enthusiastically. He wore an immaculate evening dress and looked as comfortable and sophisticated as James Bond in a swanky casino, making me all the more conscious of my hideous striped convict suit.

An indignant protest at his cavalier attitude was on my lips when I realised I knew him. Dougie, or rather Douglas Armstrong, our former ‘office ladies’ man, the Don Juan of the post room, the one all the secretaries fancied. Mister Masculinity himself, as Edith, our prim, aged wages clerk, had dubiously dubbed him. A shade too dubiously, I’d thought at the time. I remember hearing that Dora, the office comedian, supposedly ran a sweepstake on the size of ‘it'. Rumour had it that she’d had the nerve to ask him! Even worse, rumour had it that he’d given her a very private, in-depth look at ‘it’ in the Chairman's office one evening! 

Fortunately, he hadn’t been with us long; a much better job offer soon tempted him away, much to all the girls’ disappointment. Dora, being married with three children, never elaborated or confirmed the malicious gossip. That must have been a first for her, as she usually was in the forefront when it came to sharing tasty office gossip. I wasn’t sorry to see the back of him; like the other male staff members, I couldn’t stand Mister Bloody Masculinity. Plus, I’d heard one or two unsavoury whispers about him being involved in some dubious financial transactions. The only ‘big’ thing about him, as far as I was concerned, was his damn ego!

“Ah, yes”, said Sir Rodney, sounding like a bad actor unsure of his lines. “You know, er, Trisha, of course, and he gestured toward me and also Jacqui here, who’s accompanying her, I assume”.

'Jack,” I muttered, wondering if I had misheard. I glared at him, but he just gave me a jovial smile. “Doug here works for us now; made him a much better offer, eh? He winked at me. “A very useful chapie indeed for those extra special discrete business deals one has from time to time, eh what?”

Nudge, nudge, say no more, I thought instinctively at that sly wink. There were also city rumours about Sir Rodney, but with a knighthood, friends in very high places, and a few billion dollars to his name, the guy was as fireproof as asbestos!

“Would you like a drink, honey?” My ex-colleague asked, flashing that big, beaming, loathsome, toothy smile of his at Patricia.

“Love one”

I gaped again as Patricia was promptly steered toward that red-coated barman on the other side of the room, and I mean steered. Mister fucking masculinity himself actually had his hand on her bottom as he escorted her, and his fingers were visibly squeezing. Sir Rodney chuckled, winked at me, then strolled away behind them, leaving me still in the iron grip of his beautiful wife.

“So, who’s this newbie you’ve got your claws into, Toni?” A low husky female voice asked in a strong Australian accent.

I turned to see a tall, slender, correction—a skyscraper-sized, beautiful blonde Amazon staring down at me, and she was looking down because I almost had to take a step backwards to look up. She must have been over six feet six inches tall, dressed in a figure-hugging leather catsuit that left little to the imagination. Her endless legs were encased in knee-high boots with spike heels that must have added an extra six inches to her imposing stature. She towered over me, a veritable giantess and would have immediately grabbed my attention on her own, but it was her partner who did that. 

“Jacqui,” Lady Antonia told her, and I realised she still held my arm in that iron grip that was starting to become a little painful, although it wasn’t registering with me. I hardly even heard her referring to me by the name her husband had used, although I was aware I had my mouth open, gawping again.

Perhaps Amazon was a little harsh, for the blonde was tall but neither bulky nor muscle-bound; far more the opposite. One could have seen her taking centre stage wearing a set of Victoria's Secret wings, but somehow I got the impression she was no angel! In one hand, she was negligently holding a long, thin pink leather leash, part folded, the other end stretched to a matching pink leather collar around the neck of a tiny naked woman. I don’t mean a dwarf or some deformed midget. She was a perfectly formed, mature woman, albeit petite, who looked almost like a child in size, but definitely wasn’t.

I doubt if she was much over four feet six in height, if even that, with a worn, tired face. Not that of a child, nor were her heavy breasts, the developed breasts of a mature woman, not those of a young girl, but looking somewhat oversized on her and not wholly natural! Unsupported, yet they bulged out prominently like the rounded business ends of a pair of torpedoes. Somehow, my fuzzy mind still wasn’t processing information correctly as I gazed at those blatantly exposed breasts and gun barrel nipples. I was vaguely aware that in my head, something was knocking loudly on the door, which was marked ‘common sense, ’ but nobody appeared to be home!

For the briefest of moments I’d thought she was just a young teenager with long blonde pigtails, highlighted with scarlet, bright pink lipstick, glossy blue eye shadow, and black eyeliner, plus ultra-long eyelashes that had to be false. Her eyes met mine—sad eyes, older eyes—and, looking closer, I realised she must be about forty or so, not at all the youngster I initially thought her to be. Nor could she be very comfortable with that odd pink leather collar around her neck; it was very high and looked uncomfortable, forcing her chin upwards.

The blonde suddenly yanked sharply on the leash, pulling the girl/woman close to her. The tiny woman yelped but staggered into the blonde, who reached down to possessively put an arm around her and fondled one prominent breast, squeezing hard enough to make the smaller woman wince. A long, slender scarlet-tipped fingernail toyed with a protruding nipple.

“Oh, she is just so adorable,” Lady Antonia exclaimed. “I do wish you would reconsider, darling; it was a very generous offer after all,” she added peevishly.

“Umm...” the blonde Amazon screwed her face up in pretend thought. “Maybe, don’t go getting impatient. Truth to tell, Candyfloss here has always been a mite too long in the tooth for my taste. I prefer them nearer my age or even younger, and I do have my evil eye on a possible replacement.” The blonde smiled and took a sip from the champagne flute in her other hand.

“Really, do tell!” The eager note in my hostess’s voice was obvious even through my brain fog, a fog that seemed to be growing denser rather than lighter. I’d been all right in the car, hadn’t I, apart from that strange, bitter taste in my mouth that appeared to be worsening. I could do with a glass of that bubbly, but it didn’t look as though one was forthcoming. I shook my head again as Lady Antonia added, “I agree she is getting on. So, what about this new one? Do tell. A real prospect or just wishful thinking?”

“Nope, a definite possibility, miles younger and even a bit titchier than this dolly, but nothing like as much out front to get a good hold of. Still, we got your beautiful little puppies plumped almost up to big girl size, didn’t we, Dolly?

The small woman was wincing increasingly, trying to stand still and clearly not wanting to make any noise. The blonde was working a long, thick nipple between her fingers, rolling and squeezing, A tube of purple/pink flesh that was well out of proportion to its parent breast, despite that also being proportionally oversized.

Lady Antonia laughed, “Nothing, a bit of silicone can’t put right with your new project”

“Or even a lot of silicone, why stint?” the tall blonde retorted. “Be kinda cute to have one with tits so big that the whole dolly bitch looked nothing but tit!” She laughed cruelly and squeezed so hard the smaller woman yelped in pain. 

“Delightful”

“Not much use for anything, though, if the little bitch gets so top-heavy she falls on her face at every step!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of making the poor little creature do that," Lady Antonia said thoughtfully. “I envisage a nice cage in my bedroom, not too large though; I wouldn’t want to upset the balance twixt decor and furniture too much. A larger version of the traditional parrot cage, perhaps with a swinging perch for her to sit on. A tasteful gold dome-shaped cage hanging from a hook. Yes, that would make a splendidly erotic spectacle to delight my eye and be so convenient if I wanted to play with her."

She reached her other hand out and squeezed the poor woman’s other nipple. “You’re not too old, are you, pet? And sitting prettily on a perch for ten years or so wouldn’t be very hard, would it? And how lovely you’d look for me; I might even have you tattooed all over, bright colours, just like a parrot, food for thought, eh, pretty?”

The tall Amazon chuckled. “Well, I know she can sing; she’s done that for me many times, but the tune tends to be somewhat shrill and monotonous. Delightful but occasionally a little hard on the ears when she hits the high notes! Petite she may be, but she lacks nothing when it comes to her lungs and vocal cords.”

Lady Antonia probably hadn’t realised she was still gazing at the small woman with that covetous look in her eyes. She snapped out of her daydream. “Well, enjoy the party, dear; we must discuss it again before you leave. I’m quite serious, but” she sighed, “for now, duty calls, and I must circulate. Now come on, you; no need to worry, you’re perfectly safe from Sonia here, but some of the other guests would love to meet you, I’m sure.”

“Not so quick,” the blonde replied, eyeing me up and down like a dog eyeing a meaty bone. She wasn’t exactly drooling, but there was a gleam in her eye that made me shiver. “I spent a divine weekend recently with an old girlfriend, and she’s branched out and added a boy to her not-so-happy little family,” she giggled and ran her tongue over her lips, looking at me. “Maybe you’d like to add my name to that exclusive list for later on? Besides, I heard a whisper about some exotic entertainment, afterwards”

“Really! Tch, people do gossip so!” Lady Antonia sounded surprised, then smiled. “Certainly, I will. I’m expecting a good return, and I’d have invited you had I thought you might be…” She paused and glanced at the smaller woman “Interested!”

Sonia laughed and then swatted her small captive across the breasts with the folded end of the leash, making her yelp again. “Good on you. Lady A. C’mon cunt let’s go get me a fresh drink and mingle some, and don’t let me catch you staring wistfully at any cock, you hear that, dolly!”

By now, I was feeling somewhat numb—probably in a state of complete paralysing shock would be a more accurate way to describe it. Although I had been watching and observing the recent exchange, my eyes had darted around the room and into the next one, taking in more sights than my overloaded, incredulous, foggy brain could handle. Despite my doubts, I obediently followed that iron grip on my arm without any resistance. Strange!

I glanced over at the bar, but I noticed that my wife had vanished, along with Mister Bloody Masculinity himself. A wave of panic hit me. Only Sir Rodney remained there, talking to an elderly, white-haired lady with a large, shaggy dog on a leash... no, no, that wasn’t a dog. It was, fuck, another...

“Say hello to my very dear friend Crystal and her husband, plus the beautiful Maria,” my hostess said. She turned me ninety degrees and suddenly drew my attention to the three people sitting in one of the large bay window alcoves she had led me towards. I obediently turned my gaze back from looking at that… that big dog that wasn’t a dog at all despite its lowly four-legged stance.

So, this is the extra one for later. The late addition you mentioned earlier?

I looked questioningly at the speaker, yet another gorgeous-looking woman drawn from the same mould as Lady Antonia, who was probably around the same age but also looked to be no more than early to mid-forties. A classic beauty who had aged with no need for cosmetic surgical enhancement to maintain her appearance. She was wearing a simple but, I assumed, costly black silk cocktail dress and matching long opera gloves with sparkling diamond bracelets around each wrist.

The girl seated next to her was much younger, extremely pretty, with short, dark, curly hair and a wide, mischievous smile of an impudent teenager. Unlike the older woman, she was not dressed for a high-class party unless it was a fancy dress one. Her dress, no costume, was pure fetish ‘French maid’, flouncy ultra-low cut dress revealing acres of creamy white bosom right down to the tops of her nipples. Black shiny high heels, fishnet seamed stockings held up by numerous black garters crossing the visible gap between stocking tops and the flouncy skirt of her dress. She even had the frilly apron and silly little maid's cap to round it off. All she lacked was a feather duster, but then I noticed the handle of one poking out from the curtains behind her on the window ledge.

Both women were holding champagne glasses and had been chatting to each other. The older woman who’d spoken gave me a cool, disparaging look, whereas the young ‘maid’ seemed to find me highly amusing in a way that made me uncomfortable.

“Yes, the new one for the block”, Lady Antonia replied. “We weren’t sure if we’d get her today, but it seems we have”.

“Interesting specimen; what do you think, Maria?”

The young girl screwed her face up thoughtfully, regarded me carefully for a moment, looking serious, then smiled again. “Oh, oui, Ma’am, I think I could make something out of it in line with our earlier discussions. Is she for keeps or just for borrowing?”

“I don’t think that’s been completely decided yet, dear,” Lady Antonia told her. “However, I feel certain that the answer will be in the affirmative one way or the other, regardless of how things pan out later. Perhaps Maria may get an early chance to show off her skills later?”

“What have I told you about fidgeting and embarrassing us when we have company?” Maria suddenly shouted angrily and, quickly, twisting in her seat, used her free hand to savagely slap the third occupant of the alcove hard across the face. “Sit still, boy”, she added, giving him a second slap that rocked his head back. She surveyed the cringing, whimpering older man coldly for a moment, as if assessing whether to hit him again, but decided against it and turned towards me, her generous mouth creasing once more into that curiously impish youthful smile, as if nothing had happened.

“My husband,” Crystal said, waving a gloved hand lazily in his direction. “I have found it necessary to employ Maria here to keep an eye on him and to ensure he behaves himself correctly at all times. A task she performs most meticulously!”

“Not to say, enthusiastically!” Lady Antonia laughed, and her stranglehold upon my arm increased the pressure.

I winced but said nothing for some reason as I turned to get a good look at the guy I’d nearly ignored, what with having two stunning women to stare at, until Maria suddenly lashed out at him. The man must have been in his sixties, with silver-grey hair, one of those tall, lean men you'd perhaps describe as ‘distinguished looking’ but not in his current state. If I met him elsewhere, I could see him as an elder statesman, a politician, or the headmaster of a prestigious private school. Maybe a senior justice or a retired high-ranking military officer, perhaps? Someone who once held influence and power.

Whatever he had been, he was no longer, for he also wore a fancy dress costume. I’d seen suits like that in magazines, old black-and-white photos, a schoolboy's Eton tail suit with a high, old-fashioned, stiff collar gripping his long, thin, bony neck in a starched stranglehold. It looked extremely uncomfortable, and he was wearing shorts that seemed about a century out of date. Grey flannel schoolboy short trousers, not the famous striped Eton long trousers. They looked ridiculous, especially with his pale, long, thin legs and bony knees. Instead of the traditional grey schoolboy calf socks, he wore short white ankle socks with pink frilled tops, and the girlie theme continued with black patent Mary Jane single-strap shoes.

“Maria thinks that boy’s shoes are so big and clumsy looking," Crystal said, following my gaze. “I agree with her on that point."

“Not just shoes, non,” Maria added. It wasn’t just her uniform; she had a full-on sexy, soft, natural French accent to match. She clicked her fingers. “Stand up, boy, turn around, bend and drop your shorts for us, palms flat on the seat,” she ordered in an imperious tone that demanded instant compliance or else!

The older man hastily obeyed this young girl with an eagerness that belied his years. He was up, round, bent with his shorts nearly down to his ankles before I could blink. I realised what Maria meant; his underpants were semi-translucent pink, long-legged female-style briefs with small blue bows trimming the elastic around his white, scrawny thighs.

“Maria has some excellent ideas," Crystal observed. “This two-timing wretch needs a suitable level of constant humiliation plus a very firm hand to keep him in line, and she provides it most effectively."

Maria rose daintily to her feet in a flash of frilly lace and bouncing bosom. She hooked two fingers in the female pants of her charge and yanked them down to fall on top of his shorts.

Most effectively, his wife repeated with a laugh, seeing my horrified expression.

I was indeed horrified; his bottom and thighs were just a mass of red, black, blue, and purple bruised flesh. God, no wonder he fidgeted in his seat, and I noticed that, unlike the women, the cushion he should have sat on had been removed and placed on the floor by the window seat, leaving him to perch on the hard, polished wooden surface.

“Stand still, boy”, Maria snapped at a man more than three times her age. She was running a hand over his tortured buttocks, and she wasn’t being gentle either. How the hell he could stand still with her doing that was beyond me.

“My husband made the mistake of deciding I was no longer worthy of his sole sexual attention and sought diversion elsewhere one time too many”, his wife said coldly “I’m a tolerant woman, but there are limits. I decided if he wanted to behave like an adolescent, then I’d oblige him, but he wouldn’t be poking his skinny dick into any more cheap little sluts!”

“Stand up, boy, turn around, hands on head,” Maria barked in a tone that rivalled a drill sergeant major. I saw heads turn in our direction, followed immediately by a ripple of laughter. Once again, her quick commands were obeyed instantly, and I could see what his wife meant. His small penis was nearly bent double inside some sort of stainless-steel chastity device.

There are spikes in there as well; very painful every time the randy fool gets even just the slightest manly urge,” Crystal sniggered, reading my mind. “Initially, sexy young Maria’s appearance caused him some considerable discomfort, but the girl soon discouraged those foolish urges, didn’t you, my dear?”

“Oui, Madam,” the girl smiled demurely as she turned slightly, reaching for the window ledge behind her and picking something up. My assumption had been wrong. It was not the wooden handle of a feather duster but the business end of a long, thin bamboo cane. Maria held it in both hands, flexing it ominously and looking at me with an amused, predatory expression that I found disturbing. There was a challenge there that I wasn’t prepared to meet!

Crystal examined me closely, just as Maria had done, then flashed a smile that was entirely devoid of warmth. “Being a very demure young lady, Maria naturally took exception to such foolish twitches from his captive manhood and has very efficiently beaten that lecherous desire out of him. Now the only twitch he gets when she’s around is one of absolute fear.”

“Do you still have that strumpet he ran off with under lock and key?” Lady Antonia asked curiously.

Crystal shrugged indifferently. “Somewhere down in the cellars, Maria has carte-blanche to amuse herself with the whore; I’ve no interest and don’t pry. As long as the bitch suffers and continues to suffer for a long time, I don’t give a damn. My latest toy boy gives me what this creep never could, other than his money, of course. I found Maria to be most persuasive when encouraging this foolish rake to sign certain financial documents. ”

“Dress, sit”, Maria ordered, turning her attention back to her charge. She reached out and gently fondled the man’s cheek. “I think perhaps, boy, your bottom is ready for a leettle bit more cooking tonight, oui? Perhaps medium heat? Who knows, you might even have company,” She laughed at his terrified expression and sat down, retrieved her champagne glass, raised it to me and winked that mischievous smile, appearing once more, as well as a tongue that flickered over pink, glossy lips as though in anticipation of a tasty treat!

My brain and legs seemed to have stopped working. It was as though I had been drugged, but I knew it wasn’t that. How could I have been? I seemed to be the only person present without a glass in their hand. No, no, forget that. No, as my eyes quickly ranged around, taking in the various groups, I wasn’t the only one, there were others….others….who…..

That iron grip on my arm was guiding me again, and I decided it was high time I took control and asserted myself. I needed to break free from this brain-numbing fog that was paralysing my thoughts. I wanted out, out of this perverted madhouse and out now. I had no idea what this was all about, nor did I want to know. How the hell my wife had been foolish enough to get involved with these damn... damn fetishists and freaks, I couldn’t imagine.

Sheesh, it almost seemed like they genuinely took this weird stuff seriously. Damn, they obviously played way too hard and, in my view, dangerously, looking at that poor guy's backside. Crazy! Wasn’t there supposed to be only a fine line between madness and sanity? Time to find Patricia and head for the exit—no customer account, no matter how big, was worth getting involved in this kind of rubbish. What was she thinking? This crap was headline tabloid material when it got out, and I wasn’t about to let either of us become a sensational news story for the readers of such rags to see with their Sunday breakfast! The fog upstairs was still there, but thankfully, it was starting to clear.

My eyes had by now taken in most of the guests, and I didn't like the look of anything or anyone within sight. Yes, there were some smart dinner jackets and elegant dresses, more than a few. But also other clothing—leather, rubber, chains, dog leads, and whips. Everything an ardent fetishist could imagine, and none of those, male or female, at the end of the various tethers, looked happy about it. Granted, there were more drop-dead gorgeous women present than I had ever seen all at once anywhere, but somehow these women terrified me. The way that Crystal woman looked at me, like I was something nasty she’d trodden in on the street, sheesh, not to mention the predatory looks her psycho pseudo maid was giving! Where the hell was Patricia in all this craziness?

“Sorry,” I said firmly, grabbing the hand that clenched my arm. I had to pry the fingers open,  “I think it’s time to collect my wife and go home. It was kind of you and your husband to invite us, but this... this sort of thing isn’t really our scene, I’m afraid. You know, normal as opposed to abnormal!” I gave her my best smile as I finally freed my arm. I stalked angrily back to the now-empty vaulted entrance, accompanied by my hostess, who seemed completely unconcerned.

“Problem?” It was Sir Rodney who had reappeared, complete with jovial smile, Churchillian-sized cigar, and a generously filled brandy glass. Clearly, a man very much at ease and enjoying himself.

“Poor Jacqui here seems a little bored with our company and wants to go home early, dear," his wife answered.

“Look,” I stated, “I hate being called Jacky, right? Please don’t do that. My name is Jack. J.A.C.K., Jack, okay?” I was being a bit terse, but I was starting to get angry and just a little bit frightened. These were, after all, wealthy, influential people, but I sensed there was something more. Things in this place were just — well, not exactly surreal, but way too real. The sobbing whip-marked guy in the cage, the tiny woman with that hopeless, sad look in her eyes, the guy in the silly schoolboy outfit with that blistered backside. I glanced towards the door, but the cage, the girls, and the man had vanished, replaced by an innocent-looking antique umbrella and walking stick stand and, somewhat incongruously, what looked like a couple of croquet mallets or similar.

I decided I disliked the amused way my hosts were both looking at me. “Would you kindly tell me where I can find my wife, please?” I insisted, forcing myself to be ultra-polite. “If you know where she’s got to, I seem to have misplaced her for the moment,” I quipped, trying to lighten the mood a little and giving them a tight little smile.

Sir Rodney regarded me thoughtfully for a few seconds. “Oh, I think you’ve lost Trisha for more than a moment, girl.” He paused to give his brandy glass a quick swirl, then took a sip. “Excellent drop of stuff this, not that I am much of a connoisseur. Say what you like about 'em, but the damn Froggies don’t waste their grapes on hospital visits.” He held his glass up to the light, admiring the colour, then turned to me again. “No, I don’t think she will want to be disturbed just now,” he looked at me, returning to the subject in hand.

I ground my teeth. “Where”, I spoke slowly, trying to keep my rising temper in check. “Where is my wife?”

“Upstairs, I expect, probably in the blue room. She usually uses that one if it’s free,” Lady Antonia told me. “Rodney dear, please go carefully. How many of those large brandies have you had tonight?”

"What... what is my wife doing upstairs in this... this blue room?”

“Only two, including this one, darling”, Sir Rodney told her, then chuckled as he turned to answer my question. ”Doing? Doing? Not much I expect other than lying on her back staring at the ceiling with her legs open wide while young Dougie gives her the sort of multi orgasmic humping you apparently never could even in single doses! Won’t be long before he’s given her that fat belly she’s been yearning for, either, I expect.” He turned back to his wife. “No dear, I cannot tell a lie, three glasses, I suppose, if you don’t count that one I had earlier”.

“Two earlier!”

“One”, Sir Rodney countered firmly. “The first was the merest sip, a taster for…for what do they call it….quality control, that’s the feller and so it doesn’t count. Now, where was I? Yes. Telling Jaqui here about his wife being soundly fucked by Dougie!”

“I am counting, and please don’t be vulgar, dear. Remember your liver and what Doctor Wilkinson told you just last month—try to make that last,” Lady Antonia scolded him before turning to me. “I expect Rodney is quite wrong—no imagination, never had any. Trisha told me you were the same - no imagination, doing the missionary position every time, assuming you could get that tiny little private to stand at attention for long enough! I expect Douglas to be a lot more imaginative. Mind you, he can be lazy; I usually get on top of him to ride Sergeant Major Ramrod,” she laughed and added with a wink at her husband. “Major being the keyword!”

“Now now," Sir Rodney chided as he took a deep puff from his cigar. “Don’t get coarse yourself, old girl." He suddenly grinned at me and beckoned me closer with his cigar. “We’ve always had a... had a very flexible marriage in the rumpy-pumpy department," he whispered conspiratorially, then chuckled before pursing his lips and looking thoughtful as I coughed, having been the recipient of a lungful of exhaled, reeking cigar smoke.

I took half a pace backwards, blinking rapidly to clear my eyes as Sir Rodney continued, seemingly oblivious to my discomfort. “I wonder if young Tiffany will feel like another frolic later with an old warhorse when she’s done with her stable chores? Delightful girl and so damn experienced for her age,” he winked at me in a decidedly lewd way, then frowned. “I suppose that means our little Hannah is also...,” he paused and chuckled. “They do grow up fast these days, don’t they? But then again, who am I to talk? I recall a young man who was nearly expelled from boarding school at the age of sixteen. Old Plato, the Latin master, caught me with my pants down, vigorously riding one of the housemaids in the shrubbery behind the headmaster's private garden. Hell, back then, being caught with a packet of cigarettes was almost a hanging offence, so you can imagine the size of the punishment they dealt me, eh! Cost my old man a few bob to persuade em to keep me on, no doubt! Taught me a useful lesson, though, for my business career. Never put yourself in a position where they can catch you with your pants down and make sure any incriminating evidence that could be used against you is well hidden, eh, what!” he chuckled and winked meaningfully at me.

I gaped at them both through the blue tobacco cloud Sir Rodney shot in my face again as he finished reminiscing. “What do you mean? What about Patrica?” Then something else she’d said hit me. What do you mean by "usually uses?" I demanded, growing angrier and more bewildered by the minute. “Has she been here before?” That fog in my brain was wavering and thinning, beginning to melt, blown away as I grew more exasperated.

Sir Rodney winked at me and then walked away, chuckling to himself while Lady Antonia turned those ice-cold blue eyes on me. “Your wife once told me you were brighter than you looked. I wonder? Of course, she has been here before, idiot, many times. Sometimes on business, sometimes just for pleasure, often both lately. She has a very sensual nature and quite a ravenous appetite once she belatedly discovered the sort of erotic pleasures available. Naturally, she was initially a little shocked at first by some of our more extreme and exotic pastimes and those of our friends. Still, curiosity and a natural hedonism, combined with years of frustration, soon cured her of that minor hang-up. Nothing like a few dozen mega orgasms for the first time to liberate the libido!

I gaped at her. It occurred to me that I seemed to be spending most of the evening doing that. It was a wonder my jaw didn’t ache; it had dropped low enough so many times. I was about to explode with overdue indignation at this, this casual verbal destruction of my marriage, when my eruption was interrupted by the arrival of two women.

“Toni darling, I can see you are busy, but could you spare us just a teensy moment of your precious time?” one of them gushed.

“Indeed, I can, Chelsea. I am not at all busy, not with anything important. What can I do for you? Is it about tonight’s auctions?”

Chelsea was a large and formidable woman of late middle age, with fierce, tanned facial features dominated by a curved beak of a nose, and dressed as if she had just stepped down from a tractor. A stark contrast to the glamorous evening or fetish attire of the other guests I had seen, she wore practical country tweeds and green rubber boots. Her blonde companion, by contrast, was younger, slimmer, prettier, and much more lightly built. She was also far more stylish, wearing a half-buttoned white blouse, scarlet waist sash, tight fawn leggings, and black riding-style heeled boots.

Chelsea displayed good manners by pausing briefly, waiting for Lady Antonia to finish with me or perhaps to introduce me. She did neither; instead, she completely ignored me, leaving me in limbo, turning her back as she politely signalled for the woman to carry on.

“You may have heard on the grapevine that Babs and I are a bit short on working stock at the moment. I've put a few feelers out, but no solid nibbles have come in yet on the hook”.

“I believe I did hear something to that effect, why? Oh, I see, Hannah’s old mare, I presume”.

“That’s right, heard the animal was being added to tonight’s auction along with the other two you’re selling.”

Lady Antonia nodded. “My apologies, darling, I hadn’t given you a thought. Three actually now, but I’m not sure any of them would be very suitable, two of them anyway, and you don’t go in for dressage or anything showy or lightweight, do you?”

“Hardy! Ours is a working farm,” Babs interjected as Chelsea snorted derisively. “Our draft animals have to earn their keep. We don’t keep performing pets,” she said, the last word rather contemptuously.

“Look here”, I interjected with mock politeness. “If I might have a word”, I was growing impatient and getting angrier by the minute.

Lady Antonia turned briefly to look at me. “No, you might not! You can wait till I have finished with my friends, then I will deal with you. Don’t be impertinent!”.

I was about to deliver a suitable angry retort, but I shrank back from the nasty, imperious look she spared me. A look reinforced by those of the other two women, and I chickened out, standing somewhat meekly and hesitantly, awaiting my turn. God, what was the name of that creature in Greek mythology, the one that could turn men to stone just by looking at them? Wasn’t that some kind of female supernatural being?

“We lost three recently, two geldings and a mare. We only have ourselves to blame, but still! No plan B in place, of course," Chelsea elaborated. "Suddenly, out of the blue, we got a terrific offer on one gelding and the mare— they’d been a pair when we first got them. A married couple always worked em together as a team, but the money being offered was just crazy, way too tempting for a couple of poor farm girls. We aren’t all multi-billionaires or whatever, you know,” she laughed, waving a pudgy hand in a circle to indicate the large hallway. "Plus, they never really hauled the plough worth a damn anyway, not without being whipped to hell and back. The other gelding was getting past it as well, too darn old, good for nothing almost, and then the stupid critter injured one of his legs badly last week—and we don’t keep pets like Babs just said—so he got himself put down."

“Humanely, I trust”

“Oh yeah, sure,” Chelsea gave a cruel, sarcastic laugh. “Real nice and kind, like I don’t think. Babs always does it; she enjoys it when the chance comes along, don’t ya, babe?”

“I’d be very interested to know how; do you inject or something. I’ve never kept one long enough to get to that stage?”

“Hardly”, Chelsea repeated that horrible laugh. “She takes the useless, worn-out critter over to the big barn along with a steel core bull whip she favours, but I won’t let her use it on them for ordinary work. At least only occasionally, and with good reason, to teach em a lesson they’ll never forget! In this case, only Babs and that god awful whip ever come back out. This nasty bitch of mine is very good, you know. She can really stretch it out. Costs me a damn fortune almost every birthday finding her a new present, least it would if I didn’t have contacts wanting something disposed of from time to time!”

“Indeed!” Lady Antonia sounded interested. “That sounds fascinating; you must invite me along next time."

Chelsea chuckled, “Yup, you're very welcome, especially if we get a good discount tonight. What’s going on with the girl’s mare, then?”

Hannah, the wretched girl, has only gone and smashed her Porsche again. Six and a half thousand pounds’ worth of damage, would you believe, just from a tiny bump! I thought the Germans were supposed to be good engineers. Do they make them out of glass? Anyway, Rodney put his foot down and said, Not this time. The bank of mummy and daddy is closed. If she wants to get it back on the road, she has to pay for it herself. He’s getting sick, not to say worried, we both are, about her careless attitude. Maybe imposing a financial barrier will make her think twice before driving full on into a real one!”

“So, what’s the deal then with the auction then?”

“She has no money of her own, no substantial funds yet. She was planning to use the generous university allowance we give her, but decided against it. That might make the next term too tight, and she’s a girl who loves to party. For once, Daddy is standing firm, and it's about time! I don’t see him going behind my back this time, and Hannah knows it. So, she’s decided to sell Bluebell, her mare. We bought the animal years ago as a birthday present, and she hasn’t aged too badly. Somewhat heavy set and not particularly attractive to the eye, but strong enough to pull a young girl around the estate at a good trot. Hannah hardly ever bothers with the mare these days; she prefers my younger dressage and carriage fillies. I suspect it’s a psychological age thing. We seem to share the same taste in young, pretty ponies. I don’t personally approve of the sale, but the animal is hers to do with as she wishes.

“Fuck being easy on the eye”, Chelsea snorted. “It’s raw muscle-pulling power we need, if she can break sod pulling a plough, put a shift in at the generator treadmill or haul heavy loads, then we’ll bid on her, how much?”

“Oh, I think Hannah will be very reasonable; you could make an offer. However, I suspect she may want the excitement of the auction, as it will be her first sale as a seller. Go look at the beast; you know where the stables are. Hannah and her friend Tiffany are over there now, tacking up a brand-new filly for me and giving her a little taste of what life in my stable is all about, I expect!”

“Sounds fun, let’s go take a looksee,” Babs said.

“Yeah, but I’m not too keen on the auction idea,” her partner grumbled. “Like I said, we’re a couple of hardworking, hard-up farm girls, you know?”

“Don’t worry, dear,” Lady Antonia told her conspiratorially. “I’m sure a suitable compromise can be arranged. Bid to your limit and then give me a nod. I’ll make up the difference if it sells for a higher price; that way, I can help both Hannah and my old friends be happy. Just don’t tell Rodney, though,” she finished with a laugh. “He likes to think he’s the boss, silly man!”

The two women also laughed. The younger one impulsively leaned forward to kiss her hostess full on the lips before grasping her partner's hand, and the pair headed for a door at the back of the hallway, their heads together and giggling like a couple of silly schoolgirls.

Lady Antonia turned back to me. “Now then, you, what were we discussing? Oh yes, your lovely ex-wife?”

“Ex-wife, what, what do you mean ex-wife?” I stammered. I could almost see the last wisps of that bran fog dissipating into empty air as I spoke.

Lady Antonia regarded me in silence for what felt like an eternity, while I squirmed beneath that imperious gaze. The fog had finally lifted completely, yet under that contemptuous look, I seemed to feel my courage wane as well. Then she spoke quietly.

“Do you think a healthy, vibrant, sensual woman like Trisha would allow herself to stay chained to a boring, impotent, undersized weed like you, especially now that frequent contact with us has revealed to her an entirely new world of erotic pleasure? I bet you didn’t even know she was pregnant, did you? About as outdated as my Rodney is on that subject, I expect!”

“Pregnant!”

“I believe that is what I said. Not yours, of course! Rodny was a tad off the pace earlier. However, I am sure Douglas will make an excellent and infinitely more accomplished father”.

I was back to gaping. “Douglas, Douglas Armstrong? That, that....” I was lost for words. They hadn’t been pulling some mad practical joke on me. Douglas bloody Armstrong, Mister fucking masculinity, had an affair with my wife, no, he still was having one, and was probably doing so upstairs at this very moment!

“You really should close your mouth; you look such a pathetic wimp with it hanging open all the time. I can’t for the life of me see what Trisha even saw in you in the first place, even dominated by her horrible father as she was”?

“Pregnant,” I repeated, still in shock.

“The procedure is not overtly complicated, provided you have the right equipment”, she said acidly. “Out there in my stable, I have a two-legged stallion that can virtually fill a bucket; well, no, perhaps that is a bit too much of an exaggeration. Not a bucket, say a small cup brim full of his sperm in a couple of shots—banged up every filly I ever let him loose on at the first attempt. He’s made me very popular on the circuit as a prize stud owner. Anyway, I can vouch from personal experience that young Douglas can certainly produce the required goods in quantity, and his pump’s damn impressive, likewise the excellent degree of self-control he’s capable of managing. Always so obliging, never spurts until his partner has orgasmed, unlike you! I gather that even when you do get it up, half the time you end up blowing off steam before you can penetrate the poor girl! ”

“Well, I don’t believe it”, I snapped, both angry and alarmed, not to say embarrassed that Patrica had been discussing our…our intimate problems with this horrible woman.

She laughed. “Which, your wife’s fat belly to be, as my vulgar husband put it or that real men can produce a hundred times the dribble your pathetic winkle could ever achieve. I can’t produce the baby, but by tomorrow morning, I think you might well believe the other,” she sniggered. “In fact, I am sure of it. Trisha told me you’re a fan of those awful ‘reality’ TV programmes, aren't you? Very popular with the unwashed masses, I understand, but voyeurism can be amusing in the right context”

I blinked at her. “Reality TV, what the hell was she on about?”

Lady Antonia smiled at my bewildered expression. “I believe that the technical term in the business is Scripted Reality TV with the emphasis on the scripted part. It’s all cleverly planned and arranged to keep the audience interested, and thus the advertisers on board, although most viewers are not aware of this. Moron TV, Rodney calls it, but then he’s like you and sits there glued to the set, silly man! Anyway, my point was…what was it…ah, yes. I believe that before the nights out, you might believe a little more in Douglas’s divine masculinity,” she smiled coldly, and my brain finally reengaged.

“Look, lady, I’m outta here, out of here right now; I’ve just about had enough of all this crazy fetish nonsense, this stupid shit talk! I’m leaving this bloody mad house right now, and what’s more, my wife will be going with me!”

“No, no, I don’t think so. Anyway, where do you propose to go?” She asked with a cold smile.

This mad conversation was getting worse, I thought. What the hell did she mean by ‘propose to go?’ “Home, of course,” I snapped “, where the fuck else?” I spun on my heel, turning my back on her, heading for the door. Bloody hell, my wife could find her own way home. Elvis had left the building or was bloody well about to. Screw the lot of them and….and maybe I should stop off at the local cop shop en route. Something was decidedly queer about the whole fucking set-up here!

“Ah, that might be difficult, Jacqui, considering you don’t have a home to go to, nor a job or anything else for that matter,” she called after me with a nasty chuckle. Nothing at all, although I suppose we could find you a nice big cardboard box, and you could look for a nice shop doorway to sleep in, but do think about how wet and cold it is out there at the moment!” She smiled, giving a theatrical little shiver as I turned to face her again.

Now I was furious, very furious, and I hadn’t managed more than a couple of places anyway. “What the fuck are you talking about, woman?” I was beyond being polite and far too bewildered as well. That brain fog might have lifted, but I was quickly developing a headache in its place.

She gave me another one of those unpleasant smiles. “Trisha is moving in with Douglas from tomorrow; he’s also rejoining her firm, but this time as the other senior partner to keep a close eye on our interests, primarily—an equal partner, of course. Rodney thinks the company could be beneficial in some of his upcoming transactions, and freed from our account, Trisha will be free to use her considerable talents to grow the business elsewhere. Oh, please close your mouth, Jacqui, and try to stop looking like a dead codfish every few minutes; it's not very becoming!”

“Joining the... over my dead body, and my name is Jack. J.A.C. and K! Jack, got it, you stupid, woman!”

Lady Antonia offered me a slight smile. “Dead body? An interesting idea, but I don’t believe we need to go that far. It would be such a waste anyway. No, we have other plans for you, Jacqui. That’s with a J, A, C, Q, U, and I, by the way. Your letter of resignation, driven by a guilty conscience and suspicious motives, will be on Sarah’s desk first thing tomorrow morning. She is the office staff and admin manager, isn’t she? Patricia says she’s very competent and conscientious, not to mention long-serving and entirely loyal to the firm. Your desk should be partially cleared by now, apart from one or two…interesting papers you really ought not to have left behind—a suitcase missing from home, along with the contents of your wardrobe suitable for warmer climates, as Patrica will point out to them. In a day or so, the police will certainly be looking for you, but not as a missing person. Embezzlement is a serious crime, but of course, they won’t find you, will they? Douglas has been so efficient in arranging the practical and financial aspects of the situation,” she paused and smiled coldly, “and rest assured, I am just as skilled in carrying out the other arrangements.

“Other arrangements?”

You are now completely unnecessary as far as dear Trisha is concerned, both in her business and bed. I gather that you weren’t pulling your weight in the office either, failing in all aspects of your useless life, eh? Of course, a simple fatal road accident would have sufficed, but as I said, it was a waste of time. Besides, Trisha, bless her, wasn’t willing to go that far, but I suspect that you might wish she had in the months and years to come. Of course, by then you’ll be nothing but a distant memory, an occasional bad dream to her. Husband-wise, that is," she broke off to laugh, then glanced at an ornate marble clock on the wall. “Anyway, to cut a long story short, because I am a busy woman and have neglected my friends and important guests for too long already, Trisha decided the simple solution was to let me sell you!”

I blinked incredulously at her. “Sell me!”

“To the highest bidder later tonight at my little auction. You are last to go, the late addition, the surprise star attraction, one might say. Oh, and Trisha insisted that whatever I receive for you should be donated to charity; she’s even chosen three worthy causes. I think that’s very kind of her. Rodney thought so too and will add a generous additional bonus to the final total. He’s very fond of her, you know, and is very much looking forward to being a surrogate grandfather! He’ll be delighted when he finds out that he won’t have to wait long now.”

Now I knew she was crazy. Not just mad but dangerously insane as well; they all were. I shook my head, backed away, and then turned, heading for the exit without stopping. I didn’t make it; I ran into a wall, a massive black wall. Black shoes, black suit, black shirt, black tie, black face, plus enormous black hands that spun me around before closing on my biceps like two crushing vices. I yelped at the pain in my arms and kicked out madly, but the black wall paid no attention as it lifted me off my feet.

“Ah, Orlando, thank you. Could you kindly take a brief break from your butler duties and escort little Jacqui here to the stable so she can be prepared? Miss Hannah and her friend are expecting her. The sooner we remove that dreadful striped suit from her, the better for my poor eyes. Talk about a lack of dress sense and good taste!”

“Sure, thing ma’am, I’m on it right away the huge black guy replied respectfully in a strong but cultured deep North American accent.

“Oh, and one final thing, Jacqui," Lady Antonia said, taking a few steps closer with a mischievous smile. She glanced around theatrically before whispering, “I wouldn’t admit this to anyone else, but your destiny has already been settled, bar perhaps the odd surprise. You never know how things will pan out, do you?” She grinned and shrugged, adding, “Not that any such change would make much difference to you, more the opposite, I’d imagine!”

“Destiny settled….. what the hell?”  I struggled against the iron-hard, unyielding grip of the enormous black man and opened my mouth to give this fucking maniac woman a right mouthful, then yelped in pain. My tormentor had anticipated my action, promptly backhanding me hard across the face, then again with the palm of her hand.

“Oh, do keep quiet,” she ordered. “You’ll get an opportunity later to show us all how much noise you can make. Orlando, if you would be so kind, this tedious interview is over.” The request was emphasised with a snap of her fingers, and then she pointed to a normal-sized internal door, half-hidden by a curtain at the opposite end of the hall from the massive old one at the entrance.

The giant gave an affirmative grunt, and I was immediately lifted off the ground and dragged towards that door despite my frantic, outraged struggles. I was kicking and shouting, but those damn arms didn’t loosen in the slightest; if anything, the grip tightened. There was one fleeting moment when one hand briefly released its hold to open the door, but then we were through before I even had a chance to react. I heard Lady Antonia’s voice follow us just before the door snicked closed.

“Oh, and please tell Hannah and Tiffany that I want the stupid bitch silenced, not a peep, not a word out of her, nothing till she sings to a different tune for us later!

 .......perhaps to have a conclusion ?