The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels

ONE

“Good-looking wealthy couple, both bi, seek female slave to join happy open marriage on a trial basis. London House with dungeon, country cottage and regular first-class travel for successful applicant. Interests include all known forms of S &M, water sports, anal worship. Both partners switch and are willing to experiment. Limits always respected but candidates willing to push through pain barriers will be rewarded beyond their wildest dreams.”

“Did we miss anything out?” said Amanda Wood, a Junoesque brunette whose close-cropped hairstyle highlighted her beguiling green eyes and full lips.

“Not much,” said John, who was anything but beautiful, with his craggy face and hair shaved almost to the bone. There were some intriguing scars marking his bullet-shaped head but it was his cold blue eyes which most people remembered, sometimes before shaking their heads to banish the memory. He seemed to have seen too much for his own peace of mind and that was often as much as people needed to know.

“You make us sound like a couple of perverts, if you ask me,” he said, almost smiling for once. “And it doesn’t really say what we look like.”

“Don’t want to frighten anyone off,” said Amanda. “Do we?”

John looked at his long-standing partner, the person he sometimes called the love of his life and sometimes called all the names under the sun. He scowled and narrowed his eyes but she had known him too long to be troubled by his fierce expression. She poked the tip of her tongue out of her mouth and smiled. His face didn’t soften but he was nonetheless thankful that he could still feel his cold heart melt.

From the erotic journal of John and Amanda:

What Amanda Wood thinks John Palmer looks like

It doesn’t matter. Standard bloke, I suppose, but taller than most. He has all his hair but shaves it brutally anyway. His face is full of character – piercing eyes and full lips that always seem ready to twitch into a sardonic smile. The point of him is power. Life force. Zest. Vigour. A certain devil-may-care insouciance. And humour, although he is so deadpan you can hardly tell when he’s joking. Always that steely glint in his eye. Who cares if he’s no pin-up? Attraction is all about chemicals and the way you think their personality might complement yours. And knowing that he looks after himself and that he could look after me, if necessary. I don’t want a hurt little boy looking for reassurance, I want a man. And I’ve got one.

I wanted him to fuck me, the first time I saw him in action in the gym. He was obviously more interested in getting fit than preening himself in front of the mirror. He had solid muscle but he wasn’t ripped or cut like the bum-boys who usually feature in any magazine article about fitness centres.

It doesn’t take very long for any S &M enthusiast to talk about bums and we might as well discuss John’s as it’s just about perfect. It’s tight and taut, no hair. His face is rugged, to put it mildly, but I prefer that to your average olive-skinned Adonis.

He trains to win, whether it’s running, chess or tiddlywinks. There’s a cruel streak in there, too, but that’s fine by me. I don’t want a house-trained moggy with fleas and no claws. I want a lion. Someone who is going to scratch. And yet someone secure enough to submit to me without turning into one of the dickless wonders who crawl round the floor at fetish clubs. There are times I want to push him past his limits and for that I want a strong man. A real man. Which is what I’ve got.

What John Palmer thinks Amanda Wood looks like

Gorgeous. But wounded, too. Haunted eyes that betray the same nervy intelligence that Gillian Anderson has used to captivate most of the planet’s male occupants. (Although I can never sit through the increasingly inane and implausible X-Files.) Now Amanda is going to rip my heart out and eat it in front of me because I have transgressed the first commandment. Thou shalt not mention any women other than me. Thou shalt also not even acknowledge or be aware of their existence. And if thou dost, there shall not be enough flowers and triple-goo ice cream in the whole world to make up for it. But she need have no fear of any mortal woman. To look at Amanda is to be captivated by her green eyes, which seem to hint at some Asiatic ancestors – pulp novelists usually refer to “almond-shaped eyes” at this point, and I don’t seem to come up with anything better, so it will have to stand.

It is one of life’s little ironies that she has breasts large enough to make the average doltish male deliriously happy but my own obsession is with bottoms. While I never tire of rubbing my face into her soft, bouncing breasts and teasing her nipples with my tongue, my attention will probably be more fixed on her bottom and its globes of endlessly squeezable and kiss able flesh. Our lovemaking often starts with one of my hands stroking her moist vulva while I gratefully kiss and nibble at the deep, majestic divide of her bottom. Perhaps I haven’t said much about what Amanda looks like but the only thing that needs to be known is that her eyes seem endlessly deep, endlessly understanding. She doesn’t like her snub nose or the cute gap in her front teeth but it’s hard to find anyone who actually likes what they look like these days. I was certainly never interested in the brain-dead model types that are on the cover of every men’s magazine. I don’t like football, expensive cars or fighting either; I sometimes wonder if I am really a man at all, by the current media definition. Anyway, Amanda certainly needs to have no fear from any of the women we occasionally invite to join us, but open marriages are hard work – perhaps even harder to sustain than the conventional model.

And here Amanda has scrawled, “Tell me about it.”

By the time their advert was published they had just returned from a late summer holiday in Syracuse, Sicily, where they had taken a house near the sea. They had planned to spend the sparkling, starry nights invoking Pan, the god of sex and wine. They could recover on the beach the next day; watching the fishing boats bobbing up and down on the warm Mediterranean. But it had been anything but idyllic. They had spent most of their time arguing, while teenage psychopaths screeched around the tiny streets on their mopeds. It was even a relief to return to the grey skies of London and their house in Hampstead. From here they could at least look down on the people trapped in the centre of the city while they poured themselves another glass of something expensive and planned their next elegant debauch.

It was that hour of the day where they really had to decide to do something or they were lost, but they were still idling over a late breakfast on the terrace. There had been more tension between them ever since they had arranged to meet one of the women who had replied to their advert.

“Have you noticed that couples in pornography never argue?” said Amanda, leafing through the contact mag where they had placed their ad.

John almost smiled. He was still angry, for reasons that are rarely mentioned in fantasy fiction of any kind; close proximity to a long-standing partner, the personal habits and little behavioural tics that tend to grate as you enter your second decade of cohabitation.

“That’s because erotic fiction describes an ideal world that doesn’t exist,” said John, trying not to sound too wistful. After all, he had been lucky to find a woman like Amanda. She was beautiful, infinitely wise, even capable of sustaining an open marriage with a minimum of plate-throwing and screaming. Although their relationship was presently mired in something best not analysed too closely, at least they both still thought they were better off together than apart.

“Never mind,” said Amanda. “I’m sure this new plaything of yours will be the answer to our problems. And you won’t go falling in love with her. Will you?”

These comments were dripping with so much irony that John judged it safer to stay silent for the moment. Adding new partners to an established relationship was indeed a dangerous remedy; sometimes the patient didn’t survive. And it was always hard to judge when infatuation with the new-found object of desire became love. Even when it did, how could this be allowed to flourish? For there was too much invested in their own partnership to risk getting in too deep with anyone new.

Amanda obviously thought that John had spent too much time contemplating Victoria Lambert’s letter and photograph. She did indeed have a flawless body, a beautiful face and, according to her, an undying thirst for sensual exploration. It seemed too good to be true. Particularly as she reminded John of a lost love he had never told Amanda about.

He couldn’t quite make up his mind whether to ring her or not, not because she was unattractive – far from it – but he was worried about upsetting the delicate balance of their relationship, which had to continue long after whatever happened with Victoria. Like an alcoholic seated before a foaming beer that remained undrunk, trembling on the brink, John spent many furtive moments staring at the photo of a shyly smiling young blonde woman. She seemed eager to embody a type of unquestioning acquiescence that exists more often in the minds of men than in reality. Amanda was unimpressed, as well she might be.

“She’s just what you need,” she said scornfully. “A younger, dumber blonde version of me. A docile little blonde slave you can tutor in the ways of righteousness.”

John kept his face absolutely rigid but there may have been a flicker of something in his eyes, for she smiled knowingly. “I knew you would fancy that,” she said. She liked showing just how well she knew him. Precisely because it rubbed him up the wrong way.

“I like the Withnail and I quote,” he said.

“Hmm,” she murmured, not at all convinced and not shy about letting him know it. “Anyway. Are you sure she’s right for us? She might be a bit too dumb.”

John raised an eyebrow as he awaited an expert demolition of Victoria’s tastes, dreams and aspirations. “She’s a dancer, apparently,” said Amanda, her tone lightly ironic. “She was in West End Musicals.”

She looked at him as if she had just furnished proof that Victoria had just served ten years for the especially brutal murder of a bald man called John, the first in a series of ingeniously cruel slayings of blokes called John, particularly those who placed contact ads in sex magazines.

When he didn’t rise to the bait, Amanda waved the letter in the air and started again, her eyes just that little bit wider and her voice just that little bit louder. “She can’t resist telling us she was in Cats. Or was, until she injured herself.”

John nodded, ignoring her corrosive tone, thinking back to when he had been foolish enough to invest in the theatre. Dancing was a hell of a life and yet young girls still flocked to prove themselves in this most exacting and cruel of professions. All for a pittance and the chance to dance to some of the worst music ever written, in front of tourists and coach parties. These young women did of course have very finely shaped legs and bottoms, an inexhaustible wellspring of excess energy and a certain desire for applause and recognition that made them almost pathetically eager to please. But this was hardly the sort of insight he wanted to share with Amanda.

“It means she will be very fit,” said John, who was trying not to sound too smitten. “And also determined to get what she wants. A hard worker. And… at least she can spell. And write in English.”

They exchanged a glance. Considering the state of some of the mail they had got, perhaps Amanda had been wrong to condescend to her just because she was a dancer.

“Let’s audition her, then,” said Amanda. “You obviously won’t be happy until you’ve fucked her.”

“What was that about Cats?’ said John, making a feline, yowling sound and scratching at the air between them.

“Don’t make me scratch you,” said Amanda. Their eyes locked as they came to a decision. An experimental kiss sharpened their hunger for each other. And soon they were making as much noise as the average feline couple in the throes of some rooftop tryst.

It was a night shortly after a full moon when Victoria knocked on their door. Her blonde hair shone; her clear blue eyes seemed innocent of any guile or deceit. It was altogether ridiculous that such a stunning woman should have to answer an advert in a contact magazine. But then where else could she safely seek to explore the dark desires within her? Hanging around in squalid, noisy clubs was hardly a sensible solution, as John and Amanda knew to their cost. The dull repetitive music was often painfully loud to those not using ecstasy and most of those dancing were merely sensation-seekers who thought it was a big thrill to wear tight-fitting lycra in a night club.

Standards of club etiquette often left a great deal to be desired, with predatory males often trying to join in on personal scenes uninvited. Some dungeon areas were often so small there was rarely room to swing a cat – or any other implement which could cause erogenous zones to smart and tingle. Clubs were the reason why John and Amanda now selected their partners from personal ads.

Vicki had dressed all in white: a clingy silk shirt and tight white jeans and high heels. Her cascade of blonde ringlets must have cost a lot of time and money. Her complexion was flawless and her glistening lipstick and big blue eyes seemed likely to bewitch any man who looked in her general direction. More to the point – what John would see – was the sort of helpless, gullible, fifties starlet vulnerability that men loved so much and modern women detested. Were men still this stupid to fall for such an obvious package? Ask a silly question.

Victoria was not especially tall, for a dancer, which was a relief to Amanda, but she was conscious that she couldn’t compete with Victoria’s flawless pink skin, her wide open smile and her air of shy but knowing exuberance. All in all, she was enough to make builders fall off their ladders, and it was amusing for Amanda to watch John go all grave and courteous as he tried to stop his desire showing.

After the wine had been poured and the traffic criticized, Amanda showed Vicki a new cat o’nine tails. The gleaming black handle smelt divinely of fresh leather and the tails could easily be used gently enough to caress whoever was lucky enough to submit to her. While Amanda addressed Vicki, she ran her fingers through the strands of the cat.

“With us, once a slave is accepted – broken in, as it were – there will be times when we use this crop for punitive purposes, as opposed to mere erotic gratification. We will be in charge; the slave’s own personal agenda comes second.”

Amanda arched an eyebrow at Vicki, who seemed unable to reply, struggling with some unresolved inner tension.

“Yeah, that’s what really gets me going,” she said finally. “It’s knowing I’ve earned it. Not, you know, just playing.”

John closed his eyes. It was better than he could have hoped for. He repeated her words silently, committing them to memory. He knew they would resound for the next few days, if not for the rest of his life.

“After the first few sessions, we like to live in our chosen roles twenty-four hours a day,” said Amanda, who seemed taller all of a sudden. Had she taken Vicki’s statement as a challenge? “I hate play-acting. I get awfully bored with following a prearranged script, don’t you? It has to be real, for me.”

John watched them size each other up. Vicki was looking at a taller, richer, better educated, more worldly-wise woman. But, as Amanda was well aware, Vicki was younger, cunning and, above all, blonde. She was used to watching men fall apart as soon as she batted her eyelashes at them. She must have known John was already besotted.

“Something is troubling you,” said Amanda. “Speak.”

“You hate me because I’m younger than you,” said Vicki. “It’s not my fault.”

She looked at John, as if he would intercede in her favour, but John was working very hard at maintaining an unreadable, neutral face.

“I should put you straight over my knee for that,” snapped Amanda, who seemed genuinely annoyed. “Wait there while I decide upon your punishment.” John watched Vicki’s face flush with excitement and felt his own body respond. Amanda looked outwardly in control but John suspected that she, too, was starting to feel the pulse of insistent desire. She seated herself at the table where their journal lay open and started to scribble in its pages, while John contented himself with pleasant anticipation of what was to come.

Not much later, they moved into their cellar and changed into the clothes appropriate for play. Amanda wore knee-length shiny black boots, black stockings, a very small leather skirt and a gleaming red corset which pushed her breasts up and outwards. Vicki wore panties which were transparent enough to reveal that she shaved her pubic hair. She had a small coiled whip etched on her left buttock, a detail which was all the more powerful for being her only tattoo. He was glad she hadn’t gone overboard with the body art. Some of their recent applicants had all sorts of junk scrawled all over them, as if their skin was of no greater value than the average municipal convenience wall.

John wore his leather trousers and waistcoat. He had been training hard to maintain his muscle tone for their new partner, even though he knew it was often only of interest to himself just how well-defined his pectorals and biceps were. More importantly, he had to appear calm, which was difficult with Vicki looking so luscious. But, despite his poker face, Amanda could tell his pulse rate had risen. The beast inside him was ready to prowl. He would have to ask her permission before the feast, of course, but she could hardly say no without being accused of jealousy. While John was pouring Victoria a dry white wine spritzer, Amanda was quizzing Victoria about her recent experiences with contact ads.

“I was two years with Master George,” she said, intoning this ludicrous name as if either John or Amanda should have heard of it. “You don’t know him? He’s been on Channel 5 a lot. He’s well known on the scene.”

John had indeed heard of Master George, an egregious figure whose hatred of women shone out of a fat face which resembled nothing more than the sort of potato which quality-conscious supermarkets would no longer sell.

By the time they had heard Victoria say the words Master George often enough to dread their repetition, John had a sudden inspiration. “Perhaps your initiation could be a banishing of your previous partner,” said John. “Then you could be free to start again.”

Amanda picked up on this quickly, always eager to intensify the ritual element of their sex life. It was her usual way of dragging John into her occult dabblings, without him being too aware of what was happening. “Yes,” she said. “We could work a ceremony that would help you start a new life. You would be born again.”

The atmosphere in the room was distinctly heavier, now that they were closer to the moment of truth. Amanda dimmed the lights until there were only flickering candles to provide illumination. They scanned each other’s faces for clues as to what might happen next.

Vicki looked apprehensive, perhaps at the sound of the words “initiation”, “ceremony” and “born again”. John offered her a reassuring smile and refilled her glass, to help her make the transition between the world of polite conversation and the hidden depths of their shared desires.

He lit some sandalwood incense, which some thought was an aphrodisiac although, since Vicki’s arrival, such overrated herbal essences were hardly essential. Plainsong played softly on the stereo as Amanda took up her position in the centre of the room. She looked the picture of the stark and severe dominant woman as she let the tails of the cat trail through her gloved fingers. Almost as soon as she had established this persona, she stepped out of the role by smiling at Vicki and letting the cat’s tails trail over their guest’s hardened nipples. It was important to establish trust before they took her on a journey through her deepest desires.

“I think you need to get rid of this ‘Master George’,” said John. “You need to banish him. Or, more accurately, you will do the hard work. We will merely set the appropriate atmosphere.”

Vicki looked uncertain. Perhaps she liked being in thrall to the man who had dominated her for so long.

“The moon is waning,” said Amanda. “It’s a perfect time to get rid of old baggage.” She somehow managed to make it sound like an unmissable opportunity, the occult equivalent of the January sales.

“Like an exorcism?” said Victoria, her voice hushed, her eyes wide.

“Nothing so dramatic,” said John, with a half-smile. “But we will get rid of ‘Master George’ for you, if you truly wish it.”

“Anyone calling themselves ‘Master George’ sounds like a prat,” said Amanda. John watched Vicki’s face fall and felt a twinge of sympathy for her.

“Could you not have used a more elegant phrase, my dear?” he said to Amanda, and then wished he hadn’t as he watched her eyes flicker. It was risky to continue in this vein, but he felt that Vicki needed defending. “If ‘Master George’ had managed to captivate Vicki for so long, he cannot have been entirely devoid of merit.”

Amanda made no reply but swished her crop through the air. It wasn’t entirely clear who she would like to use it on presently. John was also undecided as to who should submit to whom. The longer he looked at Vicki, the more he could feel some force inside himself telling him to fall to his knees.

Time stood still as they listened to the chanting of the monks and of the ageless voices inside them. Suddenly, John knelt down in front of Vicki, without losing eye contact. “I would consider it an honour if I could massage your feet,” he said. He watched Vicki’s reaction carefully. She looked flattered but was obviously uneasy as to how to proceed.

“Don’t know what to say,” said Vicki. “I’m used to people telling me what to do.”

“I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” said Amanda, walking behind John and swishing the tails of the cat lightly across his buttocks. “Particularly not when this one has such fine flanks. He can be disobedient, but, if you train him well, he will take you where you need to go.”

John heard the ominous undertone behind the deceptively sweet tone of Amanda’s voice and found it unbearably exciting.

“Give him a foot to play with,” ordered Amanda. “He won’t go away until you do.”

Shyly, Vicki proffered one of her small feet. She appeared uncomfortable with the situation, perhaps afraid that her battered and callused dancer’s feet would be unacceptable. If only you knew, thought John, as he reverently dipped his head to kiss her toes, cupping her heel in his hand and stroking the underside of her feet in a slow firm motion. He was aiming to soothe her, making sure his touch was firm enough to avoid a tickling sensation. He sought in vain to remember snippets of wisdom from guides to massage and reflexology, but then it was easier to let Vicki’s little satisfied moans and sighs tell him whether he was on the right track or not.

When he looked upwards, he was gratified to find that Vicki’s eyes were closed and her head was thrown back. John rubbed and kneaded her feet, drawing moans of pleasure from her. For a while, she drifted off somewhere, unable to speak as she lost herself in a world of sensation. Her eyes stayed shut as she opened her mouth to speak.

“Ooh, it’s so long since anyone’s done that. I’d forgotten… aaah… how sensitive my toes were. Yes!”

John let his tongue explore the gap between each toe in turn, teasing out tastes and flavours that were reminiscent of a really subtle mozzarella, a comparison he knew he would be keeping to himself until he knew Vicki a great deal better than he did presently. As he worked away diligently, he tried not to think of the delights to come later, when he would run his tongue over her hot, lightly flogged bottom. But that was pure greed. It was better to concentrate on the humbling, repetitive nature of his present task. He worked hard at keeping up a slow rhythmic stroking motion, hoping to further intensify the mild trance the two of them were sharing.

“I hope I’m clean enough for you, master,” said Vicki, as John continued to lick and nuzzle her toes.

“You don’t have to call me ‘master’,” said John softly. Amanda raised an eyebrow and John had to suppress a smile. He felt anything but masterful, these days, although that had been his chosen role when he had first met Amanda.

“It’s time you undressed, my dear,” said Amanda, who was clearly irritated at the pampering this supposed “slave” was receiving.

Vicki opened her eyes and immediately looked from John to Amanda, as if deciding who to obey.

“Let him indulge himself,” said Amanda. “But we have work to do.”

As soon as Vicki was naked, Amanda cuffed her wrists to a flogging post and started to whip her, very gently, as John continued to kiss her feet and calves. As Amanda increased the pace and strength of the still gentle flogging of Vicki’s round pink bottom, John was gradually working his way up from her small, badly-callused feet. He kissed and stroked each inch of her muscular calves, occasionally glancing up at her shaven vulva, which was now moist and glistening. As Amanda continued to flog Vicki lightly, the tails of the cat sometimes caught John’s back and shoulders. He continued to explore the silky skin of Vicki’s thighs with his eager fingers and tongue as she shifted her weight to cope with her mounting excitement. John could feel the tensile strength of her muscles moving underneath her silky skin.

“It is time we freed you from your so-called master,” said Amanda, in the low insistent voice she sometimes used to hypnotize the unwary. “As each stroke is delivered, I want you to imagine that your master is yet further away from you and smaller in size. On the final stroke, we will banish him from your present life entirely. Are you ready?”

There was a pause before Vicki consented.

“Don’t be frightened,” said John. “Amanda is very careful not to damage the skin. This is more of a symbolic cleansing of your last life. Put yourself into her hands.”

Vicki considered this for a moment, then closed her eyes. “Yes, beat him out of me. I want to be free.”

“And so you shall,” said Amanda, giving her cat a swish through the air. “Concentrate, and we will rid you of the ghost of ‘Master George’.”

Amanda used her implement with more strength now but the blows were still little more than caresses. With a long slow build-up, it was always possible for the submissive to absorb more.

“I’m going to strike harder, now,” said Amanda. “Picture ‘George’ growing smaller and smaller in your mind’s eye. Can you see him?”

Victoria moaned her assent. Amanda gently guided John to where he could kiss Vicki’s wet sex. She kneaded each of Vicki’s nipples in turn, watching her reaction carefully, then struck once more. After the slapping sound of the impact, Vicki gasped and moaned as the hot, intense impact spread through her bottom and around her whole body. She cried out after the second of these harder strokes, at which Amanda stroked her glowing skin.

“It’s all right,” breathed Vicki. “Do it harder!”

“Concentrate,” said Amanda firmly. “Make George vanish! Watch him shrink, fade and die.” With each of these words, she laid on another stroke.

The blows were still only enough to redden the surface of her flesh but Vicki was starting to move from side to side now, an enchanting little dance that inspired Amanda to dip her face down to kiss the lingering smarts better.

John was by now rubbing his erection into Vicki’s legs as he buried his head in her soaking wet mound. He could hear his fevered blood thundering around his body as Vicki begged for Amanda to continue what she had started.

“Go on!” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”

“Very well,” said Amanda, who was still rubbing the chubby red flesh of her bottom with her gloved hand. She could feel the heat from her lightly whipped flesh even through the velvet gloves. John was kissing and licking Vicki’s thighs now, eager to discover more of her secrets.

“Don’t be greedy, John,” said Amanda rather sharply. She applied gentle pressure on the top of his head to move him back down Vicki’s thighs. She gave him a sharp stroke of the crop to remind him who was boss, before uncuffing Vicki’s right hand.

“Stroke yourself, dear. And see yourself standing tall. You don’t need a ‘master’.” Amanda kissed her full on the lips as she guided Vicki’s hand to where it would do the most good. As Vicki grunted and groaned, Amanda looked down at John and arched an eyebrow. It was as if she was saying, “See how close I am to her. Will you ever be as close as I am?”

John caught the look but had no idea whether she was trying to prove a point or even whether he was merely being paranoid. Besides, the heat and scent of Vicki was rather more important.

“Forget the past,” breathed Amanda, directly into Vicki’s ear. “Cherish yourself. You deserve to be worshipped,” said Amanda. “John! Time to make yourself useful!” With that, she guided John behind Vicki.

He nuzzled Vicki’s hot bottom gratefully, running his tongue over the soft, silken cheeks.

“Lick her!” commanded Amanda. “Right between the cheeks! Right up and down! That’s it. Now, don’t stop. Or else!”

As this was his heart’s desire, he didn’t exactly need to be told or to be spurred on by the cat o’nine tails. Amanda reddened his flesh for him anyway before using her gloved fingers to stimulate Vicki. They drifted together, onwards and upwards, until the trivial matter of who was dominating whom had ceased to be relevant.

TWO

The air in the cellar was heavy with incense. Candles at floor level provided an eerie, flickering light which barely illuminated the darkness in which Amanda and Vicki stood. They were close enough to kiss. Close enough to be aware of the scent of each other’s bodies. Close enough to whisper into each other’s ears. Every now and again, they would look over at John, who was kneeling in the corner, naked.

He spent a good deal of time clenching and unclenching his pectoral muscles, for he was conscious of his advancing years and wished to maintain some semblance of his former glory. These exercises also helped keep his mind off the ache in his legs: it was hard to kneel for so long. He was also wondering whether he was up to whatever they were planning for him. Or whether they would ignore him in order to play with each other, which would hurt a great deal more than any momentary discomfort suffered in the cause of pleasure.

A week had elapsed since their last session with Vicki. A whole week, in which John’s thoughts had rarely been away from her. Amanda was also relishing the situation they were in. As his long-term partner, it amused her to train up a new dominatrix for him – particularly as Vicki had come to them as a slave. They were still arguing as to who should take the most credit for this transformation, during which John had heard a great deal about Amanda’s theories about spirit possession and multiple personality.

“It’s not as simple as being submissive or dominant,” she had said. “Perhaps we are all at the mercy of the many different people inside us. And the spirits we invoke. Particularly any we fail to banish.”

John knew better than to argue. If she wanted to deny personal responsibility and put her mood-swings down to the activities of long-dead mythical deities or stray poltergeists, that was up to her. What her theory seemed to boil down to, in practice, was that she was right all the time, whatever he had actually said or done. And it was quicker not to argue.

Even so, he had to take issue whenever Amanda teased him about how well he had adapted to the submissive role. He was keen to point out that this was a temporary measure. Perhaps too keen, for Amanda had smiled and murmured something about protesting too much. He couldn’t say any more without digging himself in deeper, but he still wanted to keep some distance between himself and the soft white blob men you could see being led round the floor at fetish events. Where was the convenient label to fit his present sexuality? Masochist but not submissive? Occasionally acquiescent? Willing to say “Yes, mistress,” in return for therapeutic chastisement?

As soon as Vicki had arrived for her second visit, such questions became only of academic interest. Whatever happened now was going to be all about her: her needs, her desires. Her smile seemed wider, her voice deeper. She seemed more confident; she didn’t constantly seek reassurance. Her blonde hair was now much shorter and her heels were higher. She was wearing black and red; perhaps white had been discarded along with her former slave status. It was too early to say if they had cleansed her of the malign influence of her last partner, the idiot “Master George”. But John couldn’t wait to see her attempt a whole evening in her new role. Perhaps she would even have both her hosts kneeling down and licking her boots, before long. For the moment, it was Amanda who was strutting around the cellar, laying down the law as Vicki listened intently.

“The moon is still waning,” said Amanda. “And autumn is the time when we harvest. When we separate the wheat from the chaff.” She ran her hands over Vicki’s body, stopping to stroke and caress wherever Vicki’s soft sighs and moans indicated that she had found the right spot. They looked good together, entirely at ease in each other’s arms. John was still kneeling, still trying to ignore the ache in his legs. If he didn’t know any better, he would think that Vicki was about to take Amanda away from him. Say what you like about open marriages. They were never dull.

He watched them kiss, Vicki returning Amanda’s initial advance with more than enough enthusiasm to make his own presence irrelevant. Any possible erotic excitement John might have felt was deadened by the sickening feeling that this experiment could go badly wrong. Over the past week, he had seen the balance of power in their relationship shift decisively in Amanda’s favour. And to think he had been concerned that his partner might feel left out! If anyone was likely to be discarded, now Vicki had arrived, it was more likely to be himself. As for Amanda’s pontificating on the subject of the change of the seasons… this particular autumn seemed to be the time to honour the return of Miss Bossy Boots, who would do well to remember that she used to be a supply teacher before his money enabled her to pack it in. He might even had said as much, this time last week; but, since Vicki’s transformation, everything had changed. In his new, less exalted place in the household, it would not be appropriate for him to make any supposedly amusing remarks.

He had to strain his ears to hear what they were saying, but since Vicki was wearing gleaming boots and a thin pink rubber bodice, through which her nipples protruded, it hardly mattered. Her long legs and taut bottom were sheathed in gleaming black rubber; it was almost worth the ache in his legs to view her from this angle. The pain triggered an incongruous memory of a supervised Buddhist meditation session, where his spirit had floated off somewhere out into space, even as his legs had seized up in agony.

It was all about concentration, reaching a trance state. He fixed his attention on Vicki’s strong well-defined calves and thighs and watched the muscles ripple gently beneath the sheen of tight-fitting rubber as she shifted her weight from one foot to another.

“Now then,” said Amanda briskly. “Before I can let you loose on John, you must be punished for whatever lewd behaviour you have indulged in since last week. It’s important that you know your place.”

There was a brief battle of wills as their eyes locked. It wasn’t long before Vicki was looking down at the floor and Amanda’s eyes were shining triumphantly. She was still on top.

“Do you have something to tell me?” she asked Vicki. “Any improper conduct? Or have you merely been leading young men on? And then running off home to pleasure yourself in the privacy of your bedroom?”

Vicki seemed almost to smile but instead maintained her blank submissive pose, one she seemed very comfortable with. “Oh, please. I’ve been ever so good.” She was pouting now, standing with her feet turned inwards. The pose pleased John and irritated Amanda. “I thought we agreed that I only got punished when I deserved it!”

“You can leave whenever you like,” said Amanda, ice-cold all of a sudden. “John would probably be heartbroken. But he would soon find a replacement for you. There isn’t exactly a shortage of young, dumb blondes.”

Vicki stood up straight; her voice aged a couple of decades. “It’s not my fault I’m younger than you,” she said.

Amanda smiled faintly, then they stared at each other until Vicki looked away. “That’s all right, dear. I just wanted to get you annoyed enough to give John the treatment he so richly deserves. Look at him! Obediently waiting for you. But first you have to submit to the lady of the house.”

Without another word, Vicki bent over and remained absolutely still, hands flat on the floor. Amanda took a moment to savour her dominance, then softly smacked her, pausing to kiss where her hand had just landed before continuing the process. The impact of hand on rubber-clad bottom sounded a great deal more dramatic than the actual effects. Vicki was soon sighing with pleasure and waggling her hips to suggest that perhaps Amanda was erring on the side of leniency.

As each increasingly firm smack resounded, John was transfixed by a vision of Vicki using a whip on himself. He saw himself chained to the whipping post, hands secured above his head, most of his body encased in latex. He wanted Vicki to put his tightest-fitting mask on. He wanted her to rub the insides of it with her most intimate scents. During the long confinement in sweetly aromatic darkness, he would be drifting into a trance which might even allow himself freedom from the confines of his body. This was a risky process, in that it was tempting to roam free and never return, but it was something he would love to do again – especially if guided by Vicki, his new obsession.

Instantly, he knew that Amanda would resent any such intimacy and that he would have to keep any such plans to himself. He had been careful never to mention Vicki’s name in the week that had passed but Amanda had still been on edge – even though she was keen on Vicki herself. But then, no one had yet come up with a foolproof way of maintaining an open marriage without someone getting hurt, and it didn’t look like they would be the first.

What was certain was that he was becoming more and more addicted to Vicki, his new drug of choice. He was well aware that her effects would soon wear off, but was hoping that they wouldn’t see so much of her that they would become bored. As usual, this was a decision that Amanda was likely to take. Right now, she seemed happy enough, spanking Vicki harder and faster in response to her groans and whimpers.

Amanda carried on past the time when Vicki sounded distressed rather than delighted, judging that she could stand having her limits pushed a little. When Amanda eventually stopped, Vicki sighed in gratitude. Her eyes were sparkling as she stood up and it was some time before their fervent reconciliatory embrace came to an end.

John was still waiting patiently, trying not to look too ravenous for whatever was going to happen next. He knew if he looked too keen, Amanda might well decide to keep him waiting even longer.

“It’s time you gave John what he needs,” said Amanda. John was careful not to appear grateful. “And don’t be too gentle. Go and do your worst.”

“I can hardly wait to start on him,” said Vicki, as Amanda looked over at her partner. By the mischievous glint in her eyes, it was clear that she was in no hurry to pander to him.

“You must wait,” said Amanda sharply. “Let him wait upon our pleasure for a change. It will teach him a valuable lesson.”

Vicki stole a glance at John, who remained waiting, head bowed. He wanted to give her a reassuring smile but felt this was inappropriate. Amanda was in charge. His only responsibility was to obey her orders.

“It still feels weird,” said Vicki. “I spent most of my life being dominated. But after last week… I don’t know any more. Maybe the other stuff was just buried all this time.”

Amanda let the words hang in the air for a moment, then nodded approval. “More people should see fetishism as a journey,” she said. “Not just repeating the same things over and over again. So many people get stuck re-enacting the same childhood trauma over and over again. They never get past the initial wound. I think it’s time for you to move on. If John was allowed to say anything today, he might even agree.”

Here she nodded towards her partner, stepping out of character long enough to give him a skewed smile and a wink. “Besides, the more men we can make realize that there is nothing ‘manly’ about bossing women about, the better. Then they can assume their rightful place as the sexual playthings of women. They can stop wearing those nasty rough clothes and dress in the silk knickers they have always really wanted to wear. They wouldn’t have to drink too much or fight each other all the time; they would be happy. But I mustn’t be too harsh on them. They do have their uses, after all.”

Amanda gave Vicki a playful pinch. Perhaps she was seeking to remind her of the happy hours they had spent tangled up in each other’s bodies while John kissed and stroked them gently. Time had slowed down while they spent hours feasting upon each other, lapping happily at each other’s clefts while John tried not to feel jealous at their obvious pleasure in each other. He didn’t quite succeed, of course – indeed, not by a rather large margin – but managed instead to console himself with the thought that he would be able to store this memory away for future reference. He knew he would return often to this memory to trigger off afternoon bouts of solo play.

As to whether they could really have cleansed her of the memory of her former partner, John was more sceptical. Perhaps it wasn’t possible to wipe out years of conditioning in one session. With a smile he remembered the strategy of expensive shrinks; what she obviously needed was more of their special therapy, a series of lengthy sessions in which the patient may not be cured but the therapists would certainly be enriched.

The women vanished for a moment. John could hear whispering and giggling and the occasional passionate kiss, but that was not enough to enable him to guess what might happen next.

“Close your eyes, John,” ordered Amanda. “We are ready to start.”

The first thing he heard was two pairs of high heels clicking over the stone floor of the cellar until they were close to him. He could sense perfume, body heat and the individual scent of their bodies. As Amanda put her gloved hand in his mouth, he nuzzled on the proffered fingers gratefully, groaning out loud as the moment of truth approached.

But he would have to wait. With an affectionate pat on his head and a softly whispered, “Down, boy,” the fingers were removed. Amanda was still more concerned with Vicki.

“This is the last lesson in your training, my dear,” Amanda said. “We have started to banish your last master. Rome was not built in a day but I hope you are learning to stand on your own two feet, free of the pernicious influence of you know who. ‘Master George’, indeed! You should be walking all over men, not taking orders from them. John! Look at Vicki’s new toy.”

John opened his eyes to see Amanda gently flicking the end of a strap-on phallus which Vicki was wearing. As the rubber dildo bobbed up and down, the women shared a conspiratorial smile. John felt edgy and anxious, but nothing worth having came without some effort or discomfort. He would just have to hope he was up to the coming ordeal.

“It’s lovely,” said Vicki, running her hand over the realistically sculpted veins on the hard rubber phallus. “But I want a bigger one.”

“Don’t we all, dear?” said John. He shared a smile with Vicki, then turned to look at Amanda.

“Who asked you?” she said. Her lips twitched briefly but she was not happy about John’s unsolicited comment. They had often clashed about the importance of staying in their defined roles. In John’s view, she should lighten up occasionally. And if his behaviour was really so unbearable, at least she had an excuse to invent some fiendish new torment they could both enjoy. He was already a little apprehensive of the size of the strap-on Vicki was wearing. It had only been used once: a memorable evening. He hoped that it wouldn’t come into action until they had played for some considerable time, so he would be ready to relax enough to accommodate the dauntingly large black rubber phallus. Maybe it wouldn’t come into play; perhaps she was just wearing it as a symbol of her dominance over him. And maybe Santa Claus brought presents every Christmas for children who had never been naughty…

“Warm him up, first,” said Amanda, handing Vicki a well-worn tawse. “Then give it to him hard.”

John looked up at Vicki, who seemed to be waiting for his permission to start. “My hide is as hard as my heart,” he said. “Let yourself go.”

Their eyes locked for a moment – which might have been a few seconds and which might have been forever.

Eventually she said, “Present yourself,” stroking the tip of a crop slowly down his back before gently tapping his buttocks. He didn’t need any further invitation; he turned and lowered his face to the floor. Soon he was being warmed by a pair of gloved hands and the tip of a crop. The blows started soft and slow and very gradually increased in pace and strength.

Every now and again, they would pause to kiss and fondle each other. John felt it was undignified to beg, but he was close to pleading as these clinches threatened to become the main event, rather than the exploration of his body. Soon the crop was back in action, spreading heat and light just where it was needed most, and Amanda had moved to one side to watch her protégeé in action.

“I like it when they wriggle,” said Vicki, sounding very different from the shy ingenue of last week.

“Well, you’ll have to hit harder than that, dear,” said Amanda. “This one has been very well trained, though I say it myself.”

Vicki worked on him for some time while Amanda cradled his head between her thighs, whispering to him what was most likely to inflame his senses. John snuffed up her scent eagerly, feeling privileged to be the plaything of two beautiful women.

“Now you’re hot, you need cold cream,” said Vicki, laying her crop aside. Her touch was divine and the anticipation of what was to come was sending him close to delirium. She rubbed the cream in thoroughly and then started to penetrate him gently with the tip of her fingers. He pushed back hard at her invading fingers, not wanting to leave her in any doubt that he needed what was to come.

“Steady now, Vicki. Don’t spoil him.” Amanda positioned her foot so John could lick and nuzzle her toes. “He likes it rough. And don’t worry about safe words today, dear. This isn’t some boring, candy-floss sex club for middle-class couples with 2.4 children. If you want to fuck him senseless with that thing, you may do so.”

“This is just a game you are playing, right?” said Vicki, not at all comfortable with the edge in Amanda’s voice.

Just do it, thought John, but he was not going to indulged just yet.

“If you say so,” said Amanda. “If it is a game, the only rule is that you win. And he loses. And afterwards I will give you a big sloppy kiss. In the winner’s enclosure. While he mixes the drinks. Sound nice?”

Vicki smiled. “Yeah. I thought you were going to be a lot harder on me.”

“We might still be hard on you. Just wait till you have to write a ten page essay in our big black book. Something like, ‘What Vicki thinks of her introduction to John and Amanda’. And you had better go into detail.” Amanda swished a cat o’nine tails through the air, although any potential menace was easily dissipated by her hint of a smile. Vicki already knew that any punishment always came with some serious pampering afterwards.

“Unless you can write something hot, you will be really punished,” said Amanda, in ringing tones of mock-severity. “No warm-up and each stroke will really count.” She wagged a finger at Vicki whose eyes widened prettily. “Anyway, it’s probably time for you to fuck him. He obviously can’t wait much longer.”

“No,” giggled Vicki, giving John’s engorged penis a fond squeeze.

“Careful, now,” said Amanda. “Don’t get him too excited. His heart might not stand it.”

The contempt in her voice sounded a little too real for John’s taste. All week Amanda had been trying her best to rile him, but it was hard to know just how much was for the purposes of roleplay and how much was because she was genuinely annoyed about his desire for Vicki.

“Now you can show just how much you want her,” said Amanda, as she guided the dauntingly wide tip of the phallus to his anus. “Open up for Vicki, dear. You know you want it.”

The tone was scathing but she held him tight and kissed him passionately before leaving Vicki to push the phallus against him. He found the blonde’s struggles to guide her new toy almost unbearably cute: the way the tip of her tongue protruded as she concentrated, her frown and occasional soft curses. After a brief, rather undignified struggle, she was inside him and they were soon engrossed in a three-way exchange of passion. She was careful to be gentle and considerate, perhaps too much so, for after the initial thrill had faded John was soon aware that he would not reach orgasm by this method. He needed the merest touch of manual or oral stimulation but both women were studiously avoiding giving him the relief he needed.

After Vicki had withdrawn from him, Amanda scratched his bulging erection with one of her blood-red fingernails.

“He’s very keen on you,” said Amanda. Her tone was caustic, as grating as the very fine sandpaper they kept for their more extreme sessions. “Let’s see just how keen he is. He likes champagne too. Let’s see if he likes it enough to drink it second-hand.”

There was a grateful moan from John. Soon he was looking up at the stark divide of Vicki’s sex as she positioned herself over his face.

“What about the floor?” she said, still sounding a bit shocked by what was about to happen. But also excited, ready to do something new.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Amanda. “He’ll lick that up. He likes that.”

“I don’t know if I can,” said Vicki.

John almost smiled. Was she teasing him, just to make the experience more powerful when she did eventually relent and let her sour-sweet liquid gush all over him? Surely she was not yet so artful?

“More champagne, dear?” said Amanda, handing her a glass. “Go on, gulp it down. I want to see him thoroughly covered. It’s time he learned his place in this house. Do you know, I think he might thrive on a diet of second-hand champagne. He certainly looks eager for you to start, doesn’t he?”

Amanda touched the tip of John’s erection briefly. He was on the brink of orgasm but knew Amanda would never allow him release until she had pushed him further than he had ever been before. This was the price to be paid for his infatuation with Vicki.

He was trying not to use the word love in this context, but the more he tried to ignore the possibility he was falling for Vicki, the stronger his feelings became. And, with this coming baptism, he was likely to become even more besotted.

“Have another glass, dear,” said Amanda, kissing Vicki full on the lips. Her hands started to wonder around Vicki’s body, pinching the flesh until she found the two most important openings to her body and eased a finger in each. There was nothing John could do except watch. And dream. Anything and everything might happen, in just a few short moments. If they could ever leave each other alone.

To think even as long ago as last week he had imagined betraying Amanda with Victoria. If anyone was likely to be left out of any new partnership, it was highly likely to be himself. The limits of his betrayal would only have been a few nights with Vicki, somewhere they could relax free from the scrutiny of Amanda’s prying eyes and acid tongue. But he now knew this would never happen and, what’s more, it never should happen. It was better this way.

“I shouldn’t really drink any more,” said Vicki, who was starting to giggle as the alcohol got through to her. “I feel light-headed.”

You and me both, babe, thought John. He watched the full cheeks of her bottom wobbling slightly as she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

“Many persist in seeing water sports in the context of dominance and submission,” said Amanda, who sometimes forgot that not everyone wanted to be lectured. “It doesn’t have to be part of a humiliation scenario; it can be a joyful celebration of the partner’s body,” she continued.

Vicki was all ears but John could have done with less talk and more action. Just shut up and tell her to piss all over me, he thought, but his fervent attempts at telepathy were to little avail. As yet. Still, he could be content with letting the anticipation build.

“We should view this exchange as a liquid kiss,” said Amanda. “There need be no shame in accepting a warm fluid coming straight from the centre of your partner’s sexuality.”

No shame indeed, thought John. Just get on with it!

“The communion service is descended from occult ceremonies in which bodily fluids would be placed in a chalice. The Holy Grail itself is undoubtedly a vessel meant to symbolise the vagina, a cup in which various fluids can be drunk.”

Yes, yes. Just tell her to squat over my face. Let me gaze up at her lovely cleft and the rounded cheeks of her bottom. Let her relax enough to get used to the idea. Let it flow down over me. Let me drink it in and lick her afterwards.

“Fresh urine usually smells and tastes good, provided the partner is in good health and one is attracted to them in the first place,” said Amanda.

Vicki was still wide-eyed, getting used to the idea of what she was about to do.

“You don’t have to ask if he wants you to do it. Look at him! He is yearning for you. Won’t do him any harm to let him wait. Drink more champagne. Make sure you have a full bladder before you anoint him. If you’re really good, I’ll let you drink mine.”

“Is it…” Vicki couldn’t complete her question because to do so would seem ungrateful. But you couldn’t be too careful, these days. “Is it safe?” she said, in a very quiet voice.

Amanda smiled. “It’s low risk, with regard to HIV transmission. Only a tiny amount of the HIV virus is contained in urine and saliva kills that off. As long as it is kept away from cuts and abrasions and the receiving partner’s gums are not bleeding, this is safe sex.”

Please, please, please. Just do it, thought John. It had been some time since he had prayed to anybody or anything, but he was getting close now. I need this, I want it, I must have it…

“It’s coming!” said Vicki, sounding as exhilarated as John felt.

As the warm aromatic fluid coursed over his face and mouth, he gulped and swallowed, struggling to keep pace with the force of the flow. For one absurd moment, he recognised the taste of the chemical sweetener she had popped into her after-dinner coffee; then he was lost once more as Amanda used her most spiteful crop on him with more energy than was customary.

The combination of the smart of the crop with the tidal waves of briny fluid washing over and through him were enough to make his tired flesh sing and his soul sing with joy. It was almost as if there was still enough alcohol left in her champagne-tinged urine to make him drunk. They really must try her out on some of the vintage wines he had laid down in his cellar.

Amanda was mumbling something about banishing “Master George” but, while she did so, John could clearly see the stern humourless “master” he himself had once been dissolve. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply and began to see himself kneeling before Vicki, who was seated on a silver throne around which the sea swirled. She raised a wand with which she was lustily hitting him wherever she could, an impish knowing smile trained directly on him. He knew that they would never switch roles. Even with Amanda, they seemed to have permanently reversed polarity. She was in charge now. It seemed appropriate that she took him in hand to push him over the edge. As he lost control and felt the tides sweep him away he saw Amanda’s face. “You belong to me,” she was saying. “You always will.”

And he moaned his agreement as she held him afterwards for what seemed like an eternity. But behind his closed eyelids, he was looking at Vicki’s face as she smiled triumphantly. They untangled from each other slowly, each unwilling to return to the more mundane world they usually inhabited.

Champagne helped, of course, as did a brief ritual cleansing by Amanda. This may have sent any stray demons packing or it may have merely served as a useful cooling-off period before it was time to play at being normal again: John really didn’t mind which, after an experience like that.

Then it was time for the women to retire upstairs to replenish their glasses while John swabbed the floor. As he joined them, it seemed that Vicki was drunk on something more potent than champagne.

“This feels so good, doesn’t it?” said Vicki, with something approaching a wicked grin on her lovely face. “I think I want to be dominant all the time. I really think it’s me.”

“Glad we could be of service,” drawled Amanda, but whatever irony was in her voice seemed to float over Vicki’s head.

“Yeah, I’m ever so grateful. I mean, if you want me to do you, some time…”

Amanda declined the invitation gracefully with just a sideways shake of her head and a dry smile. “I’m going to be too busy training this one for a while,” said Amanda, nodding over at John. “I think you’ve fused the part of him that used to be dominant. Taught him a lesson he might have needed for a long time.”

It was open to question whether this statement was merely an affectionate little tease which went with the previous session, but John was finding it more exciting, and ultimately more satisfying, to take it as read. He felt a warm glow suffuse his body and soul at the thought of discarding all the stiff, humourless baggage that went with being dominant.

Let someone else worry about setting the agenda. He could just abandon himself to the moment. Besides, the submissive often got the best of the deal in these exchanges. Everything was focused on them, and their often notoriously picky desires. (“Up a bit, down. No, not there! Don’t you know anything?”) It was often hard to tell who was actually dominating whom, standing there listening to a torrent of orders coming from his theoretically submissive partner.

John felt drained but glowing with an inner fire he had not felt for some time – not since he had first met Amanda, in fact. He could hear the occasional waspish undertone in Amanda’s voice as she replied to Vicki’s breathless babble, but their guest was oblivious to anything except the surge of fire in her veins and the long trapped flow of power and dominance that had always been rightfully hers.

“You’ve given me wings. I’m ready to fly,” she said, face flushed with an innocent joy that neither John nor Amanda could share right now. For the sake of appearances, they drank till dawn with their guest, then called a cab for her, remembering to send her flowers later that day. As soon as she had gone they had quickly agreed that it was too dangerous to see her again too soon. Then they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

THREE

What Vicki wrote in John and Amanda’s big black book

I learned so much! I can’t believe it! I thought I knew all there was to know about pervy stuff till I met John and Amanda. They’re really generous hosts. As for Amanda, who else would lend you their husband to practise being a mistress on? And John wasn’t used to being submissive although he was a quick learner, I’ll say that for him. You two are the greatest! Thanks ever so much!

John didn’t need to look in their erotic diary any more. He had memorized Vicki’s words, which was maybe just as well as they had agreed that they should wait a long time before seeing her again. Although Amanda had ritually banished the energy they had summoned with her, Vicki was still a constant presence. He had betrayed too much of his desire for her to Amanda. As a result, his own status in the house had been considerably diminished. It was also getting harder for him to cope with his growing addiction to Vicki, perhaps not to the real person but to some quality or value she represented.

He knew that there was nothing more pathetic than a man seeking out a younger partner every time his relationship was in crisis, or so the conventional wisdom had it. Mother Nature, the Goddess, the life force – however you wanted to put it – she seemed to think it was a very good idea indeed for him to seek out a new partner. In fact, this was whispered in his ear at every possible opportunity, by some malevolent sprite who had been around several millennia longer than whoever invented monogamy as an instrument of social control.

It was only ten a.m. and John had already poured himself two ounces of a very expensive single malt. Sipped carefully, this would last till lunch, and would hopefully take some of the edge off his hunger for Vicki. He inhaled the scent of the whisky warily, waiting five minutes before wetting his lips with the merest possible drop of the liquid. It was perhaps half an hour before he tasted the smoky fluid, time spent entirely in wrestling with his desire to call Vicki, something he had agreed with Amanda he would not do. The two ounces of dark smoky fragrance lasted until lunch, after which he went for a long walk on the Heath. After which he settled down to serious drinking, after which he called a number of drug dealers, after which it was prudent to stay out until he had recovered from the effect of their products. At no time did he ring Vicki but when he awoke the next day, suffering from three different types of withdrawal, he was beginning to wonder whether it was worth the cost.

John knew he was behaving like a teenager but that didn’t alter the way he felt. He missed Vicki bitterly. And as the days grew darker and the nights colder, he started to yearn for her. It was infantile, it was selfish and it would lead nowhere. He was supposed to have grown out of this stuff. After all, any fool could fall in love. The hard bit was seeing whether it was real enough to last through decades of living together.

Weeks later, just as he was starting to forget her, a letter arrived. He wasn’t even sure if he should open it. He was already in too deep. He decided to read it on Hampstead Heath, where at least he could digest the contents without Amanda’s catty comments.

He walked for an hour or so, until the biting wind found its way through his winter clothes into his bones. There was a sheltered spot from where he could see the city centre, but today he drew no comfort from looking down at those trapped in the traffic. He toyed with the idea of burning the letter before he had read it but forced himself to open it. Would she accuse them of using her then casting her aside? Would it contain a plea to visit them again? Perhaps she needed help of some kind.

In the event, the contents were far less dramatic than he had thought. It seemed that it was he alone who was suffering from the brief upheaval of Vicki’s arrival.

Dear John and Amanda, I just wanted to say thank you! I’m going to be away for a while. I’ve met someone who is going to look after me. As long as I’m really mean to him! I don’t know how to thank you. You two have freed me for the first time in my life. I never knew I could dominate men. And I really like it! I’ll always have you to thank for that, John. I can be myself. I’ll never be a slave, ever again.

If only I could say the same, thought John, rather wistfully. He had crossed that line which divides sex as pleasure and sex as an expression of love. He was old enough to know better but, try as he might, he couldn’t quite dislodge the hooks Vicki had left in him. And this letter didn’t help.

He stared into space for a while then realized that he should burn it. He was already in thrall to her memory. Making a fetish out of objects connected with her would only make matters worse. Perhaps he should try some of Amanda’s hocus-pocus, create a ritual peace and then banish her.

He breathed deeply and slowly for a while, closing his eyes to intensify his concentration. He then repeated a banishing incantation he had once heard Amanda use as he burned the letter. He smiled as the flames singed his fingers. With any luck, the pain would add some force to his heartfelt plea to be free of her.

Seconds later, he knew it was no use. He might as well have cut out his own heart. He looked in the flames and saw Vicki’s mischievous smile. There was no way of banishing that presence and there was probably no way of using new partners to tart up a relationship that had gone sour. And just splitting up with people didn’t work, either. How often had he done that, just to spend years yearning after the rejected partner? They would have to stumble on somehow, even if a little ghost called Vicki was here to stay, lodged somewhere deep in his heart where other idealised spirits dwelt.

It was so stupid to compare a living woman like Amanda with a fantasy figure. It was even stupider to be a slave to someone who didn’t exist. He looked at the leafless trees preparing to endure another long, hard wait for spring and tried not to empathize too much with these gnarled old survivors. Then he ground the remaining ashes of the letter into dust and went home to a real woman called Amanda.