Playing Away from Home

As a teenager, I was spectacularly unattractive. I'd worn glasses since primary school days and my mother always chose frames that were the height of fashion, thirty years ago. I had a pasty complexion which, rather than tanning, turned beetroot red at any sign of the sun. And, I was a late developer, the pale skinny kid with the flat chest. I got used to being overlooked, invisible.

I didn't start to fill out until my late teens, by which time I had turned my attention to my studies and given up on boys. So, it was quite a revelation when I started to attract their attention at university. I had kept my slender waist, whilst my hips and bust had both swelled. I started using bronzing powder and switched to contact lenses. However, the boys, or at least the ones I dated, just wanted to get inside my knickers before dumping me. Maybe I was just too eager to please.

I met Andrew during my second year. I was in the throes of another bruising break-up, and I was looking for something more stable and long-term. He was tall and well built. He wasn't noisy or flashy like the others, but gentle and romantic. He was studying law and his conversation reflected that, careful and measured.

His passions were his studies and football. He didn't play himself. However, every weekend that his beloved "Gunners" were at home he would go to watch. I say watch, but he took me along once, and I was shocked at the change which overtook him. He suddenly started screaming abuse at everyone: the opposition, their fans and particularly the referees. And then, as soon as we left the ground, he reverted to the kind courteous boyfriend from before. When I asked him about it, he grinned and said it was what you did at football matches. I guess it was his way of releasing repressed aggression.

He took his time courting me, which was beautiful, despite all the ribbing I got from my flatmates. He was tender and chivalrous, not wanting to plunge in as soon as he could. We even went to introduce each other to our respective parents. We were dubbed "the solid serious couple".

As expected, Andrew graduated with a first-class honours degree. He was sponsored for his legal practice course by one of the "Magic Circle" firms, with the prospect of a training contract to follow. I got an upper second-class. I wanted to go into journalism, but the only offers I received were internships at local rags in the sticks. I didn't want to be apart, so I accepted a place on a one-year teacher training course in London. That summer we moved into a flat together.

Looking back, it was an idyllic time and probably the happiest I had ever been. We were both working hard towards a shared goal. I put a lot of effort into my course, though it was nothing compared to Andrew's exertions. He was driven. I started to realise how ambitious he was. Our lives settled into a hardworking routine. At the end of his course, he was offered a training contract whilst I took up a position in an inner-city high school, teaching English.

Andrew proposed to me later that autumn. In our usual sensible manner, we decided to get married at the end of his contract, when hopefully he would get a permanent position. The training was split into four six-month seats in different departments of the firm. His first had been based in London, but the second was in Paris. Whilst this sounded glamourous, we knew that it would involve the same crushing pressure of work. I was apprehensive about his absence. In the event, it ran from March to September so I was able to join him during the easter, spring bank and summer holidays. And, of course, he came back to watch the football, whenever he could.

His last placement was in corporate law in the City. Andrew said that this was the most profitable section, and the most competitive. Permanent positions were offered at the end of the contract and I could see him getting more and more anxious as the time approached. Then, one Tuesday, he came home to report excitedly, that the senior partner wanted to take us both out to dinner on Friday evening.

'Does that mean you've got a permanent job?' I ask eagerly.

'No, it's a kind of final interview. There's a lot of client entertaining in the corporate section, so I guess you're being sounded out as well. He'll be assessing your social skills and how supportive you are. Perhaps you could get a new outfit?'

'Do I need one?'

'Well, we need to show that we can fit into the corporate crowd. I'll be wearing my pinstripe suit and a dress shirt. Maybe a black cocktail dress and a pair of heels to promote yourself?'

I am never one for dressing up, yet I know how important this is to him. I don't want to do anything which might blow his chances. I find a sleeveless, knee length dress in chiffon with a draped cowl neckline. It is gathered at the waist and has a graceful flowing skirt, accentuating my figure. I also get a pair of black court shoes with a three-inch heel. Andrew is quite impressed when I model them.

It's a boutique restaurant, close to a tube station three stops away. We set off in good time, just in case. It is actually easy to find down a quiet side street and we arrive there early. It's a warm summer evening, so we're wondering whether to hover outside when Andrew spots his boss already sitting at the reception bar.

'He seems to be on his own,' I point out.

'Yes, apparently he's recently divorced,' he murmurs, holding the door open.

I would guess that the partner is in his mid-forties, just a little younger than my father. He's tall and slim and dressed formally. He gets to his feet to greet us, complementing me on my outfit. I think we all look rather monochrome, as if we had just stepped out of a movie from the fifties.

After the introductions we're ushered into a semiprivate booth at the rear. 'I hope you like fish,' he remarks. 'This place has an excellent reputation for its seafood.' I choose a cured monkfish starter with seabass to follow and we share a bottle of sauvignon blanc. The food is delicious, but nerve racking. Apart from wanting to avoid dropping any from my shaking fork, I don't want to be caught with a question, mid-mouthful.

Naturally, most of the talk is about the office and how Andrew thinks he would fit in. His boss keeps eye contact while listening to his answers. However, when he includes me in the conversation, asking about my career and promotion prospects, his gaze occasionally flicks over my bosom, lingering a heartbeat too long, making me feel slightly uncomfortable.

We skip dessert and finish with coffee. As we part on the pavement outside, the partner's embrace is again, a little too prolonged. Andrew doesn't appear to notice, so I don't mention it. He thinks the evening had gone pretty well and is quite upbeat the following week. However, when he comes home on the following Friday, he kicks out at the fridge door. Something is clearly wrong.

'What's the problem?' I ask.

He shakes his head. 'Did the partner say anything to you last weekend?'

'No, well only what you heard at the table.'

'He called me into his office this afternoon and offered me a position.'

'That's great!' I exclaim.

'But there's a condition.' He pauses. 'He said he found you very attractive and he wants to spend the night with you.'

'You mean an evening?'

'No. He wants to sleep with you.'

I was horrified. 'He can't,' I blurt out.

'And, he insists that I watch.'

'What! What sort of sick depravity is that? Have you told HR?'

'He'll just deny it. He will claim that I'm making it up because I'm not going to be offered a position.'

'He can't do that,' I protest.

'If we don't, I'll have to leave when my training contract finishes at the end of the month.'

'He won't force us do it,' I argue. 'He knows how good and conscientious you are. I'm sure you'll get the job without us having to agree to that.'

'Are you sure? There are a lot of talented young lawyers in the firm and not enough positions for all of us.'

We eat dinner in silence. I don't think either of us can remember what we had, as we both wrestle with the bombshell thrown at us. Was my dress too provocative? I don't think any of my comments could have been misinterpreted. There must be some other way out, though I can't think of one. Andrew's mood gradually worsens over the next few days as other appointments are announced.

Oddly, the proposition has stirred a curiosity, even wildness, in me. I had had other lovers before meeting Andrew but, of course, none since. Although I had met his boss, it was only the once, so I would be having sex with a relative stranger. And Andrew would be there as a voyeur. I try to ignore the emotional attachments and rationalise that it would just be a carnal act, for one night only.

However, I realise that it is a greater issue for Andrew. I can sense his anguish as his ambition struggles against the thought of watching me with another man. And if we do consent, it's final; it can't be undone afterwards. I don't think either of us are able to foresee how it would affect our future lives. By the end of the week, we have decided to call his bluff and just sit it out.

On the last Friday of his placement, Andrew comes home in a foul mood. He slams the door shut. 'The partner called me into his office this afternoon,' he snaps. 'He thanked me for my contribution to the firm and said he would give me a good reference. He gave me his card and told me to contact him if we changed our minds.' He swore. 'So, I'm out.'

I hate seeing him this angry and miserable. 'Look,' I sigh, 'I've thought about it and I'm prepared to do it. It won't change my love for you. It would just be a physical thing. Nevertheless, I understand that it is a much bigger deal for you and, in the end, it has to be your decision.'

We don't talk about it again that weekend. In fact, we don't talk about anything. It dominates our thoughts entirely. We sit silently, in opposite corners of the flat, determined to ignore the elephant in the room. Finally, on Sunday evening, he states that if I'm still willing, he'd accept it.

'Are you certain?' I ask. 'I'm sure we can get by until you manage to find another job.'

'None of the other law firms will take me. There's nothing else out there. We can't afford for me to be out of work. No, I've decided.'

When I get back from school on the Monday, Andrew is slouched in the battered leather armchair. 'I rang Julian this morning and I told him we'd do it,' he tells me gravely. I reach for his hand and gaze into his eyes trying to read the turmoil inside. I am apprehensive, and yet, somehow prurient.

'We're to go round to his place next Saturday at eight, you'll spend the night with him and we'll leave in the morning'

'And you will get the appointment afterwards?'

'Yes. He said it would be released on the Monday when I go back in.'

There doesn't seem to be anything else to discuss. The days drag by with Andrew kicking his heels at home. In the evenings, when we would normally chat about our day, we sit in front of the television watching something mindless until we can go to bed. It puts a stop to any intimacy between us.

On Saturday morning, Andrew says he needs to take his mind off it and says he's going to meet the lads and watch the game. I'm pleased to get him out from under my feet. I start to tidy the flat so we won't be met by yet another mess on our return. As I'm pushing the vacuum cleaner around, there's a knock at the door. By the time I open it, they've gone and there is a brown paper parcel on the floor of the hallway. When I unwrap it, there's a matching black bra, thong and suspender belt, together with a pair of sheer stockings. I read the accompanying note. "Wear these tonight. You have an appointment at 1pm. for a full wax and hair styling at your local salon."

I'm shocked. I'm not used to being told what to do or wear. It's very controlling. I lay the items out on the bed. The thin straps and lace material won't hide anything at all. Can I actually parade myself in front of him in those? I question whether he really found me attractive, or am I just a mannequin for a fantasy that he's trying create? Nevertheless, I decide to go along with it for Andrew's sake.

I pick up a sandwich as I walk to the hairdressers. I've never had body hair removed before. They usher me into a private room at the rear. I'm wearing a loose dress so I only have to remove my panties before hopping up onto the table. It's quick yet painful. I'm really sore afterwards even though they apply a liberal dollop of soothing lotion.

Back in the salon, I explain that I want to completely alter my appearance for the night. The stylist suggests some clip-in extensions and passes me a glossy brochure of different styles. I eventually select the loose shoulder-length curls, a far cry from my easy-care ponytail. She finds a good match for my brunette colour with some chestnut highlights.

I'm surprised how quickly the hair weaves are attached and, once they have been styled, what a drastic change they make. I sit up and look in the mirror. I'm really impressed. I hardly recognise the wide-eyed celebrity staring back.

Once at home, I have a bath and change into the underwear. After adjusting a couple of straps, the lingerie actually fits quite comfortably. I then hide it all under a white blouse and black pencil skirt. I sit down at my dressing table to put on my makeup, and decide not to wear any jewelry, other than my engagement ring.

Andrew gets in about an hour later. He does a double take as he comes through the door. 'Wow.' His face brightens. However, he then realises that my efforts are only indirectly for his benefit. I ask about the football, and this only darkens his mood further. We have a light meal in silence, each of us surreptitiously checking the time.

Eventually we glance at each other and, without speaking a word, put our coats on. It is a disconcerting feeling walking out with Andrew, knowing that I am going to get fucked by his boss. The anticipation makes my heart beat faster. The senior partner's house is two tube rides away in a much leafier suburb. It's dark by the time we arrive and the security lights blind us as we walk up the drive. I stand behind Andrew on the doorstep as he rings the bell.

'You've come,' his boss greets us, throwing the door wide. He is dressed more casually tonight in an open-necked shirt and a pair of beige chinos. 'I still wasn't sure if you would.' I follow Andrew inside, smiling ruefully as we hand him our coats. 'Wow. You've let your hair down. You look devastating,' he flatters. I try not to flinch as he hugs me. 'Please go through,' he waves towards the living room door. The room is filled with deep armchairs and couches. There is a large television screen across one wall and an extensive drinks cabinet on the other.

Let's have a drink to get things started,' he smiles as we perch uncomfortably amongst the cushions. He brings out a chilled pitcher of mojito and pours it into three straight sided tumblers. 'Cheers,' he toasts, settling into the armchair opposite. He starts to exchange pleasantries about the weather and sport, although I notice he steers clear of football.

I take a moment to look at him properly, not just as Andrew's boss. He isn't hard to look at, which makes me wonder why he has to force himself on women. He's a similar height to my fiancé, just under six foot, but leaner. His black hair is starting to grey at the temples. He has an aquiline nose with deep-set beady eyes. As the small talk dries up, he turns directly to me, unblinking; like a raptor eyeing up its prey. 'Time to go up to our love nest,' he announces.

I glance at Andrew who returns the slightest of nods. Julian wraps a proprietorial arm around my waist and I allow myself to be led upstairs. The décor and lighting in the master bedroom are subdued and seductive. There's some mellow music playing, a slow beat with a rather plaintive female voice in a minor key.

The room is dominated by a king-size bed, or perhaps it's my preoccupation that gives me that impression. It's covered in a white satin sheet, tightly stretched. Ominously, the duvet and pillows are piled on the floor in the corner. I stand at its foot, my hands clasped in front of me, while Andrew is shown to a Kennedy chair in the corner opposite. I'm trembling, a mixture of apprehension and nerves. I hear Julian's soft tread as he sidles up behind me.

'Have you looked at your fiancée recently Andrew, really studied her?' he asks, sliding his arm around my waist. 'She's absolutely gorgeous. You really should appreciate her stunning figure.' He takes me in a ballroom hold and starts to circle with me in front of him. I try to keep step, feeling terribly self-conscious. 'Give him a twirl,' Julian instructs, releasing my waist and raising his arm so I can pirouette beneath.

'Let's see what you've got under here.' He gives a tight thin smile. His hungry eyes undressing me before he even starts. He turns me to face Andrew and reaches round to work down the front of my blouse; slipping the buttons open, one by one. He pulls it out of the waist band and, drawing the two halves apart, slowly slides it from my arms.

'Splendid! That bra pushes your tits up and emphasises your cleavage perfectly.' He runs his fingers along the swelling of my breasts. 'What do you think, Andrew?' He remains silent.

Julian unhooks the fastening at the back of my skirt and unzips it. I have to wiggle so he can tug it down over my hips. Andrew's eyes widen at the sight of me in the new underwear. I carefully step out of the skirt. His boss retrieves it and, with my blouse, places them on a chest of drawers.

'God, you look magnificent in that lingerie,' he remarks. 'Stockings are so erotic, don't you think? Give us another twirl.' I slowly swivel with my arms held firmly across my chest. 'Oh no, with your hands behind your back.' He rotates a forefinger in the air, directing me to turn another full circle. I pivot in front of them, just in my underwear, holding their undivided attention.

'Doesn't she look sexy?' Julian asks. 'OK, loose the bra.' I gulp. I can feel his fingers fumbling with the fastening. The flimsy garment slumps forward. He eases the straps from my shoulders, and then slowly lowers the cups. I cross my arms to cover my breasts as best I can.

'Come on,' he whispers. 'We want to see those titties.' I slowly lower my hands. 'Wow!' he applauds. 'What an adorable pair. They're so full and firm with nipples like pink rosebuds.' He slides his hands underneath and lifts and squeezes them to make my nipples protrude further. 'You're a very lucky man, Andrew.'

I blush, resisting the urge to cover up again. Andrew looks anything but lucky. I can sense his growing agitation. The whites of his knuckles show as he clenches the arms of the chair. Julian is using me to taunt and bait him. He is playing a power game; asserting his dominance; taking someone else's woman. And we've agreed to it.

Julian is jostling my breasts and begins to roll the nipples between his fingers and thumbs. Despite my embarrassment, I am starting to get aroused by his titillating games, knowing what is to come.

'Turn around and bend over while I pull your thong down.'

I slowly lower myself over the chest of drawers while he gets down on one knee as if about to propose. He runs his thumbs around the thin waistband, separating it from the garter belt. He then stretches it over my cheeks and peels it down my legs.

'Just look at those plump outer lips,' he exclaims, 'and that bubble butt.' He gives it a sharp smack.

I feel degraded and humiliated. I stand up and, covering my sex with my hands, turn to face him again. He shakes his head. I remove my hands without him having to ask. Andrew's jaw drops as he sees my bare pussy for the first time.