I can hear the tap tap tap of a razor on a wash basin.  Its distinctive sound resonates off the cold tiled wall of a bathroom somewhere behind the closed bedroom door.

Gingerly I open one eye and begin to explore my unfamiliar surroundings, and instantly tiny, fragmented memories from last night slowly begin to slide into place.  They form a disjoined and potentially ruinous story, a jigsaw puzzle where all the framework is in place, but those intricate key pieces that complete the whole picture are missing.

The bright morning sun illuminates the cream cotton material of the closed curtains, its glimmer shimmering around the edges of the wall, and cutting through the narrowest of gaps, creeping across the carpet and over the bedsheets.  Shards of light dance playfully in the air, catching the dust particles in its glow.

A dark blue suit jacket is hanging over the back of a chair in the corner; the trousers are on the floor along with a plain white t-shirt.  Turning onto my back, my head sinks into the pillow and I stare up despondently at the ceiling, conscious of what I have done, despairing that I have allowed it to happen.

I am naked, that much is obvious.  My right hand wanders across my left breast, my middle finger skating around the sensitive pale pink areola, immediately causing my skin to pimple and the nipple to react, feeling it harden to my touch.

I sense the truth even before it is confirmed and feel the enormity of this moment in my soul.  So it is with a huge degree of apprehension that I allow my hand to travel further down, feeling the hardened crust clinging to my stomach and the precisely trimmed triangle of pubic hair.  I lift the covers to investigate, feeling repulsed by my actions, my senses invaded by the unmistakably pungent scent of stale, spent sperm on my skin.

The only item of clothing that remains is the black, patterned hold-ups that cling to my legs.  I have a vague memory of him being insistent.  ‘Him’ being the apt word, because as yet I don’t yet have a name, only a sketchy image in my mind.

That’s right, I slept with a man whose name I can’t remember, that is if I was ever told it to begin with, and whose face remains a mystery.  You can judge me all you like but it won’t make me feel any worse than I do already.

Again I hear the repetitive tap tap tap of blade on the white ceramic.  I am in a bedroom, that much is clear, but whose it is and where we are, evade me.  My short, backless black dress lies in a heap on the floor near the dressing table.  My underwear, black bra and thong lie discarded beside it.  My mouth is dry through a combination of dehydration and guilt.

There is this failing that lies dormant; I have no control over it, it has always been there inside me.  It is a destructive, deceitful gene that I have unfortunately inherited from my mother.

My parents have an unconventional marriage.  On the surface, they appear to be the very model of traditional, upper-class conservatism, but there is a rough desire within my mother that has made it complicated.  My father is caught in a no-man’s land, utterly besotted by the woman whom he loves, the same woman who tortures him.  He is an unenthusiastic accomplice.

She always saw something of herself in me, the reckless decision-making, the impulsive and volatile relationships.  She made that crystal clear, although her timing could have been better.

It was a blunt assessment of my character in my parents’ bedroom on my wedding day.  I was standing in front of the ancient, antique mirror that has been passed down through the generations.

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking back at my reflection.  I was wearing the full regalia, the wedding dress, the matching veil, the something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue.  She really does know how to pick her moments.

It was the eleventh hour, and a white Rolls Royce was parked outside in the courtyard for her and the bridesmaids, while a 1920s Beauford waited to drive my father and me the short journey through the village to the family church.  My father was downstairs waiting patiently with two glasses of Macallan malt whisky, a family tradition.

“I know you, Samantha, you are so very much like me.  He’s perfect, he’s handsome, successful and rich.  He will make a wonderful husband and father, but it won’t be enough, it never is, and it will end in scandal.  There is something in people like you and me that can tear marriages apart.  I fear the difference between David and your father is that your father tolerates my failings and dalliances but I’m not sure David will be quite so understanding.  It takes a special man to put their own ego to one side and comply.  To agree to the position of cuckold and all that it entails.”

I knew exactly what she was referring to, but to hear her say it openly, and speak about my father in such derogatory terms, was wretched.  Despite the fact that she knew that I had witnessed their arrangement all those years ago, she had chosen not to engage me about it.  Which made her timing, on today of all days, all the more amusing.

It was an accidental and unforeseen circumstance. If I hadn’t had a petty quarrel with Martha, then I would have been at her house with the birthday club. A little gang who’s birthdays fell between the eleventh and and the nineteenth of December. We always had a party together after the Christmas and new year celebrations had faded away. This would have been the seventh get together, marking our sixteenth birthdays.

So I should have been happily chomping away on pizza, and a sneaky glass of the bubbly that Martha’s parents had left us.. Instead, I had stormed out like a spoiled child and walked the two miles of country lanes in the dark, arriving back at our isolated Jacobean home unannounced, and at least fifteen hours earlier than expected.

The unfamiliar old black Mercedes that was parked at the rear of the house should have raised suspicions, as should the eerie atmosphere that greeted me when I opened the back entrance which led into the kitchen.

The house was in darkness, all the downstairs lights were turned off, with only the outside porch light providing a dull illumination of the entrance hall.  Music was playing softly from my father’s study; jazz, the twisting, turning melody floating on the still air of the empty rooms.

Nothing could have prepared me for what was about to occur, and without being overly dramatic, the happenings over the course of the next thirty minutes would change my relationship with my parents and to an extent my view on sex and relationships in general.

I was halfway up the central staircase when I heard a voice that I didn’t recognise.  It was a man, and to my young ears, the way he spoke to my parents sounded intimidating and slightly aggressive.  The man was educated; the words he chose to use were precise and barbed.

I was too young at the time to realise, but this was all part of the game.  Much later I would meet him, and he would give his version of events, explain the terms of the arrangement, and his role in it.  He would tell me how it all began, how he was approached, and who it was who approached him.

Even after the years had passed and hadn’t been particularly kind to him, he contained a certain animal magnetism and a prurient intellect which, like my mother, I found impossible to reject.  It wasn’t my intention for anything to happen, I was only seeking clarity, but it would end with me responding just as submissively as my mother had.

“Are you wearing what I asked, Cathy?”  I was frozen on the seventh step, holding my breath.  No one ever called my mother Cathy; she hated it and was never slow at correcting anyone who dared to say it.  Tonight however it was strangely ignored.

“Of course.”

“So he has been a good little boy.  Did you make him trot off to the shops, or did he take the coward’s way out and order online?”

“Ask him.”

“Well?  Did you.”

“Yes.”  I still feel the same emotion as I did when I heard my father’s voice.  It didn’t really sound like him at all, he sounded down and dispirited.

“Well? What was it?  Were you a man or a sheep?”

“I went into town.  La Maison de l'érotisme on the high street.”

“Must have caused a stir.  I wonder who they thought you were buying it for, your mistress possibly?  I doubt very much that this scenario crossed their minds.  Well, let’s see, shall we?”

I summoned the courage to take another step, and then another until I was on the large sweeping, circular landing.  My parents’ bedroom was at the front of the house overlooking the courtyard; mine was opposite at the back.

I was a metre from my parents’ bedroom door.  It was slightly ajar, but I found that if I closed one eye, I could squint through the gap between the door frame and the hinged side of the door itself, giving me a clear view of one-quarter of the bedroom.

A pair of blue jeans were abandoned on the carpet, along with a pair of red socks and a black shirt.  My mother came into view from the right, standing at the foot of the bed.  She looked strange, wearing makeup that was unfamiliar, red lipstick, which was something that I had never seen her wear before.

There was a playful theatricality in her movements, as she slowly began to undress.  It wasn't some light-hearted burlesque show, there was an assured conviction in her movements.

The dress must have been chosen deliberately to titillate; black with a daringly plunging neckline, and buttons that ran from the bottom of the V to her waist.  With the release of each button, a little more of what she wore underneath was revealed.

As the dress finally pooled at her feet, she stood provocatively with her hands on her hips, wearing a black and pink basque with black knickers, stockings and suspenders.  From behind the door a naked man appeared, he kissed my mother on the lips then stood behind her facing the room and my father, with his hands cupping her full, plump breasts, his thumbs teasing the erect nipples that pushed through the thin material.

“Tell him why I’m here.  Tell me what you want me to do.”

“I want you … I want …” she hesitated, nervously tripping over her words, “I want him to do to me what you can’t.  I want his cock, Thomas, I want his big cock.”  Her head leaned back over her shoulder, her mouth excitedly opening to receive the man’s tongue.

His right hand snaked down her body, barely touching the fabric as it travelled. Passing the side of her breasts and over her hips, then moving across her stomach and down. I could see his knuckles working in circles, bulging against the sheer black gauze, and my mothers entranced, immersed reaction.

“Who’s a naughty girl?” He whispered in her ear, the tone barely audible.

“Mmm. I am.”

“Don’t you think she should be punished Thomas?” The question was met by a disconcerting silence, the only sounds that broke the friction of the moment was the distant ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs in the hall, my heart beating in my ears, and my mothers soft moans.

“Don’t you think…”

“Yes!” My father interrupted, maybe a pitch or two louder than he anticipated.

The man immediately withdrew his hand, placing his thumbs under the waistband of her knickers and with a degree of theatricality lowering the garment down to her knees, allowing gravity to do its work until they finally came to rest around her ankles.

My mother was then turned to face away from them, pushed down by her shoulders so that she knelt on the carpet at the foot of the bed. She was positioned so the top half of her body lay on the bed, her arms outstretched touching the edges of the mattress, her raised bottom draped over the foot. In a quite shocking and unceremonious act his hand then forcefully struck the meaty flesh of her exposed behind.

“Again!” Ordered the voice of my unseen father, making me wince as the man’s hand struck again, leaving a very clear, pink handprint on her left cheek.

“Harder!” He repeated, and this time the stranger walked towards the crumpled pair of jeans on the floor, yanking the brown leather belt from the loops on the waistband.

The sensation of seeing my prone mother being chastised, and her take very obvious pleasure from it sent a shiver through my body. I heard his footsteps as he strode back across the bedroom floor, coming back into my eye-line.

The sound of the cold leather snapping in his hands was new and merciless. The first slap drew a yelp from her lips, this was swiftly followed by a second and then a third. I wanted him to punish her, I wanted it to hurt, but there was something else which I hadn’t anticipated. I wanted to discover how it felt, I wanted to experience it for myself.

“Enough.” My father said after the forth blow had been administered, this time his voice was measured, his emotions in check.

“I think she’s ready, Thomas, don’t you?” the stranger sneered, “the only question is where does the fun begin. I’ll let you choose. In the sluts mouth, her cunt or her arse? Come and put my cock into her.”  Suddenly the frame of my father flashed across my line of sight.  There was a brief silent pause, and then I heard my mother exhale, long and deep.

Without warning, I heard heavy footsteps coming across the bedroom floor towards me and I quickly scurried backwards across the landing, following the banister, and into the safety of my bedroom.

The door was flung wide open, and my father emerged cutting a pitiful, forlorn figure, dragging his heels, his shoulders slumped.  He walked out on his own into the darkness of the landing, the light from the bedroom behind him silhouetting his frame, then down the stairs.  His face was flushed and difficult to read.  Whether it was anger, sadness or embarrassment, I barely recognised him.

The bedroom door was no longer a barrier, the light from inside cutting through the dark, creeping across the royal blue carpet and casting eerie shadows on the family portraits that hung from the walls. From my room, I had a clear view inside, the solitary hard-backed chair facing the bed, where my father had been sitting.  Where he would have watched his wife undress for another man.

I could see the bottom two feet of the bed, the sheets shifting and straining to remain in place.  Inching my way out of the security of my hidey-hole, I stood inside the rectangle of light, about a foot from the doorway, the door itself hiding me from them.

On the far wall was my mother’s dressing table, with the large ornate mirror perched on top.  In its reflection I could clearly see her, her body resting on her elbows, facing her image, head down, her hair brushing the bedclothes.

Behind her knelt the figure of a naked man, his head obscured, rising beyond the frame of the mirror, out of view.  His hands gripped my mother’s naked round white buttocks, her breasts, having been released from the restrictions of her underwear were swaying beneath her.

I must have stood there for only a few minutes, but in my bewildered state, it felt like a lifetime.  It was as if it were in slow motion, every frame of what was happening in front of me, captured in my mind for all eternity.

I remember what was said, their voices and the manner in which they spoke to each other.  The swapping of positions, my mother taking the man’s penis into her mouth, him crouching between her legs, his mouth causing her to clasp his hair tight in her hands, her eyes closed.

When it finally ended, it was urgent, breathless and violent.  And it was in the moment of what I now realise to be an intense, temporary paralysis, that her head raised slightly to meet her own gaze in the mirror.  Then I saw it, her misty eyes widening as she detected me standing behind her in the doorway.

There was this vague expression of disappointed irritation on her face, a recognition that I had caught her at her most private and vanquished.  I could see the self-conscious shame buried in her soul, aware that soon she was going to expose herself utterly but was powerless to stop the inevitable.

“I’m cumming,” she whined, the words released in one breath, her head shaking from side to side as if she was trying to blot me out.  Her voice quivered, but her gaze remained fixed.  It was difficult for me to know whether her declaration was aimed at her lover, herself, or me.  I later discovered that it was for the benefit of my father, who would sit at the foot of the stairs and listen.

“I’m cumming,” she said again.  I had never heard that expression before, but I recognised the entranced emotion in her voice.  It held the same intensity that I felt when I explored and experimented with myself.  Discovering the areas that gave me pleasure, and those specific zones that took me to the edge and beyond.

“I’m cumming on his cock.”  The words were spat with her eyes shut tight, her expression a mixture of pain and acute pleasure.  Revisiting the events of that night, I’ve often thought that she was somehow trying to convey to me the helplessness of her situation, that at my age I may be too young to understand, but no matter how inconceivably mortifying the next few minutes were going to be for her, there was nothing that she could possibly do to halt this impending onslaught.

“Fuck me.  Fuck me.  Fuck meee!”  Her voice shook uncontrollably with emotion, seemingly close to tears before her words became truly indecipherable.

I took two places back, out of the light and into the safety of the darkness so she could no longer see me.  I was totally transfixed by what was occurring inside my parents’ bedroom.

His hands cupped her breasts, pulling her back onto him.  The dark patch of pubic hair became visible as the man lay back on the bed with my mother sitting astride him, her body leaning back, her legs wide either side of his, his cock gliding in and out of her body.

I stood completely immersed in the grotesque scene playing out before me.  It was the combination of seeing my mother, normally the perfect picture of elegant society, allowing the mask to fall from her face and reveal the real personality underneath, any semblance of self-control lost in the pursuit of her own primal pleasure.

The other focus of my attention was the stranger’s genitalia.  I was still a virgin, with a very limited experience of the opposite sex.  In fact, at that time, the only encounter which readily comes to mind is a secluded fumble with the gardener’s son.

He was the first boy to kiss me, the first boy to explore inside my bra and touch my breasts.  So to observe this man skilfully reduce my mother to a physical and mental wreck consumed my curiosity.  It made me want to explore and experiment and to experience it for myself.

From the safety of a darkened corner, I heard the heavy breathing and sound of the bed as the man slid off and walked to where his clothes were piled, delving into the pocket of his jeans to retrieve a packet of cigarettes.  He placed two of the cigarettes in his mouth and lit them both at the same time, breathing in the nicotine, and then handed one to my mother.

He stood naked in clear view between the lines of the door frame.  His hair was black and unkempt, slightly thinning at the temples.  He wasn’t what I would describe as handsome, but he had a silent charisma that was absorbing.  Dark body hair covered his chest, thinning out to form a V-like shape pointing down at what was, I assume, the reason why he was there.

I couldn’t take my eyes off it.  I had never seen a penis before, not a live one.  I had seen them in magazines, and I once caught a brief glimpse as a man’s towel fell from his grasp on the beach at La Marenda on the Cote d Azur, but not one like this.

It was erect, jutting out at ninety degrees away from his groin, its size disproportionate when compared to the man’s lithe frame.  He had been circumcised, the meaty, dark pink head, engorged with blood glistened with a coating of my mother’s orgasm.

“Do you think it’s time we asked your husband to rejoin us?” he said, and again my mother giggled, joining him in clear view framed in the doorway.  She leaned in to kiss him on the lips, her left hand encircling his erect cock, rubbing its length.

“I think it’s only fair to put him out of his misery.  And my dear boy, this beast of yours looks like it’s in desperate need of relief.”

“I’m always a little confused.  Usually the husbands enjoy seeing their wives, it’s part of the deal, but yours…”

“He’s different. He’s not a competitor and he likes to use his imagination.  He’s more Radio Four than BBC One.”

“Message him,” he said, and I quickly scurried back towards the safety my bedroom and waited.  The two-pipped message tone echoed downstairs in the hall, signalling that he had received the text.

There was a large part of me that wanted him to charge up the stairs and confront this man, to stand up for himself, but that really isn’t in my father’s nature.

I’ve always felt this crushing lack of self-worth within him, a lack of achievement.  He inherited Dunsmoor Hall from his father, along with land amounting to seventeen thousand acres spread over four counties, but we are asset-rich and cash-poor.

This conundrum has defeated generations.  On the surface, we are the landed gentry, the masters of all we survey, but the bank balance, although healthy compared to many unfortunately doesn’t match the facade. Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

There was a sinking feeling in my heart as I watched him return, glass of whisky in his hand. Meekly standing behind the hard-backed chair that was positioned between the door frame, and very neatly, parallel to my bedroom.

It was the stranger who broke the tense silence.  His tone was deliberate and intimidating, his words carefully chosen.  It felt very much like my father was there to play the fool, to be humiliated.  My apprehension was only heightened by my mother, who rather than defend him, appeared to encourage him.  Again, later, I was to discover that this was all an act and a part of the game.

“Take off your trousers and pants,” the man ordered, and I watched as my father obediently did as asked.  As was his way, he neatly folded his trousers, placing them over the back of the chair, his white underpants on top.  He was naked from the waist down, looking slightly ridiculous given he was still wearing his shirt and tie, along with a pair of black socks.

“Now I realise why you use me,” the man chortled, seeing my half-naked father before him.  He sat in the chair, staring intently towards the bed and then began to masturbate.  His eyes were wide, observing what I couldn’t.

“Can you taste your cum on my cock, Cathy?”  Again, hearing the stranger use the abbreviation of my mother’s name spiked something in me.  It was deliberate, presumably an act of discourtesy used in an attempt to provoke, and it appeared that I wasn’t the only person who was agitated by his impertinence. A pitifully submissive annoyance was obvious in my fathers body language.

“Mmm, I can, and I can also taste you on my tongue.” I listened to the conversation while peering across the landing, watching my poor father masturbate in front of them, fully conscious of how utterly mortified he would be if he realised where I was.

I didn’t dare to take another step, fearing that I would be exposed, but I could hear what he was an audience to.  The choking gag of my mother as she sucked the stranger’s considerable cock, only occasionally surfacing to taunt my father.

“He's such an excellent find, a very talented boy, but you already know that don’t you?  He said that next time he’s going to bring a friend.  Would you like that?”  He pitifully raised his head and nodded.

“He would; how delicious.”  A period of near silence followed, where all I could see was my father staring attentively towards the bed and hear the occasional slurp and retch from my mother, and then a strained whine from her lover.

My mother came into view in the opening, standing naked over my father.  Her face flushed pink, her hair brushed back off her face, and her large breasts in line with his head.  Then in one movement she crouched at the knees and kissed him, before taking a step back.

“Your reward,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “now swallow.”  What happened next was instantaneous, following her final comment.  I watched him gulp, then I watched my father ejaculate, his sperm shooting into the air, and then landing on the carpeted floor at my mother’s feet.

“You’re going to have to change the sheets, Thomas, I’m afraid I made quite a mess.  We can’t have the staff knowing that you hired a cock for me to make up for your shortcomings.”

My name is Samantha Huntley.  I am twenty-nine years old, the only child of Thomas and Catharine Caulfield, the Duke and Duchess of Farringham.  The sole heiress to the Farringham estate and also the one who ends the legacy.  As a female the title will cease to be after my father dies, my parents’ failure to sire a male heir will see three hundred years of history come to an end.

Ten years ago, much to the embarrassment of the family, I unexpectedly found myself in the eye of a media storm.  A misjudged affair with a married rock star ended in the most excruciatingly public way when his wife unexpectedly arrived at their New York apartment.

Not only did she discover my clothes in the bedroom, but also the sex tape we had made.  The stupid man had not only had copies made and burnt onto DVD but left them in a stack beside the DVD player.

Her reaction was swift and brutal, immediately going on the offensive and telling her story to the world’s media, announcing the film’s existence.  I suspect she had no idea who the woman was with her husband or the scandal her actions were going to create.

She, like many others later, would have only seen a young nubile girl, swigging champagne from the bottle and using a rolled-up dollar bill to snort cocaine from the glass top of a coffee table.

The first I knew about this was when my father slammed his copy of The Telegraph down on the dining room table in front of me.  ‘Heiress in drug-fuelled sex film,’ screamed the headline.  In the coming weeks, the headlines and stories would become a lot more graphic.

The touch paper had been lit, and an obscene, and very public, bidding war between the world’s news agencies began, which itself kept my name on the front pages of the tabloid press for weeks.  All of them furiously fighting to buy the rights to the film of Zak Bailey, the lead singer of heavy rock band Bordello, and the blond heiress.

In the end it was an anonymous buyer from the Middle East who won the rights, which made the multiple injunctions that my family brought difficult to uphold. The final outcome was as undignified as it was inevitable, with the release of the much publicised thirty-seven-minute home movie becoming available to download on line at a price, along with thousands of choice clips freely obtainable on various porn sites.

The British press, of course, lapped it up, running a series of photo stories with the X-rated bodily parts inventively censored. I remember them using a cucumber to crudely hide Zak’s penis, and the head of an animated cat between my legs. This all culminated with me gaining the unattractive and unimaginative title of ‘Lady O,’ the sound which I apparently repeatedly shrieked while caught up in the passion of it all.

I was nineteen at the time, and about to go completely off the rails.  Zak on the other hand used his new-found notoriety to gain more female followers and sell over a million albums.  In a very short time, I had unintentionally gone from an obscure name with a aristocratic background, to a party animal and porn star.

The year that followed my unfortunate mistake, made me the darling of the paparazzi, with countless documented drunken nights cementing my reputation as the new IT girl, the image of me exiting a London bar or nightclub more than a little worse for wear, filled many tabloid column inches.

I married David Huntley three years ago and, as yet, we have no children, but we have been actively trying without luck for the last eight months.  Actually, last night was the first time that a man has fucked me while using protection since we stopped using contraception.

David is new money, a dotcom multimillionaire who quite brilliantly invested in fledgling internet companies at the outset but had the foresight to sell before the bubble burst. He is fifteen years my senior.

If you were to ask me what was going through my mind when I left the bar last night with this man, I couldn’t tell you.  Impetuosity, boredom, an unexpected opportunity to leap into the dark, or all of the above.

I was in L'évasion, one of London’s new, upmarket and ridiculously expensive bars, with my friends Gemma and Hazel.  We were celebrating Gemma’s birthday.  As usual, when we got together the drink had flowed, and this being my first real night out for a good while it seemed to affect me more than usual.

My memory is cloudy, but I do recall this figure at the bar.  He was on his own, smiling as we regaled the pub with a series of rowdy versions of Girls Aloud and McFly songs.  Gemma and Hazel left, leaving me as the only one to accept this man’s offer of a shot of tequila, the last gal standing.  That one shot turned into two, three, four or possibly more I lost count after the fourth one.

He was smartly dressed and smelt divine.  I remember him murmuring something in my ear that I didn’t understand, and then he kissed me on the neck.  It was spontaneous and it felt good.  I know I shouldn’t have, but I responded.  Something inside me embracing the freedom and insecurity that comes with the unknown.

That is where it should have ended; I should have pulled away and left him, but of course, I didn’t.  I can picture us leaving the bar, standing outside waiting for a taxi, his hand alternating between the small of my back and the curve of my bottom.

When we reached the apartment block, it was frenzied.  We breezed in through the front door and into the bedroom before either of us was fully aware of what was happening.  His lips on mine, his tongue in my mouth, my hands tugging at the belt on his trousers, slipping under the waistband of his boxers, feeling and finding his hard cock.

The fine details continued to slide into place, filling the gaps in my memory bank.  He, pushing me down onto my knees, my hands gripping the waistband of his trousers, accompanying me on my journey down.

My lips touched the swollen head of his exposed penis, my mouth automatically opening to let him in.  Feeling his hand on the back of my head pushing me towards him, controlling my breathing, slowly in and out, until my nose touched his soft pubic hair.

It was manic, his cock in my mouth, his fingers searching for the zip on the back of my dress. Pulling it down off my shoulders until it hung around my waist.  Then his hands under my bra, feeling my breasts, dismissively tearing it off over my head.

Nothing had been said; it was natural, both of us in sync, instinctively following a dark unmapped path.  In the light of day I may have huge misgivings concerning my actions, but that night he was all I wanted.

I was face down on the bed, my hips raised, his right hand reaching down between my legs, probing two fingers inside then expertly finding my most sensitive weak spot.

I could feel his erect cock, hard and hot on the bare skin of my bottom, brushing the crevice between.  Then in one movement he entered me, the hard head of his cock pushing through the slight resistance, pausing to allow my body to adjust and grow accustomed to his size, feeling the dominance in its density undoing me.

His mouth was pressed against my ear, his hot breath on my skin.  Supremely confident in his ability, accomplished enough to recognise the signs that I was his for the taking.

“You like?” he murmured, and I could sense a smirk in his tone.

“Mmm…yes.”

“When you met me, did you know that it would end like this?”

“No.”

“Then you’ve hit the jackpot. Was it planned. When you left your husband this evening, did you want to end the night fucking another man?”  This was just a reminder that he had the audacity to say things that made me close my eyes and shudder.  It also says a lot about his fearless belief in his ability.

“No.”

“No what?  No as in I didn’t think this would happen, or no, you want me to stop.”  I knew exactly which answer he wanted to hear, and although he was giving me every possible opportunity to back out, I knew what I was going to say.

“Don’t stop.”  My head was buried in the softness of the pillow, but my thoughts somehow conjured up my mother, her weakness is now mine.

“I want to be absolutely clear on this. What do you want?” I could feel his body heat on my back, pressing me down. His cock slowing moving inside me while his fingers toyed with my clitoris.

“I want…just keep doing that…oooh … oh my god. I want you to fuck me with your big hard cock.”  My words probably came out as desperate, inaudible mumbles.  I hoped that he could read my mind, hoped that he could understand what I wanted.  I didn’t seek love, I just wanted to be treated as the person that I was, I wanted it hard, and I wanted him to use me.  I was wholly prepared to do whatever he wanted and let him fuck me as many times as he wished.

On the carpeted floor near a wastepaper basket, lay a selection of discarded, multicoloured condom foil wrappers, a reminder if one was needed.  Thankfully, unlike me he’d had the presence of mind to think of protection. It was actually frightening to think that not once did this cross my mind.  The repercussions, given where I was in my current menstrual cycle, are too horrific to even contemplate.

The now-familiar tap tap tap of his razor on the basin broke my reverie, drawing me back into the bedroom, and making me realise that it wasn’t a fantasy.  The desire for caffeine and clarity was calling, and no matter how unpalatable the outcome may be, I knew that the answers lay beyond that bedroom door.