A thick fog had descended on us.  It came creeping off the Thames at dusk and now clung to every corner of the city, still and unmoving.  It was Saturday night, October 31st, Halloween.  I was sitting in the back of a black Mercedes Benz, wearing a black tuxedo with a black flash drive hidden in the heel of my right shoe.  I was nervous and I could hear my heart beating hard in my chest while all the time there was a constant pang of doubt shivering in my bones.  According to Gemma, my part in this espionage was simple.

“Okay,” she said, “so the kitchen is on the lower ground floor, and in the left corner is a storeroom.  Place the flash drive between the tins of sweetcorn on the second shelf on the right.  I’ll collect it from there and then return it when I’m done for you to pick it back up.  Have you got that?”  She made it all sound so easy and straightforward, but what nobody took into consideration was that I’m no James Bond or Ethan Hunt, and at that point, I was shitting myself.

The car stopped on Wharf road, a short walk between a restaurant and a busy pub leading to Caledonian Square with the three-story Admiralty house standing dark and lifeless in front of me.  I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but the cold, unlit building looked empty and almost abandoned.

I had been given a short set of instructions that would allow me to gain access.  It all sounded a bit bizarre, but at the same time quite precise.  Three knocks on the door and then the password to whoever answered.

I walked up the impressive set of stone steps towards the closed front door, knocked three times and waited.  After a short pause, a man’s face appeared as he slid open a peephole and stared at me.  His bald head was large, and he had wide, humourless eyes.

“El,” I stumbled, “El Diablo?”  I felt a little foolish and waited for someone to start laughing, but it worked, open sesame, the front door opened, and I was welcomed inside.  The drill was well rehearsed and precise.  They patted me down and handed me a black plastic coin with the number 39 embossed on it in gold gothic type, along with a numbered, see-through bag in which I was asked to put my phone.  These were taken from me and locked away in an area behind a counter.

Walking into the high-ceilinged reception room, I could hear music drifting towards me from behind a set of huge, closed double doors.  I recognised it as some kind of jazz.  There was a Jewish family that once lived two doors away from us when I was very young, and the father played the clarinet in a Yiddish band.  The way the saxophone and clarinet swirled and swayed reminded me very much of listening to them play.

Two women stood at the entrance; both were wearing identical uniforms, namely black lacy bodysuits with the top part missing and exposing their large breasts, and they had matching stockings and suspenders.  Their smiles were false, their mouths wide, revealing white teeth but their eyes gave them away, showing a contempt which, knowing the people that they are having to service and the imaginable discourtesy that comes with it, was understandable.

They offered me a glass of champagne from a silver tray, which although I accepted, I had no intention of drinking, or at least not yet.  That night I knew I was going to have to keep my head clear; there was a plan and a clear set of instructions that I couldn’t allow myself to lose sight of, unlike the last time when I was amongst this company with my senses dulled by the effects of cocaine and alcohol.  They handed me a gold and black masquerade mask, which I clipped around my head, covering my eyes and nose.

So how did I get here I hear you ask.  That is the question that I had been asking myself for the previous twenty-four hours.  The answer begins with a chance meeting in Chantoiseau, a classy and expensive French restaurant just off St Martin’s Lane.  I was meeting Max for lunch who had invited me for two reasons.  The first was to see how I was recovering and the second was to find out if I was still interested in being involved in his project.  It went well, enjoying a relaxed lunch over a bottle of wine where we planned it to begin in the new year as I was leaving for America in early January.

I ended up sitting on my own as Max had left for a meeting.  He had an investment in some musical about the founding fathers of America, but I couldn’t see it catching on, to be honest.  A group of women walked past my table, and towards the back was a woman in a cream-coloured dress, fixed at the front with blue buttons and a matching long blue jacket.  She first looked down at the table and then across at me and did a wild and strangely amusing double take as she recognised me.  It was Eve.

She didn’t say a word but continued to walk with the others towards the exit.  About three minutes later, just as I was also planning to leave, she returned, sitting opposite me in the chair recently vacated by Max and picking up the empty bottle of Malbec and tapping it with her finger.

“Any good?” she asked, and I shrugged a reply.  I didn’t really know if it was good or not, not having a huge experience with red wine, but going by the glass that I drank and the price on the menu, it was fine.  She grinned at my indifference and gained the waitresses’ attention by holding up the bottle in the air.  “You didn’t call.”

“Well, I was kinda detained.  Perhaps you heard.”

“I did.  I must apologise on behalf of my husband, he has quite the spiteful side when riled.  I find it vaguely flattering in a medieval kind of way that he feels I need him to protect my honour, but I’m quite capable of making my own choices.”

“I can’t blame him really; I guess it was the result of having to watch your wife fuck another man.”  Unfortunately, those last four words were unintentionally spoken just as the waitress returned with the wine.  She didn’t say a word, trying to remain professional whilst inside she must have been bursting, her expression a mixture of intrigue and humour.

I watched her as she popped the cork and poured a drop of red wine into Eve’s glass for her to taste, her eyes quickly dancing between the bottle, Eve and me.  Eve remained cool, nodding her approval, and we both watched the waitress leave.  I imagine that she scampered back into the kitchen to spread the gossip.  “How’s that working out by the way, was it worth it?”

“As humiliating as it was for him at the time, it has borne fruit.  Maybe you heard he’s now a Knight Bachelor.  I understand you are moving on?” she said, changing the subject.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here actually, ironing out the details.  I leave in the New Year.  How did you know that?”

“I hear all sorts of information, some directly, some not.  I heard you were connected in some way to that old pervert Max Liebermann and that you were leaving for America to become a gigolo.  I overheard Nickolas talking on the phone, but at least there is one person who is happy to see you leave, overjoyed in fact.”

“I bet he is.  Still holding a grudge?”

“Absolutely.”  People say that it is the eyes that give you away, ‘the eyes are the window to the soul’ but I think it goes deeper than that, it’s buried behind the pupil into their very core.

The instant that she sat down opposite me I could sense it; it was like an invisible aura, and I could sense the purpose as hard as she tried to bury it beneath the questions and casual conversation, but it was there, the true intention.

It was just after five o'clock when we made to leave, with her holding on to my arm as the effect of a very long lunch began to take hold.  She called a cab from the table to take her to her apartment in Kensington, and despite the fact that I was going in completely the opposite direction, asked me to travel with her.

It was a four-mile journey, which in any normal city shouldn’t take longer than thirty minutes, but this was central London on a Friday evening.  The driver immediately informed us that a group of protesters had glued themselves to the tarmac on Westminster bridge causing its closure and the knock-on effect was that the city was gridlocked.  He estimated that it was going to take us over an hour to get there, which wasn’t going to be cheap.

We had barely reached Trafalgar Square when I felt her hand on my knee, creeping up my trouser leg.  I leaned back into the hard, unforgiving black seats of the taxi, not responding to her touch, my hands remaining steadfastly at my side.  This was a public place remember, the driver was less than four feet away on the other side of the glass partition with pedestrians and cyclists passing by the closed, rear windows.  The inside of the cab may have been in darkness, but if anyone wanted to pry they could easily see two people inside.

The other issue, as her hand progressed up the inside of my leg, was one of trust.  Was she likely to place me in a compromising position and then accuse me of something?  Her hand came to rest on the right-hand side of my groin, in tailor speak the side I dressed, the side which currently had her hand feeling the outline of my penis through the material of my trousers.

“What are you doing?” I whispered, even though it was obvious, and to my surprise, her answer was too.  As silently as she dared so as to not arouse suspicion, she slowly inched the zipper down and reached inside.

“Isn’t it obvious?  I am feeling your cock, mister Potter,” she mumbled, biting her lower lip, “l am feeling this infamously big cock of yours.  The focus of all the turmoil, the object that causes husbands such pain and wives such pleasure.”  Her head lowered, devouring me into her warm soft mouth, her tongue swirling around the crown.  I reached into the left-hand pocket of my jacket, retrieved my phone and pressed record.  If this did indeed go the way I feared, then I was going to need evidence.

“What do you want me to do?” I mumbled and watched as she rose up so that her mouth was level with my head, her sweet, wine-flavoured breath breathing into my ear.

“Nothing.  I don’t want you to do anything, just sit there and let me use you.”  There was a slight thud as her knees ungraciously hit the taxi cab’s rubber-matted floor, making me look through the closed glass in the direction of the driver.  If he had heard then he was being very secretive, although I did see him adjust his rear-view mirror.

My uncle Charlie is a London cabbie.  I remember him telling stories of the people he had had in his taxi over the years.  There was a famous British actress he picked up one night in the West End.  He was telling the story because she had just been made a Dame in the new year’s honours.

“Didn’t look like a lady with those black guys in the back of my cab a few years ago,” he began, which received guffaws of laughter from the men and a chastisement from my mother, the result of which led to all the men leaving the front room for the kitchen for him to continue.

Uncle Charlie is a great storyteller and joke-teller for that matter.  Many’s the time I’ve watched him hold court, thrilling his audience with a tale or two.  I must have been about eight and on this occasion, I watched unseen from the doorway.

“Picked her up outside the Garrick theatre on Shaftesbury avenue,” he said, taking a long swig from the bottle of beer, “she was going back to her hotel with these two black guys, big boxer types.  We hadn’t gone a hundred yards when I heard them.  She was kissing one while the other had his hand up her skirt.  Soon she was laid out on the back seat, and she had one in her mouth while the other was giving her one.

By the sound of it, he was giving her more than she was used to, moaning out loud, telling them she wanted it harder, telling them to fuck her in the arse.  Anyway, I often thought about that when she was playing the Queen on the telly, all airs and graces, but no one knew what she was really like.  When I dropped them off, one of the guys hands me a ton to keep me quiet.  I winked at him and said that I didn’t know what he meant, and then they walked off.  Thing is, nothing happens in the back of a London cab without the driver knowing.”

So, with Uncle Charlie’s words in my head, I was fully aware that as Eve knelt between my legs with my cock in her mouth, the driver of this taxi has one eye on the road with the other most definitely on the activities on his back seat.  Not that we were going very far, but London was well and truly at a standstill, and we were moving at a snail’s pace.

Reaching over her back I began to pull at her dress, sliding it up over her legs and gathering it around her waist to reveal a delicate pair of what I imagined to be ridiculously expensive dark blue knickers, the blue I must add highlighted a meticulous eye for detail bordering on ADHD matched her jacket, drawing the material together so it resembled a thong, to present her pale white bottom to the driver - call it a tip.

“I imagine your underwear matches as well?” I teased.

“What self-respecting girl would leave home with odd-coloured underwear, as mother always said, ‘always be prepared for every eventuality.’”

“Give them to me.”

“What?”

“Take off your knickers and give them to me.”  I watched her lean back on her heels, reaching under the dress, all the time staring into my eyes.

“No one pays what I did for these to call them knickers, darling, knickers are so Marks and Spencer, these panties came from Caroline Randell.” Then like a diver bringing an octopus to the surface, her panties emerged from under her dress, and she handed them to me.

Outside the misted-up taxi window, it looked like the whole world was going home, oblivious to us inside, oblivious to the fact that a married woman was currently hitching up her dress and mounting me.  Gradually, inch by inch she glided her way down, while one by one I popped the buttons on the front of her dress until I could see she wasn’t lying about her underwear, matching indeed, as my fingertips pinching her tense, stiff nipples through the expensive silk. 

The warm caress of her breath exhaling signalled that she had taken all of me, her legs straddling my pelvis, her hands clenched tightly behind my neck.

“Bloody hell, Joseph,” she moaned, her voice quaking, “I had forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?”

“Mmm, how bloody big you are.”  I could feel her fingers tugging at the hair on the back of my head as her hips rocked metronomically back and forth, concentrating on a distinct spot.

“You like?”

“Mmm.”  Then much sooner than I had anticipated, I felt her body shiver and then stiffen, her thighs clenching together.

“Are you cumming?” I whispered, tweaking her nipples hard through the ridiculously expensive material.

“Mmm.”

“Are you cumming on my cock,” I teased, allowing myself a furtive grin of victory.  “Say it.”

“Mmm, yess.”  She moaned deeply, a hand covering her mouth, stifling a tortured howl while her hips bucked and lurched without rhythm or direction.  Her eyes were shut tight, lost in a world of her own, all acknowledgement of where she was and the potential danger momentarily irrelevant.  I guess it was the intoxication of the environment and the danger of being seen; not many people fuck in a public place such as this.

Steadying herself with my shoulders, she collapsed into me, her hot breath seeping through the fibres of my shirt, feeling her heartbeat out of time with mine.  After she had lifted her head away, a delightfully embarrassed smirk played on her lips as the realisation of what had just occurred, with its connected precariousness dawned on her.

“Say it.”

“My god you really are a bastard aren’t you,” she giggled, her hips continuing to rock and sway gently in circles.

“Isn’t that what all the girls want?  Something different from what they have at home.  Say it.”  I watched her squint through the window searching for a recognisable landmark, the embers of this spontaneous moment starting to fade, then leaning in she kissed me on the lips.

“You made me cum.  Is that what you want me to say?  I bet that is what all of your clients say after you’ve fucked them.  You really don’t need to fly out to America, you know, there are plenty of wives with wealthy husbands in this country to help you make your fortune.  You made me cum on your big, beautiful cock, Joseph; there I said it.  Now it’s your turn.  I want you to cum for me, I want you to cum inside me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said dreamily, her eyelids heavy with lust, “trust me, I’m more than sure.  I want this, I want to feel your spunk inside me.  I can feel you are ready.  I can feel it.”  There is a point where no matter what is happening around me or what is said, there is no way of stopping the inevitable.  I had reached that point about two seconds ago and it was the sound of hearing the word ‘spunk’ said in her clipped pronunciation of English that finished me.

It’s instantaneous, this mind-numbing moment as you begin to ejaculate, the frying of the nerve endings in the brain as the world around you shuts down.  I was aware that she was speaking, her mouth next to my ear, but my state and the quiver in her voice made the words barely coherent, ‘Joseph,’ ‘do it,’ ‘fill me,’ ‘breed me.’

Then almost as quickly as it had commenced the descent began, where the haze cleared and everything returned to normal, the taxi, the street outside and Eve astride me, breathing heavily as the marriage of our fluids trickled down my cock.

Abruptly aware of her surroundings, she swiped her knickers from my hand and hurriedly proceeded to make herself decent.  I sat upright on the back seat, zipping my slowly deflating cock back into my trousers, while watching her as she wriggled the thin garment over her hips, buttoning up her dress and straightening her hair.

As she sat back down beside me, this attractive, naughty schoolgirl expression lit up her flushed face which turned to an infectious snigger that she couldn’t contain, and before long we were both giggling like children. We didn’t know why, the ridiculousness of the situation I supposed, but it was spontaneous.  Just as we were settling down, I turned to her.

“I wonder what he would say if he saw us?”

She shrugged her shoulders, then replied, “My god he’d have you shot,” she said plainly, wiping the condensation from the window with the back of her hand and then joked, “no, horsewhipped in the stables, then shot.  He’s quite inventive when it comes to punishment.”

“Does he …?”

“On occasion, it’s his kink.  I know he gets off on it, he’s the squire and I’m the disobedient maid.  It’s a power thing I’ve grown to quite enjoy.  It’s unfathomable for some people to understand the pure bliss that pain brings.”

“Do you …?”

“Yes,” she interrupted determined to keep the flow of her thoughts, while her fingers gently raked through my hair, “it’s become the most stimulating part of our relationship.  He’s away a lot, which means I have time on my hands.  On the occasions when he is home, he’s full of questions and recriminations.  I lead him on, it’s not fair really, part fiction part fact, Nickolas can be quite passionate when riled.

It’s not a riding crop or anything as severe, normally just his hand or on the rare occasion he’s been known to use his belt.  He can work himself up to quite a lather and he’s insanely jealous, and, as you found to your cost, vindictive.  I tease him by allowing him small glimpses into my activities.  I can only imagine what would be going through his head if he saw us, and what would happen to me when he got home.”

“Will you tell him?”

“About this?  Maybe, I don’t know.  I think you really got into his head, the others not so much.”

“Others?”

“Yes.  It’s a game; no one marries for love, it’s status.  No one is fully faithful physically; it is all a show.  There are lovers on both sides.  He likes to be informed, likes to be humbled, likes to hear me tell him the details, what it’s like to feel a real cock in my hand and what I would like that cock to do.  I may tell him about this.  My fuck in the back of a taxi, but I don’t think I’ll tell him with whom.” 

She stared out through the running condensation on the window.  We were moving now even though it was still a slow journey, but we were getting close to her drop-off.  And then, “Say no if you want, I’ll understand, but there’s a party in a few weeks; I would like you to come as my guest.”

“Really?  When?”

“Thirty-first of October.”  As soon as I heard the date, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.  “It’s a fellowship thing, so it’s guaranteed that there will be a few depraved surprises, there always are, so you’ll love it.”  Inside, I was divided, this was the break that we were hoping for, but could I do it, could I mix again with these people?

“Do you think I’d be welcome?”

“Trust me there are people who still talk about our little floorshow.  You’ve quite a fan club, men as well as women.  I think they would love to see you.  I’ll give you an alias if you want.”

“There we go, darling,” the taxi driver interrupted, sliding back the partition, “Wilton Mews.”

“I’ve still got your number,” I said as she gathered her jacket and handbag, “I’ll see if I’m free and let you know.”

“Please do, call anytime regardless.”  She kissed me on the cheek and then disappeared into the night.  I sat there in the seat for a while trying to process what had just happened.  How I had gone from an innocent business meeting to fucking Nickolas Henson Kt’s wife in the back of a taxi.

“Where to son?” the driver asked, resetting the meter.

“It’s okay I’ll take the tube, it’ll cost a fortune from here to Poplar.”

“It’s on account, mate, I don’t care.”  So off I went, without a thought, forgetting the first rule of life, that there’s no action without a reaction.  As the taxi pulled off, I texted Gemma.  It didn’t take her long to reply.

Me: “You are not going to believe this.”

Gemma: “Go on.”

Me: “I ran into Nick Henson’s wife, and she’s just invited me to the party as her ‘plus one.’”

Gemma: “Bloody hell.”

Gemma: “Well, that’s it then, we’re in.  Are you ok?”

Me: “I don’t know, feels weird.”

And it did.  I imagined this to be how an astronaut feels after all the training and preparation, sitting in the seat, waiting for lift off and then suddenly overwhelmed with the enormity of what was to come.  I mean, what could possibly go wrong?