I sat in the dark shadow of the Victorian mansion, with the engine idling.

At 6.00pm sharp they appeared in the doorway. He, portly - leaning heavily on his stick for support; she, wraith-slim, clad in a sleeveless silver evening gown that went down to touch a pair of silver satin stilettos. Her slender, porcelain-white arms were clad with elbow-length silver snakeskin gloves and her diamond choker sparkled in the light of the crescent moon. The old man grasped her arm tightly as they cautiously descended the stone steps. Snatching my cap and gloves from the passenger seat, I stepped out and opened the limousine's rear door.

"Evening Taylor!" he barked.

"Good evening your Lordship," I replied, putting on my cap. I made a nod in his wife's direction. "Lady Alison." She gave me a wan smile, then helped her aged husband into the car.

I sat behind the steering wheel awaiting instructions. The dividing glass partition slid open and the old man called out: "What time are we due at Castle Drogo, Taylor?"

"Seven o'clock your Lordship."

"Right, carry on!" I steered the Rolls Royce down the long tree-lined drive and out through the wrought iron entrance gates, into pitch black countrside.

"Could you stop for a minute, Taylor?" It was her Ladyship calling through the opened partition.

"Certainly, m'lady." I gently applied the brakes.

My passenger door was opened and Lady Alison slid in beside me, closing the dividing screen as she did so. "My husband wants a cigar and I certainly don't want my gown smelling of his foul smoke all evening."

We moved off and I drove silently through deserted countryside for several minutes, before she slid closer to me along the bench seat. Without speaking, she placed a gloved hand lightly on my thigh before sliding it up towards my crotch. All the while, the glowing red tip of his Lordship's cigar was reflected in my rear view mirror. She began to sensuously massage me through my tweed jodhpurs. "Let me know if he nods off," she whispered, staring innocently ahead through the windscreen.

As we reached the half-way point on our silent journey I noticed that the crimson glow in my mirror had disappeared. "I think your husband is asleep." She turned to confirm my observation, then slowly slid my zip down and withdrew my erect cock.The young woman took another quick glance at the sleeping backseat passenger, before laying down across the seat to expertly fellate me. The only noises to be heard in our sealed compartment were the ticking of the dashboard clock and Lady Alison's genteel sucking.

Eventually our headlights illuminated a road sign saying: 'Castle Drogo - 2 miles'. I eased our speed as Alison accelerated. We swept through the entrance gates just as my gloved hands cleanched the steering wheel, as I emptied my seed into the mouth of my titled employer's wife. She quietly murmured her appreciation.

By the time we pulled up in front of the great stone pile, all was normal. His Lordship was awake; Lady Alison, sitting upright, was freshening up her lipstick in the passenger seat; and their contented driver was now safely zipped up.

I stood to attention, my cap under my arm, as my passengers alighted onto the crimson carpet which lined the castle's entrance steps. Two armed police officers stood half-way up. At the summit, a portly Major Domo announced: "Lord and Lady Ffanshawe-Warwick." The distant strains of a string quartet wafted down.

I guided the Rolls around to the back of the castle to a designated parking zone, which was guarded by more armed policemen. A clutch of bored chauffeurs stood smoking in front of an old stable block. There was a brace of Russian Zils and a white Stretch Lincoln, all carrying Diplomatic Corps plates. It was evident that this was a massive socio-political event. Up there with Davos or even the sinister Bilderberg Group.

I headed for the staff canteen in order to grab a bite to eat. The guests upstairs might be tucking into a six-course banquet, but all that was on offer for us plebs were cold pork pies, Russian salad and bread rolls. And no beers as we were all driving.

Having finished my unappetising supper, I stepped outside onto a small paved terrace for a smoke. The ground fell away sharply, revealing a landscaped garden below, ringed by an intricate pattern of box hedges. The central feature was a huge illuminated fountain, from which a single shaft of water shot skywards. I sat on a stone bench to admire it.

"Quite a gusher, isn't it?"

I turned to find Lady Alison seated beside me, holding a half-empty champagne flute. "I experienced something very similar to that not two hours ago." One again she placed a gloved hand tenderly on my thigh. "What's more, darling, I'll lay good money that in that fucking banqueting hall upstairs, I was the only woman who'd enjoyed an appetiser of warm spunk before they served the chilled vichyssoise!" She rocked forward in a vain attempt to supress a fit of giggles, spilling her champagne in the process. After a pause she straightened up and gently laid her head on my shoulder. "By the way, we're staying the night."

"Sorry?"

"You won't have to drive us back to Tarrington Hall until the morning."

"How come?"

"Because, sweetie, my dear husband has heard that there's to be a big roulette game later this evening, courtesy the Russian contingent. It seems they've even brought their own croupier. So our hosts have allocated us the Honeymoon Suite for the night. I'll be retiring very shortly." Stroking her hand slowly down my arm she added: "Care to pay me a call?"

"There's nothing I'd like more your Ladyship."

As I headed back towards the staff canteen I saw a familiar figure framed in the open doorway. "Hello Tel. Long time no see." It was the distinctive Cockney twang of Albert, one of the oldest of the civil service drivers. "How's it 'anging, mate?"

"So so. You?"

"Fine. They've given me the Chancellor of the Exchequer to drive for."

"And how is he?"

"A right tosser! I think he'd 'ave trouble mastering a bleedin' abacus. I see you was 'aving a cosy tete-a-tete with her Ladyship just then."

"Just admiring the view."

"Pull the other one! She may 'ave red hot knickers, mate, but I'm told she puts it about a bit. Especially when she's down in Monaco on 'er own."

"I wouldn't know, Albert." I turned away from the muck-raker. I lit a cigarette and strolled along the outside terrace to give Alison time to get up to the room and undress. Through the curved ground floor bay window, I watched the roulette session being prepared in the huge Billiard Room.

Ringed by about 80 chairs, a huge numbered green baize table, surmounted by a dished onyx roulette wheel, had been erected. At its head stood the formidable Russian croupier, muscular and all of six feet tall. She wore black fishnet stockings and an emerald green corset edged with purple lace, revealing a voluptuous nipple-topped cleavage.

Clutching an empty cardboard box as 'cover', I rode up in the service elevator to the first floor. I assumed that the Honeymoon Suite would overlook the castle's gardens and headed to the rear of the building. Above a giant pair of mahogany doors, a gilded sign supported by a pair of winged cherubs, indicated that I had reached my destination. I knocked and entered.

"What kept you?" Her Ladyship appeared from the marble-clad bathroom, wearing a floor-length belted satin robe. She clutched a magnum of champagne and two cut glass flutes.

"I was watching them set up the roulette game downstairs. I only hope his Lordship doesn't get too carried away."

"That's his problem, darling. Now come and kiss my lips?" She untied the belt of her robe to let it fall open. Stroking a palm across her smoothly-shaved pussie, she proferred a glass of champagne. "My lower lips, that is."

I took a quick sip of the wine, then knelt before her, pressing my face into her secret folds. Her labia petals were moist and fragrant with her distinctive perfume. She pressed one hand against the back of my head to indicate that I should tongue her more vigorously. "Eat my cunt!" I willingly devoured her engorged vagina, inhaling its sweet lover honey. Then I stood to kiss her. She moaned softly as her own juices smeared her lips. "I'm so pleased to see that you're wearing that studded cock ring I bought you for Christmas!" she whispered, leading me towards the bed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Naked, we lay silently in each others arms on the satin bedcover. Her porcelain skin reminded me of a Titian painting. The raucous noise from the Billiar Rooom below seemed to be getting louder. "I do hope he's alright down there."

"Who?"

"Hugo. He gets terribly carried away at the tables. And he put away at least a bottle of claret at dinner." A huge cheer reverberated from below. "Would you be an angel and just pop down to make sure he's ok?"

She sat up and poured herself another glass of champagne. "The fact is, we've run up some huge debts lately. Tarrington Hall is mortgaged to the hilt, the Rolls is only on lend-lease and he's even talking about selling the apartment in Monaco. .And that's to say nothing of the alimony he's paying his first two wives."

While Lady Ffanshawe-Warwick drowned her sorrows, I slipped into my uniform. I pecked her on the forehead. "I'll be right back."

I made an initial recce from the outside terrace. The scene looked positively Rabelaisian. The Russian croupier was now topless and most of the jacketless hardcore punters were grouped at one end. Sat in the centre of the circle was his Lordship, busily writing out an IOU. I decided to join the throng.

"Numero Zero!" cried the croupier, deftly raking in all the chips from the baize and sluicing them into a huge tray below the table edge. Two swarthy Russian security guards were counting and bagging them up.

"That's the third zero we've had tonight," observed a disgruntled punter. Over his shoulder, I was alarmed to see the old baronet was scribbling out an IOU for 6K, which the topless croupier nimbly removed with her rake.

"Excuse me, your Lordship?"

Looking rather flushed, the old man swung round. "Taylor! What the devil are you doing up at this hour, man?" he honked, knocking back the contents of a huge brandy baloon glass.

"It's Lady Ffanshawe-Warwick, sir. She's - shall we say - feeling somewhat neglected upstairs. She's asked me to come down to see whether you would like to join her in her boudoir for some 'private entertainment?"

"All on 16!" the old man bellowed to the big-bossomed croupier. Then turning to me he asked: "What sort of entertainment did she have in mind?"

"I'd prefer it if she were to explain it herself, sir."

A roar went up as the little ivory ball settled into the wheel's slot marked 16. A huge multi-colouured pyramid of chips slid towards his Lordshoip. "Capital stuff, eh Taylor? Take my arm and we'll go upstairs to see what my wife has in mind." We left the Billiard Room to a round of applause.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Fortified by a glass of champagne and seated in a wing chair in the bay window, Lord Hugo Ffanshawe-Warwick awaited his young wife's demands. Lady Alison was seated on the edge of the bed in her satin robe, parted to reveal her legs and thighs. In one hand she held a champagne flute, while the other was tucked inside her gown. I stood to attention by the door, my cap under my arm.

"Give Taylor some fizzy, old girl," the exhausted baronet suggested. "And let's hear all about this private entertainment you've got planned. I'm all ears."

She rose from the bed and brought me my drink, taking my cap and placing it on the bedside table. Then she sauntered back to my side and began unbuttoning my jacket. She slipped her robe from her shoulders and took one of my hands, placing it on her bottom. Cool as a cucumber she told her husband: "I want Terry here to do me doggie fashion over the end of the bed. And you can watch.

His Lordship was momentarily stunned. Knocking back his wine he gave a nervous cough. "And you say I can watch?"

"Of course." She nonchalantly walked towards him carrying the bottle to refill his glass. She wiped its neck along her slit and then poured him another drink, leaning forward so that her breasts almost touched his face. "What's more, we'd like it if you'd wank yourself off while we're fucking!"

We all slept well that night. Alison and I were in the king-size bed, while his Lordship slumbered in the chair, covered by a rug. After a hearty breakfast, I slipped down to the Billiard Room to collect the old man's winnings (much to the chagrin of the Russian mafia) before we headed back to the baronial pile.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Monaco. This story of Russian roulette has a happy ending. Alison and I and his Lordship are now in a settled menage-a-trois in the Monaco apartment. Her Ladyship and I have worked up a routine which we describe as our 'Intimate Sex Cabaret', which we perform before select audiences of no more than 20 on some of the bigger yachts, which are moored here for the season. The work pays well. His Lordship often comes along as a discreet 'observer'. Watching his beautiful wife being fucked in public has certainly given him a new lease of life.

Tarrington Hall is presently being converted into a luxury hotel and health spa for oil-rich Saudis and our 'Russian winnings' more than cleared the outstanding debts on the Roller. Down here in the South of France, Alison and I share a 1957 Ferrari Testa Rosa, but since it's only a two-seater, we usually leave Hugo nursing a few cognacs in the Bar Cipriani down on the harbour, while we drive up into the Alpes-Maritimes for one of our naked picnics.