Adultery

Although publicly uxorious, the popular and handsome professional footballer Desmond Balham had another love: Comtesse Astrid de Monique, an aristocrat of uncertain European origin. He met her shortly after his ostentatious public marriage to a pop music vedette, at an art gallery party. The memories of which were still vivid now six months after the event.

He was alone in his hotel room, on the eve of the FA cup final. After what had been an unusually difficult season for him. Desmond was excited about the game and that partly accounted for his listlessness, but then, as he gaze turned longingly to a mobile phone on a bedside table, there were the memories of that night at the art gallery to keep him awake.

He was no intellectual, but his accountant had suggested investing in art. It was to avoid giving the taxman any of the fortune he was earning on and off the football pitch (sponsorship deals, personal appearances, and the other money-making opportunities the fleeting fame of sporting success brings).

He had avoided the counsel of a supercilious and patronising advisor suggested by the accountant, and trawled around galleries usually on his own, (his wife's recording and touring commitments often kept them apart when his playing commitments did not). She cared little for the visual arts anyway, and probably less than Desmond.

He thought it would look good in interviews however if he could be photographed under an impressive painting, and may dispel many of the rumours about his lack of intelligence, so prevalent in the media. His search for something he liked proved largely fruitless, until that night at the Gallery Voltaire, (in a fashionable corner of London) when he stumbled across a collection of erotic works by a recently-deceased artist called Porfirio. The paintings and sculptures were skillfully crafted, and consisted of shapely torsos, legs and breasts.

In general the critics found Porfirio's later work very samey and uninteresting, but something about the work captivated Desmond . While others in the gallery were looking at more fashionable items, he was alone in a room that was far removed from the main flux of people. He wandered over to a bronze cast of a naked torso, and found his hand venturing to the small attractive breast, his fingers grazing the nipple gently, feeling the coldness of the metal. His thoughts wandered to who might own the piece, and how much it was worth.

"Do you like it?" A voice came from behind him, making him jump. A voice that had traces of education, culture, and sexiness in its crafted tones. Guiltily he snatched his hand from the bronze bosom. Red-faced he turned to face his questioner.

She was a woman whose age was difficult to guage, and who retained youthful attraction. He saw the suggestion of a pale face, behind the webbed veil of a black pill-box hat. The gauze could not conceal the beauty behind it: the deep black eyes with a satanic glint, like garnets set in ivory; the scarlet lips like a wound; the smooth black hair worn high.

She was as elegant as she was beautiful. He recalled how his wife often had to adjust her more ample bosom, in a rather indecorous fashion, if she wore anything strapless. Yet the simple black dress of his current interlocutor hugged her dainty breasts, and remained in place as if commanded to do so on pain of death. The black dress stopped at a high altitude of her long legs, above the tiny stiletto-shod feet, glorious ankles, and slender calves, resting somewhere about her mid thigh. The skirt hugged her firm bottom exactly, and added shape to her long thigh. Her bare shoulders had a suggestion of feminine perfection about them, inviting kisses on her long neck. The long opera gloves she wore seemed to end at the same height on her upper arm as the top of the dress did over her bosom, as if they formed a part of the grament.

The lady in black had what Desmond would have called "real class", that is to say poise, carriage, and grace. He compared her unfavourably to his new wife, who was possibly as beautiful but gauche, loud, and ill-educated. He had very little right to complain since he was every bit as vulgar, and even less intellectually gifted than his spouse. His lack of nearly all the cerebral virtues meant that he had feelings for those possessed them in greater measure that oscillated between contempt and awe, with the emphasis being more on the former. Then again, like most men, Desmond would forgive beautiful women anything, even intelligence.

"I like it a lot." He said dully. "How much is it?" He thought of art galleries as shops, in which simple transactions are made. Generally this is true, but then etiquette dictates that some attempt is made to disguise the capitalistic nature of the transaction, behind the façade of the pursuit of beauty. "How much" was too vulgar a question. It also betrayed interest since, if anything an art gallery is more of an oriental market than a shop, where the hardest of bargaining is permitted. The only differences being in the size of the sums exchanged, and the formality of the settings.

"What particular piece are you interested in?" They Lady's voice was kindly, and concerned. She owned the work, and was trying to sell it. The pieces were deliberately unpriced since they were considered by many to be worthless. There was the hope of luring some ingenuous individual into making an inflated offer. Since she recognised Desmond Balham, and knew he was often hard pushed to express a coherent sentence, she had hopes he would fall for the rather seedy pornographic appeal of the work, and pay a suitably exaggerated sum.

Despite his self-evident stupidity, he was a physically attractive man who Comtesse Astrid considered seducing. Conversation was probably beyond him, as was the subtle fencing of suggestions that constituted the most interesting seductions. His face nonetheless had a certain boyish appeal. He was recently married, and should still have been in the honeymoon period, but then he had not taken his eyes off her legs since she accosted him. He was a man she decided, and he would succumb. Masculinity was all it took to fall for Comtesse Astrid.

"I like all the pieces," he said.

"Do you really? Did you know I was the model for all of these works? I would not let him paint my face, for obvious reasons." She looked to see how effective the story was in selling the art, and ensnaring the purchaser. "We were lovers, for a while." She looked wistful as she reminisced. "He loved me so much, and dedicated all his work to me. It was so sweet."

"Did you love him?" Desmond asked. Comtesse Astrid could tell she had made the sale already. She continued with the story, gratified by his interest.

"Of course not." She said it scornfully, as if the idea was completely preposterous. "He was a tolerably pleasant companion, and I enjoyed his ." there was a pause which she seemed to load with unspoken meaning, "...devotion, but then I am no man's exclusive property and I sought pleasure elsewhere. It was when he caught me in bed with his wife that he committed suicide. I was left all of this work in the will he made before pulling the trigger, to cherish for all of my life." Inwardly she laughed at the memories she cared nothing for the man or his wife; the suicide had only been the day before.

Desmond listened enthralled to the story. It aroused him, thinking of her casual attitude to sex with either gender, and the cruelty the story suggested. For a moment he was rapt in the contemplation of Comtesse Astrid in bed with his own wife. The thought sent blood racing through his veins as he imagined his own participation in the menage.

At heart he was surprised that such a classy lady could tell such dirty stories. His ignorance led him to believe in the respectability of the aristocracy, instead of realising their innate decadence and vices.

"I'll give you a million quid for the lot." He said with the casual abandon of a street trader. Part of him was trying to impress her with money, which was the only weapon in his limited arsenal of personal qualities. Knowing that these paintings featured the body of the beautiful woman in front of him, he wanted them all, but not as much as he suddenly wanted the real thing.

"I'm not sure I could part with them so easily." She said. She feigned a form of mild distress at having to part with such a sentimental gift. Desmond offered two million.

"Make it five," she said calmly. She leant against a wall, by a large painting of a naked, pert breast, and then with satin-gloved hands on her thighs, she inched her dress up slowly.

"Shaking hands seems quite inappropriate for a deal of such large value." The hem of the skirt was now above the tops of her stockings, revealing their lacy trim. Gradually the curtain was raised on her naked sex. Large quantities of money aroused her. Not paltry hundreds or thousands, but millions. Here was an attractive man prepared to pay millions, and who would also suffice to satisfy the lust it aroused in her.

He stepped towards her, unfastening his trousers as he went. For a moment fearing they might be seen, but then nobody had come this far into the gallery for ages. The party was in the foyer with the canapes and champagne. There was no immediate danger of their discovery. He was some time after Comtesse Astrid in making that calculation.

She smiled wickedly as she saw him approach. She allowed him to let his trousers fall to the floor, but he was not going to be allowed to penetrate her, at least not with his member, not tonight. She pushed firmly down on his shoulders, leaving him in no doubt what she wanted. Unexpectedly however, he collapsed at her feet, and kissed them. Kissed every square inch of the flesh not encased in her shoes. He seemed to climb up her leg led by his mouth, kissing her ankles, and calves, gently running his fingertips behind her knees.

His worship of her feet and legs was a welcome diversion, but when at last he ascended her thighs beyond the tops of her stockings, his tongue provided further evidence that the reason for its existence was not conversation. He teased her labia with loving abandon, running his tongue all around, savouring the sensation of the gentle perfume of her sex. When at last his tongue penetrated her, it was as if he was french kissing a lover who was going away for ever.

Her erect clitoris felt firm on his tongue. He moved the tight button gently, only a few fractions of an inch. He did it again, slowly releasing the solid tumulus. Letting it fall into its natural place. He continued to move it, each time in a different direction. He could sense her trembling through his hands, as he held the firm flesh of her bottom. He could taste her excitement building. He continued his delicate movements, until he could sense the increasing tension. With his lips he held the knot of flesh softly, and tugged, gently at first, and then more firmly.

Comtesse Astrid was staggered at this sudden display of expertise. It was another welcome surprise. She fought hard not to give any outward sign of her pleasure. Men are more easily captivated when they think they have something to prove, but not when they think it is already proven. She bit her lip and grimaced, contorting her face in the exquisite agony of impending, but as yet elusive climax, and at the same time trying not to let Desmond see what was happing. She tried holding her breath to avoid gasping. She was grateful he could not see her. To make sure she ground his face in her mons veneris. With her gloved hands she grasped handfulls of his blonde hair, hurting him, trying to distract him from noticing her enjoyment. It would be an effort to retain her composure when the climax came, but he was fantastic.

The climax did at last arrive. She came violently, and trembled on her stilletto heels. She wanted to collapse, but her coolness had to be retained, and the trembling was the only sign she gave of having experienced any pleasure. With admirable rapidity she composed herself, and her hard business brain asserted itself over the sexual sybarite that she had suddenly become.

"Make the cheque out to Comtesse Astrid de Monique." She said, almost as soon as he disengaged his mouth. She adjusted her dress, and inspected herself in a compact mirror. There were no outward vestiges of what had happened, except beads of glistening perspiration on her brow. She vanished in the direction of the ladies room, to eliminate all traces before rejoining the party.

He wanted more, but Comtesse Astrid was vanishing out of sight. Disappointed at the sudden end to their embrace, he called to her. "I want to see you again!"

"When the cheque clears." Was the reply.

The following morning he received a special delivery at the large house he shared with his wife, who was at the time on tour with the band. It was a mobile phone, with a letter.

"Don't lose the phone ever, keep it charged, and never switch it off. If you fail to answer a call, just think what you might be missing, A."

The phone was a secret in which he revelled. A symbol of the guilty transgression of his marriage vows. Something to prove it had happened, and was not simply something he had dreamt. Cheating on his wife excited him. He still claimed to love her, but then making married love seemed a poor second, to the wicked love he could make with Comtesse Astrid. He imagined that his mistress was married as well, and wondered about her husband. Exclusivity in sexual relations suddenly seemed every bit as wrong as adultery had seemed only days earlier.

He kept the artwork in a private flat in London, one his wife did not know about. Like the phone, it was a secret, (they had premarital agreements and could not meddle in each other's business affairs). He spent as much time there as he could. It was a shrine to Comtesse Astrid, at which he worshipped whenever possible. While there he would kiss the sculptures and paintings. Practicing for the time when he could kiss and caress the real thing. It had beccome an obsession that fed on itself. He loved to wait there for the phone to ring, it would be fitting, he felt.

The mobile phone remained resolutely silent for some time however. Days, weeks, and months passed. All of the time he maintained the charge, never daring to lose any possibility of a signal. It was tormenting him to think he would never see Comtesse Astrid again, and yet he knew he would; otherwise why would she have given him the phone? There was a kind of beautiful pain of being entirely at the mercy of somebody else's whim, and he derived a peculiar enjoyment from it. Nevertheless each day he willed the phone to ring, and each day it failed.

He kept the phone with him day and night. He could not take it on to the pitch when he played football since it might get damaged, but the time he felt forcibly separated from that phone hurt. Hurt terribly. His playing began to suffer, and suddenly he was no longer an automatic first team choice. His manager asked what was wrong, but Desmond could not tell him. It would sound so stupid to anybody else, but he needed to be by that phone.

The phone did at last ring. Tonight while Desmond's mind travelled between the ruins of is career, and his obsession with Comtesse Astrid. Desmond had managed to get back in the first team due to another key player's injuries. He wanted to prove himself, and to reestablish his dominance over the central midfield position, but when the phone rang it was Comtesse Astrid who dominated his thoughts. It was midnight. He should be asleep, but she was the embodiment of temptation. He was utterly transported, hoping to finish off what had started as foreplay in the Gallery Voltaire.

"Desmond, I've sent a car for you." Said that beautiful voice, so absent for so long. " It's waiting now. You have two minutes to get there, or the driver will leave without you." She hung up, before he could contest. Quickly he threw on some clothes, and ran down to the foyer, where a chauffered Bentley awaited him. It drove him through quiet country roads to a neo-gothic country house, set in acres of grounds.

Comtesse Astrid stood at the door, dressed in leather. A short black leather skirt, and matching jacket, but for the material it looked like a business suit. He tried to throw his arms around her and kiss her, but she deftly moved out of the way causing him to lose his balance, and fall forward on to the hard tiled floor.

Prostrate on the ground he could see two pairs of black patent leather stiletto heeled shoes. He looked up and wondered who the lady could be with Comtesse Astrid, and saw his wife, Emma.

She was also dressed in black. He watched them embrace, as they laughed at his comic fall. After initial confusion, he began to realise that Comtesse Astrid knew Emma well. He could not understand why. He was not given the chance to talk however, as his wife thrust the toe of her shoe at his mouth, while Comtesse Astrid kicked him viciously in the upper thigh, deadening his leg. The pain was enduring, and he suddenly wanted to cry. He tried to get up, only to find Comtesse Astrid, pouncing on his back, to keep him down. She pulled his hair, grabbing a substantial handful, and almost pulling it out by the roots. Combined with the discomfort of his dead leg it added to his sudden feeling of misery, after the elation at the thought of seeing Comtesse Astrid again. The effect of pulling his hair, forced his head up, so that his gaze met that of his wife.

"Lick you're mistress' shoes." Comtesse Astrid's tone was vicious, as she commanded him. Letting go, she let his head fall forward, and lovingly he ran his tongue around the toe of his wife's shoe. Comtesse Astrid dismouted him, and kicked his upper thigh again. Tears fell from his face onto his wife's feet. He licked the salty fluid off the hard leather, and wondered what was to happen next.

At length he was allowed to stand up, and made to divest himself. Buck-naked, Comtesse Astrid pushed him to the cold, hard floor, and told him to get on all fours. She sat on his back like he was a horse, and instructed Emma to do the same. The leather of the women's skirtsfelt cool on his back, insulating the warmth within them. Emma rode pillion, with her arms around Comtesse Astrid, holding her small breasts, and planting delicate kisses on the back of her neck, while Desmond carried them up the stairs to a bedroom. Progress was slow; although the women were by no means weighty individually, together they combined into a considerable burden to carry uphill.

When they arrived, the women dismounted. Desmond made to stand up, only to have his legs kicked from under him, with an economical movement from the Comtesse. From the ground he surveyed the room, saw wood panelling, smart burgundy leather furnishings, and a large four poster bed. The room very much inkeeping with the neo-gothic style of the house's exterior.

The women undressed slowly and tantalisingly in front of the prone man. Comtesse Astrid stuffed her discarded lace panties in Desmond's mouth, and helped him to his feet. With stout chains produced from a wardrobe in the corner, she attached Desmond to the two pillars at the foot of the bed. Spreadeagled like Samson in the temple, it was an uncomfortable posture, and he was unsure of how long he could maintain it before he damaged his carefully crafted muscles.

The women ensconced themselves in the black satin sheets of the bed. They started kissing, like long lost lovers. Caressing each other with tenderness and skill. As Desmond surveyed the sight of the two beautiful women making love, it suddenly percolated into his dull wits, that they seemed to know exactly what to do, to please each other. Was this knowledge gained by experience? He could only conclude it was. They had been lovers before, and many times. He wondered for how long.

He wanted to say something, but did not know what. He spat out Comtesse Astrid's undergarment to free up his mouth, and tried to formulate something to say. He could not say anything, his emotions were so mixed as to make it impossible to know where to begin. He was aroused by the sight of the two women making love. He was in pain from being chained in such an uncomfortable posture. He hurt because of his wife's treachery. He was frustrated because he could not join in the spectacle he was watching. He could not disentangle the feelings. Indeed his erection seemed to increase proportionally with the discomfort.

Despite the enormity of his swollen penis, the women were oblivious to him. Floating in their own particular world, beyond which nothing mattered, even him. It seemed so unfair that they mattered to him.

Then he found himself hoping that this peculiar menage would maintain. He still loved his wife, but he also lusted after Comtesse Astrid. He began to think it would be wonderful, if all three could live together even if he was slave to the two women, there to attend to their whims, and beaten as required. Even to suffer the torment of watching the two women he wanted most make love to each other, and excluding him.

The lovemaking went on for some time, energetically, repeatedly, tenderly. Eventually the women slept, enveloped in each other's arms, while Desmond stood chained and painfully uncomfortable. He could not sleep, yet tiredness prevented him from being entirely awake. He cried. Sobbed like an infant, the tears dripped down his naked body, and on to the bed. He was powerless to stop them. The women slept for hours, exhausted by their lovemaking.

It was only after what seemed like several eternities to Desmond, that they woke up. They started kissing again, like newlyweds. Like Desmond had kissed Emma, not so very long ago. A naked manservant was summoned by a pull cord, he wore a leather hood that disguised his face. Only his eyes visible, he served the women breakfast in bed.

As they ate, the servant was ordered to whip Desmond with a short but stout lash. The women laughed mercilessly as he screamed in pain. He began to construct a notion that he was being punished for his infidelity to Emma, and entertain the hope that his punishment would end eventually, and everything would return to what it was before.

It was Comtesse Astrid who determined when the punishment would finish. The manservant was ordered to release Desmond from the chains with a key the Comtesse provided.

Once released Desmond found it difficult to stand up, and was stiff and unsure on his legs. He stumbled as he fought to maintain his balance. When he seemed capable of standing unassisted, the Aristocrat of uncertain European origin ordered Desmond from the house.

"Start running," she commanded. "Get out of our sight." His wife stroked Comtesse Astrid's hair, and smiled beguilingly in the afterglow of sexual satisfaction. "I'll give you a five minute headstart, before I have the dogs set on you." Comtesse Astrid spat the words out like poison.

"Why have you done this?" Desmond asked, uncomprehending.

"It's fun," she said viciously. "Your pain thrills me. It turns me on. It makes me stronger," she reined herself in at that point, aware she might be giving some valuable secret away. "Now leave me alone with your wife, we've got better things to do." She turned to face Emma and kissed her, fully on the mouth, before adding. "By the way, I doubt if you'll make it back in time for the match. You may find yourself playing in the lower divisions next year, that's if anyone would have you! They're saying you're finished Desmond, you've just not produced the goods this season, and not turning up for the cup final doesn't look good on a player's CV does it?"

She was right of course. This woman had systematically shattered his life, and he had played into her hands at every step. He looked at his wife, and she seemed happy. He had betrayed her and felt the ponderous burden of the entire responsibility for his current predicament. He bowed his head, and waited for the tears, but then he had cried so many last night, that none would come.

"Time's ticking away Desmond, think of the dogs, you've only got two minutes now. You're a trained athlete after all," she said. "You should make the five miles to the gate in no time, and its only twelve foot high. Oh and mind the barbed wire." The women laughed as they resumed their embrace, while the manservant carried Desmond out of the room, and down stairs to the front door.

He was thrown onto the gravel path, the sharp stones scratching his naked body. He could hear the angry barking of Dogs, and tried to run. The gravel hurt his feet, so he made for the grass, and ran as fast as he could until the house could no longer be seen when he turned his head.