The West End of Aberdeen.

Exclusive neighbourhood.

Expensive housing.

X-Rated resident.

I closed the heavy oak door behind me, shutting out the harsh, bitter wind that blew in straight from the North Sea with more than a hint of snow in the air. The warmth of the house enveloped me like a lover's warm embrace. I was shivering beneath my Burberry raincoat. Hardly surprising, as I wore no lingerie. My bra long gone, and my now-famous scarlet panties adorned the gantry of The Strutting Cockerel.

I kicked off those killer heels and breathed the scent of home. The scent was money, success and Jo Malone’s Wood Sage and Sea-Salt.

This was a million miles from where I had spent the evening.

Beer, smoke, testosterone, not urine, thank God. Ken’s pub was well looked after and clean, not like some of the other dives at the harbour that reeked of piss and vomit.

I kept the lights off, apart from the lamps which were lit in the lounge. I desperately needed to pee, shower and brush my teeth in that order. I headed for the stairs when I became aware of the blue flashing light.

Our state-of-the-art answering machine, which David had insisted we had installed, blinked impatiently on the hall table.

My stomach churned. The pee I was holding in threatened with a vengeance.

Please don't let it be my husband.

The gods listened to my plea.

It was Chas.

“Greetings, my partner in crime, and apologies for deserting you. I hope they took good care of you?"

(Little did she suspect just HOW well.)

"Malcolm Scott is back from New York. We both know nobody says no to Mr. Scott. I can't explain now. I'm not exactly sure of events, but I will be unreachable and unavailable for the foreseeable future. Mr. Scott has plans, and my presence is non-negotiable. Tony is abroad for the next few weeks, so it's not an issue. Sending you the biggest hug and can't wait to hear your DTD news.”

I deleted the message, naturally, before I sprinted upstairs to the loo.

Bliss. What a relief. Dried off carefully. I was a bit tender, to say the least, not to mention extremely sticky in several places. I washed my hands before heading to the bedroom to get my robe and discard my dishevelled clothing. I returned to the ensuite and checked that there were plenty of fluffy towels warming on the rail.

My hand stilled as I reached to switch on the shower.

That phone call.

Shit.

I should not have deleted it. I should have listened again. Something just wasn't right, but what?

I've got an almost photographic memory, but on this occasion, I had been so relieved to hear Chas's voice, not David’s, that I didn't really concentrate. Have you noticed it's David never Dave?

The tone of her voice was different.

Breathless? Nervous? Excited? Apprehensive?

A mixture of all 4?

I'm not sure. And what was the phrase she used?

“My presence is non-negotiable," bizarre to put it mildly. Why couldn't she use her phone? Scott’s is important, very important, but it's not top-secret stuff. What was going on?

I had to put it aside for now. It was essential that I showered. The overpowering smell of sex clung to me. It was very intoxicating. I turned slowly to look in the full-length mirror.

The image that stared back was undoubtedly that of a woman who had recently been fucked.

My hair was tousled, mascara smudged below my eyes and slightly swollen lips which had been roughly kissed.

Other lips were swollen too, as well as being sticky!

My boobs looked enormous. As if they had been massaged up a cup size to triple D.

I turned, and because of the mirroring, my butt was visible. Round and firm. Was that the faint trace of a handprint?

Viewing my naked body was erotic. Why had I never noticed this before? It had a view of the double shower too. I had never noticed this either.

I slid open the doors and stepped in. The jets of water tingled my skin, and reaching for my favourite Jo Malone body wash, Sage and Sea-salt, again, I lathered up.

Watching the bubbles and water wash away the traces of The Strutting Cockerel. The mirrors did not steam up because of the advanced ventilation. I could see myself clearly. Long, wet, dark hair streamed down my back, matching my dark triangular bush which Ken had explored so greedily. My breasts gleamed and tingled with memories. I groaned. Oh, how I needed a man with a thrusting penis.

Nothing else for it. My fingers found their way inside and probed and played. Relief came, perhaps not as satisfying, but...

I had watched in the mirror and was so turned on by it all.

Switching off the shower, I reached for a warm, fluffy towel and dried off before liberally applying my Jo Malone body lotion.

Where had this whore been hiding?

More importantly, what was I going to do about it?

David was not due home for three weeks.

I didn't have “toys”; I was too well brought up for that nonsense. What a load of utter shite that thought is!!!

After I had dried my hair and dressed in comfy joggers and hoody, I headed back downstairs to the kitchen. My throat was dry. I took a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge and drank thirstily. I had choices to make. This itch was not going to go away.

Choice one: Order some “toys” online.

Choice two: The Strutting Cockerel for a rerun.

Choice three: Steph and Steve.

Now you are asking Steph and Steve? Really?

Let's go back to the end of my adventures with The Strutting Cockerel.

I discovered my friend who fingered me so satisfyingly in the pub was, in actual fact, Steve, Steph’s husband. I was mortified and started apologising to Steph, who stopped me immediately. A quick explanation followed. I'm sure Steph or Steve will tell their tale at some point.

The important element is they have a unique marriage with a unique sex life which openly and actively seems to involve others. Swingers? Not just that though. I was mesmerised by their tales. Ken had joined us. He is very much a part of their life.

It was getting late. Steve would drive me home. Steph too, of course. He never drinks when Steph is 'performing,' just in case things get rough. They never have.

They do not live in 'The West End', but in a barn conversion in Balmeddie. An area that has drawn much attention because of The Golf Club being created. I won't go into the opposing views of locals on that subject.

I gratefully sank into the heated leather seat of Ken's Merc after kissing Ken good night, not goodbye.

I told Steph a little about my life and what had brought me to The Strutting Cockerel. I really like them both. She is warm, funny, caring and horny as hell.

She explained further about their lives here in Aberdeen and told me about other like-minded people. All very discreet, unlike Ken fucking me in the pub!

She gave me their number and told me to call any time; there's no need to feel lonely again.

The journey was fairly short, and I was home. They both hugged me, and Steve escorted me to the door.

Then they were gone.

Now I felt really alone. I missed the banter, friendship, and not to mention the sex, of The Strutting Cockerel.

Chas had gone to God knows where with the powerful, sexy Mr. Scott, and I was home alone.

The phone rang shrilly, making me jump. I was in no mood to answer. Let the bloody machine take over.

“Good evening, darling. Sorry to have missed you. Working late again at the Office? You really need to lighten up and give yourself a break. Have a little fun, just not too much."

Was that a veiled threat?

“It won't be long till I'm home. I know that you don't approve of my sexual plans for you or my choice of lingerie that I want to see you in. I think it’s time you forgot all that prim nonsense. I've waited long enough. I have something really special for you. I will expect to see you wearing it and your killer heels and absolutely nothing else, except perhaps your signature perfume, which I have also bought. I know you want to know about the gift. They're scarlet lace panties, and they are crotchless. Goodnight, Bethany, and dream of me!”