Flawed Red Silk - 12 Linked Stories free porn video

Flawed Red Silk - 12 linked stories

Copyright Oggbashan November 2003

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.



FLAWED RED SILK

Chapter 01

The New Secretary.

Today is my first day as temporary secretary to Christopher Jones, the Managing Director of Silk Designs 4 U.

I signed up with the temp agency last week after Graham broke his hand in a car crash. I can’t be a magician’s assistant to a magician with a broken hand. When he can’t work, I can’t. Someday I hope that won’t be true. I want to be a magician myself but working with Graham is like a continuous master class. He is good and is constantly trying to vary and improve his act. Sometimes there are failures but they are few and he can usually cover them up with his patter or misdirection.

Enough daydreaming. I am here to work as the Managing Director’s secretary, not as an apprentice magician. I glance at my shorthand notebook and keep typing. It is boring stuff. There are confirmations of orders, reminders about invoices unpaid, letters enclosing sales material, most of which are covered by minor amendments to standard letters already filed in Word. Time goes surprisingly quickly and I will have a good pile to take in for his signature by eleven o’clock when I have to make the coffee just as he likes it.

After coffee the forewoman Serena will come for the daily briefing. She tells him what is happening on the factory floor. He tells her what orders are coming and asks about progress on rush jobs. I sit in and take notes to type up as a daily record. From the files I can tell the sort of discussion that will happen.

Jane, whose place I am filling, is on maternity leave. She has showed me everything. I knew not just the daily and weekly activities and the forms and records, but the unofficial records that Mr. Jones doesn’t know about. Every day as part of the briefing with Serena, he indicates which of the shop floor staff is to be called for an appraisal by him at three o’clock. Appraisal is what he calls it. Fucking is what he really does. He treats the staff as his personal harem.

Why do they let him? All the shop floor workers are Indian women. None can speak English. If they could speak English they might be able to find better work but their husbands are little better off than they are. Mr. Jones pays well and for most of them the pay is the only income for their family. For the rest, the pay is a significant part of the family’s income. They can’t afford to lose their jobs. Since there are over thirty shop floor workers their turn comes only once a month and they get a bonus payment for extra services. Jane knew this. So do I.

I finish typing the pile of standard letters that Mr. Jones has dictated. Most of them are reminders about deliveries, unpaid invoices that sort of thing. It hasn’t occupied my mind or much of my time. A few keystrokes and another one is done. Time for his coffee. I take it and the letters in. Jane told me that then and at three o’clock will be the quietest times of the day.

I pull out some of my props and start practising. I will try some card tricks so when Serena arrives I am just doing a complicated hand shift of two packs of cards. It is spectacular but not difficult but it seems to surprise Serena.

“Mary! How do you do that? Are you a witch?”

“No, Serena, just an apprentice conjuror. Let me show you.”

I get her to select a card, tell her which one she has chosen, pull an egg from behind an ear and then a stream of coloured scarves from her mouth. Serena is astonished. I can’t understand why. They are simple ticks that any junior conjuror can do but she doesn’t seem to have seen them before. I gather up my props. There is no time for explanations before we go in to see Mr. Jones.

“Good morning, Serena. I see you have met Mary. She will be here while Jane is on maternity leave.”

“Mr. Jones!” Serena blurted out. “Do you know she is a witch?”

“A witch?” He didn’t seem surprised. “That might be interesting. What can you do?”

“I don’t think I’m a witch but…” I pulled the egg from his mouth. The scarves came out from behind his ear and d****d over his shoulder.

He sat there gawping. As audience reaction it was better than my performances usually got.

He pulled himself together and his hand stroked the scarves.

“Er… I am surprised but this isn’t good material. Our silks are much better. Could you do this with silk?”

“If I had some time to prepare, then yes I could.” I replied.

“A witch on the staff would be very useful to me,” he said.

I couldn’t see why so I kept quiet.

“Now, back to business.”

He and Serena discussed the usual issues that arose every day. He ended by announcing that Asmita was due for her appraisal today at three o’clock. Would Serena tell her, please? Serena glanced meaningfully at me. I nodded almost imperceptibly. I knew what was intended for Asmita and I was letting Serena know that I understood.

We left Mr. Jones’ office. In my room Serena blew out her cheeks.

“Asmita won’t like this but she will come, even if she is unwilling.”

“Why do you let him? I don’t mean you personally Serena, I mean all of the women. Why?”

“We, sorry, they have little choice. Most accept it as a minor price to pay for their jobs. He does pay well and apart from his little foible he is good to the workers.”

“Little foible!” I exploded. “It is ****. Just because they have little choice doesn’t make it any better. We should do something about it. I’m surprised you and Jane hadn’t done something before now.”

“We wanted to, Mary, but we spoke to the workers first. They actually like Mr. Jones. If he wants sex, they’ll give him sex. They are afraid to upset him but he is a considerate partner. The money the women get helps them to buy a few luxuries for themselves because their husbands don’t know.”

“I’m not surprised the husbands don’t know,” I interrupted, “if some of them did know I think Mr. Jones would be dead.”

“Perhaps. Then what? His money runs this business. HE runs this business. Without him there would be no business, no jobs and no money. His wife would sell up. Any new owner would reduce the wages to the norm around here that would mean a third less pay. That difference makes employment here very attractive. Mr. Jones’ appraisals are the only dark spot and all the women know about them before they start. Jane and I make sure they do.”

“So they know they will have to have sex with the boss before they join?”

“Yes. We rebel in other ways. He doesn’t want the women to learn English. Whenever he’s around I speak to them in their own language and dialect. The rest of the time we all speak English. Gradually they learn English and we also have classes after work that Mr. Jones doesn’t know about. We have been doing it for years. Jane will still help with them. The women have the ability to speak English to shopkeepers. Many of them can now negotiate with the Council and Council Officials’ English is difficult.”

“So I could speak to any of them and they would understand me?”

“Yes. Which reminds me. One of the things you must do is warn us when Mr. Jones might visit the factory floor.”

“I know. Jane told me. The button is under the desk and I press it with my knee or if I’m standing up I press the end of the bookcase. How did you arrange that?”

“One of my relatives is an electrician. He worked on the rewiring of the factory a few years ago. Jane and I asked him for some modifications. For example Mr. Jones can cut off the intercom from his office but you can listen to whatever happens without him knowing. Do you know how?”

“Yes. Jane explained a lot to me.”

“Good. Jane always listens when he has his appraisals just in case there is any trouble. There hasn’t been… Well, it depends what you mean by trouble. One of the women who have now left decided to be masterful. She left him tied to his desk after her appraisal. Jane “accidentally” went in to bring him some papers and released him before he was too embarrassed.”

“Didn’t Jane embarrass him just by finding him tied up?”

“Not really. He knew that Jane knew about his appraisals. He was more annoyed with himself. He had enjoyed the experience. Most of his appraisals had been and still are colourless events. A simple fuck that lasts a few minutes and that is it.”

“I see. What about me? Am I expected to participate?”

“Jane didn’t. She knew too much about him and was in contact with his wife. You – you are a witch. He will be afraid to upset you.”

“What is this about me being a witch? I’m not.”

“I think you are. So does he. If you show the workers some of the things you did with the egg and scarves they’ll think so too. Don’t knock it. It can be useful to have people afraid of you as long as you don’t make them too afraid.”

“So I might be immune from Mr. Jones’ attentions if I’m a witch?”

“Yes. He is as superstitious as the rest of us. A witch is a wise woman who should be propitiated. You will be safe as a witch.”

I can take a hint. If I would be safe as a witch, a witch I will be.

“You are joining the rest of us for lunch, aren’t you? Mr. Jones goes to his club from one to two. We break from one to one thirty and then have the English lessons he doesn’t know about. If you showed some of your magic you will have the workers attention and respect. Will you?”

“Yes. Jane suggested that I might find the women difficult because I can’t speak their language. Why should they be difficult? Do they resent me?”

Serena was diplomatic.

“You get paid more than they do. You have skills they don’t have. They have skills you don’t share. They could be awkward and uncooperative if they wanted to be.”

“OK. They shall have a magic demonstration. I can’t do much. I didn’t bring everything I need but I have probably got enough.”

I had. My demonstration of magic had them enthralled. I finished with a show of juggling. I persuaded Serena to try. After a few minutes she was juggling with three soft balls and catching and returning a ball from me as well. There was no applause, just an awed silence. That was frightening. As I left many of the women bowed to me as if I was royalty.

When Serena and I were alone I asked:

“Why no applause? Didn’t they like it?”

“They have never seen anything like it except for a few pathetic village jugglers who are always men. You did something that only men do, but much better. Then you showed that I could learn from you. That makes you a teacher of rare skills. If we were Japanese we would consider you to be a Zen master. Your reputation and status is enormous.”

“But…”

“But you only did the simple things? I know. They know. If that was the simple things, what else can you do? If you are not careful they may consider you to be a goddess – or a demon.”

“A demon?”

“Not all demons are evil. Some are just playful. All are dangerous and to be avoided if possible. If not they have to be sacrificed to. Much more of your magic and you will frighten them silly. They may be learning English and living in England but they are still simple village girls at heart. You are beyond their understanding. Mr. Jones is not. He behaves just like a big landlord would.”

“But he thinks I’m a witch.”

“Yes. He isn’t much different. He sees things on television but he doesn’t understand them. Experiencing you do things face to face is different. He can turn his television off and he can refuse to believe it. He can’t refuse to believe something that happened to him personally.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to be a witch,” I said reluctantly.

“I think you are. The women think you are, if you are not a goddess or a demon. Mr. Jones thinks you are. You will be a witch to us, even if you don’t believe it yourself. Please, just be a benevolent witch.”

“I will,” I said, thinking of the real reason why I was working for Mr. Jones. The reason that only one other person knew, not Serena, not Mr. Jones. Even my occasionally available boyfriend didn’t know. Would being a witch help? I think it will, so I witch I would be.

Tonight I would do some research. I know a real witch, the kind that does spells and incantations. She is a friend. She might disapprove of me pretending to be what I’m not, but if I tell her why I’m sure she’ll help me maintain the role. Who knows? Perhaps I actually might have some magical powers? If belief is important then I already have believers.

The rest of the day passed as expected. Asmita came for her appraisal. She looked irritated as she went in to Mr. Jones’ office and relieved when she left. I offered her a drink but she refused.

“Please, no. I want to wash myself clean before anything else.”

“I understand. There is a washroom here. There is no need to go to the shop floor.”

Asmita actually smiled.

“Thank you. That I will accept.”

When she emerged again she was happier.

“At least it will be another month before…”

“…Mr. Jones wants to see you again,” I finished for her. “That must be some comfort.”

“You understand that I don’t like this?”

I nodded.

“Is there nothing you can do? You are powerful.”

“Asmita. This is the afternoon of my first day. I must understand first. I cannot do things unless I know what I am doing and why.”

She looked disappointed but hopeful.

“Please, if you can, please help us. He is not a bad man. He just behaves as if he is. He doesn’t really mean to humiliate us but he does. If only…”

“…If only he would stop, you might like him?” I asked.

“Yes. In many ways he is good to us. He treats us well, pays us well, is concerned about our families and us, but this is not good. He is married. He has a wife. Would she do this if she were in our place?”

“Perhaps she might if she knew.”

I left it at that. Asmita thanked me again and left.

At the end of the day I left to visit my witch friend. I’d made an appointment while Mr. Jones was appraising Asmita. I wanted to change things and soon. Any appraisal was one appraisal too many if Asmita’s barely concealed distress was an example.

Helen seemed to be expecting me. Of course she was. I’d rang her to make an appointment, hadn’t I? No. It was more as if she had seen a prediction that I would need her.

Over a cup of herbal tea she listened while I explained the situation at the factory. She prompted from time to time but she seemed to know much of what I was telling her. Finally I challenged her directly.

“You know all about this, Helen, don’t you?””

“Most of it. Jane told me when she knew you were to replace her.”

“So what do I do?”

“About what? Mr. Jones’ sexual urges or you being a witch?”

“Both.”

“You will have to be a real witch, Mary. I can make you a witch. I’m not going to show you how to be a pretend witch. That would be dangerous. If you ARE a witch then you will know what you can and cannot do and will have powers to protect yourself and others. As a real witch you can call upon other witches to help you. That can be very useful.”

“But I’m not a witch!” I protested.

“Not yet you are not. I have always thought that you could be, and could be a very powerful one. A few evenings with you and me could be initiated at the next meeting of our coven. That is Friday week. Are you prepared to make that commitment?”

I sat and thought for a few minutes, sipping her herbal tea. I knew that if I agreed I would be making a significant change in my life, one that I didn’t wholly understand. As I sat, an image of Asmita’s face appeared. For her sake, and the sake of the others who were being degraded by Mr. Jones’ inappropriate behaviour I had to act. I put my cup down.

“Yes, Helen,” I said firmly “I will.”

“What made you decide?”

“The women at the factory. I can’t leave them to suffer.”

“Good. You choose to be a witch, not for yourself, but to help others. That is the best motive.”

Helen launched straight in to my training. I won’t describe any of it. Unless you are a witch, a little knowledge is dangerous. I worked hard for every evening and studied books into the early hours. Mr. Jones’ appraisals made me more determined each afternoon. By the Friday that the coven was due to meet I knew I was ready. I felt like a bride who has made the commitment in her heart. The meeting of the coven, like the bride’s marriage ceremony, was only the public affirmation of something that had already been decided.

Late on Friday, after another appraisal, Serena brought a bolt of bright red cloth into my office.

“Is he free?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“This cloth is flawed. I don’t know what to do with it. I thought I’d ask him for advice.”

“It looks OK to me. What’s wrong with it?”

“There’s an intermittent flaw in the weave. See.”

Serena unrolled a yard or two. In the light I could see what she meant. It looked like a missing thread or two every foot or so. It was a shame. The fine silk was a brilliant in-your-face red with a wonderful shimmer. It d****d beautifully and my fingers itched to caress it.

“We can’t use it for dresses or skirts. There isn’t enough undamaged material in a continuous length. It hasn't cost us anything. The suppliers sent it as an extra.”

“We don’t make underwear, do we?”

“No. Only dresses, skirts, suits and sometimes sarees.”

“But we could?”

“Yes. Our women are skilled. We could make anything that is clothing and is made of silk.”

“I wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“Let’s go and ask Mr. Jones. He might think my idea is stupid but we can at least try.”

“We? I don’t know what your idea is.”

“Never mind. Just listen. If I am suggesting something stupid you can say so.”

“OK.”

In we went. Mr. Jones seemed happy. Perhaps today’s appraisal had gone well?

“Well, ladies, what can I do for you?”

Serena showed him the bolt of flawed red silk. She spread it to show the flaw.

“Oh dear,” he said. “We can’t do much with that, can we.”

Serena explained that it had been sent free, as a gift, from the suppliers.

“Has it now?” he mused.

“Mary has an idea.” Said Serena.

That didn’t seem to make an impression. He turned the silk over and over, looking to see if there was any of it that was unflawed for a skirt or dress length. Failing, he put the bolt down on the desk. He looked straight at me.

“Well, Mary? What is your idea?”

“It’s really two ideas. The first is that this silk would make very attractive underwear, perhaps French Knickers.”

Mr. Jones nodded.

“The second idea is that we have just had Christmas. It isn’t long to Valentine’s Day. If we were to make French knickers, we could send them out to our best customers as a present, suggesting that they give them to someone appropriate as a Valentine present. The customer would remember us, even if they were embarrassed.”

I stopped and waited for his reaction. He picked up the end of cloth and ran his fingers across it.

“Yes. I can see this as underwear, very sexy underwear. But we have no lace trimming that would suit this quality of material.”

Serena jumped in.

“We don’t need lace. We could scallop the outside of the legs and perhaps add some discreet embroidery.”

“That might work,” he said, “especially as a free gift. If something is free and good, people aren’t critical.”

He looked at both of us.

“OK. I like it. We’ll do it. But I think the idea needs one last twist.”

We waited.

“Mary is a witch. If she added a spell to each pair of knickers so that they only brought happiness to the owner, that could help us.”

Serena squeezed my hand before I could object. I knew what she was trying to tell me. It couldn't hurt and might help.

“OK.” I said more lightly than I really meant. “I’ll try to find a suitable spell.”

“Then that’s settled. Can I leave you two to sort out the design and cut?” Good.”

That was a dismissal. Serena and I left his office.

“What about this spell?” I exploded. “I don’t like doing an indiscriminate spell.”

“Just do a general goodwill spell. If I know Mr. Jones he’ll keep one pair of panties for his wife. You can put a proper spell on them. I leave it to you. Perhaps one to make her very desirable to Mr. Jones?”

“But I’m NOT a witch!”

“I think you are. Really are, that is, not just a conjuror.”

What could I say? After tonight she would be right.

Serena and I discussed the design of the knickers. Once we had the basic idea the women could make their own choice depending on the available unflawed material. We decided to make it a competition with a couple of prizes for the best knickers. Serena and I would tell them on Monday morning.

Next Monday was a holiday for a few of the staff so there were actually only twenty-eight women available. That fitted the pieces of cloth almost exactly. We agreed that twenty-six of them would embroider the letters a to z on the care labels. One pair would be made to my measurements and would have an alpha almost invisibly marked on the seam behind the label. Another pair would be made for Mrs. Jones. That pair would have omega behind the label.

At lunchtime the canteen was a babel of voices. All had cut out their cloth and had sewn them together. The detailing would decide who won. Although they wouldn’t share their ideas, all off them wanted to talk about the knickers. Finally Asmita plucked up the courage to ask me directly about the spell.

“Is it true that you are going to put a spell on these knickers?”

“Yes,” I said. Then I had a thought. “But I need everyone’s help.”

“You do?” asked Serena. “How?”

“I want each one of you to concentrate on what you enjoy about sex as you handle the knickers you are working on. Remember the good times, the times when you were really happy about sex. Try to sew those memories into the silk. I will help but your thoughts will do the real spell.”

That stumped them. Then gradually they realised that I was getting them to be witches, all of them. That was a powerful thought. If they too could make a spell, what else could they do?

That night I was initiated as a witch. I told the coven about the French knickers and the spell. The whole coven used their power to add to the spell. What had I done?

I lay in bed that night with my thoughts whirling. I was a witch. I had cast my first spell with help from my colleague witches and the women from Mr. Jones’ factory. What would that spell do to the recipients of the knickers? What would happen when I wore my own pair? What would happen when Mrs. Jones wore hers?

By Tuesday evening the results of the competition were known. Serena and I had been the judges. The prizes had come from my pocket and were vouchers on the local d**g store, which they could use for cosmetics, perfume or whatever. I had thought long and hard before choosing the vouchers. Any other prize might be spent on their families. I wanted the women to have something for themselves.

On Wednesday morning I packed the French knickers and sent out those labelled a to z to the list of customers that Mr. Jones had given me. I kept my own pair. I would wear them on St. Valentine’s Day. Mr. Jones would give his wife her pair on that morning.

He had asked for a special spell to be put on his wife’s knickers to make him irresistible to her. I had obliged although I didn’t do a real spell. Then he tried to switch her knickers for mine! He shouldn’t have tried that on a witch and a conjuror. His switch was so obvious I nearly laughed out loud. I switched them back when he was distracted. So he wanted me to find him irresistible, did he? I’d pay him back for that.

You’ll hear more from me in the last chapter, but, starting with the next chapter, the owners of the knickers will tell their stories one by one.

Chapter 02 Change or Suffer.

The Forewoman’s Husband

My boss, Mr. Jones, wanted to send all the French knickers out as Valentine’s Day presents to the firm’s best customers. I persuaded, Mary, his secretary, to give one pair to me. She agreed. I don’t know why. She frightens me. She is so competent and a witch as well.

Mary selected a pair that fitted me and deleted one company from Mr. Jones’ list that is only an occasional customer.

Should I wear them? Mary has put a spell on them but we all helped. The spell is supposed to be only for good but I wonder. How benevolent is Mary?

Whether the spell works or not, I have problems with my husband Reshad that need sorting out. As Forewoman I earn more than the other women on the shop floor but I feel as if I’m running to keep still. Reshad doesn’t work. He drinks with his “friends” all day long in an i*****l-drinking den. He spends more than we can afford so we are always short of money. We shouldn’t be. If he didn’t spend so much we could survive. If he didn’t drink and had a job we could live well and provide for our c***dren. As it is, everything is a crisis. New school uniform? Borrow more money. New shoes? Borrow more money. Rent due? Borrow more money.

Keeping the borrowing under control is almost impossible. I try to keep back some money each week to cut down the outstanding amount but the essential spending keeps eating into that few pounds. If only Reshad would change.

What can a pair of French knickers do for me? Even with Mary’s spell they are just a garment. Anything is worth trying. Reshad is out, of course. He won’t be back for hours. My mother has put the c***dren to bed and is dozing in front of the television. She doesn’t really understand it but it keeps her happy. Or at least it does when Reshad is out. When he is home she is ashamed that she chose such a poor husband for me. He makes her unhappy too and even our c***dren are ashamed of their father.

Under the kitchen sink I keep a locked suitcase. Reshad would never look there for things I am hiding. The kitchen is the “women’s place”. He would never wash up, or help with the cooking. That is beneath him. I carry the suitcase upstairs and put it on the bed. Before opening it I will take a shower. I want to be clean for the delights inside the case.

I shed my cotton overall dress. Even the dress reminds me of debt. I bought four white cotton nursing overalls in a charity shop. I wear them to work because they have pockets to keep my pens and notebook in. The women think my dresses are a status symbol separating me from their saris. How can I admit that I can’t afford to wear my saris to work?

Once clean I ease the French knickers up my legs. The feel of the silk thrills me. I would love to wear underthings like this every day. Well, perhaps not at work, because cotton panties are more comfortable, but for the evenings this feel would be nice. I sit on the bed and reach for my newest bra. The silk slides into my crack and I sigh. I would like to feel Reshad caressing me, not just a piece of cloth however luxurious. Once my bra is fastened I pull on my long waist slip and tie it. The silk blouse that ends just below my breasts holds me. I wrap the heavy silk sari around me with practised deftness. Looking in the mirror I see myself as desirable and feel that I want a man, a real man, who will appreciate the reflection looking back at me. Once that was Reshad. Now…

I think of the spell that Mary and all of us worked into the knickers. I can feel myself dampening the crutch with desire. All of us? What did that remind me about? I don't know.

I sit down and start to cry silently. Then I undress from my finery and carefully replace it in my suitcase leaving the flaming red knickers on. I feel more naked with them on than I would in a totally bare body. Naked... That was it. I remember now. One of the women had told us about a news story from India. Apparently the women of a small village had become tired of their men just drinking themselves silly and never working. They had ambushed the men one by one, stripped them naked and beat them up. They did it night after night until the men began to change. If only those women were here to do that to Reshad? They weren’t. They were in a small village in Southern India, not in a grimy part of an English city.

Even my finery brings me no pleasure. I owe it all to Mr. Jones. I hadn’t lied to Mary. I just hadn’t told her that he gives me an appraisal, which is what he calls his secretive sex sessions, as well as all the other staff. Apart from money he has given me this blouse, this waist slip, this silken sari and the few other clothes in my suitcase. What I really need is ordinary clothes but Mr. Jones doesn’t understand that. Any extra money I get from him goes to reduce the debts. For the other women Mr. Jones’ hush money buys extras. For me it defers the eventual day of reckoning when the debts become too much. All the women know about Reshad. Most of their husbands go to the drinking club sometimes. Reshad is always there. The factory is like a village. Everybody knows everything about each other.

Then it sinks in. The factory is like a village. We all live close to each other. We know
everything about each other. They all know about Reshad and how difficult life is for me. All I
have to do is ask. They could say no but would they? Reshad is the worst offender but there are
many other lazy drunken husbands. If Reshad was made the example it might persuade the
others to change as well. If not, they could get the same treatment, couldn’t they? I stroke the red silk of these knickers. Is the spell helping me? Will my friends, colleagues, co-workers help me even though I’m the forewoman?

That is enough for tonight. I strip off the knickers and add them to the other finery in my suitcase. I put my shabby nightdress on and carry the suitcase back to its hiding place. I will ask my friends tomorrow. In the morning, if he is awake I will have one last try to persuade Reshad to cut down his drinking and look for work. If he doesn’t...

The next morning I knew I had wasted my time worrying about giving Reshad one last chance. He had returned home hours after I had gone to bed, drunk and staggering. I had to help him up the stairs after he had woken me with his crashes against the furniture. When I left for work he was still snoring, still dressed in his beer stained clothing.

At lunchtime I was nervous. I asked for quiet and then told them all about Reshad. I told them how drunk he was every night, how much of my money he spent, how much in debt I was, and how I couldn’t continue. Then I told them about the women of the Indian village. I didn’t have to go into detail because they volunteered to teach Reshad a lesson that night. I didn’t know how many friends I had. I broke down and cried my heart out surrounded by sympathetic faces and caressing hands.

Reshad left the club late that night. A few yards from our home a sari-veiled woman approached him and stopped in front of him. He peered drunkenly at her. She pushed him backwards and he fell over the woman crouching behind him. It is an old trick but it still works. Many hands that grasped fiercely at him caught his fall. He was gagged and blindfolded, stripped and tied. Then he was punched and kicked. None of the punches or kicks were very hard but there were hundreds of punches and kicks. He became u*********s. His gag had been removed to let him vomit the expensive beer into the road. The women left him in the recovery position but still blindfolded and tied. A soft knock on my door was my cue. I didn’t need it. I had watched everything round a corner of curtain.

I rushed out to my husband.

“Reshad! Husband! What has happened? Who were the villains who did this to you? Where are they? Are you injured?”

I kept this up while I removed his blindfold and untied him. I found some of his clothes to cover him while I half-carried him to our house, still bewailing the attack on him.

Once inside I pushed him upstairs and onto the bed. I stripped him again and examined him. His skin was reddened almost everywhere and would certainly show many bruises tomorrow. I kept up my pretence of being the concerned wife as I smoothed baby oil all over him and rubbed it in despite his winces. He gradually relaxed and slept.

By the morning his bruises were beautiful and everywhere. He couldn’t get out of bed so I brought him breakfast and the anonymous letter that I had found on the doormat. It hadn’t been difficult to find because I had dropped it there a few seconds earlier.

He opened the letter and peered at it. Then he swore loudly two or three times.

“The bitches!” he shouted or would have shouted except that he found it too difficult because of his bruising. He thrust the letter at me.

“What do you know about this?” he asked.

“Me?” I said innocently. “I found it on the doormat this morning, addressed to you. That’s all.”

I was lying, of course. Mary and I had drafted it yesterday and she had typed it for me. She used a font we never use and cheap paper totally unlike the firm’s paper. I read it aloud.

“Reshad.

You are a drunken lazy slob who is breaking your wife’s heart.

This night was a warning.

If you do not start supporting your wife and family you will get more of the same.

You are barred from your drinking club and any other place where you can get drink. If you disobey you will suffer.

We are watching you. If you punish your wife you will be punished much harder. If you drink you will suffer.

If, within a month, you have not found paid work, any work, you will suffer.

If you commit any offence against your wife, she can signal us by wearing red panties at work. If she does, you will suffer.

We mean what we say. Your bruises should be a reminder.

The angry women.

PS. You are the first. You will not be the last.”

“So? What do you know about this?” Reshad insisted.

“I know nothing except that I found you trussed up like a chicken and naked. I brought you in, looked after you, cared for you and you accuse me?”

I was playing the injured innocent to the life. Reshad seemed convinced.

“What is that about you wearing red panties to work?”

“Have you ever seen me wear red panties?” I asked. “Do I own any red panties?”

He didn’t know about the spell-ridden silk French knickers nestling under the sink.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I should go to the police...”

“...but,” I prompted.

“I don’t want to admit I was beaten up by veiled women. I can’t identify any of them. I only saw one...”

“...and you were drunk?” I suggested gently.

“I had drunk a few,” Reshad admitted.

I left it at that and went to work. I was greeted with glee. They had enjoyed themselves with Reshad and wanted to try others on the hit list.

“Well,” one asked. “Is he going to change?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “He can’t get out of bed this morning. Tonight will tell. If he goes to his drinking club...”

“We will meet him and sort him out,” said someone.

“Be careful, please.” I asked. “If he tells his friends you may have several men to deal with.”

“He won’t do that,” said Asmita. “He will be too ashamed to admit that women beat him up.”

As I opened my locker a brown paper bag fell out, spilling its contents. I picked up a Marks and Spencer bag and opened it. Inside was a pack of three red cotton panties with a note from Mary, which read “Just in case you need to signal”.

They were ordinary cotton panties, not sexy, nor high cut. They would be comfortable to wear and practical. Wearing them I wouldn’t feel as I did with the silk French knickers but I knew that I’d feel confident and contented. I picked up the brown paper bag. There was something else inside. I looked. Another M&S bag this time with pale blue panties in the same style and two sets of three. How did Mary know that my panties were so worn I was ashamed of them? She is a witch but this is uncanny. I almost run into the ladies and change into a pale blue pair of panties. As I pull them on I am happy. Whatever Reshad does, I know that I have many friends who are willing to help me. The new panties are a present, with love, that express care and consideration. I feel as if a load has been lifted from me. I’m still afraid of the debt, still afraid that Reshad won’t change but now I feel like my own woman. I giggle to myself. How much can I read into a new pair of M&S panties?

When I go to see Mr. Jones I set off a couple of minutes early so that I can say thank you to Mary. It is just as well that I allowed time. I had barely started to say thank you when I broke down in tears and ended up cuddled in her arms being comforted. Mary is a big girl compared to me. I suppose she isn’t large by English standards but she makes me feel like a china doll. She would tower over Reshad and probably weighs as much as my husband and I do together. She is wonderfully comforting as my head rests against her breasts and her hand strokes my hair.

I try to thank her again but she puts a finger across my lips.

“I know that you are grateful, Serena. Shall we tidy you up before we go in to Mr. Jones?”

She held up a small mirror. My eyeshadow had run. I know modern eyeshadow shouldn’t but I bought mine from a market trader because I couldn’t really afford makeup. Mary pushed me into the washroom, cleaned my face and applied some of her eyeshadow. It wasn’t quite the right shade for my darker skin but it felt much smoother. I looked at myself in the mirror and at Mary’s reflection.

“Feeling better?” Mary asked.

I swung round to hug her.

“Yes, thank you. Today feels like the first day of another life.”

“Take it carefully, then, Serena. Babies have to learn to walk slowly.”

The rest of that day was a happy blur. I felt love from every one of the women and excitement. Reshad had showed them that they had power. All they had to do was use it and they were waiting for the night to find the next victim. By the end of lunchtime they had a list of eight men who needed “attention” with another ten who would get a warning. They would pick on one victim a week until all the offending men showed signs of improvement. They would monitor Reshad until the next man on the list was attended to, unless I signalled that Reshad hadn’t changed.

When I arrived home Reshad was up. He was obviously in pain but moving about. I hoped that he hadn’t been really injured. I don’t think he had been.

“How are you, Reshad?” I asked.

“I hurt all over but I think I’ll be OK in a few days. Your mother says the meal will be ready in a few minutes but I don’t think I can eat much.”

I gave him a gentle hug and went into the kitchen.

“Hello, Mother. How has Reshad been today?”

“At first he just stayed in bed. He got up about eleven o’clock, washed and shaved and then had a couple of cups of black coffee. I thought that he would go out to his club. He usually goes there by twelve noon. Today he didn’t. He brought me his dirty clothes from last night and he sat down on the stairs. He polished his shoes, your shoes and the c***dren’s shoes. I heard him in the bathroom running water for half an hour. I went up there later. He had cleaned it from top to bottom. He had used the towels as cleaning cloths but at least he had done some cleaning.”

“He didn’t!”

“That’s not all. He found the vacuum cleaner and cleaned all the carpets upstairs. He only finished a few minutes before you came in.”

“I can’t believe that he has changed so much in a day.”

“He is trying. He is in pain and I think his system is reacting to lack of alcohol. He has been pale and sweating most of the times I have seen him.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he had withdrawal symptoms because he drank so much.”

I stopped talking. I’d said “drank” as if his drinking was in the past. That was a big assumption to make from half a day of good behaviour. Even so he needed a reward for that much.

“Mother, can you put the c***dren to bed this evening?”

“Of course I can. Why?”

“I think Reshad needs a reward for being good and encouragement to keep it up. Do you agree?”

“Perhaps. But it is only half a day that he has seemed like the good husband I chose for you.”

“...And I want to keep him like that. If he gets rewarded and there is still the threat that he will suffer if he lapses...”

“It might work. He is really hurting.”

“So I’ll put him to bed early and put lotion on his hurt body and perhaps some reward as well.”

My mother laughed.

“You will have to be very gentle with the reward. If you try to make love I think he will scream in pain.”

“I’ll treat him like a new-born baby with delicate skin.”

“His skin is delicate enough. His bruises are a beautiful yellow.”

We brought the food through to the dining room. For the first time in months the whole family sat down to an evening meal. Reshad ate very little and it was obviously an effort. After the meal he offered to wash up. Our eldest c***d nearly fell off the chair in astonishment. We declined his offer and suggested that he could play with the c***dren. He agreed.

As mother and I washed up we could hear happy noises from the dining room. Despite myself I smiled with relief.

When it was time for the c***dren’s bedtime mother took over. When I heard them in their bedrooms I held out my hand to Reshad.

“It has been a long day for you too. Time for you to go to bed.”

He looked puzzled but he took my hand and followed. I told him to wash and shave. He did. I washed myself in the bedroom washbasin and I was ready for him when he returned.

I turned back the bed.

“In you get,” I ordered.

He got in.

“Turn your back to me, with your hands by your sides.”

He did. I wrapped one of my long scarves once round his waist and tied his wrists by his sides. I gently lowered him to the bed and covered him with the bedclothes. I got into the bed, turned out the light and positioned myself with his head resting against my shoulder.

“Reshad” I said.

“Yes?”

“You have been a good husband today but you have many bruises.”

I felt him nod.

“So I am going to treat you gently, as gently as a baby.”

I unfastened the top of my nightdress and pulled his head to my breast. My erect nipple sought his mouth and pushed between his lips. He opened his mouth and began to suck. I wrapped an arm round him and settled him comfortably. We stayed like that for a long time before his head fell back asleep. I snuggled next to him and went to sleep as well.

The next morning my alarm woke me. I was stiff from holding Reshad all night. I clambered out of bed gingerly so as not to wake him. When I was ready to go downstairs I kissed him, lightly at first and then with more passion. He woke, returned my kisses and then realised his hands were still tied.

“Are you going to leave me like this?” he asked.

“Not if you promise to be good.”

He thought for a few seconds.

“I promise to try.”

I untied him, kissed him again and went downstairs.

Reshad was at the door to kiss me goodbye when I left for work. He was shaved and fully dressed. I hugged him too firmly and he winced.

“Careful!” he exclaimed. “I’m still delicate.”

I was almost singing as I went too work. I was even happier when I heard that what had happened to Reshad had been spread around the drinking club. Several of the men on the hit list were worried and were beginning to be more moderate in their drinking and behaviour. Not all of them. That would be too much to expect. The hardened drinkers, some of whom were nearly as bad as Reshad, hadn’t changed. One would be ambushed soon.

I enjoyed my day until Mr. Jones chose his victim for appraisal. He chose me. I suppose I looked more attractive now I was happier. Well, if it had to be anyone, I suppose I can bear it. The extra money will be useful. Mary commiserated with me as soon as we had left his office.

“We must stop his appraisals, Serena. It isn’t good for you. It isn’t good for him or for his wife.”

“I know. If only…” I stopped.

“If only what?” Mary asked.

“If only we could treat him as Reshad has been treated. That might stop him. But we can’t. He goes home to his expensive house in his exclusive suburb. There is no way we could ambush him.”

“Of course there is,” Mary said. “It can be done here.”

“What!” I exclaimed.

“It can be done here.” Mary repeated calmly.

“But Mr. Jones will know it was his staff. We won’t be anonymous veiled women.”

“So what? What could he do about it?”

“He could sack all of us. There are many more women who could take our places.”

“Serena, if he did, we could all sue him for unfair dismissal, sexual harassment and even ****. He couldn’t survive that. He would go to prison for a long time. He cannot take action against us without risking his company, his reputation and his liberty. We could do almost anything to him and he can’t retaliate. Think about it.”

“It’s too dangerous,” I protested again.

“Think about it,” Mary repeated.

“I’ll think, but the idea scares me stiff.”

“Doesn’t your appraisal scare you?”

“No. I know what he wants. It isn’t much to give him. A few short minutes and it is over for another month.”

“That is defeatist. He is using you.”

“I know. If he asked me as man to woman I might anyway. The only difference is that he orders it.”

I left it at that. My lunchtime wasn’t as happy as I had been when I started work. By three o’clock Mary’s words had begun to take effect and I was resenting Mr. Jones’ casual use of me. I had brought a few things from my locker when I knocked on Mr. Jones’ door.

“Come in, Serena.”

I closed the door behind me.

“Mr. Jones,” I said, “I would like to do something different this time. Do you object?”

“No, Serena. That sounds interesting. What had you in mind?”

“I thought I would start by blindfolding you.”

I could see the idea excited him.

“OK.”

I took a piece of silk from my handbag, rolled it to a band and blindfolded him.

“Now I want you to strip down to the waist, please.”

His clothes flew off him in his anxiety to get to the next stage.

“Now…”

I pulled his arms back, wound another strip of silk around his wrists and tied them. As soon as they were fastened I gave him a long lingering kiss. I pushed him back on the couch and swung his trousered legs up.

While I stroked his naked chest with one hand I removed his shoes with the other. I moved a hand to his bulge and stroked before unzipping. I pulled his trousers and underpants right off his legs. His erection raised itself proudly as I wrapped a third length of silk around his ankles and tied the end to one leg of the couch.

I kissed his body from navel up to his mouth. After tonguing him I left him gaping, waiting for more. I stuffed a ball of silk into the open mouth packing it tight and holding it in place with another length of silk. Finally I looped a long scarf under his armpits, down behind the couch and tied it off. He was now gagged, blindfolded, tied hand and foot and secured to the couch.

Faint mewing noises came from his mouth as I straddled his chest. I moved forward, hitching up the skirt of my overall dress. Then I lowered my nylon-covered muff over his nose and mouth and pressed down. His legs and arms thReshad as far as his bonds would allow as he struggled to breathe under the weight of my body. I pulled my dress down behind his head and heaved it back towards me. His face spread my legs apart. I felt my panties and tights become damp with excitement as I realised the power I had over him. I held my position for about ten seconds before releasing my hold, lifting the hem of my dress and allowing him to pant through his nose.

I repeated my actions several times and on the last time I wrapped his discarded shirt around his erection and squeezed as I pulled his head deep between my stifling legs. Almost as soon as I touched his member it came into the folds of his shirt. I wiped it roughly with the shirt before climbing off him.

I untied the gag and pulled out the now sodden silk. He couldn’t speak for a while so I removed his blindfold as well. His gaze at me was almost adoring, as if I was special. I stroked his cheek and kissed his panting lips briefly. He was satisfied and yet he had done nothing to me. I had been in control for the whole time and I had not been penetrated. I felt, not relief, but exultation. I had tamed the man who had been degrading me.

“Did you enjoy that?” I asked.

“Yes,” he whispered. “that was wonderful.”

“I’m glad you think so. I’m leaving you like this for Mary, your secretary, to sort out.”

His eyes flew open. He might have spoken but I had stuffed his mouth again as soon as I said, “leaving”.

His eyes followed me as I walked across the room to the door. I waved at him, blew him a kiss, and left.

Once the door was shut behind me I slumped back against it. Mary looked at me.

“How was it?” she asked.

“Great,” I replied. “You’ll have to sort him out. He’s a bit tied up at present.”

“You didn’t!”

“I did. I tied him up, gagged him, blindfolded him and gave him a hand job. He came all over his shirt.”

I giggled with relief.

“He enjoyed it. I’m not sure he’s quite as happy now because I left him tied and gagged. I’m going back to the shop floor. Have fun rescuing him.”

As I left Mary stared after me. She seemed amazed at the change in me. She wasn’t the only one. I was amazed as well.

When I left work I was happier than I’d ever been after an “appraisal”. The euphoria lasted until I got hope. Mother met me at the door.

“He’s drunk again. I don’t know how. He didn’t have any money. He didn’t go to the drinking club. Everything was OK until about three o’clock. He’d cleaned the downstairs of the house, even the kitchen...”

She stopped, seeing the expression on my face. I rushed past her into the kitchen. I opened the cupboard under the sink. The suitcase was gone. Mother had followed me.

“What did he do?” I asked.

While she replied I checked in my handbag. The things I wanted were inside.

“He carried a suitcase upstairs just before he went out. When he came back he was very drunk. He crawled up the stairs to your bedroom. He has been there for an hour. The last thing he said was that he would be waiting for you. That’s all I know.”

“Mother. I am going to our bedroom now. There may be some noise. Will you wait ten minutes and then come upstairs into our bedroom? Please?”

“If that’s what you want, Serena, then that’s what I’ll do.”

I hugged her and started up the stairs as quietly as I could. I opened the door very carefully. I was in luck. Reshad had fallen asleep while waiting for me. My finery was strewn across the floor. The suitcase had its lock broken. The red silk knickers were on the bed beside Reshad.

I opened my handbag and lifted out the lengths of silk that I had not used on Mr. Jones. I gently tied one piece to each of Reshad’s wrists and ankles. I tied the other ends to the nearest bed leg or the rails on the bed ends. I tied another piece in a running loop around both ankles. Slowly I tightened the loop bringing his ankles together. He stirred and his legs moved under my pressure until I had the ankles together. I knotted the silk and looped it to the rail at the foot of the bed. Gently, ever so gently, as if playing with a fish nibbling at the bait, I moved his tied feet closer and closer to the end of the bed until I could tie the silk knowing that he had little scope to move.

I wadded a piece of silk as I had for Mr. Jones. Holding it ready behind my back I poked Reshad in the stomach with a finger. His eyes opened wide. He was still too drunk to realise that I had tied him to the bed. He opened his mouth to shout at me. Like a striking cobra my silk filled hand reached his mouth cutting off his voice. His head shook violently trying to expel the muffling silk. I dropped my knees to his chest. His breath snorted out of his nose. I clamped my knees either side of his head and squeezed hard. Then I wound a long length of silk round and round his lower face pulling it tight over his mouth. I knotted it across his lips.

Reshad was thrashing as far as his bonds would let him. I lifted myself off and enjoyed playing with him. As he came towards me I gathered up the slack in the silk binding that wrist and tied it tighter. Soon his struggles had given me enough slack to make him completely immobile with his arms outstretched. I sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at him. His eyes glared back at me. His mouth tried to work but all I heard were muffled grunts. He tried to arch his back but just pulled hard on his arms. I crossed my arms and waited until he stopped struggling.

“You wanted to say something to me?” I asked.

He glared.

“I see you have found my samples from work,” I said calmly. “I hid them because I was afraid you would sell them for drink. Why have you broken my suitcase?”

He still glared and tried to struggle. I enjoyed watching him, knowing that he was helpless.

“No answer? No apology?”

I didn’t expect either. He was too well gagged.

“You have strewn expensive clothes around the room. I think you should be punished for that.”

I started to undress him. He had partially undressed himself perhaps because he wanted to jump me when I came home. I don’t know why. When he has drunk that much his tool is invariably useless. When I had removed as much as I could I took my dressmaking scissors out of my handbag and cut the rest of his clothing off. When naked, his bruises were lovely shades of yellow, green and black. I pressed my finger on one or two and watched him wince.

I left him alone while I gathered up my finery, carefully folded it and replaced it in the suitcase. I pushed the suitcase under the bed.

“Now you know about the suitcase it can stay there. If anything goes missing I will report it to my boss. He prosecutes thieves. Now I am going to change.”

I did a sensuous striptease out of my uniform, bra and panties. I picked up the red silk knickers.

“These are mine. They were a present.”

I made a real production out of putting them on. Despite the alcohol he showed signs of stiffness where it mattered.

Mother knocked at the door and entered. Reshad grunted as hard as he could into his gag.

“Thank you for coming, Mother,” I said. “Reshad and I have had a disagreement. I think he should not drink alcohol so I have made sure he can’t. Do you think he could?”

Mother looked shocked but turned so Reshad couldn’t see her face. She winked as she said:

“Serena! This is no way for a wife to treat a husband.”

“Perhaps not, Mother, but he isn’t much of a husband. Two half-days of being reasonable and then he is drunk again. I have had enough. Do you think he is the husband you would have chosen for me?”

“No, daughter, he is not the man I chose. I chose a hard-working man to be a good husband. This man is a drunken wastrel.”

“Thank you, Mother. I am pleased that you agree with my judgement. Could you express your contempt for him in some suitable way?"

I didn’t know what my Mother would do. Even I was shocked when she lifted up her sari and petticoat and pushed her backside across Reshad’s face.

“This is all he is fit for. Something to wipe your arse on.”

She wriggled her backside with his nose trapped between her cheeks. When she stood up Reshad’s face was bright red either from shame or from lack of breath or both.

“You should do the same, daughter. He is beyond saving.”

“Thank you, Mother. I will think what to do. One other request. Please would you bring me two cups of strong black coffee in a few minutes?”

“Yes, Serena, if you want but I don’t think black coffee will change him.”

Mother left us alone.

“Well, Reshad, useless husband, what shall I do with you? Shall I wear red panties tomorrow so that women beat you up again? Shall I keep you tied to this bed? Or shall I...”

I bent towards him, took his nose between my finger and thumb and squeezed his nostrils flat.

“...kill you with the fingers of one hand?”

I kept up the pressure on his nose and watched his face change colour.

“It would be so easy to do, wouldn’t it?”

He was struggling for his life but his struggles couldn’t move my fingers. I relaxed them and let him breathe.

“I think I will let you live for a little longer.”

His eyes shut. He was panting through his nose to replenish his starved lungs.

“I don’t even need fingers.”

His face had resumed its normal colour but turned white as my breast was poised over his nose.

“I could just mother you to death.”

I dropped my breast over his nose. It spread over his face blocking his nostrils again. This time I relented after a couple of seconds.

“You see how helpless you are? Why are you this helpless? It isn’t because I’m stronger than you. I’m not. But I don’t drink myself silly, so silly that a small c***d could tie me up. As long as you keep drinking you are in danger. At this moment you are in mortal danger. A small pinch, a small fold of my skin over your nose, a pillow – any of these could kill you. If you don’t change, and change permanently, you will die.”

I didn’t mean it of course, but how could Reshad know that? I had taken him to within a few seconds of death and his brain was still fuddled with alcohol. His loving wife had turned into his potential nemesis.

“Now I want an answer from you. One blink for yes, two for no. If you give the wrong answer my fingers will squeeze. Ready.”

One blink.

“Are you sorry for being a bad husband?”

One slow blink.

“Will you try to be good?”

One blink.

“Will you apologise for breaking into my suitcase?”

One blink.

“Do you want sugar in your coffee?”

Eyes opened wide.

“Do you want sugar in your coffee?”

One blink.

“OK. You can’t drink coffee with your mouth full. Will you let me take your gag out and still not say anything, anything at all until I say you can?”

Pause, then one blink.

“Remember. You have agreed not to say anything until I say you can.”

One blink.

I unwound the silk over his lower face, pulled out the gag from his mouth and then covered his lips with mine.

“Remember. Not a word.”

I slackened off the silk lengths securing his wrists and put pillows behind him so that he was half-sitting. The pillows tightened the ties again so he was no freer than he had been. He was like that when Mother returned with the coffee.

“Thank you, Mother. Is there sugar in the coffee?”

“No. I brought the sugar bowl. You can add it if you want.”

She looked curiously at the silent Reshad.

“Thank you.” I said.

She left, shaking her head. I put one spoonful of sugar in one of the cups of coffee, tested it for temperature and held it to Reshad’s lips. He sipped delicately. His mouth was as bruised as his body.

When he had finished I put the cup down. I sat facing him on the bed.

“Now, husband, you are going to be told the rules. I am in charge of this household. That is no change. I always have been. You are going to contribute towards it. Up to now you have been a liability, a massive drain on its resources and no help at all. You are going to stop drinking. You are going to get a job. When you get that job you will give all your pay to me. If you are good I might give you some pocket money. If you are not...”

Reshad started to open his mouth. I held up my hand.

“I have not given you permission to speak. You agreed to keep quiet or are you promises as useless as the rest of you?”

He lowered his eyes.

“As I was saying, if you are not good I will punish you. How far I punish you depends on me. If I think you can improve then the punishment will be appropriate. If ever I decide that you are not worth saving you will die and I have shown you how easy it is for me to kill you. I am not asking you to agree to these orders. You will obey them. Do you understand?”

One blink.

“Good.”

I pulled the pillows out from behind him. He flopped back to the bed. I straddled him pushing my muff covered by the red silk French knickers across his face. I squirmed over his face for a few seconds before sliding out of the knickers. I left them on his face and shimmied down his body. My hands brought his lingam erect and then I pushed it inside me. I rode him hard, ignoring the winces as my body banged his bruises. I reached an orgasm faster than I had ever done because I was in control and I had humiliated both the men who had been damaging my life.

When I had finished, Reshad was nearly u*********s from the drink and the pain. I left him tied to the bed while I went to have my evening meal with Mother and the c***dren. I left Reshad tied to the bed all night. I had to sleep on the couch in the living room because he wet the bed. I untied him in the morning and told him to wash