How We Met - Part 2 - The Journey North free porn video

HOW WE MET by Cuirnoir Part II - The Journey North It is a Sunday. I am sitting in the tea room in the Fortnums store on Piccadilly. My companion is Richard, whom I met less than two weeks before. He sits leaning back in his chair, with his hands behind his head and his legs stretched out under the table. He wears the same tweed jacket as before, this time teamed with red corduroys and a white shirt. Bottle green bow tie with a Paisley pattern. I have accepted his invitation for tea on condition that he invites his wife, which he has agreed to do, although she has not yet turned up, nearly half an hour after the scheduled time. Richard has ordered mint tea for me and coffee for himself. Tiered platters of sandwiches, scones, and cakes appear with the drinks on Fortnums' distinctive turquoise-rimmed plates. The room is quiet, with orders given in low voices, and waiters gliding effortlessly across the thick carpet. The room is busy but not packed. The other customers seem to consist of a mix of rich kids, ladies who lunch, and tourists. The next table to ours is occupied by a couple of wealthy-looking, well-groomed men, whom I guess (for no particular reason) to be gay. Two women wearing niqabs are in my line of sight, on the opposite side of the room. I wonder, idly, how they manage to eat through those black veils which remind me, obscurely, of crows. I am wearing, as before, tight leather trousers teamed with heels and a glittery maroon top. My leather jacket hangs over the back of my chair. I muse to myself that it is less than a week since you returned to Edinburgh, and already I am playing the field. But this, I reassure myself, is not really true. It is purely curiosity about Richard's wife - whom I've seen only in that provocative photo - that brings me to accept his invitation. I intend no intimacy with either of them, physical or otherwise, and Richard assured me when we last met that he was not looking for an affair. Really! Richard and I talk in a desultory way, but his animation of a few days before is missing, and I start to feel a little uneasy in his presence. We are, of course, both waiting for his wife - I sense that he is as eager to introduce her to me as I am to meet her and I wonder why. My mind starts to wander. I am planning an imminent visit to you, although the arrangements have not yet come together, and my mind really should be on that rather than on getting to know this odd, beguiling couple. As I am turning these thoughts over in my mind, a tall, very slim woman skitters into the tea room. She is wearing a voluminous, ankle length coat in purple velvet, with black ribbon decorating the huge collar and the cuffs. She stumbles towards Richard, kisses him on the cheek as he rises from his chair, and mumbles an apology. Richard introduces her as Sylvia, his wife (although that much I have already guessed). Sylvia removes her coat to reveal and extraordinary outfit consisting of a black, satin, sleeveless, one-piece very short playsuit, with a tie belt. Her footwear consists of very long boots which almost reach the hem of the playsuit's shorts, made of purple suede (darker than the mauve of her coat) with a swirly embossed pattern and a lowish heel. She is also wearing long suede gloves, which she proceeds to remove, pulling each finger to loosen them, and then sliding her hands and forearms out of them with some effort. Her hands are slim and elegant with long fingernails, painted black. Her gestures are rapid and nervous-looking, but I realise as I get to know her that this is simply an ever-present personal mannerism, and not a sign of unease. She smiles at me as I look properly at her face for the first time (purple lips and eyelids), which is impish, gamine, and very good looking. She and Richard make a handsome, if apparently rather ill-matched, couple. We make a striking threesome and attract some glances from the older customers who are, however, too polite to stare overtly (I cannot tell whether the two women in niqabs are looking at us or not, but I fear that we must seem as alien to them as they do to me). From time to time, I return a glance, and the originator lowers his (or her) eyes and resumes his conversation with his companions. Sylvia and I start to talk at once, then giggle, and fall silent. Richard looks at this exchange with tolerant amusement, but disappointingly makes no move to break the ice. After this false start, however, a conversation builds. Sylvia and I compliment each other on our outfits and discuss where we like to shop. She talks about her design work, and I explain that I work in a company which writes and disseminates publicity, and designs e-marketing campaigns, for other businesses. As I say this, I am struck by a feeling that it must sound dull to Sylvia, but she listens with apparent interest and asks some sensible questions. We talk a little about our social lives and our tastes in arts. Sylvia has poured herself a cup of mint tea, and daintily picks up a scone. I eat little (a couple of sandwich fingers), but Richard has been contentedly munching through the assortment of sandwiches and pastries which has been placed on the table. He has still not joined in our conversation. The conversation starts to flag a little. The questions of why Sylvia and I are meeting, and whether we might carry our acquaintance further into friendship, and if so of what sort, remain unasked and therefore are not answered. I think that it may be this that starts to disturb Richard - the whole purpose of the meeting is, after all, to introduce the two of us - and he starts to shuffle a little impatiently. Sylvia and I ignore him and plunge into our conversation once more, which thereforeregains a little animation. We talk some more about clothes and shopping, and Sylvia starts to relax, and she edges closer to me. Her nervous gestures gradually becomes tactile. We talk quietly and more intimately: I'm asked about my personal life and whether I have a partner, and I say that I've just met someone I like very much. And I find myself, to my complete surprise, talking a little about our shared tastes in clothes and their erotic significance. Sylvia leans forward intently while I am talking about this, and then, brushing my hair aside gently, whispers into my ear that she has not always taken her opportunities, and that when something like this comes along, I should embrace it wholeheartedly or I'll regret it later. Richard's detachment and impatience has been growing during this exchange. I don't know whether he has been listening properly, but when Sylvia moves closer to me and starts whispering into my ear, touching - and stroking - my shoulder with her fingers, he makes a tutting noise. "Why don't you two get a room," he says. Sylvia leans away from me, taken aback, and gives him a scolding look. He looks from one of us to the other, clearly frustrated, for reasons I can't fathom. "You really have been making out together," he says in a louder and more irritable voice. "You need to get a grip - " he glances around the room as if to say that we've made ourselves the centre of attention " - or go somewhere more private." And with this outburst he lapses into moody silence, which neither Sylvia nor I break. I can only guess at what has brought on this temper tantrum. Perhaps he is obscurely jealous of the bond he thinks Sylvia and I are developing, or perhaps he is just annoyed at being left out of the conversation. Or maybe he is just in a bad mood anyway. But I am seeing a side of him which I did not know - or even suspect - existed before now. What does he want? Sylvia is looking bored and disillusioned as if something like this has happened before. I think my face must be a picture. I look down at the floor and then up at Richard, trying to guess what might be coming next. "Or," he says with a leer, "we could make it a threesome." I stare at him. Sylvia coughs sounding embarrassed. There is another period of silence, while Richard looks intently from one of us to the other, and I feel myself growing increasingly uneasy under his piercing gaze. Sylvia, too, looks at him with an expression I can't quite read, her purple eylids hooded, although I later think that she must know Richard well enough to have a good idea of what he is likely to be thinking. She is evidently unsurprised, as if he has made this suggestion before to other people, and I feel myself blushing. I have no wish to be part of a threesome with this oddly-matched couple and, come to that, while I've enjoyed Sylvia's company, I am, I tell myself firmly, far from wanting to bed her. But even as I'm thinking that, I wonder if I'm deluding myself. The whole situation is discomfiting, and I'm not handling it well. "I...er...," I begin, but stutter to a halt. "Or," continues Richard, "if you're not up for that, perhaps the two of you... I could watch." I say nothing. I am conscious that my ears are burning and have probably turned bright red. I sit up straight in my chair, and uncomfortably return Richard's penetrating stare. Sylvia looks from one to another of us, assessing, holding her cup delicately between the fingers of both her hands. By now I am feeling seriously out of my depth, but Sylvia takes charge of the situation and scolds him gently. "She didn't come for that, and she's not interested." I give her a grateful half-smile, wondering again whether this scene has been played out before. Richard gives her a look, which might be irritation, annoyance, or just possibly embarrassment. For a moment, it seems that he is going to make some angry comment or elaborate on his suggestion, but looking at both of us in turn, and perhaps realising the fruitlessness of pressing the matter, he stutters to a halt. Muttering something, he gets up and walks quickly in the direction of the bathrooms. Sylvia giggles mischievously, her hand over her mouth, and he gives her a dirty look over his shoulder. Customers on nearby tables, detecting some obscure drama, glance in our direction. There is a perceptible reduction in the volume of conversation. "He'll be a while," says Sylvia when she stops giggling. "He gets these ideas from somewhere - God knows where: I never give him any encouragement - doesn't pick his moment, broaches them clumsily, and then gets embarrassed when he doesn't get the reaction he wants. I thought, though, that he'd be better behaved with you, given the things he's been saying about you." I return her smile. For a moment, we are co-conspirators in the task of unsettling Richard. He is a good-looking man, and I remember how he put me at ease when we first met, but my friendly feelings towards him have evaporated in a few seconds' conversation. Sylvia, however, still intrigues me, and it seems that I also interest her. She suggests we exchange contact details, and I tap her number and email address into my mobile phone. There is an implicit promise of a further meeting - without Richard - and this both pleases and unsettles me once more. I remind myself again that it is only a few days since my encounter with you, and scold myself internally for the fact that already I am exploring other interests. While I do not know where this implicit invitation from Sylvia will lead, and persuade myself that all I want is some innocent fun with a new acquaintance, I sense that I am deluding myself, and I feel guilty. Neither of us in fact moves to suggest a second meeting - that will have to wait until later - but we look at each other warmly, glowing a little in our conspiracy against - and apparent victory over - Richard. We continue a desultory conversation about our interests and habits while waiting for Richard to return. Which he does after a few minutes. His bounciness is gone, however, and he sits down, gloomy and fidgeting. Sylvia smiles at him, apparently warmly. I find it impossible to gauge the nature of the relationship between this apparently most unsuited of married couples. "I need to call in at the Royal Academy," she says to him without preamble. "Will you walk me there?" The Academy is less than ten minutes' walk away, and I am certain that under normal circumstances Sylvia would feel no need for an escort. Perhaps she wishes to admonish him, or even to comfort him after his clumsy attempt to set up a more intimate encounter. At any rate, what she says sounds more like an instruction than a question. Richard gives an unhappy grunt, but stands up and calls the waiter over, and settles the bill, asking him at the same time to fetch Sylvia's coat. He gives me a mildly hostile look, uncertain about my mood, and wishes me - quite formally - farewell. As they leave, Sylvia looks over her shoulder and winks at me a final time. I breathe out - I realise I've been holding my breath. "Well!" I say to myself. I pick up my cup and drink slowly, conscious of continuing furtive glances from other customers, which I find myself starting to enjoy. So it is a wrench when I eventually decide that I can't string the afternoon out any longer, and return thoughtfully home. ++++++ The following day is Monday, and I sweep into the office swirling a long, cloak-like overcoat behind me. It is an unmasculine burgundy colour and made from a light and slightly shiny mackintosh material and I'm conscious of the swishing sound it makes as I walk smartly across the office floor. Beneath the coat I'm wearing a Russian-style tunic in rough linen with a grandad collar, and black cord trousers tucked into soft boots. A heavy leather belt clinches the tunic at the waist. Emma emerges from her office as I sit down at my workstation, and gives me a once-over with half-closed, intent, green eyes. I guess she is making judgments about my outfit, and wondering whether to comment. But when she speaks, she takes a different track. "Well," she says after a perfunctory good morning, "it looks as though the Yorkshire project is taking off. You've been invited to their head office to give a detailed presentation." This is excellent news for more reasons than one: straightaway I start planning to combine a visit to Yorkshire with a trip to see you in Edinburgh. Despite the fact that Edinburgh is as far from Yorkshire as Yorkshire is from London, and the roads are crowded with traffic that frequently moves at no more than a crawl, I decide to drive, breaking my journey in Yorkshire, and then travelling to see you the following day. A couple of telephone calls confirm that this should be possible - I will drive to Yorkshire on Thursday, arriving in the evening, stay overnight, give my presentation on Friday morning, and then drive north in the afternoon. I ask Emma's secretary to arrange a car hire and hotel booking for me, and spend the rest of the week putting the presentation together, with the help of Graham and Jane, and wonder briefly whether I should take one of them with me, but decide (and there are unselfish as well as selfish reasons for this) that it would be better to go alone. So I set off in my hired care - a smart, powerful Audi - four days later. My route will be up the M1 to Leeds and then along country roads to the head office of the Yorkshire firm. Unfortunately, the weather is poor and the traffic is moving slowly. There are roadworks on the motorway, and when I eventually leave it, further obstructions delay my progress. I stop for a hasty coffee - it is already past the hotel's check-in time, but when I try to ring to explain, I can't raise a signal. A second attempt does get through, but nobody picks up at the other end. I return to my hired car, irritated at the general situation and the rain which is now pouring down persistently, and set off once more. Fortunately, there is no confusion about the route, as my satnav takes me efficiently towards my destination. I eventually arrive and pull into the car park of the family-run hotel that Emma's secretary has booked for me. I am feeling frazzled and ill-tempered as I open the boot of my hired car. Two suitcases sit inside - a small one with the smart suit and shirt that I intend to wear tomorrow, and a much larger one with the clothes I am taking to Edinburgh. For a moment, I consider leaving the Edinburgh case behind, but in the end, worrying illogically about loss and theft, I heave both suitcases out of the boot, and drag them awkwardly behind me. The hotel is a squarish, redbrick building dating, I would guess, from the late 19th century. The heavy door is half-glazed with tinted glass, and it creaks slightly as I push it open. The hotel lobby is brightly lit, with a red patterned carpet, a cream ceiling, and oak panelling half way up each wall. Above the panelling hang heraldic shields of northern families - I recognise the names Wentworth, Fairfax, and Percy, but there are other names I don't know below mundane and garish coats of arms. The reception desk is in the corner of the lobby, and behind it sits a middle-aged man with a red face, bulbous nose, and a small mouth with thin lips. He wears a brown suit which it will surely be difficult to button over his plump torso, with a grubby checked shirt and a knitted tie. His eyes - small and half concealed under heavy lids - swivel towards me as I enter. I am wearing denim jeans and a loose white sweatshirt, inconspicuous by my usual standards, but I feel I am under unnecessary scrutiny. "Yes?" he says, peremptorily. Not 'good evening' or 'can I help you?' "I have a booking for tonight," I say, giving my name. "You're late," he barks. "You should have checked in before six." I explain about the problems on the motorway. "You should have contacted us to say you would be late." Again, I try to mollify him, explaining that I had stopped to call the hotel, but couldn't get a decent signal. "You're lucky," he says. "We would have been quite justified in releasing your room to another guest." I look sceptically around the near-deserted lobby. Through a door, I see a gloomy bar with a single customer, and a dining room, immaculately laid out, but with that cold, slightly forbidding look which suggests a lack of regular custom. I say nothing, but sign the register and pick up the heavy metal key that the clerk hands me. My room is on the second floor. "Is there a lift?" I ask. "Broken." "Could somebody help me with one of these cases?" He looks at me coldly. "The porter goes off duty after six. Guests should all have checked in by then." He is perspiring slightly, his breath coming in rapid wheezes. I wonder for a moment whether he is ill, but I find it difficult to generate any sympathy for him. He fixes me with cold eyes, as if to dismiss me. "Will there be anything else?" he asks aggressively. To this day, I don't know what made me say what came next. Perhaps my dislike of him combined with a desire to shock; perhaps the after-effects of a tiring day; perhaps just devilment. But the words spill out of my mouth, almost involuntarily. "Would there be any problem if I come down to dinner dressed as a woman?" He gapes for a moment, his piggy eyes darting from side to side, and stutters something incomprehensible. "It's not...," he says incoherently. I never find out what it isn't. By now, I'm regretting my impulsive question, but I fix his eyes, and ask quietly, "Yes or no?" Again, he opens and closes his mouth and shakes his head. I don't know what would have happened if, at that moment, the woman whom I later find out is called Celia had not entered the lobby. Celia is a tall, dark, very good looking woman with a finely-chiselled face and jet black hair - dyed? - cut severely: a short, straight cut fringe, and an assertive line around mid-ear level. The hair is not layered, and therefore the style has the appearance of a helmet. She is wearing a one- piece suit of motorcycling leathers and carrying a crash helmet in her left hand. I wonder idly why her hair has not been tousled by this restrictive headgear. She looks at the clerk and smiles, somewhat insincerely I think afterwards, walks behind the desk, and kisses him on the cheek. "Hello darling," she says, "what's the matter." The receptionist has turned puce, so it is not difficult to work out that all is not well. "This... This person," (the word 'person' is spat out scornfully) "wants to eat dressed as a woman." Celia looks at me, amused I think more at the receptionist's indignation than at my startling request. She cocks her head to one side and scrutinises me through half-closed eyes. "Are you convincing?" she asks, as if this kind of request was broached every day. "Will you do anything to shock or upset other guests." "Certainly not," I reply, now slightly abashed. "All I want is to be able to relax and unwind after a difficult day." If that doesn't sound lame to you, it certainly does to me as I say it. This improvised and unconvincing explanation seems to convince Celia and with an expression I can only call coquettish, she says that there should be no problem, then, provided I agree to go back to my room if any of the other guests object. To my surprise, the receptionist defers to her, although I notice him darting a gloating glance at me as I struggle up the stairs with my heavy suitcase. The room is, in fact, quite comfortable and the en-suite is well-appointed, so I am able to take a relaxing bath and consider what to wear. It is, I realise, unfortunately not possible to wear something understated to enable me to fade into the background. I have come with a selection of clothes which I think will please you - which is to say flamboyant, sexy, tight and shiny, and with a heavy emphasis on leather. The hotel dining room does not look as though it often hosts couture of that sort (although I have sometimes found soulmates in the most unlikely places), but I am committed now. I select an elegant, expensive-looking black suit with a shortish skirt and a single-breasted jacket, under which I wear a skimpy black top. Even though by my standards this is a conservative get-up, I descend the stairs nervously at around 8.30 pm, looking around warily to see whether there are any other diners, and if so to assess how they might react to me. Celia is supervising the dining room. It is quiet - only two other tables are occupied - and she guides me to a vacant corner table, and makes an obvious effort to put me at my ease. I smooth my leather skirt under me as I slip down, feeling it ride up over my hips and thighs, and give a little shiver of satisfaction. Celia is wearing a business-like dark green trouser suit, with a rust-coloured silk blouse, open-necked, and heels. We continue to chat for a few minutes while the waitress brings over a menu and a jug of iced water. I discover to my surprise that Celia is the manageress of the hotel, and that the man I have taken to be the receptionist is her husband who, in fact, originally owned the property which they now share. The second unlikely couple I have encountered within a few days. They seemingly married some years ago - a case of an older, wealthier man impressing and ensnaring a younger woman working for him. I find this story of seduction (on whose part? Did Celia marry him because she had designs on his - relative - wealth?) unlikely and impossible to visualise, but just about credible. I attract a few inquisitive looks from the other diners, but otherwise the meal passes off uneventfully, and - for the first time in this odd hotel - I start to relax. The food is surprisingly good (I eat fish), competently presented, and the service is prompt and efficient. I rise from the table after an hour or so, intending to have an early night before my meeting tomorrow. But as I emerge from the dining room, I see Celia's husband at the reception desk talking to a couple dressed in outdoor clothes - a plump, red-faced man, wearing an unbuttoned mackintosh over an ill-fitting grey suit; and a smaller, elegantly dressed woman with short blonde hair. They both appear to be about fifty years old, and the man seems to be pressing the receptionist for information. The latter now notices me coming out of the dining room, and with a pleased and at the same time malicious expression, says something to the plump man and points in my direction. The man's eyes swivel round in my direction, widen, and he smiles (rather inanely I feel), and walks over to me. I resist the impulse to flee upstairs, wondering what all this is about. The woman accompanying the man looks in my direction in an unfriendly manner. "You'll be the representative of Astley's from London," says the man ingratiatingly. "We're meeting tomorrow, but I heard that you were staying here, and since my wife and I were out in town this evening, I thought I'd call in and welcome you." For a moment, the room appears to spin, and I feel my legs start to buckle. I flex my calves against my tight leather boots in an attempt to restore my composure. I can think of nothing to say in response. The man presses on: "We were expecting a man, not a glamorous young lady like yourself," he says. "My name's May - Barry May. Managing Director of Philpotts." He has a bluff, Yorkshire accent that suggests a blunt, uncompromising approach to doing business, but his eyes are a little glazed, suggesting that he and his wife have dined and drunk well. She looks at me intently, and I have the odd sensation of standing there naked under her penetrating gaze. But I suppose that's hardly less unsettling than having been caught out en femme. Madly, I decide to try to retrieve the situation by maintaining my role, although it's far from clear what else I might do. (Pretend to be my own wife? Claim to be on my way back from a fancy-dress party? Suggest that my suitcase had got mixed up with somebody else's? None of these seem likely to be convincing. "A mistake by admin, I expect," I blurt out. I hold out a hand to be shaken. "Katie," I say. But the moment I've spoken, I realise the position I have placed myself in. I am now committed to giving a presentation (the title page for which will need to be recast with my femme name) in broad daylight or in a brightly lit office before a group of complete strangers, in the slender hope that none of them realises that I am, in fact, a man. And even if I am successful, how do I explain the situation to Emma back in London? I can't imagine that she will be pleased to find that I've deluded the Yorkshire company. Worse still, if I'm found out during the meeting, it hardly seems likely that we will win the contract, given the inevitable embarrassment - perhaps anger - that will result. And then finally there is the unavoidable fact that the wardrobe I've brought with me is hardly suitable for a business meeting (indeed, it's hardly suitable for a family hotel). As these thoughts race through my mind, Celia appears by our side. "Is there anything wrong?" she asks. "Just welcoming Miss - ah - Macrae to Yorkshire," says Yorkshireman. "Oh, is that right - miss?" he says, looking anxiously at my left hand. He touches my shoulder in a gesture which is presumably intended to be friendly, but which comes across as clumsily forward. There is a flirtatious look in his manner, and an undoubted hint of lust in his eye. I swallow nervously, while his wife looks daggers at him. Not noticing his wife's irritation - or perhaps unfazed by it - he offers to buy a round of drinks in the bar "so we can get to know each other before the meeting". It's still early, and although I try to avoid the issue by stammering that I need to put the finishing touches to my presentation, he is having none of it. I think I see the receptionist sniggering at the chaos he has caused, and I vow to get my revenge on the morrow (although I'm not entirely sure how). Barry steers me by the elbow into a tiny, brightly lit bar with three small, round tables, each of which has four red chairs with wooden legs. There is an array of bottles behind the bar, and a solitary beer pump. There is nobody behind the bar until Celia - bless her - follows us in and shepherds us to a table, asking for our order. The bluff Yorkshireman brushes off my request for a fruit juice, and after some hesitation I opt for a gin and tonic. He orders a beer, and his wife looks disapproving. But, I think to avoid attracting a put-down from the man who is presumably her husband, she asks for a glass of white wine. Unlike her husband, she appears to be completely sober and alert, and I find her continuing gaze unsettling. The next half hour passes in a haze. I can't' remember - I can't imagine - what we talked about. I do remember that Barry dominated the conversation, while his wife remained vigilantly silent. Once or twice Celia reappears and checks that everything is OK, and I think I see her out of the corner of my eye reprimanding her husband for dropping me in it. Eventually, to my intense relief, Barry relents, rises, and while indicating that he'd like to have stayed longer (with an unashamed leer as he does so) says that I must get on with my presentation. As he leaves us momentarily to retrieve his coat, which has been hung on a stand near the door, his wife looks at me directly, and speaks for what I think is the first time. "I know exactly what you are," she hisses. "The best of luck tomorrow," she sneers, "and watch out for my husband. It's your good luck that he's completely unobservant, but your bad luck that he has wandering hands. So don't let them wander too much. Oh, and watch out for the Finance Director. He's totally sexless, but an extremely acute observer of the interplay between other human beings." She looks at me thoughtfully, and I think I detect a note of sympathy in her expression. "I have a very simple world view," she goes on in a more level voice. "I think people should live however they want provided it doesn't upset other people. But," and here she gives a malicious-sounding laugh, "I almost wish you get found out tomorrow. It might teach Barry a well-deserved lesson." It's clear that Mrs May has read me, and for the life of me I can't work out whether she is giving me honest advice, or whether she is just trying to make me nervous (as if that is necessary). Her manner isn't exactly friendly, but perhaps her hostility is directed at her husband rather than at me. At any rate, she guides him with firmness and surprising energy - he is a little unsteady on his feet - leaning towards him and hissing what may be a reprimand into his ear. As the couple sweep out of the hotel, I heave a sigh of relief. Celia drifts over to me, and with masterly understatement announces, "That was certainly a turn-up for the books. What are you going to do tomorrow?" "I don't know," I say. "I don't see what I can do other than go to the meeting as Katie. But I haven't brought an outfit suitable for a business meeting." Celia is sympathetic and suggests that she might be able to find something which fits me. She steers me back to the bar and pours me another drink - which I decidedly need - and offers words of sympathy for my plight, and apology for her husband's appalling behaviour. She reassures me that I make a very convincing woman (although not, I recall ruefully, sufficiently convincing to deceive Mrs.May) and suggests that I should be able to maintain my identity the following day. I smile weakly at her, still wandering how the London office will react when (as they inevitably must) they find out. Shortly afterwards, I return to my room and, having attended to my presentation, undress without any of the feelings of elation and fulfilment that my wardrobe generally brings to me. I sleep fitfully, and I'm wide awake when, early the following morning, Celia knocks on the door of my room. She brings with her a on a hanger a dark suit with a knee-length pleated skirt, and a cream silk blouse. These turn out to fit surprisingly well, and I team them with knee-length boots. Celia also lends me a slim, leather briefcase which, she tells me, is more feminine than the bulky despatch case I've brought with me. I'm grateful for this considerate thought, but as I dress and breakfast (under the sardonic gaze of Celia's husband who is again at the reception desk) my nervousness builds inexorably. The company is located some way out of town - a straggle of buildings behind a chicken-wire fence. I check in at the security barrier, nervous that I've no identity documents in Katie's name, but fortunately the guards are expecting me, and, having checked that the registration number of my car matches that which I've previously advised them about, wave me through. I get out of my car, carrying my briefcase and a laptop, to find Barry May waiting for me by the main door. Time slows down, and in a haze of unreality - my feet feel as if they are hovering a foot or so above the carpet - I allow myself to be steered into a meeting room. The next few minutes are spent connecting up my laptop, with the help of a company technician, and then half a dozen people (all - inevitably - men) file in. I remember little enough about the meeting, or about most of those present. I haven't met any of them before, as Graham and Jane have been the early contact points for the company. But there are two people who do give me pause. One is inevitably Barry May, who has already wasted no time in gabbling to me about how much he enjoyed our meeting the previous evening, and how struck was he by my stunning (his word) outfit. When he looks at me he is, I feel, seeing an image in his mind of a sex-bomb dressed in leather, rather than a smart, understated, competent businesswoman. The other is a thin man who appears to be in his late 50s, who is introduced by Barry May as the Finance Director. I don't catch his name, or don't remember it afterwards. He is wearing a brown suit. His head is skull- like with his skin stretched over an aquiline nose and prominent cheekbones, and his suit appears to be at least a couple of sizes too large for him. He shambles to his seat and I have a picture in my mind of a slightly absent-minded and eccentric university professor. But it is he who asks pertinent and pointed questions during my presentation, and it is to him that the others (including the managing director) defer. After what seems like an eternity, the meeting draws to a close. I think, with a sense of relief, that I've remained successfully in role throughout, my true gender undetected by anybody. But the Finance Director, who has offered to walk me to my car, shatters this illusion. He observes with surprising gentleness that I'm not at all what I seem, or what he was expecting and I know exactly what he means. "You are a one," he adds with a grin. And although he makes no specific accusations, his meaning is obvious. But his manner is unaccountably friendly and I find myself asking him why he did not say anything during the meeting. "My only interest," he says, "is the well-being of the company. If Barry were to find out who - or what - you were, he would be furious, and you wouldn't get the contract. Your proposal seems a good one, and I don't want that to happen. And I agree with Barry's wife that unless they are incompetent or offensive, people should be treated with courtesy: which means, if they want to masquerade as someone of a different gender, well..." He leaves the sentence unfinished, while a thoughtful look comes over him. "Mind you," he adds, "you'll have your work cut out. He's bound to want to meet the glamorous Miss Macrae again." And with this not entirely reassuring comment, he steers me to my car, and departs. I wonder for a moment, as he's mentioned Barry's wife, whether he and Mrs.May have spoken to each other since last night, and whether they're in cahoots, and if so why. But I dismiss the idea as idle speculation. The thought of dealing with Mr.May is at the moment nothing when set against my worry about how I'm going to explain the day's events when I return to the London office. I drive thoughtfully back to the hotel, wondering whether to ring Emma or to leave things where they stand until I know whether we've won the contract or not. Eventually, I opt for the coward's way out and don't contact the office. But I spend the next few days in growing apprehension about what will happen when I return to work. Never mind. I have a weekend with you to look forward to, and I decide to adopt my Katie persona for the long drive north. I have an obscure instinct that this will relax me and help me put behind me the events of the past 24 hours. So I change and pack, and return the business suit to an understandably curious Celia. Her husband eyes me with disdain as, dressed in a tight leather trousers, heels, and a rather beautiful black blouson, I walk up to the reception desk to pay the bill. He blushes and stutters as he explains the bill to me, and I pay with a company credit card. Impulsively, I lean over the desk and make to plant a kiss on his cheek. As I expect, he instinctively recoils, and I contrive to find his lips, which I kiss rather wetly, leaving a lipstick mark behind me. This is the only revenge I manage to get, but his look of horror as he lurches away from me (almost falling off his chair in the process) is immensely satisfying. I see Celia out of the corner of my eye stifling a giggle behind her hand. Celia is dressed for her afternoon motorcycle ride, and it is she who helps me with my heavy suitcase. As we heave it into the boot of my hired car, she wishes me well. "Let me know what happens about the contract," she says. I tell her about the Finance Director and my uncertainty about the whole situation, but she shrugs. "It sounds OK to me," she says, although she tells me she agrees with the Finance Director that my future business relationship with Mr May - if there is one - will have to be carefully managed. We exchange a kiss, and then I get into the car and start the engine. In my rear-view mirror, I see Celia strapping on a crash helmet and mounting her bike, and wonder if she plans to follow me. But in fact we turn out of the car-park in opposite directions, and I feel a surprising sense of loss at my departure from this friendly, helpful woman. ++++++ The journey north is long but uneventful, and the satnav guides me through the Edinburgh traffic to your home, which is a granite town house with a slate roof in Stockbridge. The door and casement windows have been painted a restrained colour of charcoal grey, and a climbing plant I don't recognise is growing by the front door. I don't know Edinburgh well, but I'm aware that Stockbridge is a fashionable district, and I pass shops selling second-hand designer clothing, antiques, and craft products, as well as some inviting-looking coffee shops, bars and restaurants. Young, affluent-looking people walk the streets, chatting and no doubt planning their Friday evenings. A group of girls, skimpily-dressed despite the chilly weather, whistles and throws catcalls at passing traffic. They must, I think, have started their weekend early. Although it's rush hour when I arrive, there is little traffic. A watery evening sun lights the front of your house, and I park, as you have told me to, in a cobbled mews that I find at the rear. I've messaged you, and you must have been looking out for me, because as I get out of the car, a wooden door in a high red brick wall opens, and you emerge into the mews from what I take to be your back garden. You are dressed in business clothes - a charcoal grey trouser suit, with the jacket buttoned over a close-fitting cream top - and you look as delicious as I have always found you to be. Sexy, sophisticated, powerful - these are the impressions that go through my mind as I look at you, and remember you after what seems an age, although it is in reality only about three weeks since we last met. I smooth the creases from my trousers, unhook my jacket from behind the driver's seat and pull it on. You walk towards me and we find ourselves embracing. "I've missed you," you say, to my immense pleasure. You help me pull my large suitcase and overnight bag from the car, and between us we struggle with it towards the house. The back door is up a short flight of steps, and leads into the kitchen where I smell fresh coffee. The room is a handsome, square room, with enough space for a largish table and six dining chairs. The style is modern, with rust- coloured kitchen units, a gas-fired Aga, and the whole room has an optimistic light and airy feel to it. Celia motions me to sit, and pours me a cup of coffee from a pot warming on the Aga. Used to cramped London properties, I'm impressed by how spacious the house feels. It is arranged over three floors, with in addition a cellar beneath the kitchen. You give me the tour. As well as the kitchen, the ground floor boasts a large and comfortable sitting room, an equally large room that has been converted into an office, and a room with a large TV screen, with what looks like a state of the art sound system, and a couple of games consoles. There is also a conservatory adjoining the sitting room at the side of the house, and a utility room next to the kitchen. Your bedroom is on the first floor: bare floorboards, sumptuous rugs, a huge bed with a glossy cover, dark wooden modern furniture (which manages to avoid the heavy look of an old-fashioned English bedroom), candles and concealed lighting. The bedframe is iron, and there are, I see, metal fittings attached to the walls above and beside the bed whose use is obscure. Next to the bedroom is an equally large dressing room with easy chairs, a make-up table, and a wall of wardrobes with sliding mirror-glass doors. One of the doors is part-open, and I glimpse a suggestion of dark, shiny clothing. The walls of this room are painted in dark colours and the velvet-covered chairs are a deep maroon. It is an evening room rather than a daytime room. The other room on this floor is a bathroom, containing a free-standing bath with gold taps, a modern shower, a bidet, and the usual facilities. The floor is tiled with grey marble although, as I later discover, it is warm to the feet, with a suggestion of underfloor heating. The top floor consists of a couple of guest rooms with en suite bathrooms, and a third room that appears to be another dressing room. A spiral staircase leads from the second floor landing into an attic which is, you tell me, used only for storage. You encourage me to unpack and stow my clothes in one of the dressing room or one of the guest rooms, although you say with false coyness that you assume that I'll want to spend most of the night in the master bedroom. "Or should that be the mistress bedroom?" you add. The joke is a weak one, but we nonetheless smile together. The feeling is oddly conspiratorial. You announce that you are going to change out of your work clothes, leaving me to unpack and to wonder what you have planned for the night. I do not know whether to change into something more suited to a night out, or into a costume suited to a no doubt equally energetic evening at home. And although part of me simply wants to relax after the stresses of the morning and the tiring drive north, most of me wants to resume as soon as possible where we left off three weeks ago. After I finish unpacking, I stand indecisively looking at the array of clothes I have hung in the wardrobe. I postpone a decision by sitting down at a dressing table that has been placed in the window bay and repairing my make-up, and as I complete this task I hear a noise behind me, and glimpse you in the mirror entering the room. You are wearing the leather dress you wore on our first evening together in London, and you look absolutely exquisite. I stand dreamlike as you glide towards me. "Have you brought yours?" you ask, wrapping your right arm around my shoulders and drawing me towards you. I nod. "Good," you say, and start to kiss me gently, and then more urgently, undoing the repair work I have just completed. "We're going clubbing tonight." ++++++ The club turns out to be in a basement under some railway arches towards the centre of the City. I have changed, as instructed, into my own leather dress and boots, and so we enter the premises as twins. Heads turn. There is a buzz of conversation from the young crowd in the bar area, and from an adjoining space, I hear the beat of disco music. The club is discreetly lit, but noisy. We head for the bar area, where there is some space. There are low tables with candles on them, and alcoves where couples (and one apparent foursome) seem to be disporting themselves in the gloom. There is a heady odour which smacks of carnality, but after ordering two glasses of champagne at the bar, you head for a table in the centre of the bar area. I look around. Behind the bar is a crowded dancefloor where it is possible to make out people of all genders and none. The rhythmic beat of the music is quite loud, but conversation is possible in the bar itself, and we spend a little time talking about how we have spent the last few days. I recount the story of my adventure in the hotel in Yorkshire, and you laugh gently at my predicament. "What happens when your office finds out?" you ask. This is something I have been thinking about ever since last night, and I haven't decided how to play it yet. Of course, Emma has drawn some conclusions about my lifestyle after my text to Emily went astray, and seems unfazed by it, but meeting a client while fully dressed seems to me to be an entirely different matter of which management might take a dim view. After we have been chatting for a while, two women walk into the club and wave at you. You beckon them over. The younger, smaller woman is blonde and wearing a short pink skirt, a tight white top, and white slingbacks with a very high heel. Her blonde hair has been artfully styled into a mass of ringlets and curls. The older woman is much taller with a muscular, athletic build. Her face is strong and, although not beautiful, obscurely sensual. She has very prominent cheekbones, full red lips, and piercing grey-blue eyes. Her eyelids are extravagantly made up with glittery, silvery make-up, and she wears an assertive quantity of eyeliner, and thick black mascara. She is wearing what appears to be a tight, PVC one-piece garment, with the leggings tucked into lace-up knee-length boots. She walks elegantly, cat-like, her high heels making little noise despite the hard wooden floor. She greets you, touching your shoulder with a gloved (or rather gauntleted) hand. "It's been too long," she says, in an accent which seems vaguely central-European. You give her a look which I cannot read, and don't reply directly, introducing the two women to me as Julie (the younger one) and Trudi. Trudi is of course a Germanic name, which may account for the accent. Julie gives me a friendly smile, but Trudi, who is sitting directly opposite me, just stares at me. Her smile, when it eventually comes, is icy. "New girlfriend?" she asks you in a far from friendly tone. "Well, maybe," you say squeezing my hand. "We'll have to see how it goes." I am conscious that my smile, directed at Trudi, is artificial and wooden. Trudi whispers something to Julie who nods, gets up, and walks to the bar. This is perhaps a ruse to get her out of the way while she interrogates you about why you haven't been in touch with her recently. "I haven't deliberately been keeping out of your way. I've just been very busy." But you look oddly nervous and lower your eyes before Trudi's penetrating and seemingly far from friendly stare. "Come and see me. We need to talk. Come back with me later tonight. The four of us," she gives me another unfriendly look, "can have a nightcap together." "Er..." you begin, but before you can reply, Julie reappears with a bottle of champagne and two more glasses. Trudi nods at you as if the matter is settled, takes the bottle from Julie, and then pours a glass for herself and Julie, and tops up yours but - rather pointedly - not mine. There is an awkward silence, which Julie tries to break by asking me where I'm from. After a while, a desultory conversation resumes as in turn we say a little about what we are doing and the state of our lives (in my case, rather reluctantly in front of two complete strangers). But there is something artificial and stilted about the exchanges, and over it all Trudi's hostile stare and sullen expression seems to militate against the conversation becoming truly animated. Eventually we trail off into near silence. You look unhappy, and Julie looks puzzled. I simply feel uncomfortable. After a few moments, Julie leans over and whispers something to Trudi, who gets up abruptly, grabs her by the wrist, and starts walking towards the dancefloor. Trudi walks angrily, but as I watch her retreating rear view, and despite the unfavourable impression of her that I have inevitably gained, I can't but admit to myself that she her figure, her clothing, and the way she moves make her a powerful, sensual figure. I can understand the attraction that Julie evidently feels for her, and wonder about your own relationship with her. Her attitude and mien seem likely to play to your submissive tendencies, but I can't somehow see you as soulmates. I am less sure what attracts Trudi to Julie (because they are evidently a couple): her little-girl look does not fit in with what I imagine to be Trudi's sexual profile. I look back at you. Your expression is apprehensive, and you glance down and fiddle with the zip of your right boot, avoiding my eye. "What," I say, "was that all about?" You sit thinking for a moment, wondering what to say, still not looking directly at me. "We used to be an item," you say. But of course, I've guessed that already. "And?" I ask. "We split up three months ago. My decision. Trudi's never accepted it. She keeps pestering me to go out with her or spend an evening with her at home, even since she's taken up with Julie." You take a sip from your champagne glass, put it down on the table, and look anxiously over towards the dance floor. The music is loud, with an insistent beat, and Trudi is dancing with verve and energy, perhaps working off her ill temper. I glimpse Julie behind her, trying to mimic Trudi's moves. "Why did you split up?" Again, you pause before replying. "She got very intense: she started to frighten me a little." I look questioningly at you, but you do not elaborate. Your expression is apprehensive, and I begin to sense that you are still a little in awe of her. "So why did you accept her invitation tonight?" I imagine to myself that if you are frightened of Trudi, the last thing you would do is go home with her, even with me in tow. "Did I?" you ask. "I think Trudi thinks you did," I say. "You could have turned her down. Surely, I'm your excuse." Again, you say nothing for a while, sipping your drink thoughtfully, and following my glance towards the dancefloor. "Your presence here is precisely why I can't refuse," you say obscurely. "Besides," you add more cogently, "perhaps once Trudi understands that we're a couple, she'll back off and leave me alone." I am pleased by your statement that we are a couple; but I'm worried by the dynamic with Trudi, and I'm sceptical that she will back off because of me. What hold can she have over you? ++++++ Trudi and Julie have returned and are drinking champagne as if it were diet coke. I feel a little tipsy, but I'm OK for a dance, and sufficiently alert to be able to deconstruct Trudi's odd interventions in our conversation. Her remarks are pointed but obscure. I get the impression, however, that she's wounded and angry by your walking out on her and she has decided to take her revenge this evening by belittling me whenever she has the opportunity. She clearly guesses my true gender, because she makes several unflattering - and I think untrue - remarks about my unconvincing appearance. I do not rise to them, deciding that our best hope of getting through the evening without a confrontation is for me to remain as unobtrusive as possible. I pull you onto the dancefloor in the hope that Trudi's temper will mellow if we spend a little time away from her and Julie. On the dancefloor, the music is energetic and vibrant and the dancers' movements are rhythmic and seductive. You weave around me - pouting, leaning towards me, tactile, voracious. These are the words which come into my mind, although I'm not quite sure why. Eventually, the music slows to something more intimate, and you put your arms around my neck, and say to me, "You're the one that I need: no-one else." And I relax a little. Trudi forgotten for a moment, I'm feeling alive and stimulated by you: my penis protests against its confinement. Eventually, we drag ourselves back to the bar area and drink some more champagne. Trudi is quiet, and Julie looks unaccountably anxious. While no commitments have been made, and Trudi does not raise the subject directly again, there is an assumption that we are going back to Trudi's apartment, and neither of us - somehow - can bring ourselves to demur when Trudi stands up, calls for the bill, and starts to lead us out of the club. You shrug yourself into your long leather coat, and I pull on my trenchcoat. Julie has an inevitably pink raincoat made of a smooth, slippery fabric that I can't identify. Trudi struts out as she is. We walk along a couple of streets and then turn into a cobbled alley, and Trudi pulls a key from her bag and opens a door next to a shuttered shop window. The staircase up to her apartment smells damp and is cool, with a worn, patterned carpet that is not quite firmly attached to the stairs. Trudi fiddles with a key and beckons us into her flat. This turns out to be a well-furnished but rather cramped space with a small, crowded sitting room, a kitchen which is just large enough to accommodate a table (oblong, dark wooden top, with round and rather sturdy chrome legs), and a single bedroom with an ensuite bathroom. Trudi shows us around with a proprietorial air, which is somehow both defensive and aggressive. At one point, you remind her that you have seen it all before, and I guess that Julie is familiar with it as well, but we still do the tour. The most impressive item in the bedroom is an enormous suite of built-in wardrobes which occupies an entire wall, but Trudi does not - understandably - slide the mirrored doors apart to acquaint us with what might be inside. We return to the kitchen, and Trudi retrieves some small glasses from a cupboard and pours from a bottle which turns out to be an impressive single malt whisky. We sip, appreciatively, for a moment, before Trudi looks pointedly at you, and says, "We've had some good times together in this room." You look at the table, and for a moment I don't understand your reaction or the meaning of Trudi's robust statement, or why this room should be more significant to you and Trudi than the bedroom or the small but comfortably- furnished sitting room, and you do not say anything either to explain what Trudi has said or to reply to her. And then Trudi with surprising strength and agility seizes you around the waist and pulls you onto the table and - fiddling in a drawer under the table top - somehow extracts a pair of handcuffs which she snaps around your wrists in such a way as to ensure that you are shackled to the table, the chain of the handcuffs passing behind one of the sturdy table legs. You give a painful grunt. "No stop, what are you doing?" But your protests do not register with Trudi who has now extracted a length of slim chain from the table drawer and is fiddling in your bag which you have left on one of the kitchen surfaces. After a few seconds, she triumphantly pulls out a tiny key, which she uses to unclasp the small, silver padlocks on your ankle straps, which she then snaps shut around the end-links of the chain. She has wound the chain around one of the table legs, so you are diagonally face-down on the table with no means of escape. "No," you say, "no Trudi, don't." You sound indignant, but I look at your face and am surprised to see real apprehension there. While I'm standing there transfixed, not knowing what to do or how to do it, Trudi has pulled out yet another item from the kitchen drawer - a short length of bamboo which she swishes experimentally through the air. "No, stop it," you repeat. "We're long past that sort of thing." But Trudi lifts the hem of your dress (I see that you are wearing stockings and suspenders but no briefs or thong), and then swings the cane back, and brings it down firmly on your buttocks. A muffled scream. Trudi again draws back her arm and strikes you, and then again and again. You scream and cry for her to stop, but she now rains down a rapid multitude of blows, and you scream time and time again, and say desperately, "I surrender, I surrender," which I remember is your safe word. But none of this has any effect on Trudi. For a moment, I'm transfixed. I stare at Julie who looks horrified, her hands over her mouth, but seemingly she can't say or do anything either. Trudi continues her rain of blows and you continue to shriek and squeal. Time seems to stand still, but after an eternity (which in reality is probably only a minute or so) I step forward and grab Trudi's arm as it poises itself for another merciless blow. For a moment she struggles to release her arm, and then she swivels round on her heels and glares at me, and wrestles her arm free, and makes to strike me. And then she throws her cane to the floor and struts out of the room. You are sobbing convulsively, and Julie is immobile, her back pressed against a kitchen cupboard, her fist crushed between her lips, eyes wide. "The key to the handcuffs," I say. Julie finds it lying on one of the surfaces and passes it - wordlessly - to me, and then rushes from the room. I undo the cuffs, and then find the key to the padlocks on your sandals and undo them, and with some difficulty lift you off the table. By now you are shaking and shivering, and I don't really know what to do. Eventually, I walk out of the kitchen and coax Julie out of the bedroom (she has been kneeling in front of Trudi, who is sitting on the bed, back bent, with her head buried in her hands) and ask her whether there is a medicine cabinet in the apartment. She directs me to a shelf in one of the kitchen cupboards where there is a metal box containing boxes of tablets and ointments and plasters. I scrabble through it and find a tube of antiseptic cream, a packet of gauze pads, and a roll of sticking plaster, and I go to you (you are still sobbing) and lift the hem of your dress and rub cream on your buttocks, which are criss-crossed with ugly welts, some of which are bleeding. I rip open the packet of pads and pull out one which I think is the right size and press it onto your right buttock and secure it with two strips of tape. I'm struck by the odd and surely irrelevant and unworthy thought that at least your beautiful dress will be safe from bloodstains. I pull you - still sobbing - from the kitchen and find your coat and mine hanging on hooks in the corridor and we pull them on, and then with you leaning on me descend the stairs to the front door with difficulty. I can hear a muffled, angry conversation between Trudi and Julie but I don't honestly care about that now. I pull open the door and we totter over the cobblestones to the end of the alleyway. With great resolution you pull your phone from your bag and log on to it and find an app to summon a taxi, which arrives within a minute or two. We struggle into the cab and you lean against me, your body still wracked by occasional convulsive sobs, and I tell the turbaned sikh driver your address, and he looks at us in the mirror, an unfathomable expression on his face, but then pulls the cab into gear and sets off. We are back at your house within minutes. We alight from the taxi and I pay the fare, and the driver looks at me closely and asks, "Is she alright." I shrug. "She's had a bit of a shock. I'll look after her." And the driver, uncertain but evidently not wanting to become involved, pockets the cash, puts the cab in gear and draws away. Meanwhile, with shaking hands, you have ferreted the keys from your bag and opened the door. I follow you into the house and manoeuvre you up the stairs straight into the bedroom, and unzip your dress so that you can step out of it. And then I remove your boots and gently pull your underwear off you, and help you lie face down on the bed. I then begin the more complicated task of undressing myself, and then snuggle under the duvet. Still prone, you move across the bed so that you are half-lying on me, your left hand on my right shoulder. I push my left arm beneath your body. You give another, heaving sob and rest your head on my right shoulder, and I feel you consciously trying to relax. I stroke your beautiful hair with my right hand, and try to whisper something reassuring, but I feel - I can tell - that my words are inadequate. It seems an age before your breathing becomes more rhythmic and gentle, before I feel that I, too, can surrender to sleep. But my sleep is disturbed by vivid and unsettling dreams and I'm tired when I wake the following morning. ++++++ Surprisingly, we have slept late. You have woken before me, and hearing you moving about in the bathroom, I get up and pull on a bathrobe, and go down to the kitchen for a drink of water to wash away the dryness in my throat. The combination of uneasy memories and excessive alcohol the night before leaves me feeling listless and unsettled. You come downstairs wearing - in what I take to be a conscious effort to restore your morale - your favourite long boots over glossy, black - lycra? - leggings. Your sleeveless top consists of diamonds of soft leather held together by tiny metallic hoops which reminds me obscurely of chain mail. You walk towards me, a little stiffly, and put an arm around my neck. "Thank you for looking after me last night," you say. Not quite knowing what to say, I smile at you and kiss you softly. "It was awful, wasn't it?" "It was," you say, returning my kiss. You send me upstairs to change, saying that you are going round the corner to get us some pastries for breakfast. I shuffle through my clothes wondering what to wear. I want to cheer you up by selecting something sexy and exciting, but part of me worries that after last night you will recoil a little if I too obviously play the dominatrix. Eventually, I choose a short leather skirt - not too tight - boots, a black rollneck top, and a soft leather blouson. By the standards we have established over the past few weeks, this outfit is relatively restrained. I then begin the slow and pleasurable process of making myself up. My nails need another coat of varnish and this takes a little time. Eventually, I go downstairs to find that you have already returned, laid the table, and started a pot of coffee. You look at me and give me a pleased smile, and gesture me to sit down. I notice you have put a cushion on your chair. We start to pick at the rolls you have brought, and I ask you if you are feeling better. "I think so," you say, "at least physically." But I notice that you have been moving a little stiffly. It is quite late in the morning before we are ready to leave. We check ourselves out in the full-length mirror in your hallway. "Do I pass muster," you ask. "You more than pass muster." "So do you," you say. "In fact, if I weren't still feeling a little sore, I'd drag you back to bed right now." I smile at you as we step outside, wrapping