1. Breaking Bread

“Bang on time. Not a minute too early, not a minute too late. That's what we like,” said Mike warmly, as he opened the front door. “Come in, come in, she's waiting for you,” he said, ushering me down the hall.

Pushing open the door, I found myself in a large room. Anne was perched on the edge of the sofa, hands on knees. Skinny rather than slim, her sharp, thin-lipped, face was softened by a long, gentle frame of strawberry-blonde hair, falling gently onto the shoulders of her crisp white blouse. She said that she was forty when I spoke to her on the 'phone but, looking at her now, I guessed she was a little older.

“Sit down Stephen,” she said, opening her palm towards the armchair opposite her. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling anything but comfortable, as I sank into the armchair.

“She'll want to know everything about you Steve - everything ,” said Mike, who had followed me into the lounge and was now sitting in an armchair to my right. He gave Anne a knowing smile. She smiled back.

Even though Stephen was not my real name, I was irked that he had shortened it to Steve. I contained my irritation.

“Of course,” I said, playing along but with no real idea of what he meant.

I looked at Anne and smiled weakly.

Anne was the only woman who had replied to my ad'. I had pretty much given up when her email dropped into my Inbox, the previous Monday, almost four weeks to the day after I had posted it on an Internet bulletin board. Her reply was just one line.

‘I think we have a mutual interest. Call me on 0208 767 3636 - Anne'.

My stomach tightened when I read it. I wouldn't write down the number, for fear that Laura, my wife, might somehow come across it. That evening, I must have opened and closed Anne's email a dozen times. Each time my finger hovered over the delete key. Each time I failed to press it. If I deleted the email, the telephone number would be gone forever. It was still there when I went to bed. I tossed and turned, unable to still the debate that bounced around inside my head.

First the argument in favour: if I call, it doesn't mean that I have to meet her, I told myself. I could see how she sounds. Even if I arrange to meet her, I can always not turn up. It would be a bit rude but she's a complete stranger and this is my life. Nothing lost by calling.

Then the counter argument: if I call, I will be taking the first step. The first step towards deceiving my wife. And if I take the first step, there will surely be another and then another. Taking the first step means that I will meet Anne, I will deceive Laura and I will regret it. I'll delete the email first thing tomorrow.

And so the argument carried on throughout the night, repeating itself over and over. Laura mistook my self-inflicted insomnia for work worries. She put her hand on my shoulder to reassure me. “Don't worry David, it'll be fine”, she whispered into my ear. Her concern twisted the knife of guilt, strengthening my resolve to delete the email.

But I didn't delete the email. Instead, I made the telephone call and found myself in a terraced house with two middle-aged perverts. I felt a mixture of embarrassment and shame, despite being there of my own volition. Part of me wanted to say, ‘look, I'm really sorry. This is a big mistake. I really have to leave.' But I didn't. My need was too deep-seated. It had gone too long without being satisfied and, deep down, I knew it always won in the end. Anne wasn't what I fantasised about but perhaps, I thought, she can give me a fix of what I need.

“So, what do you do, Stephen?” asked Anne

“I'm in IT,” I said.

“So what sort of job do you do?” she asked

“I develop systems,” I said.

“So are you're a programmer?”

“No,” I chuckled, “I run a department of about a hundred and twenty people,” vanity gaining the upper hand over discretion.

“So, quite senior?” continued Anne.

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said, looking across at Mike, wondering what he did for a living.

“Don't look at me Steve,” said Mike, “look at the lady. It's her you're here to see,” at once both patronising and reproachful. It's fucking Stephen, not Steve, I thought.

“A Director?” probed Anne, as I turned back towards her.

“Well yes. That's what my job title says,” I said, with a weak, vain smile.

“Very nice,” said Mike.

“What sort of company?” asked Anne

“A bank in the City,” I answered truthfully but resolving not to say who it was that I worked for.

“Bet that's well paid?” said Mike.

“I do alright,” I replied, similarly resolving not to say how alright I do.

I was about to ask them what they did for a living when Anne stood up and smiled. “Let's eat,” she said.

When she had said, on the telephone the previous day, ‘Come over at lunchtime and we can break bread', I had assumed, or hoped, it was a euphemism. Now, following Anne into the dining area, I realised that she had meant it literally.

I had glanced towards the dining area when I entered the room but hadn't looked closely. I now realised that three places were set for lunch. In the centre of the table was a basket of bread rolls and bowl of salad. Next to them was a bottle of white wine in a stainless steel cooler. At each of three places was a dinner plate with a fillet of cooked salmon.

“Wine?” asked Mike, lifting the bottle out of the cooler.

“Yes please,” I said, grateful for something to soothe my jangled nerves.

“Cheers” said Anne raising her glass when all three were filled.

“Cheers,” I said, sipping eagerly. Although no wine expert, I can identify a limited range of favourites. I was pleasantly surprised when I recognised the nettle-like taste. “Mmm, that's lovely,” I said, reaching for the bottle to check the label.

Snob that I am, I like to think my interests and tastes are eclectic and, to an extent, esoteric. In a word: superior. To my surprise, Sancerre turned out to be the first of many things that the three of us had in common. Including, of course, the esoteric sexual interest that had brought us together in the first place. Mike and Anne were passionate about films. Mike loved Martin Scorcese and Anne loved Mike Leigh. I loved both. Anne played chess, Mike played poker. I was an enthusiastic, if poor, chess player and was keen to learn poker, after watching The World Poker Tour on television. We all loved the theatre but she preferred South Bank to West End. We all bemoaned the rise of bland boy band music and mourned the death of Joe Strummer. And so the conversation went throughout lunch, each shared interest making a connection at a deeper level than looks and libido.

I looked at my watch and was surprised to see it was nearly two. There were two empty wine bottles on the table. I chided myself for judging both of them too quickly. Mike seemed to lose his over-chummy edge over lunch. He was just being friendly, I thought. And while no ‘spring chicken', Anne was not unattractive, I now reasoned. I looked at Anne and smiled. She smiled back.

“Do you mind Mike being here?” she asked.

“No, not at all,” I said and meant it. “Women are more vulnerable than men. Meeting someone new is a always a risk. It takes time to build trust.”

“Ah, yes trust,” said Anne, speaking the word trust thoughtfully and slowly.

“There are so many crazy people out there,” I said, “you can't be too careful.”

“Well you don't seem crazy to me, Stephen. You seem kind and sweet,” said Anne.

I blushed, flattered, despite the gooey sentiment. My mind flashed an image of Laura, to whom I was not, at this moment, being kind and sweet. Yes, I am kind and sweet, I thought. Laura just isn't interested, so I need to satisfy my need elsewhere. If this works out, it will make our marriage stronger not weaker, by removing the sexual frustration that underlies so many of our spats, I told myself. I am kind. I am sweet. I just have different needs.

“Thank you,” I said, as gracefully as I could.

“Sounds like you're in there, Steve”, said Mike winking; his comment returning my mind to the base reason I was there.

“Would you like to see our cellar?” asked Anne, picking up the lead from Mike. The word cellar might not be erotic to most people but spoke strongly to my desires. My mind was full of pictures I had seem on the Internet – stone floors, bare walls, bondage devices in leather and wood, and rows of neatly hanging crops and whips.

“Yes, please,” I said, my cock stiffening slightly. I looked across at Mike to see if he detected my desire.

“Go on, have look” said Mike, sitting back in his armchair, giving me an obvious green light to visit alone with Anne. My cock stiffened a little more, as I followed Anne out of the room and along the hall, down into the cellar.

“I know it isn't much yet,” she said, as we went down the stairs, “but we have great plans. The walls are very strong,” she said, her heels beating out an erotic rhythm as she walked across the bare concrete floor, to pat one of the walls with her palm. “So is the ceiling,” she said, looking up and smiling.

The cellar was completely bare and unfurnished. There was none of the paraphernalia that I had imagined but the effect of being in a dank bare cellar with a sexually dominant woman was no less erotic for that. “No, I can see the potential,” I answered sincerely, my eyes widening - my mind running a full colour movie of the possibilities. Only my inherent shyness prevented me from throwing myself at her stiletto clad feet right there and then.

“Come on, let's go back upstairs,” said Anne, interrupting my rapture.

My mouth opened without uttering a sound, as my jaw slackened in disappointment. She licked her lips lightly, with a hint of a smile, as though she enjoyed inflicting that moment of disappointment. She continued the tease, walking slowly ahead of me, up the steep wooden stairs, her heels at the level of my eyes, her legs stretching upwards to the short leather skirt, tempting me to look underneath – which of course I did but could make out only shadows.

Back upstairs, Anne led me past the lounge door, towards the front door.

“So,” said Anne, “this is what I want you to do. Go away and think about what you really want. When you have thought about it for twenty four hours - no less - call me and let me know what you want to do”.

“I know now,” I said, protesting, hoping she would say: ‘very well, let's get started'.

But instead, she said, “I understand how you feel right now but I don't want this to be a one off thing, where you disappear afterwards, once you have get what you wanted. I want to own you,” she said, speaking slowly, measuring the erotic impact of her words. She paused briefly for effect before adding, “mind, body and soul.” My head swam as she added, “you need to decide if that is really what you want.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, disappointed not to get the immediate gratification that I craved.

“Time to go,” said Anne as she opened the front door.

“Mike…” I began, assuming it would be impolite not to say goodbye.

“Don't worry, he understands,” she said. Then she leaned forward, unexpectedly, to kiss me softly on the lips. “Remember”, she said, “at least twenty four hours”.

I checked my watch as I walked back to the car. It was almost two-thirty. Maybe, I thought, I am finally on the verge of finding what I really want, what I really need: not a play actor but a woman whose desires genuinely mirror my own.