Part One
"What's your darkest fantasy?"
Sophie didn't respond. She looked up from her half empty
glass and stared at me as though I was mad. Worse: as though
I had just told her that I was a lesbian and wanted to take
her to bed. There was this weird combination of horror mixed
with lust that filled her face. The lust was probably my
imagination.
"Eh?"
I should have known better than to expect an intelligent
answer after three gin and tonics. I repeated the question.
I was full of eagerness and excitement: animated, alive.
"What's your darkest fantasy?" I hissed softly, lust
dripping from each word. "The one that really sends shivers
down your spine, and that you find so erotic that it
terrifies the shit out of you?"
She laughed nervously. It was an embarrassed, frightened
laugh. "What's got into you all of a sudden, Vickie? Has
Richard been depriving you or something?"
Richard is my boyfriend, my fiance. We're looking to fix a
date for a spring wedding next April or May.
"No, he has not," I dissented strongly.
Sophie and I share an apartment. As you may have gathered,
our conversations can get pretty candid. I tell her about
Richard, most things anyway, and she tells me about Dennis:
how he wants to fuck her ass but she wants none of it, all
those private little things. My current question was asking
a lot of her, however. We'd never really probed that hard
into each others inner desires, and even plied with alcohol
she was uncomfortable with it. I knew I had to offer
something first.
I moved closer, my dressing gown flapping open at the top.
Sophie, her own dressing gown draped about her, sat on the
sofa with her feet under her butt, the half empty glass
still in her hand. "Okay," I said, leaning into her, my
imagination beginning to get the better of me. "Let me tell
you mine. I've always had this fantasy of been overpowered
by a total stranger. I imagine him to be tall and dark."
"A tall dark stranger," Sophie giggled. She was still
embarrassed; I knew her. "How original!"
"He makes me do things I don't want to do; he makes me
submit to him entirely. Once he's overpowered me he strips
me naked. I'm so self-conscious; I want to hide from him but
he forces me to expose every private cranny. Then, when he
has done looking at me, he fucks me. I hate him for that; I
despise him, the greatest reason because he makes me not
only do it, but enjoy it. He makes me beg for satisfaction,
he makes me come, and that is so humiliating. Once he
finishes, he leaves and I never see him again."
I could feel my chest tightening, my body tensing. Just
describing this fantasy to another person was making me hot.
I grasped Sophie so tightly that her glass wobbled and the
gin dribbled down the outside. "Can you understand someone
feeling like that? Do you think it's weird?"
She was looking at me but I couldn't tell what she was
thinking. I could see her struggling to find suitable words.
"Yes. Well, I don't know, of course, but I'm sure lots of
people have wei... unusual fantasies."
I laughed. "You don't have to be coy, Sophie. Say it. If you
think it's weird, then say so. I shan't be offended. But I
can't help the way I am, I don't choose which dreams make my
heart race and my blood boil and which leave me cold."
I got up and returned to my seat. "I'm sorry," she said. "I
didn't mean to judge."
I decided that, despite her apology, she was being a little
too self-righteous. I just didn't believe that she never
fantasized. Maybe hers were totally different from mine, but
I was quite sure that she didn't lie there masturbating to
an image of Dennis; for one thing, he's not that kind of
bloke. There had to be something more: that's part of the
human psyche, isn't it?
"But Sophie, you must have fantasies; things you think about
when you're on your own?"
"Sure," she admitted guardedly.
"Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like if you
could act out one of your fantasies; make it happen?"
She pondered for a moment. "I tend to think," she said
decidedly, "that if I were to try that, then it would turn
out to be a great disappointment. I don't think that any of
my fantasies realized could ever be as good as what's up
here," she tapped her head, "in my imagination."
"How can you know that?" I argued excitedly. "It might be
the most almighty charge that you've ever given yourself.
How would you ever know unless you tried it?"
Sophie was justifiably suspicious. "Where's this leading us,
Vickie? What are you suggesting?"
That evening, the two of us had had been watching TV,
flicking from channel to channel until we'd settled on the
old Hitchcock movie, "Strangers on a Train". In case you
haven't seen it, two strangers meet and each ends up
committing a murder for the other. The initial suspects
after a murder are always family or those with a strong
motive. The two protagonists argue that by "swapping"
murders, the one with the motive can ensure he has an
impenetrable alibi.
The film had got me thinking, not about murder or matters
illegal but about how I could act out my dark fantasy. I'd
considered the possibility of acting it out several times,
but had always hit the knotty problem of how you arrange for
a stranger to do the nasty things you want them to do, but
not do the nasty things that send you to hospital or to the
cemetery.
The film magically provided me with an answer. If there are
two of you, you can each arrange for the fantasy of the
other to come true.
I filled Sophie's glass again. "It would be a laugh," I
said.
"What about Richard? What will he say? You two are supposed
to be engaged."
"What do you mean 'supposed to be'," I demanded. "We are
engaged!"
Her head sank into her hands in mock apology. "I'm sorry,"
she grinned. "I didn't mean it to sound like that, but you
know what I mean."
"In a sense, Richard is the person that is driving this," I
began to explain.
I knew that would puzzle her. "Richard?"
"Yes, Richard. If I'm ever going to act out this fantasy,
then it has to be before the wedding. I've got married life
ahead of me and I intend to be true and faithful and all
that stuff. But if I don't let my hair down and throw
caution to the wind just once before I marry, in later life
I'm always going to look back with regret and think, what
if...? I've got to do it, Sophie. Will you help me?"
"But you're engaged. What I mean is, you've already made
your commitment. Don't you see, Vickie, it's already too
late."
"No, I don't agree. I've made a promise that I will be
faithful, I've said that I will marry Richard. It's all
future. If I have a one night stand tonight, then, as long
as it's before my wedding day, I don't see that it's any
business of anybody else, even Richard."
"He won't see it that way."
"He won't know, because you won't tell him."
Sophie and I have always managed to remain friends by not
telling anyone else our secrets. I know that whatever I say
to her, however much she may disagree with me, she will
never allow that disagreement to go any further.
"Are you sure that you know what you're doing? Sometimes,
when you act out your fantasies they have a habit of not
living up to your expectations. I would hate for you to get
hurt."
"Hurt? Why should I get hurt? You'd plan everything for me.
You will, won't you, Sophie? And I'd plan whatever it was
that you wanted. Please, tell me that you'll help me. You
will, won't you? Sophie?
I could tell that she was cool about the whole idea.
Nevertheless, I waited expectantly on her reply hoping that
my excitement would sway her. I thought that, maybe, for the
sake of our friendship, for me, she would consent to do it.
I waited and waited. What was she thinking? I wanted to
plead with her again, but knew that I had to let her think
things through.
"If I were to say 'yes'," she said at last. My heart was
pounding. She wasn't going to say 'no'. She wasn't. She
wasn't going to say 'no'. She must have seen my jubilation.
"I said 'if'," she interjected. "If I were to say 'yes', are
you promising that you'd be willing to do the same for me,
whatever my fantasy was."
"Of course."
"Even though I haven't told you what that fantasy might be."
"Name it. I'll do it."
"You promise."
"Yes." I almost screamed it. Wasn't she listening? Didn't
she understand the nature of the deal?
There was another silence. "I'm not going to bite you," I
promised.
"Suppose I were to say then, for the sake of argument, that
my fantasy is to fuck Richard. Would that make a difference?
Would you still want to go through with it?"
"Richard?" My heart missed a beat. I tried to control my
feelings. "Why would you want to fuck Richard? You've got
Dennis."
She was imperturbable. "You've got Richard. But you still
want to fuck someone else. At least I'm talking about
somebody that I know."
It was my turn to be dumbfounded. She had so easily knocked
the wind from my sails. "But he's my fiance," I whimpered.
"I know," she said. "Look, Vickie. If it's all right for you
to have a one night stand and for it not to mean anything,
then the same principle must apply to Richard and I."
I pushed my hair out of my eyes. "You saying this to spite
me."
"I'm saying it to make you see sense."
I gazed at her defiantly. I see your game, I thought. You
feel sorry for Richard. You think he's being wronged and so
you're trying to righten the wrong, to even his account.
Play that game if you want, I thought, see if I care. You're
playing right into my hands. If he does anything with you,
you little bitch, then I'll make him feel so guilty and
miserable, that he'll never finish paying my ransom.
Who was I kidding? The thought of Sophie and Richard
together was making me sick. "You are joking?" I asked
sheepishly. "Please, tell me that you're only joking."
Her face broke. "I said it because I want you to see sense.
It isn't fair on Richard." She'd been kidding. She'd been
teasing me!
Full of relief, I took her into my arms and gave her my
biggest hug and then kissed her softly on the cheek.
I think I should explain a little about Richard and myself
and about our relationship.
Richard is what I term 'a nice guy'. I've always divided men
into two types. There are the hunks, men who make your tummy
tighten and your knees wobbly. They are great lovers and
expert flatterers. They'll buy you impractical presents such
as one size black fish-gut knickers minus gusset in the
certain knowledge that you'll be longing to let them remove
them for you. They're the guys every girl dreams about
having as a boyfriend.
Then there is the soft dependable kind. He'll help you with
your shopping if you find it too heavy; bring you breakfast
in bed and listen to you when you're down. He won't force
his attentions when you have a headache or think a day at
the beach means ogling girls in skimpy bikinis. This is the
guy that every girl dreams about marrying, which is why I
said 'yes' to Richard when he proposed.
So, I hear you ask, what's my problem? I've thought about
that too. The best that I've come up with is that, in
addition to everything else, I yearn for somebody to be
strong with me. My father was the feeblest excuse of a man
that ever walked this earth. He drank and gambled and was
about as dependable as our English weather. When he was
younger, he was a hunk. That was why mum dated him.
Unfortunately she got pregnant, I came along and so she also
married him.
Big mistake! First rule of hunks: you date them; you don't
marry them.
I learned pretty quickly that he couldn't stand the sound of
crying. So if ever I wanted anything, whether it was
particularly good for me or not, I had only to feign a few
tears, make some noise, and he would immediately cave in.
Mother never protested; she was too petrified of him. Always
getting my own way made me happy, but it also made me
unhappy. I got what I wanted and yet I didn't. I could get
to watch what I wanted on TV, get the latest toy or feel
very grown up drinking a glass of sherry. But I never felt
loved or secure. I'm sure that I would have felt much
happier if, just once, he had told me that he was not giving
in to tantrums, had put me over his knee and given me six of
his best, but then cuddled me and told me how much he loved
me.
My problem, then, is that Richard is so kind, allows me to
manipulate him so easily, that sometimes I yearn for
something more. It isn't Richard's fault, that's the way
that he is. He'll never be any different. I'm not the type
of woman that thinks as she approaches matrimony: 'I can
change him'. My mother thought that about my father. It
didn't happen. Don't get me wrong, Richard will make a
wonderful husband, I love him intensely. But, unfortunately,
there is an inner need somewhere within me that he'll never
fill. And just once, I would love for that need to be
filled. I yearn to be told what to do and have no choice but
to do it.
Enough of me. I was telling you about Richard. He has this
cool job in the production department of a Manchester
newspaper. It's a long way to commute, nearly two hundred
miles. Until recently, he was working at their London plant,
but then they asked him to spend a year at their Manchester
head office helping them to adopt a new workflow process.
So, until the end of the year, he spends the week in
Manchester and drives back each weekend.
Shall I tell you what I do? Perhaps just a little. I have a
job in the city. The fancy title is that I'm a "Support
Manager" for a financial services company. What this means
is that I answer the questions of traders and income
managers who are usually so lazy that they'll rather pick up
a phone and speak to me rather than look through a help
file. On the other hand, Sophie once said that maybe it was
the pinstripe equivalent of phone sex, and that these guys
were actually bringing themselves off at the sound of me
explaining how our yield curves are implemented or whether
our market splits are cumulative or non cumulative. I don't
think so, somehow.
I don't remember how, exactly, our conversation was left
that night. The matter, however, had been decided. Although
Sophie still had deep reservations, I was as determined as
ever. My fantasy was going to fly.
***
A couple of weeks went by. The idea of fulfilling my
fantasy, which had begun as a wild seed sown in a semi
drunken stupor, began to grow in my mind and heart as I
continued to nurture and water it. Each morning, I would lie
in bed pondering some difficulty in the detail of the plan,
and then proceed to work out its solution. During this time
my hand would find its way under my nightie, it would slip
under the waistband of my knickers and then seek out a spot
from where I could finger myself to the most glorious of
climaxes. I now had this most intense fantasy: the fantasy
of fulfilling fantasy. Never had I been like this before,
never had I been so absorbed, consumed with sex. I
masturbated with regularity and intensity. I found it
difficult to leave Richard alone. But with him I had to be
careful. I couldn't afford to make him suspicious.
"What's got into you?" he asked me one weekend. "Recently
you've been like a bitch in heat."
"I am a bitch in heat. It's what you do to me," I lied.
Stretching the truth was becoming easier with practice.
With all the sex, he suggested we might try things new. I
know he wants me to blow him, but I don't do that. I find it
rather squicky. Lovely guy, he's so tactful that sometimes I
miss totally whatever it is that he's asking! It's so
convenient! But he's so considerate and boring that I can
almost doze while we're doing it.
All of which leaves me to find somewhere quiet and do to
myself what pleases me best. Sometimes I pinch myself so
hard that it almost hurts. I squeeze my breasts so that
there are tears in my eyes. I bury my fingers in my cunt and
make them squelch and drip and fuel my repressed desire.
Eventually I scream out in pain, the agony of sublime
pleasure. Each time I manage to climb a little higher, to
remain a little longer in that rarified atmosphere at the
summit of ecstasy.
With each climax, my determination becomes stronger. Fantasy
is metamorphosing into conspiracy. I am now convinced that
it is going to happen, and that it is going to happen soon.
Recently, I sent off for a brochure containing details of
holiday lets in Scotland. When it arrived, I thumbed through
it, and with Sophie's help identified three strong
contenders for what I wanted: a country farmhouse that was
accessible, yet isolated, somewhere where I might be totally
alone and without help. I shivered at the thought.
We rang each of the three landlords and finally settled on a
place in North West Sutherland, right on the north west tip
of the United Kingdom. There were excellent views of the
sea, we were informed, and the price was a snip too, being
at the end of October, at the very end of the season.
All was going well. Yet as the weeks ticked by, I became
concerned about whether Sophie was going to deliver on her
part of the plan. She had to provide the key ingredient,
remember: the mysterious stranger, but so far he didn't seem
to want to be found.
We were in the kitchen one sultry August evening. We both
had the habit of being a little casual with our dress during
the hot humid evenings after work. It was a reward, I guess,
for having been made to perspire under a business suit all
day. I had got home first, had showered and had dressed in a
blue bikini top and orange shorts. I was clearing away my
curry - we cook and eat separately - when Sophie stepped out
of the bathroom wearing nothing more than a blouse and a
pair of knickers. "Why did you have to pick Scotland?" she
protested. "The very northern tip of the damn place, too.
Don't you realize how long a drive that is from London? Your
average tall dark stranger doesn't want to travel quite so
far for his bit of nookie."
I disagreed. "I don't accept that," I said, washing my
plate. "This isn't the kind of offer your average tall dark
stranger gets too often. I think this is going to be as much
of an adventure to him as it is for me. Are you sure that
you're explaining it right?"
"But that's just the point," Sophie explained. She put a
frozen lasagna into the microwave and switched it on.
"You're not giving him enough control. You've told me that
he's got to wear a condom, he must be clean, vaginal
intercourse only, no bondage, pain or third parties. You've
got so many rules and conditions that guys start wondering
about legal implications. They get scared; I'm not kidding."
But these were my safeguards, and I was loath to let any of
them go. Sophie knew that this was a sore point; we had
discussed it several times before. She stepped up behind me
as I stood by the sink and put her arms round my waist. "You
know how I feel about this, your going off to Scotland and
all that. I don't think it's very clever. But if you're
going to go through with it, then... Look, what I'm trying
to say is that you're not going to get a second chance." A
single chime from the microwave interrupted her. The lasagna
was done. She ignored it. "It's the ultimate rollercoaster
ride. But if you keep trying to tame it, then I promise you,
at the end you'll have nothing but anticlimax."
She kissed my neck tenderly. I don't consider myself at all
bisexual, but Sophie and I have never been afraid to show
each other affection, and her kiss felt nice. The warmth of
her body was pressing into my back and butt. I responded by
pushing my ass against her mound.
"Trust me," she whispered. "No conditions. None. Apart from
those I choose to make on your behalf. If you're determined
to do this thing, then it's got to be done right."
She pulled the plastic clip of my bikini top. It relaxed and
my tits fell imperceptibly. Her slipped a hand into each of
the cups and then held the bulk of my tits in her palms,
weighing them. Unconsciously, I sucked in a breath and held
on to it waiting hopefully for whatever she would do next.
I could smell her perfume fresh from the shower, it was
familiar yet peculiarly exotic. It was intoxicating, making
me giddy and faint. She pulled me into her, her hands
holding my titties and squeezing both them and me against
herself. I could feel the nubs of her nipples pressed hard
against my back, separated from my flesh by the merest of
polyester blouses.
She whispered into my ear. The voice was low and husky. "Do
you trust me?" Her hands were now massaging my breasts,
using a thin coating of perspiration as her massage oil.
There had been many times when we had shown each other
affection, but this was beyond affection, we were now in
uncharted territory. Did I trust her? Absolutely. I said as
much.
"Then you must make no assumptions; demand no limits. I will
insist on whatever limits are necessary. I will do that on
your behalf, but I shall tell you nothing; and you will ask
me nothing. My limits may not be where you expect them to be
or indeed where you would like them to be."
I was terrified already; this was not what I had had in
mind. But I knew she was right. This was the beginning of
the biggest rollercoaster ride I had ever been upon, and,
believe me, I have tried them all. They always begin with a
long slow climb during which you are hauled up an unending
steep track, up, up, up: the ratchets are clicking
rhythmically; the ground is disappearing below; the
precipice is approaching, closer and closer it gets. Every
second that passes, the more awful becomes the anticipation,
the tighter the stomach muscles constrict, the more
terrifying the prospect of that wonderfully awsome moment of
being finally hurled into oblivion. Yet the more terrifying
the journey, the greater the buzz, the thrill, that
adrenaline charge as the ride comes to an end and you
realize that you have survived, that you're alive, and that
there is nothing better than just being alive.
A less terrifying ride must also be less exciting and come
the end, bring with it the sense of disappointment at how it
might have been. Sophie got her way. No demands, no
conditions.
Once that was settled, she seemed to take the whole thing
much more seriously. After weeks of getting nowhere, with
her demands met, it took her only five days to find "a tall
dark stranger". I deliberately call them her demands,
because, although I assented to them, I knew I had been
manipulated.
She rang me at work to tell me smugly that she had found
"the one", and now I had better start worrying.
I asked her later what she meant, but she just smiled
sweetly and refused to utter a word. She was now in charge,
directing matters, and she was enjoying doing it. I'm sure
it gave her a sexual buzz. She enjoyed teasing me. One
morning she asked me what I thought of anal sex. She knows
I've never tried it and find the idea revolting because I've
told her. She feels the same way too. So why did she ask?
Then there was the evening that she asked me how my
colleagues at work would react if they discovered naked
pictures of me on the internet.
"Why?" I asked, having a nasty feeling that I knew where
this was leading. "There are no naked pictures of me. I've
never taken any and I've certainly never allowed anyone else
to do so."
"But suppose there were," she persisted. "How would they
react? At work?"
"They'd probably jerk off. Maybe I'd find them always
looking me in the bust rather than in the eye. I'm sure
there would also be someone who would feel it their duty to
let me know about what everyone knows, because they feel so
very sorry for me. How would your colleagues react?"
Sophie became evasive. She was enjoying the power she held
over me. She was the one determining the rules for my
"encounter", which gave her the mastery and she was going to
make me squirm.
But conversations such as this were making me worried. If
she pulled off a stunt like that, allowing the stranger to
take and post indecent pictures, then, however much of a
scream it might be at the time, it would stop my career dead
in its tracks. How could any respected financial institution
promote someone whose tits had become a company logo and
whose ass was the butt of office humor?
Sophie also began bringing home a succession of men. I'm
sure there was nothing ever sexual between them, she was
still hot for Dennis, but there was always some excuse why
someone or other should have to pop in. This one came to
look over her car; that one was checking over the wiring;
another was going to look over the TV.
"There's nothing wrong with the TV," I declared.
"Haven't you noticed that the picture's been rather fuzzy
lately?" she responded, much too innocently. "Especially on
Channel 4?"
Mr. Fix-it adjusted the aerial by the minutest of amounts
for several minutes spending most of this time giving me
hard glances and displaying his manliness. Then he left. "He
was dishy," Sophie cooed, gazing out of the window after him
as he climbed into a powerful saloon car. "Didn't you think
so, Vickie?"
"He was a creep," I maintained, sitting down on the sofa. He
wasn't, but I wasn't prepared for the conversation. The TV
had been left on, and I switched over to the news.
"Just think, suppose he were the one, your 'tall dark
stranger', come to check you out."
"Why should it be him?" I asked, trying to concentrate on
the niceties of the latest diplomacy in Ireland.
"Why shouldn't it be him?" she threw the question back at
me. "It's got to be one of my friends or acquaintances. I
wouldn't ask a real stranger, now would I?"
I knew better than to bite.
"Or perhaps you think that I would," she continued. "I
suppose, you can't really be certain of anything?"
"Shut up, I trying to watch, can't you see?"
"What type of man would you prefer it to be? A master
cocksman or a sexy looking hunk?"
"Sophie! Hopefully, he'll at least be some kind of man. Do
we have to discuss this right now?"
"What it he were a creep and you absolutely couldn't stand
him? How would you feel, having to lie there as some
slimeball touches you up, as you feel his damp hands
crawling across your body...?"
"What I would prefer is if you would leave me alone," I
cried. "It's too much, Sophie. Just back off a little, can't
you? What's wrong with you? Enough."
I had upset her. I knew from the moment that I said it that
I had upset her. She blushed red, turned, left the room
quietly without saying a word, trotted upstairs and shut
herself in her room. Oh dear, Sophie was sulking. She
doesn't do it often, but when she does, it can be a real
pain.
I left her to sulk while I finished watching the news. It
would do us both good to cool off for a while. Then, I took
a deep breath and went to her. I knew that I was going to
have to eat some humble pie but it was a price worth paying.
When Sophie's sulks get properly established, you don't want
to be around. She sulks extremely audibly. I remember once
receiving a phone call during one of Sophie's extended
performances. It was from a boyfriend that I quite fancied
at the time. Sophie immediately turned the hi-fi up to full
volume. I couldn't hear a word he was saying. She wouldn't
turn it down until I hung up, when the volume immediately
returned to normal.
I knocked on her door, and, getting the expected lack of
response, pushed the door open. She was sitting sullenly on
the bed, bent forward, her hands clasped over her jeans, her
tousled dark brown hair fallen across her face.
I stepped in and sat beside her. "I'm sorry," I said. "I
didn't mean to snap."
"I want Richard," she said, pushing her hair out of her
eyes.
I wasn't with her at all. "Pardon?"
"I want Richard. You want your tall dark stranger. Well I
want Richard. I want to be fucked by him, I want to feel his
cock inside me, swollen and hard. I want to feel his need
and I want to satisfy that need, and I want him in your
bed."
I was not a little taken aback by her outburst. "I know
you're upset, Sophie..."
She stared into my eyes. Her eyes were ablaze and sparkled.
"I'm not joking, Vickie. I mean it. That is my darkest
fantasy, the one that sends shivers down my spine and
terrifies the shit out of me."
I didn't understand. She had never given me so much as an
inkling as to how she felt. She had said about sleeping with
him that first day, but that had been to punish me. She had
told that she had been joking. I had believed her. This was
a bolt from the blue. "But why? Richard is my fiance..."
"Which is why I need your help. You can't have your tall
dark stranger without me and I can't have Richard without
you."
"But I can't just go up to him and ask him to fuck you! What
would he say?"
"How would I know? You're his fiancee. Don't you know?"
"Sophie! You're not being fair! He's mine."
"This isn't about being fair. I can't help what lights my
fuse any more than you can help what lights yours. The idea
of it excites me, that's all I know. I didn't choose for it
to excite me any more than you chose for your fantasy to
excite you. Honestly, Vickie, it's you that isn't being
fair, if there's a lack of fairness around here. We both
promised that we wouldn't be judgmental."
I had to apologize again. I couldn't remember when, but I
was sure I must have promised. But that didn't make me any
happier. I shook my head slowly. It was an outward
manifestation of my inner antipathy rather than being aimed
at Sophie. She saw it, however, and lashed out angrily.
"Look, you tell me you can't ask Richard to fuck me. That's
a lot easier than what you asked me to do. I've had to ask
men, just acquaintances some of them, whether they would be
willing to drive five hundred miles and then pretend to rape
a friend of mine. Can you imagine the type of looks that got
me?"
I sighed. She was right, but still I didn't think she was
being fair in asking to sleep with my man; whatever else she
had done and was doing for me, I wasn't going to be sleeping
with Dennis. Was I? Now there was a thought. Could that be?
I pondered it for a moment before deciding that although he
was tall and dark, he didn't qualify as he wasn't a
stranger.
"Look, let me think about it," I said at last. "Maybe I'll
get used to the idea. It's just... well, you said you
couldn't help the way you felt; I can't help the way I feel
either. I can't help feeling uncomfortable about letting you
sleep with the man I intend to marry. Is that so unusual?"
She nodded. "By all means think about it. Get used to the
idea, but I'm serious, Vickie. You promised, remember. That
first day, you promised you would help me act out my fantasy
whatever it might be. I'm holding you to that promise."
Then she leant across and kissed me on the cheek. It was a
lingering kiss, long and sensual. I knew then that I was on
a loser, I knew that somehow, finally, in the end, she was
going to get her way.
Watch out, Vickie, I thought to myself. You're playing with
fire here, and you're liable to get yourself burned.
End Of Part One
