Clare became a borderline nymphomaniac in the weeks that followed the swingers' orgy. Martin and Victoria were regular attendees of the club, but for Clare and I - as a couple - being so involved with that many couples and that much sex was overwhelming. It was far more intense than the Greedy Girls New Year's Eve party, and I had never felt the need to reclaim my partner so desperately as I had done. I wondered if my cuckold angst or worries over my sexuality had bubbled a little too much.
My fiancée revelled in the orgy's aftermath and teased me about the passion I had shown. She believed she had fully inducted me into her world and my partner was eager for repeat excursions to the North West to immerse herself in the seedy environment of the sex club.
She volunteered at work to have more overnight stays in Manchester and formed a close bond with the manager of the Northern office. Many an evening I would be alone in our flat, 300 miles away, and receive a picture message of my partner dressed to go out with Victoria.
Whilst back in Bristol - and after a working weekend in a Welsh hotel with a lot of senior managers - her company asked her to consider relocating to their expanding Manchester location for a few months. Her relationship with the regional manager had blossomed into a highly productive partnership, and the older woman - only a couple of years from retirement age - had asked for my partner to join her. My fiancée was her succession plan.
Clare and I talked about it in an Indian restaurant over a curry. She would not have gone if I had asked her not to, but it was a giant step forward in her career, and the move came with a massive opportunity to savour more sexual adventures. I could not, and did not, refuse. I was almost as excited as Clare, although I tried not to show it.
My colleagues teased me when I announced that I was home-alone all week. This was either a brilliant thing, as it enabled me to have unrivalled access to the games console and Pornhub, or a terrible development as it would cause my relationship to break down, depending on who I was talking to. "She'll be banging guys up there every night, and you'll be two hundred miles away twiddling your nuts. You need to get yourself on Tinder," my fellow software developer told me over a cup of smooth Java. "Make sure you have someone lined up when it all goes south."
The thirty-five-year-old virgin could not have been more right for all the wrong reasons. Within four hours of Clare arriving in the Mancunian office, she had arranged a date with one of Victoria's upper-class neighbours, and another with the same snooty neighbour's "buff gardener." The freedom she had - mentally rather than literally - was a joy to hear about. She came alive in Victoria's sordid mansion and Manchester was a liberation far beyond what I expected.
Clare set me a task at the weekend when she returned to Bristol, after her first full week in Manchester. "I want you to remove all your hair," she demanded as we lay in bed. "I know you liked it when you did it a few months back, but you've let it grow."
"It's too much work," I moaned. She pouted and ran her hands over my unclothed thighs. "My cock is hairless though."
"And your arse isn't. I want every patch of skin below your nose to be bald." She bit my earlobe and whispered. "And if you do that, I might get so turned on, I'll get on my knees for your smooth prick!"
"But ..."
"There is a salon I know who does guys, as she does me. Sienna Parker Waxing in Ashton, near the stadium."
"What's wrong with the stuff I used last time?" I remembered a short-lived arrangement that we had with a very well hung bull, who liked to have the cuckold boyfriend hairless when he watched the "pounding of the slut." The white chemical cream dissolved my hair in minutes and was a painless experience.
"It grew back too quickly," Clare replied.
"But waxing ..."
"Doesn't hurt as much as you think it does." She reached for the paddle at the side of her bed. "Do I need to use my persuader," she asked, tapping her hand with the stout wooden slab. "It's very persuasive and it will hurt a lot."
"No, it's fine," I muttered. "What's the number? I'll make an appointment in the week."
"Wednesday, 6pm. Don't be late," Clare snapped, smiled, kissed me on the cheek and turned over in bed. "I'll leave you the address."
I tried to put the thoughts of hot wax being poured into my crotch and ripped off my skin out of my mind during the week, but I couldn't concentrate on anything else. My brain worked overtime as I expected a truly unpleasant evening. My hands shook on the steering wheel as I drove across the city to the address my dominant partner had scribbled on a piece of pink card with a wallet full of banknotes.
Not only did I expect this experience to be excruciatingly painful but also agonisingly expensive. The compact semi-detached property was at the end of a small cul-de-sac on the council estate that surrounded the stadium. The house was set back from the road and in an immaculate condition. They had paved the garden to provide car parking for three vehicles and I took the last free space, before knocking tentatively on the front door.
My stomach churned; my nerves trembled. A lady, in her early thirties, with fair hair to her breasts, hazel eyes and a beautician's black outfit, answered the door. She beamed and held out her hand. "Jonathan?" I nodded. "Come in. Your partner booked you. Have you been waxed before?"
There was a warmth that eased my concerns with a gentle inflexion in her voice. Deliciously friendly and welcoming. She entered a room that was once a garage and was now a beautician's studio. "Remove your clothes, please," she asked. "And sit on the chair. I'll be back in a minute."
"Everything?" My voice squealed as I spoke, and she smiled.
"I'm good, but I can't wax you through your underpants! Put the towel over you." She left the room, and I sighed, sent Clare a message from my phone, and undressed, before sitting on the massage table-dentist's chair style contraption with the cloth draped over my semi-erect cock.
My prick had betrayed me. I wasn't aroused or excited. Nervous and worried, but not sexually stimulated. Sienna returned, pushing a clattering hostess trolley, and plugged a device into a wall socket. The welcoming beautician picked up a clipboard and sat down next to me.
"Just a few questions," she said, and rattled through a health questionnaire that I had to sign. "First time having all your hair removed, or just first time waxing?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "First time waxing."
She rubbed her hands over my shin. "I can see you've shaved or used cream before. This is a good length for waxing. Do you have any questions?" She asked, and I nodded.
