I guess I should have known where it was all going to lead when I picked up my niece from the train station. Lucinda is a stunning 19-year-old, big breasts, shapely legs, great arse, short-cropped dark brown hair and flashing brown eyes. And the fact that she looks like a teenaged version of her aunt, my dear wife Belinda, should have given me more clues.
But honestly, when I collected her in my almost new Aston-Martin Vantage after her 30-minute train ride from London's Paddington, I was more interested in seeing how she had grown up since I'd first met her.
That had been three years before when she was 16, of course. She was my wife's sister's kid, and Belinda's sis – a shapely 40-year-old named Melinda, the family obviously had a thing about names ending in "I-N-D-A" - was pretty attractive too. Anyway, it appeared that I had flirted outrageously with Lucinda and Melinda at the wedding breakfast and for this "infraction", as she put it, Belinda made me pay.
On our wedding night, she had produced her trusty leather strap and given me a stern 36-stroke paddling before allowing me to have my way with her. As you may have gathered, Belinda and I have what some prudes might term "an unorthodox" marriage.
I am a submissive by nature, and I believe that in the privacy of our own home I am referred to as a "sex slave". Belinda, I suppose, is "my mistress". I don't go for tags like that and nor does my beautiful bitch, Belinda. But I just love the way she bosses me. There's no public humiliation, in fact at the many social events we attend, I am to all intents and purposes an extremely successful businessman with the charming, attractive, dutiful wife.
Behind closed doors, though, it's another kettle of the proverbial fish. Belinda refers to me as "Slut", or "Shithead", "Slave" and sometimes, when she's really worked up, "Cunt". But I still call her Belinda – if I used the term "Mistress" she'd laugh, more likely than not.
Belinda is a stunning woman, of course, as befits the wife of a multi- millionaire. She's 36, which makes her four years younger than me, and she has large breasts – real handfuls – a very shapely bum, lovely thighs and toned calves. She works out. So do I. I'm two inches above six feet, I have dark hair, which grows unfashionably long, and nearly reaches my shoulders. I'm rich enough not to give a flying fuck when friends jokingly tell me "Get a hair cut".
We live in a lovely, large mansion on the outskirts of a small town in Berkshire and she has two maids who keep the place spick and span. Two gardeners do the same with the spacious grounds. If they know what goes on when they're not around they give no indication. Good staff, though, which are extremely hard to find these days.
And no, don't get carried away with the old fantasies about maids and virile young gardeners. Both the women are in their 60s, and I reckon the gardeners are even fucking older! No "Lady Chatterley and her lover" stuff for Belinda. Or "A Man With A Maid" for me!
Back to Belinda. She was attracted to me when she found, after our first sexual experience, which was sensational, that I had a submissive streak a mile wide. Soon our affair was superb sex, interspersed – or intermingled – with superb teasing and domination. And it hasn't dimmed since our marriage in 2004. She still loves the idea that she can dominate me at home in our basement dungeon, or our bedroom, and that in public she seems the confident, but quiet, wife.
So on the morning that Lucinda was due to arrive for a three-week stay, Belinda told me: "Pick her up from Maidenhead station, show off your new toy, but no flirting with her, you randy old sod. Then we'll drive to that place in Bray for lunch. And you will behave there, too, or it's punishment for you tonight!"
That, of course, was the signal for me to flirt like mad with Lucinda, as both I and my wife both knew only too well. Quite how Belinda was going to get me down to the basement with Lucinda in the house, I didn't know, so I presumed the fun and games would take place in our bedroom – screaming, I reckoned, would be a no-no.
I parked the Aston-Martin in a no parking zone at Maidenhead station and waited outside the ticket offices for Lucinda to appear off the train from Paddington.
I recognised her immediately. She was carrying a large Nike tote bag, wearing a tight t-shirt that was seemingly glued to her big boobs and little white denim cut off shorts that appeared to have been sprayed on. Her thighs and calves were beautifully bronzed and she wore clunky, high-heeled "Fuck me" shoes. Her hair was close cropped and she grinned a very big grin and reached up to kiss me on the cheek.
"Hello uncle, aunty says you've got a brand new Aston, so drive me to your place by a round about route," she ordered.
I took her bag and inquired how she'd been getting on at the Sorbonne, which was one of the reasons I'd not seen her for years. She spent so much time in Paris, and Belinda and I always spent months during Christmas and winter in the Bahamas.
"I'm getting on fine, uncle," she replied, showing a glorious expanse of thigh as she climbed into the Vantage's passenger seat. "My French is coming along superbly – how's your French, uncle?"
But it was the way she said it. She was clearly not talking about the French language. I laughed: "Cheeky, and less of that double entrendre. I'm under strict instructions from Belinda not to flirt with you!"
Lucinda chuckled a deep, throaty, sexy chuckle. "Or what, uncle? She'll give you a spanking?"
"Naturally," I said, quickly, and then to hide my slight tinge of embarrassment I switched on the engine and let it roar. Lucinda was impressed.
"Let's rock and roll, uncle!" she whooped, and I pulled out of the station forecourt just as an ugly old crone of a parking warden approached.
As soon as we were out of the town, I drove around some of the leafy lanes and byways to give Lucinda the thrill of being squired in a sporty motor – well, "sporty" for an old 40-year-old like me – before we drew up in front of the mansion, the wide tyres of the Aston crunching on the bright white gravel chip.
Inside, after Lucinda and Belinda had made "Mwa, mwa" noises as they pretend kissed, my wife's niece went upstairs to get dressed for lunch. Belinda was already in a stunning green creation, which moulded to her fantastic figure.
About 20 minutes later, Lucinda returned and I had to forcibly prevent myself from licking my lips. She was wearing a sort of diaphanous summer frock which revealed that she had on a pair of tiny white knickers. The material at her breasts was thicker, so you couldn't see any outlines of a bra, but the cleavage displayed a breathtaking expanse of bronzed breasts.
"Let's go," snapped Belinda, noting my gaze at the girl's bosom. "We'll take the Mercedes."
The Merc is a four-seater, and after driving the Aston it's like being behind the wheel of a fucking bus, but there was no way we'd all cram into the Vantage, and that was the way we went to The Fat Duck, in Bray. It was once a pub, but now it's reckoned by experts to be the finest restaurant in the world. None of which interested me – all I was interested in was Lucinda's mouth watering décolletage.
Belinda carefully noted the way I looked down her niece's cleavage. Whenever I tried to engage the teenager in conversation my gaze simply went from her face to her boobs. I couldn't help it.
