Chapter 3

Friday: Arrival

Michelle drives them through the gates, she is so excited, not only excited excited, but sexually excited, she is sure that Michael must be able to smell the moistness in her panties.

She has spent much of the journey going over in her mind the things the woman on the telephone had insisted, “all part of the process,” she had answered to almost every question she had asked her. She has already resolved to not mention the stop on the way there that he had tricked her into, and even if pressed there was no way she could mention that he had managed a call to his sister, she was sure that would invoke the broken contract clause. Michael is getting increasingly difficult, he is now pushing her to leave, citing the agreement he had blackmailed her into at the service station.

She watches a large attractive man come out of the house and walk to the car; he does not interrupt their discussion and stands by her door, seemingly patiently waiting for them to exit the vehicle.

Michael takes some persuading but she manages to get him out of the car, as soon as their shoes touch the gravel I have to get into character, the character or persona they insist that I play.

I have to pretend to start ordering Michael around, I know he won’t like that. I know he will fight back, the fiasco on the way proves that, I told the woman this, but like everything else, all she says is, “it’s all part of the process.”

Following instructions, she orders Michael to get the bags. Her heart pounds in anticipation, knowing this to be his first real clue that they are staying longer than just the weekend. Of course, as she expects, Michael begins to object, he mocks the big man and states, contrary to her directions that he will take one now, and get the other later. The big man leans in to her and whispers that she must keep up the act and insist he take them now. She restates her her order and loudly, almost aggressively, he objects and demands that they leave. The big man again leans in to her and tells her to follow the plan and that she now needs to go into the house. Forcing herself to stick to the planned scenario, she walks to the house, every step becoming more difficult, only the threat of the penalties for breach of contract give her the resolution to carry on.

She neither sees nor hears the short scuffle by the car, if she had, and seen her husband easily overcome and injected with something that knocks him out. If she had seen the altercation, regardless of any consequences, she would have called it all off, but the door closes behind her before her husband is laid on the ground.

Inside, the woman, a diminutive, yet confident woman wearing a tweed suit and too much perfume greets her. Instantly Michelle recognises her voice, the woman she has been speaking to on the telephone, a woman that so far has avoided revealing her name.

Seeing the reticence in Michelle’s demeanour, the woman tries to reassure her, to convince her that this is indeed the best thing for their marriage, after two welcoming sherry’s and feeling a nice gentle buzz, Michelle finds she is relaxing and accepts what the woman is telling her.

She is given a room with a king size bed, the mattress is soft with an underlying firmness that seems to beg for physical forceful coupling and high count linen covers the bed, pillows and a thick warm duvet. The bed and all other furniture give as far as her limited knowledge allows the impression of subdued opulence, tastefully brought together with carpet and curtains by subtle decor. She bounces on the bed with glee and begins to fantasise about what she will do with Michael when he gets to the room.

The door opens and a man, larger than the one she met outside, brings in and sets the two suitcases on the floor. She does not notice, but he looks at her with a hungry, leering expression. He stands looking at her, drinking in her beauty for longer than is polite before he says, “If you require anything, please push the call button on the left hand side of the bed.” The emphasis he puts on the word, “anything” goes unnoticed, as does the continuing absence of her husband.

An hour later, the same man returns and leads her to another room for her supper.

The food provided is far better than she had expected and for a second thinks about Michael and hopes he is enjoying himself as much as she is. She washes the food down with a sparkling wine, which may or may not have been champagne. After her meal, they walk back to her room, chatting and gently flirting, nothing blatant, mostly mildly suggestive jokes, nothing to cause her anxiety.

His words may have been practiced often, they follow a pattern designed to subtly ingratiate him into her affections. Not to try to talk her immediately into adultery, but suggestive enough to make sure sex is constantly on her mind. He continues to chat to her after they get to her room; he is now looking at her with desire in his eyes. A look, coupled with the effect of the wine, is a look she is unconsciously returning.

She pushes her hair back as she listens to him, his voice seems to be resonating within her, somehow connecting to her sex. She feels herself moisten and is finding his words losing her attention, she finds herself saying pardon and feeling embarrassed because she knows that she cannot concentrate on what he is saying because her body is reacting to him. Unwanted imaginings of his nearness, his touch and passion creep to the fore, increasing her heart rate, her arousal, she wants to move her underwear, her panties suddenly feeling hot and constricting.

He steps forwards and takes her in his arms, leaning down he kisses her, gently at first, but as her lips press back his kisses become lustful and his hands begin to explore her body.

She responds and kisses him back, her hands reach around, sliding over the tailored shirt, under his jacket. The kiss breaks, she says, “Ooh? Mike I...” she freezes as she realises the man kissing her, touching her and filling her with desire is not Michael, not her husband. Michael, the thought of him flashes sudden images of him. She feels her cheeks flush red as she realises what is happening. Feelings of guilt rush over her and bring her back to her senses, suddenly full of anger and self-loathing, she pushes herself away from him shouting, “Get out, you bastard, what do you think you are doing? I’m a married woman, get out and don’t come back.”

Shock is written on his face, no woman has ever turned him down, especially when he has her so near to the point of no return. Recovering quickly from the setback, he gives her a seductive smile, and begins flirting again.

“Get out get out get out,” she screams angrily, “I don’t want you in here, I don’t want to see you and I am not going to sleep with you, get out.”

Pulling of a shoe she tries to swipe the man across the face with it, as much as he wants to retaliate, rip her clothes off and take her, he knows that he must not. He fights the urge and blocking most of her flailing blows, walks backward to the door and leaves.

One question, if it had been on her questionnaire is one, although she could not have answered truthfully, Michael would have answered it easily, the nonexistent question is, is she a violent drunk?

She moves the dressing table chair, to the door and wedges it closed before stripping off, jumping into bed and furiously bringing herself to orgasm. Her orgasm does lessen her anger, but not her desire and she continues to pleasure herself. Again and again, she achieves her peak, but the need for satisfaction stays, urging her on to climax after climax. Only when she falls asleep do her hands stop rubbing and stroking, her now tender intimate areas.

When she awakens the next morning, she is warm and very comfortable and snuggles down into the luxurious bedding and begins to think about her husband and again her hand drifts down between her legs and then finding soreness, she winces with comfort.

A faint memory of closeness with the man she had dinner with last night flickers through her mind. She reels with the thought and runs to the shower and begins scrubbing herself. Moments from the dinner show themselves, flashes of togetherness, laughing and arousal, fuel the rising guilt within her. Inwardly she knows she had not crossed the line, she knows she had not shared her bed and yet, although she is unsure of the details or the chronological order of these fleeting shadows.

Soap is stinging her nether regions, inspection reveals a few small scratches and patches of redness inviting memories of frenzied rubbing and an unbelievable number of enraptured orgasms giving her the solace of innocence and yet knowing it was lust for the man and not Michael, further adding to her guilt.

She is still drying herself, gingerly patting her soreness when a knock on her door disturbs her, it is only then she notices the chair wedged under the door handle. She walks over to the closed door and asks, “Who is it?”

“Mark, you know the man you had dinner with last night.”

Instantly annoyed by the audacity of the man, she shouts angrily, “What do you want?”

“I thought if you would have breakfast with me, it might give me the chance to apologise for my behaviour last night. I know you are a married woman and I overstepped the mark, I should not have ... but the wine had lowered my inhibitions, and well it cannot be something you are unaware of, it’s just that, you ... umm, you are just so damned attractive.” She considers what he is saying and thinks he does sound genuinely apologetic, even humble and removing the chair, opens the door.

As soon as he sees her, his face colours and he looks away, further convincing her of his sincerity. He glances up at her and looks away again several times saying, “I had hoped that if you could find it within yourself, that ... that if you would consent to us having breakfast together, we could talk, let me apologise properly and maybe you would consider letting me take you out of these cloistered walls for the day.”

The thought of eating, tightens her stomach and a hint of nausea makes itself known as she replies hesitantly, “Umm ahhh, ummm, I don’t know, ahhh, the only thing I really want to do is see my husband.”

“Later, you can do that maybe, how about we get breakfast out of the way first.”

Food, breakfast, lust, dinner, shame and guilt make connections in her mind and she screams, “no,” surprising both of them.

“I am really sorry I have made you feel like that,” he says, “Ummm, I know I have no right to ask, but please don’t say anything about my mistake. I need this job, my ex wife deserted me and without this job, I wouldn’t be able to pay maintenance for her and my four children ... and no, we didn’t divorce because I cheated, before you ask. I found out she was, she was having an affair with...

“No no, you don’t have to tell me,” she says, now feeling a little guilt for trying to think of an excuse to put him off, “ummm, I don’t really feel like eating, don’t worry about me, for now. In fact, until I can see Michael, I think I’ll stay here and enjoy not having to do housework.”

“Oh Michelle relax,” he is almost singing the words, “You need something inside you to start the day.”

Oh my god, is he trying it on again, is he still trying to get me into bed? She struggles with the thought as flashes of the dinner last night remind her of her desire and the knowledge how close she came to succumbing to her lust, repulse her and she shouts, “No, leave me alone unless you’re going to take me to see Michael. I want him not you, go away.”

Looking contrite, he says, “Sorry, that came out wrong, but okay then, I will see you later, but please, look after yourself, if you don’t want to eat, at least have some juice or a cup of tea or coffee.”

She cannot deny, a glass of orange juice and a cup of tea would definitely be welcome, but she is scared. Scared that she almost lost control last night, scared that she has made a mistake and brought them to a place they should never have come. Scared that she has not seen Michael and scared about what they may have planned for them both.

As she stands, pressing herself against the now closed door, she again goes over the dialogue, the communications between her and these people. The questions she had asked and the answers she had been given had reassured her at the time, but now, as she replays them in her mind she wonders whether her eagerness, her naivety, had driven her to begin playing a game in which only they knew the rules.

Her initial contact had been a short questionnaire, not much more than personal details, names, ages, length of time married, length of time as a couple and a strange one about exclusivity that she could not understand. To her, once a couple were a couple then they stayed a couple unless they broke up, you certainly do not see other people when you have a boyfriend. The end of the questionnaire asks her to say what she hoped to get from their program. She had put down, quite concisely in her opinion, that she just wanted the magic back, she wanted her husband to want her, emotionally and of course physically, show his love in all the ways that he had once upon a time,.

They replied with another quiz for her, this one much longer and much more detailed, prying into things that she thought, went too far in places. It asked about fantasies and sexual role-play, including bondage and other things that she did not really understand. However, she filled it in as best as she could. There were some in depth scenarios, none of which she wanted, nor could she imagine Michael would want to do. There were a couple, ones that did not disgust her outright, she had wondered about, if she was honest, even fantasised about occasionally, but knew she would never realise, never actually want to do.

She had answered questions about Michael, asking if he was dominant, abusive, whether he drank and took drugs, whether he was unfaithful, with men as well as women, whether he had any sexual proclivities she found disturbing and whether or not she indulged him and on a scale of 1-10. How welcome these were to her and then whether she thought he was open, or closed minded to all her wishes. Whom he put first when they had sex, she did find that overall many words or the way questions were phrased could be interpreted as ambiguous, but always, if she took the other meaning, in ways that would be odd coming from an organisation offering to reignite the love between them.

“Hello Michelle, it’s Mark again, I am sure that you are still upset about my poor choice of words this morning and you have every right to be and I also know that no matter how much I tell you I am sorry, it will not ever be enough. It isn’t right that you, a paying guest has to interco ... there I go again, it is not fair to you to have to see, and be put into a position where you have to speak with me and so I have made a decision. I am on my way to confess my ... misdemeanours and in case I get the sack, I just wanted to say goodbye now, as I doubt I will have the...”

Flinging the door open, she leaps through it and grabbing his arms says, don’t you dare. You can’t give up your job just because of some stupid little mistake. You’re a good man, I see that now and I should be the one that is sorry. I was drunk, you were charming, and maybe a little pushy, but I was the one that let it go too far, no, you cannot throw yourself on your sword, it is better for both of us that you not tell anyone. It will be our little secret, okay.”

“Thank you ... thank you, thank you, you truly are a wonderful woman and really that is not me trying anything, that is just my honest opinion, thank you ... We both know that, that I am not blameless, but thank you umm, I’ll be going now, umm we are supposed to meet for your formal induction. I just hope we can get through that with not too much awkwardness.

His words are delivered with what she feels is a naive honesty and give her some sense of relief, not completely but enough for her to shed much of the guilt she has been feeling.

His words not only reassure her, they are a boost to her ego, enough for her to relax and speak freely and she asks after a little friendly giggle, “So what is the plan today, or am I expected to mong out around here all day?”

“No, no, not at all,” he sniggers, “When I suggested I could take you out for the day. I had forgotten that you only arrived the night before, so what is supposed to happen is, in a half hour or so, about ten, you are supposed to report to my classroom to make sure you have understood our procedures, for both you and your ... hubby. Basically we will be going over everything you told us on your applications and for you to ask any questions or worries you may have, your other half is undergoing the same thing at this very moment with Gordon.”

“And after that?”

Well, we expect it normally to last four to six hours, most recently, people have been using the six hours, the last but one lady I had, she took eight hours before I thought I had completely satisfied her.”

She gives a disappointed sigh, and says, “That’s a hell of a long time to be stuck in a classroom, bloody hell, I’ll be starving by then.”

“Oh, sorry, didn’t I say, we will be breaking for lunch at around one.”

“Great...”

“You don’t sound too impressed.”

“I suppose not, its, it’s just, you did say earlier about taking me out and that made me think, well I must admit, I thought that sightseeing and such were part of the deal. That being out here in the sticks, with all this beautiful scenery, I had sort of expected lots of walking, country pubs and places of historical interest, not just being stuck in a selection of four walled rooms.”

This time it is he that does not answer immediately, when he does he says, “I might be able to help you there, I have never done it this way, but I know some people have, give me five and I’ll be back.”

He is not back in five minutes, nearer to fifteen, but when he does return, he brings good news.

“We can do the class outside the manor, walk along the Pennines for a bit if you like, we can join the Pennine way about five miles down the road. That is as long as you have no objections to riding pillion, my cars at the garage, getting the gearbox fixed.”

“My helmet should be in the boot.”

“You have your own helmet?”

“Yes, we had spoken about me getting my own bike, but because I did something stupid we’ve not been able to afford one.”

“Great, meet you downstairs in half an hour, yes?”

“Okay.”

When she gets down to meet him she finds he already has her helmet, with her gloves tucked inside.

They go outside and she immediately says, “Oh you’ve got a bonny ... no it’s the kwak version, mmm, W ... S 650, yes?”

“No, it’s the W 650, styled more on the American 750 version.”

“I didn’t know they did another version. Mike always thought it strange that when triumph brought out the new Bonneville, that it looked less like the original than the Kawasaki WS 650.” She lets out a little giggle, “You know, a friend of ours, he runs a van, and a couple of years ago he was driving out Leicester way, when he saw a bike by the side of the road. The rider seemed to be looking at something behind the side panels. So our friend stops and goes to ask if he could help. The rider said it had just cut out and then our friend says, I can see the problem. The guy asks what and he says there, on the side of the tank ... it says Triumph.”

“Mark laughs.

“And that’s not all, the guy then says, but I’m part of the design team, everything checked out, it ran fine all day yesterday in the lab.”

“With that Mike just smiled and went back to his van.”

“You don’t rate Triumphs then?”

“I don’t really know enough to have an honest opinion but,” she stretches but, into two syllables, we’ve known about twenty people over the years that have had Triumphs and only two have gone back for seconds, although they must have thousands and thousands of satisfied customers.”

“You’re used to bikes then?”

“Yeah, Mike s always had at least one, in fact he still runs his old Z900 that he had when we met.”

“Z900?”

“God you’re not that young are you ... most of the bikes they used in the original Mad Max film were Zeds”

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen the film, didn’t know that about the bikes though.”

They are talking as they are putting on their protective clothing and he straddles his machine and fires up the engine, the small two cylinder engine fires up immediately. “Ready?” she asks, receiving a nod in reply she mounts behind him.

“Hold on,” he calls out and she reaches behind her and grasps the “grab” rail.”

Expecting her to reach around his waist, he calls out, “I said hold on.”

“I am,” she replies, “Go when you’re ready.”

He sets off and is surprised to find her responding even anticipating his riding style, she leans with him into every corner and braces herself against the acceleration and deceleration of the machine as he negotiates the twisty roads over the rolling hills.

When they park at the spot near the Pennine way, he asks, “didn’t scare you did I?” He had taken a number of women he had “worked” with at the “retreat,” and he had terrified them all. Michelle giggles again and replies, “You’ve got to be kidding, Mike would’ve ripped round those bends at twice your speed and he doesn’t know these roads like you ... You ride like an old granny.”

He actually feels hurt at her comment and then she continues, “And Mike’s riding is nothing compared to his sister’s wife, she is just plain mental, I don’t think we know anyone that can keep up with her and we know one guy that raced, although it was only on an amateur level.”

He loses his smile for a second but quickly recovers and asks, “Hungry”.

A coffee and a bacon bap, from a burger van sitting in the site takes the edge off the fuzziness Michelle is feeling and afterwards they strike out and begin walking. At first, they talk about the scenery, motorcycles, any wildlife they see and of course, both being English, the weather.

Slowly they make their way and Mark is able to begin probing her for the details that he is supposed to get, but as they talk, he is also trying to wheedle his way into her affections.

Usually, within the confines of his “classroom” and the Manor, he has control of all that is said and occasionally done. Here out in the open, there are many distractions and as much as he tries to do his job, with her enthusiasm and dedication to her husband, he keeps finding that they are actually talking as equals and not as prey and predator and although he manages to slip in the reason for being there occasionally. He finds it increasingly difficult to redirect the conversation.

True, Mark is supposed to get as much knowledge about Michelle and Michael as possible. However he has found that he is actually liking this woman. He is also surprised that she is unlike most of the women he meets at the retreat, she is actually expecting to mend her marriage, rather than shift the balance of power within the relationship. He realises that she is forcing him to back off from his duty, and finds himself beginning to get to know the woman.

As they walk and continue to chat over the next few hours, he stops flirting and they start talking about anything other than the “retreats,” intentions for her and Michael.

By lunchtime, her head is completely clear and they are getting hungry when Mark sees a sign for a pub ... three miles further on.

“Will you manage that? Don’t forget we’ve got to get back to the bike,” The challenge in his voice is obvious and without a word she steps out, leaving him standing, “Hang on Meesh,” he calls out chasing after her.

“I didn’t take you for a light weight, what’s up; can’t you manage a little stroll?” She retorts with a smile and only forty minutes later, they are walking through the doorway into the pub.

The pub is busy, full off hikers of all ages, shapes and sizes. Mark buys the first drinks and is amazed that Michelle asks for a pint bottle of Sam Smiths “Taddy” an old recipe porter. He tries a taste and finds the burnt malt and hops taste to be overwhelming, and orders a small bottle of Budweiser. She laughs at him and tells him that her husband refers to it as Butt Wiper.

They settle into some seats and begin to peruse the menu, both settling on a steamed steak and ale pudding with boiled potatoes, seasonal vegetables and gravy. Chatting over the meal, he suggests that they return to the manor afterwards, she on the other hand, insists that she wants to walk on for a few more miles.

After eating, she excuses herself to go to the ladies room, while she is gone he takes the opportunity of buying them another beer, also buying her a a large port as a digestif and getting himself a small brandy.

As she returns, a man, tries to engage her in conversation, she is politely declining when the sound of breaking glass and raised voices distracts him, giving her the opportunity to pass. Approaching her table she finds Mark arguing with a man, or rather a man shouting at Mark. The man is small, made to look even smaller by Marks imposing stature. He is small, balding with a long beard, his walking boots, khaki shorts and long-sleeved shirt with a bright red gilet over the top, typical of many hill walkers and for some reason, she thinks he reminds her of someone, but she cannot place who. Listening to the discussion, she knows the stranger is complaining that Mark has spilt drinks over him. Mark is trying to calm the man down, but insisting that it was the man that knocked the tray Mark was carrying over himself.

A woman, smaller than either man, in height and larger in other directions pushes herself between the men and waving the brush in her hand in their faces, tells them to “pack it up or take it outside,” both men apologise to her and giving one another a last hate filled glare turn away from one another.

Mark sees her looking at him and gives her a shameful grin, saying, “Shall we move on?” She returns his grin with a smile and he follows her out of the door trying to explain what had occurred. They are a good hundred metres from the pub before he realises she is, as she had said over lunch continuing to walk in the same direction as before.

“Stupid little man, I could have killed him,” Mark states with certainty. She does not disagree, however thinking to herself that the other man had not looked particularly concerned, or for that matter, as angry as his words had implied.

As they walk on, Mark becomes preoccupied, quietly fuming about the spilled drinks and n feeling she has manipulated him to carry on walking. His shoes are not suited for the terrain, nor is he used to walking any distance, his feet are sore and his legs are beginning to complain. As much as he wants to stop, he feels that it would infringe his masculinity to let a woman beat him.

They are only a mile from the pub when she notices he is limping and suggests they turn back, a suggestion that he readily agrees to.

They stop at the pub, and he sits outside on a wooden table. She goes inside, returning with two pints, telling him, “knock it back, a taxi will be here soon to take us back to the bike.”

The driver attempts to reassure them that Mark is not the only one he has taken from the pub, but no matter how sympathetic his words, he seems to revel in the number of failed hikers he has taken from the pub to various car parks around the area.

Mark pays the driver and gingerly walks to the bike and pulls on his crash helmet and after turning the bike on presses the button to start it. The engine turns over and does not catch, he tries repeatedly and the motorcycle will not start, other that an occasional backfire and the whir of the starter motor, the engine remains silent. He tries to kick-start it and still the bike is refusing to start.

“I don’t understand it; it’s never failed me before.” He complains. A heavy smell of unburned fuel hangs in the air. Michelle is sure the bike is flooding, but Mark will not accept she could be correct and eventually calls for the RAC.

Almost three hours pass before the van arrives, he connects the machine to a power pack to jump start the machine and it still will not fire up, he checks the plugs for a spark and after replacing them he gets Mark to turn the engine over. Squatting down behind the bike, he appears to catch the fumes from the exhaust in his cupped hands; sniffing them, he nods to himself and says, “Yeah, thought so.”

He goes to his van and returns with a screwdriver, he looks at the carburettors and adjusts screws on the side of each. He turns it over and the bike starts, he adjusts the screws a little more, again cupping his hands over the exhausts. He soon says, “that will get you home, but I should get your carbs looked at, they will need balancing properly. But I will say this, I doubt there is something wrong with them, to be honest, I think somebody deliberately messed with them.”

Mark looks puzzled for a second and then says, “I’ll bet it was that little shit in the pub.”

By the time Mark has finished dealing with the mechanic, he is more than ready to get back to the “retreat,” but he looks around for Michelle and does not see her. Assuming she has gone to use the facilities, he does likewise, as he hobbles back to the bike; he spies her at one of the burger vans. He starts to hobble over to her, but seeing him, she hurries over to him. Handing him a polystyrene box, she says, “the lady in the van has just been telling me about a dance after the village fȇte in a place called, umm, Fendale I think she said.”