Chapter 1

You would never believe how much trouble a little red dress could cause. No, that's not right; the red dress itself didn't cause the problem. It was the sort of catalyst, that everything revolved around and left me cooling my heels doing thirty months at her majesties pleasure for GBH - Grievous Bodily Harm for those who don't know British legal shorthand — for putting a rather mediocre but some say ruggedly handsome — well according to the press — footballer into the intensive care unit.

I suppose I'll have to explain how I came to be languishing here to you, but I'm not really sure if I can, things got a bit hazy for a while there toward the end; I'd sure put away a few that night; I was feeling pretty emotional.

Let's go back to the beginning. I suppose it really started when Jeannie — my lovely and once faithful wife — and I took a week's break in Paris. I had no idea that it was the Paris fashion week and I doubt that Jeannie did either; she wasn't really into all that "haute couture" stuff or whatever they call it.

Anyway, we took the trip because after years of thinking that he'd forgotten that I existed — or that my premium bond numbers were even in the system — Ernie took me by surprise and picked one of them out and although it wasn't the biggest prize by today's standards it was big enough. A million quid ain't to be sneezed at, any day of the week. It paid off our massive crippling mortgage, yeah well we had overstretched ourselves a little on the old Georgian country house we'd fallen in love with, and we'd had to increase the mortgage several times to pay for its renovation. Christ the place had dry rot everywhere. But having started we'd had little choice than to bite the bullet and find the cash from somewhere.

Anyway, after clearing the mortgage we still had plenty left in the bank to play with. After discussing world cruises and the like, Jeannie had decided that her greatest wish was to visit the city of love first, Paris. Not my first choice, but I figured "Hey maybe we could do the cruise thing the next year?" If we had enough cash left, that is.

Yeah well money in the bank or not, I - or rather we - still had our careers to get back to in the long term, when our feet returned to earth. 250 grand left in the bank — after we'd cleared our debts -- sounds like a lot of money, but we realised it doesn't go far in the twenty-first century. But we also figured that, as it had not been expected or planned for, we wouldn't really miss it when it was gone.

I suppose I'd better explain Jeannie's and my thinking, even if it is a little embarrassing for me. Now Jeannie and I had a problem where children were concerned. I'm afraid that I almost — but not quite - fire blanks. I'll put it this way, the specialist told me that it would be a cold day in hell before one of my swimmers made it to the far end of the pool.

"Okay," we said, "then what about in vitro fertilisation?"

That was a no-goer as well because for some reason Jeannie was not a good candidate for the procedure; some technical problem with her eggs. The doc didn't elaborate but he thought the process would only work if we used donated eggs and he even suggested the used of someone else's sperm as well.

Jeannie and I, after a lot of soul searching, didn't think that we wanted to raise anyone else's child as our own, even if it did grow inside her womb. After a while, we realised that there was one advantage to our situation, which we both came to enjoy; we could bonk to our hearts' content without any danger of a baby coming along to interrupt our careers.

Maybe our careers - and that bleeding great house - kind of took over from children in our minds. Whatever, after a while children weren't ever discussed anymore; sex and partying became our main out of work pastime. Oh and before anyone gets that idea into their heads, no neither of us was into the swinging thing. I don't think the thought ever entered our heads, we were much too much into each other for anything like that; well that's what I always thought.

Anyway let's cut to the chase. The Hotel where we were staying in Paris was out of this world, and much to our surprise it was also being used by one of the smaller fashion houses for their big Paris Fashion Week show. You know, all those sexy models sashaying up and down the catwalk in eye-catching — and very overpriced — get-ups.

Now Jeannie and I had hit that hotel like a couple of bloody millionaire film stars. You know if we were going to do Paris then we were going to do it in a big way. We'd spent a few grand in the high street buying look-alike designer dresses for Jeannie and imitation Armani suits for myself. Come on, we weren't that stupid with our cash; well I didn't think we were, until that little red dress came into the picture, but I'll get to that in a minute.

In Paris we were throwing cash around like it was going out of style. You get the idea; no taxis for us, we had a limousine hired for the week, and we had one of the most expensive suites in the hotel to play in.

I believe it was on the third day and Jeannie and I had just climbed out of the Jacuzzi where we'd played for a while after eating breakfast in our room. There was a knock on the door and we actually thought that it was the waiter with our third bottle of Champagne of the morning, but it turned out to be the hotel manager.

He explained that this big fashion show was going on in the ballroom later that day and he'd noticed that we'd inadvertently been left off the invitation list. Jesus, I have no idea who he thought Jeannie and I were, but we played it for all it was worth. Anyway he apologised and told us the oversight had been corrected.

Christ, were we shocked when the head of the fashion house apologetically met us as we entered the ballroom and showed us to front row seats. The sort of seats that were usually reserved for film stars, very rich buyers, or the more influential members of the fashion press.

Now you might have gathered that Jeannie and I had been hitting the Champers a little on the heavy side. Christ, I doubt either of us had been completely sober since we'd arrived in Paris; but hey, this was a one-time thing and were we having a good time. Look, we had sod all to worry about; it wasn't like either of us had to drive or anything.

Anyway after yet more champers was doled out - to those of us in the front row at least — the fashion show started. Now for those of you who have never sat through one of these do's, I'd better explain how it goes. There are several types of outfits that are displayed at the show. Some - which you could call reasonably priced, if you had bloody deep pockets - designed for actual everyday wear. Some very highly priced - and the buyer is guaranteed that only one of them will ever be made - that are really intended for wearing by the rich and famous at film premieres and that kind of thing. And there are some outfits that are designed to shock the audience and to draw the attention of the press to the designer's collection.

Come on, you've all seen pictures of Kate Moss, Naomi Campbell and the like, strutting their stuff and waving their tits about on the catwalk, draped in very small - or see-through - pieces of clothe masquerading as dresses that only a complete slut would actually wear in public. Those titillating dresses are only really on show to cause a stir and get everybody talking about the designer's collection. Well that's the general intention.

Now as I said, Jeannie and I had had a few and I'll admit we were giggling to ourselves about some of the more outrageous outfits the models were dressed in. But then a model walked out wearing that little red number and it instantly drew both Jeannie's and my attention.

How do I describe it? I'm not sure that I adequately can, but I'll try. Well it was red, very red in a silk like material; hey, it probably is silk, I'm not really into that kind of thing. Anyway I'll start at the bottom and work up. The hemline was on the slant, just above the knee on the right leg and almost as high as the models hip on the left. Yeah you got it, if it had been cut that high straight across, the model's privates would have been on display. The upper part of the dress consisted of two lengths of material that went up over the shoulders. The effect was, an armhole that on the left side almost came down to the hem. These strips or bands were gathered in at the shoulder producing a sort-of plunging neckline at the front that went down so far that you could see the models navel, and at the rear, that her arse-crack was almost on view.

I think both Jeannie and I wondered how the model's breasts didn't slip out the side as she sashayed — or rather bounced the buggers, come on, you've seen how they do that - up and down along that catwalk. We were to discover later that the dress came with a roll of special sticky tape to keep those strips of material covering her nipples; there was no way a bra could have been worn with the outfit.

At the same time we discovered that what went for a thong came with it as well. It was especially made so that it didn't show when the dress was worn, and very uncomfortable to wear according to Jeannie. If you could say that the dress was actually worn, it sort-of hung there on the model showing off just about everything that possibly could be shown in public.

Okay I've described that bleeding dress and I've told you that it caught both Jeannie's and my attention. Actually I immediately had visions of Jeannie parading around our hotel suit in the damned thing. I'll admit to you now, that picturing Jeannie in any other piece of female attire had never turned me on as quickly as picturing her in that dress did.

"Do you fancy her in that dress?" Jeannie whispered in my ear.

"Why do you ask?" I replied, slightly embarrassed that my wife had spotted my reaction to the dress. But not as embarrassed as I was about to be.

"Well I don't like to have to tell you Jim but my little friend is doing his utmost to come out and play." She replied with a giggle.

I looked down and noticed that not only had I developed an erection, and it was tenting the front of the loose slacks that I was wearing.

"Oh shit." I said as Jeannie deftly placed the wrap she'd had around her shoulders in my lap, covering my embarrassment.

"I wouldn't have said she's that sexy, her tits are a little small for your liking." Jeannie whispered in my ear.

"It wasn't exactly her that I was picturing in that dress, I could see your tits trying to hide in it."

Jeannie kissed me on the cheek. "That's why I love you darling!"

"Pardon?" I replied, not understanding what she was saying.

"Well, you see a sexy young thing in a revealing dress and you picture me wearing it in your mind. A model like that, would be enough to get most men hard."

"Her tits are far too small for my liking Jeannie; you said that yourself."

"Mine aren't all that much bigger."

"Big enough for me my love and I'm damned sure that you would have trouble keeping them inside that thing."

The model wearing that little red number had long gone before Jeannie and I finished discussing it; other models were sashaying up and down with their nipples and privates barely covered. We watched the rest of the show in silence, but I couldn't seem to get the vision I'd created of Jeannie wearing that red dress out of my mind.

"What are you smiling about?" Jeannie asked me over dinner that evening. I must have been quiet for a while I suppose.

"To be honest babe, I was picturing you, in the little red dress."

"Get your mind under control young man, I could never go out wearing a dress like that."

"I wasn't thinking of you going out in the thing Jeannie. I was picturing you sashaying around our suite and even around the house back home. I'm buggered if I'd want any other guy ogling you dressed like that!"

"It would be exciting just to try on something like that. Shall we go to the shop and see if I can."

"I don't think they have shops Jeannie. These people work out of design houses or something."

"Don't be silly Jim, they are shops, but not the sort you find on the average high street back home." She said laughing at me.

Well that was it; the following morning we went to the studio or design house — or whatever they call it — and Jeannie did try that little red dress on. It needed some alteration because of Jeannie's somewhat larger breasts and her difference in height to the model it had been made for, but they informed us that the alterations could be made in an hour or so.

They also told us the price, and that took the wind right out of my sail, I can tell you. Suffice to say that there wasn't going to be much change from eight grand (British), but we were assured that no other dresses would be made to the same design.

Now I can only put it down to the fact that both Jeannie and I were a little less sober than we should have been, but I did slap my credit card on the table before we left the place.

Mind, in my defence I'll say that the sight of my wife in that red dress when she tried it on had done almost as much to my libido as the very first sight I had of her naked had done, quite a few years before.

The dress was altered and delivered later that day, and that evening was when Jeannie discovered how uncomfortable the thong or special - and very brief - panty part of the outfit was. It was of no worry, because at the time neither Jeannie nor I had any intention of her wearing the dress in public. So she just consigned that part of the outfit to the drawer.

Needles to say we very rarely left the suite for the rest of our trip to Paris. Jeannie would put the dress on and sashay around the suite a couple of times — she got very good at bouncing her tits like the models on the catwalk do - and well sometimes I took the dress off her in a hurry, and other times she was still wearing it whilst we shagged like bunny rabbits. We were very careful though, that damned dress had cost an arm and a leg.

After we got back from Paris, Jeannie had a sure-fire way of firing me up if she fancied a roll in the hay when I got home from work. No matter what kind of a day I'd had or how tired I was, all she had to do was slip that dress on and stroll around the house for a few seconds. Yeah seconds was all that it took and shagged-out or not, I was ready for whatever she wanted.

After Paris only twice did Jeannie ever wear the dress outside our own house; that I was aware of anyway (I'll explain that comment later). But I suppose having a dress like that and never wearing it in public must have got at her in the end; I know it got to me. Look, Jeannie is — or was, I haven't seen her in a while — a fine figure of a woman; a woman that any man would have been proud to have on his arm. What's more she showed of far more of that figure when she was wearing her little bikinis, than that dress let show to the public. Okay the dress was a lot more seductive and arousing than any bikini, but you know what I mean.

I know that she showed the dress to all of her girlfriends, and probably modelled it for them as well. I even suspect she let some of her friends try it on a few times, but they did that kind of thing when I wasn't around.

Well let's be sensible here, Jeannie always knew what my reaction was going to be when she wore it in my presence, so there was little point in putting it on when her friends and I were in the house together. Christ, they'd be sat downstairs on their own, whilst the headboard hammered against the wall upstairs; or I ravished her in the other room. Yeah it nearly happened once, but that's not an important part of my story.

Where was I, oh yeah, Jeannie actually getting up the nerve to go out in that red dress. Well she never did actually go out in it as such. She took it with us the following year when we went on our cruise. You know the sort of thing five days at a resort in Florida and six days on a cruise ship. Or floating Butlin's camp, not my idea of a cruise anyway! If you have never cruised the old fashioned way, before the floating cities started appearing, I doubt you'll understand what the hell I'm moaning about, with that comment.

Anyway, after a lot of humming and hawing, Jeannie decided to try wearing the dress in the hotel lounge one night. They had a small band and there was dancing going on, you know the sort of thing. However she was still shy of appearing in public in the dress, well not so much appearing, but being recognised by the other people on the same trip as us.

Consequently she'd planned ahead. As we went to get changed, Jeannie produced a couple of wigs; a long blond one for herself, and a rather iffy black one that I was required to wear. To these she had added dark sunglasses for both of us and I was to wear a rather garish suit that I hadn't seen since we'd returned from Paris.

Jeannie feeling secure that neither of us would be recognised by any of our fellow travellers, we headed for the restaurant and then the lounge. Somewhat surprisingly I managed to keep my libido under control for nigh on an hour, whilst we ate our dinner. And what's more, I was still pretty much under control when we arrived in the lounge. But then we got up to dance and it all went completely to pot. We were stuck on the dance floor for god knows how long because I had a tent the size of a marquee in the front of my pants.

Needless to say we eventually did manage to get off the dance floor with me hiding my embarrassment as best I could and then we headed directly to our room. Jeannie having my erection rubbing against her tummy for so long was almost in as bad a state as I was. We were both extremely knackered the following day.

We tried the same thing again one night on the cruise ship, with almost exactly the same result. And we both had to agree that Jeannie could only wear that damned dress when we were in private.

There was only one occasion that that little red dress didn't have that effect on me, and I'll get to that shortly

Okay, now let's fast-forward a few years, six to be precise. Jeannie had retained her figure magnificently and that red dress still fitted - or hung on -her the same way it did the day we had bought it. The dress had by that time taken on a mystique of its own though.

I suspect that Jeannie and her friends had all had a good few laughs over the years about the pair of us being stuck out on that dance floor, and the tale had got back to more than a few of their husbands. At parties and the like, there were often comments about the little red dress bandied about. And even some of Jeannie's mates when they were pretending to make a pass at me — come on you know how friends joke about — anyway they'd say they'd have to borrow Jeannie's red dress to get me into bed.

I know that at least one or two of the girls asked Jeannie if they could borrow the dress to see if it had the same effect on their own husbands as it did on me. Not that I believe she ever did lend it out, I'm sure I would have heard about it through the grapevine eventually. You know how the guys talk?

Yeah well, that was about the state of play when that bleeding overpaid arsehole of a footballer moved into our neighbourhood. He was a Frenchman and for some reason he was described as being handsome by the press. I have no idea why some woman find rich footballers handsome, when personally I think they look like something the cat dragged in, but that's life I suppose? I did discover that some of Jeannie's friends had the hots for the bugger, but I had no idea that she felt the same way about him herself. To this day she denies that she did, but I happen to know different.

The women who fancied the bugger had one problem though, and that was that the tosser had a female fan club. Jeannie's best mate Joan and a couple of the other girls even took to hanging around near his house in the hope that the bugger would pick one of them up, stupid tarts!

I knew they — er, I'm talking Jeannie's unmarried or divorced friends here, by the way - would go to the nightspots he was rumoured to frequent in town, hoping he'd spot them. But from what I heard none of the local girls got lucky; well that's what everyone thought! Silly cows didn't realise that he had film starlets and models chasing after him hoping to get their faces in the newspapers. Hey, maybe that's what the women saw in the wanker; the chance of five minutes of fame.

Having explained all that; adequately I hope. Now we come to the fateful weekend when my life turned to shit.