Flawed Red Silk Ch. 02

Chapter 02 Change or Suffer.

The Forewoman’s Husband

My boss, Mr. Jones, wanted to send all the French knickers out as Valentine’s Day presents to the firm’s best customers. I persuaded, Mary, his secretary, to give one pair to me. She agreed. I don’t know why. She frightens me. She is so competent and a witch as well.

Mary selected a pair that fitted me and deleted one company from Mr. Jones’ list that is only an occasional customer.

Should I wear them? Mary has put a spell on them but we all helped. The spell is supposed to be only for good but I wonder. How benevolent is Mary?

Whether the spell works or not, I have problems with my husband Reshad that need sorting out. As Forewoman I earn more than the other women on the shop floor but I feel as if I’m running to keep still. Reshad doesn’t work. He drinks with his “friends” all day long in an illegal-drinking den. He spends more than we can afford so we are always short of money. We shouldn’t be. If he didn’t spend so much we could survive. If he didn’t drink and had a job we could live well and provide for our children. As it is, everything is a crisis. New school uniform? Borrow more money. New shoes? Borrow more money. Rent due? Borrow more money.

Keeping the borrowing under control is almost impossible. I try to keep back some money each week to cut down the outstanding amount but the essential spending keeps eating into that few pounds. If only Reshad would change.

What can a pair of French knickers do for me? Even with Mary’s spell they are just a garment. Anything is worth trying. Reshad is out, of course. He won’t be back for hours. My mother has put the children to bed and is dozing in front of the television. She doesn’t really understand it but it keeps her happy. Or at least it does when Reshad is out. When he is home she is ashamed that she chose such a poor husband for me. He makes her unhappy too and even our children are ashamed of their father.

Under the kitchen sink I keep a locked suitcase. Reshad would never look there for things I am hiding. The kitchen is the “women’s place”. He would never wash up, or help with the cooking. That is beneath him. I carry the suitcase upstairs and put it on the bed. Before opening it I will take a shower. I want to be clean for the delights inside the case.

I shed my cotton overall dress. Even the dress reminds me of debt. I bought four white cotton nursing overalls in a charity shop. I wear them to work because they have pockets to keep my pens and notebook in. The women think my dresses are a status symbol separating me from their saris. How can I admit that I can’t afford to wear my saris to work?

Once clean I ease the French knickers up my legs. The feel of the silk thrills me. I would love to wear underthings like this every day. Well, perhaps not at work, because cotton panties are more comfortable, but for the evenings this feel would be nice. I sit on the bed and reach for my newest bra. The silk slides into my crack and I sigh. I would like to feel Reshad caressing me, not just a piece of cloth however luxurious. Once my bra is fastened I pull on my long waist slip and tie it. The silk blouse that ends just below my breasts holds me. I wrap the heavy silk sari around me with practised deftness. Looking in the mirror I see myself as desirable and feel that I want a man, a real man, who will appreciate the reflection looking back at me. Once that was Reshad. Now…

I think of the spell that Mary and all of us worked into the knickers. I can feel myself dampening the crutch with desire. All of us? What did that remind me about? I don't know.

I sit down and start to cry silently. Then I undress from my finery and carefully replace it in my suitcase leaving the flaming red knickers on. I feel more naked with them on than I would in a totally bare body. Naked... That was it. I remember now. One of the women had told us about a news story from India. Apparently the women of a small village had become tired of their men just drinking themselves silly and never working. They had ambushed the men one by one, stripped them naked and beat them up. They did it night after night until the men began to change. If only those women were here to do that to Reshad? They weren’t. They were in a small village in Southern India, not in a grimy part of an English city.

Even my finery brings me no pleasure. I owe it all to Mr. Jones. I hadn’t lied to Mary. I just hadn’t told her that he gives me an appraisal, which is what he calls his secretive sex sessions, as well as all the other staff. Apart from money he has given me this blouse, this waist slip, this silken sari and the few other clothes in my suitcase. What I really need is ordinary clothes but Mr. Jones doesn’t understand that. Any extra money I get from him goes to reduce the debts. For the other women Mr. Jones’ hush money buys extras. For me it defers the eventual day of reckoning when the debts become too much. All the women know about Reshad. Most of their husbands go to the drinking club sometimes. Reshad is always there. The factory is like a village. Everybody knows everything about each other.

Then it sinks in. The factory is like a village. We all live close to each other. We know everything about each other. They all know about Reshad and how difficult life is for me. All I have to do is ask. They could say no but would they? Reshad is the worst offender but there are many other lazy drunken husbands. If Reshad was made the example it might persuade the others to change as well. If not, they could get the same treatment, couldn’t they? I stroke the red silk of these knickers. Is the spell helping me? Will my friends, colleagues, co-workers help me even though I’m the forewoman?

That is enough for tonight. I strip off the knickers and add them to the other finery in my suitcase. I put my shabby nightdress on and carry the suitcase back to its hiding place. I will ask my friends tomorrow. In the morning, if he is awake I will have one last try to persuade Reshad to cut down his drinking and look for work. If he doesn’t...

The next morning I knew I had wasted my time worrying about giving Reshad one last chance. He had returned home hours after I had gone to bed, drunk and staggering. I had to help him up the stairs after he had woken me with his crashes against the furniture. When I left for work he was still snoring, still dressed in his beer stained clothing.

At lunchtime I was nervous. I asked for quiet and then told them all about Reshad. I told them how drunk he was every night, how much of my money he spent, how much in debt I was, and how I couldn’t continue. Then I told them about the women of the Indian village. I didn’t have to go into detail because they volunteered to teach Reshad a lesson that night. I didn’t know how many friends I had. I broke down and cried my heart out surrounded by sympathetic faces and caressing hands.

Reshad left the club late that night. A few yards from our home a sari-veiled woman approached him and stopped in front of him. He peered drunkenly at her. She pushed him backwards and he fell over the woman crouching behind him. It is an old trick but it still works. Many hands that grasped fiercely at him caught his fall. He was gagged and blindfolded, stripped and tied. Then he was punched and kicked. None of the punches or kicks were very hard but there were hundreds of punches and kicks. He became unconscious. His gag had been removed to let him vomit the expensive beer into the road. The women left him in the recovery position but still blindfolded and tied. A soft knock on my door was my cue. I didn’t need it. I had watched everything round a corner of curtain.

I rushed out to my husband.

“Reshad! Husband! What has happened? Who were the villains who did this to you? Where are they? Are you injured?”

I kept this up while I removed his blindfold and untied him. I found some of his clothes to cover him while I half-carried him to our house, still bewailing the attack on him.

Once inside I pushed him upstairs and onto the bed. I stripped him again and examined him. His skin was reddened almost everywhere and would certainly show many bruises tomorrow. I kept up my pretence of being the concerned wife as I smoothed baby oil all over him and rubbed it in despite his winces. He gradually relaxed and slept.

By the morning his bruises were beautiful and everywhere. He couldn’t get out of bed so I brought him breakfast and the anonymous letter that I had found on the doormat. It hadn’t been difficult to find because I had dropped it there a few seconds earlier.

He opened the letter and peered at it. Then he swore loudly two or three times.

“The bitches!” he shouted or would have shouted except that he found it too difficult because of his bruising. He thrust the letter at me.

“What do you know about this?” he asked.

“Me?” I said innocently. “I found it on the doormat this morning, addressed to you. That’s all.”

I was lying, of course. Mary and I had drafted it yesterday and she had typed it for me. She used a font we never use and cheap paper totally unlike the firm’s paper. I read it aloud.

“Reshad.

You are a drunken lazy slob who is breaking your wife’s heart.

This night was a warning.

If you do not start supporting your wife and family you will get more of the same.

You are barred from your drinking club and any other place where you can get drink. If you disobey you will suffer.

We are watching you. If you punish your wife you will be punished much harder. If you drink you will suffer.

If, within a month, you have not found paid work, any work, you will suffer.

If you commit any offence against your wife, she can signal us by wearing red panties at work. If she does, you will suffer.

We mean what we say. Your bruises should be a reminder.

The angry women.

PS. You are the first. You will not be the last.”

“So? What do you know about this?” Reshad insisted.

“I know nothing except that I found you trussed up like a chicken and naked. I brought you in, looked after you, cared for you and you accuse me?”

I was playing the injured innocent to the life. Reshad seemed convinced.

“What is that about you wearing red panties to work?”

“Have you ever seen me wear red panties?” I asked. “Do I own any red panties?”

He didn’t know about the spell-ridden silk French knickers nestling under the sink.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I should go to the police...”

“...but,” I prompted.

“I don’t want to admit I was beaten up by veiled women. I can’t identify any of them. I only saw one...”

“...and you were drunk?” I suggested gently.

“I had drunk a few,” Reshad admitted.

I left it at that and went to work. I was greeted with glee. They had enjoyed themselves with Reshad and wanted to try others on the hit list.

“Well,” one asked. “Is he going to change?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “He can’t get out of bed this morning. Tonight will tell. If he goes to his drinking club...”

“We will meet him and sort him out,” said someone.

“Be careful, please.” I asked. “If he tells his friends you may have several men to deal with.”

“He won’t do that,” said Asmita. “He will be too ashamed to admit that women beat him up.”

As I opened my locker a brown paper bag fell out, spilling its contents. I picked up a Marks and Spencer bag and opened it. Inside was a pack of three red cotton panties with a note from Mary, which read “Just in case you need to signal”.

They were ordinary cotton panties, not sexy, nor high cut. They would be comfortable to wear and practical. Wearing them I wouldn’t feel as I did with the silk French knickers but I knew that I’d feel confident and contented. I picked up the brown paper bag. There was something else inside. I looked. Another M&S bag this time with pale blue panties in the same style and two sets of three. How did Mary know that my panties were so worn I was ashamed of them? She is a witch but this is uncanny. I almost run into the ladies and change into a pale blue pair of panties. As I pull them on I am happy. Whatever Reshad does, I know that I have many friends who are willing to help me. The new panties are a present, with love, that express care and consideration. I feel as if a load has been lifted from me. I’m still afraid of the debt, still afraid that Reshad won’t change but now I feel like my own woman. I giggle to myself. How much can I read into a new pair of M&S panties?

When I go to see Mr. Jones I set off a couple of minutes early so that I can say thank you to Mary. It is just as well that I allowed time. I had barely started to say thank you when I broke down in tears and ended up cuddled in her arms being comforted. Mary is a big girl compared to me. I suppose she isn’t large by English standards but she makes me feel like a china doll. She would tower over Reshad and probably weighs as much as my husband and I do together. She is wonderfully comforting as my head rests against her breasts and her hand strokes my hair.

I try to thank her again but she puts a finger across my lips.

“I know that you are grateful, Serena. Shall we tidy you up before we go in to Mr. Jones?”

She held up a small mirror. My eyeshadow had run. I know modern eyeshadow shouldn’t but I bought mine from a market trader because I couldn’t really afford makeup. Mary pushed me into the washroom, cleaned my face and applied some of her eyeshadow. It wasn’t quite the right shade for my darker skin but it felt much smoother. I looked at myself in the mirror and at Mary’s reflection.

“Feeling better?” Mary asked.

I swung round to hug her.

“Yes, thank you. Today feels like the first day of another life.”

“Take it carefully, then, Serena. Babies have to learn to walk slowly.”

The rest of that day was a happy blur. I felt love from every one of the women and excitement. Reshad had showed them that they had power. All they had to do was use it and they were waiting for the night to find the next victim. By the end of lunchtime they had a list of eight men who needed “attention” with another ten who would get a warning. They would pick on one victim a week until all the offending men showed signs of improvement. They would monitor Reshad until the next man on the list was attended to, unless I signalled that Reshad hadn’t changed.

When I arrived home Reshad was up. He was obviously in pain but moving about. I hoped that he hadn’t been really injured. I don’t think he had been.

“How are you, Reshad?” I asked.

“I hurt all over but I think I’ll be OK in a few days. Your mother says the meal will be ready in a few minutes but I don’t think I can eat much.”

I gave him a gentle hug and went into the kitchen.

“Hello, Mother. How has Reshad been today?”

“At first he just stayed in bed. He got up about eleven o’clock, washed and shaved and then had a couple of cups of black coffee. I thought that he would go out to his club. He usually goes there by twelve noon. Today he didn’t. He brought me his dirty clothes from last night and he sat down on the stairs. He polished his shoes, your shoes and the children’s shoes. I heard him in the bathroom running water for half an hour. I went up there later. He had cleaned it from top to bottom. He had used the towels as cleaning cloths but at least he had done some cleaning.”

“He didn’t!”

“That’s not all. He found the vacuum cleaner and cleaned all the carpets upstairs. He only finished a few minutes before you came in.”

“I can’t believe that he has changed so much in a day.”

“He is trying. He is in pain and I think his system is reacting to lack of alcohol. He has been pale and sweating most of the times I have seen him.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he had withdrawal symptoms because he drank so much.”

I stopped talking. I’d said “drank” as if his drinking was in the past. That was a big assumption to make from half a day of good behaviour. Even so he needed a reward for that much.

“Mother, can you put the children to bed this evening?”

“Of course I can. Why?”

“I think Reshad needs a reward for being good and encouragement to keep it up. Do you agree?”

“Perhaps. But it is only half a day that he has seemed like the good husband I chose for you.”

“...And I want to keep him like that. If he gets rewarded and there is still the threat that he will suffer if he lapses...”

“It might work. He is really hurting.”

“So I’ll put him to bed early and put lotion on his hurt body and perhaps some reward as well.”

My mother laughed.

“You will have to be very gentle with the reward. If you try to make love I think he will scream in pain.”

“I’ll treat him like a new-born baby with delicate skin.”

“His skin is delicate enough. His bruises are a beautiful yellow.”

We brought the food through to the dining room. For the first time in months the whole family sat down to an evening meal. Reshad ate very little and it was obviously an effort. After the meal he offered to wash up. Our eldest child nearly fell off the chair in astonishment. We declined his offer and suggested that he could play with the children. He agreed.

As mother and I washed up we could hear happy noises from the dining room. Despite myself I smiled with relief.

When it was time for the children’s bedtime mother took over. When I heard them in their bedrooms I held out my hand to Reshad.

“It has been a long day for you too. Time for you to go to bed.”

He looked puzzled but he took my hand and followed. I told him to wash and shave. He did. I washed myself in the bedroom washbasin and I was ready for him when he returned.

I turned back the bed.

“In you get,” I ordered.

He got in.

“Turn your back to me, with your hands by your sides.”

He did. I wrapped one of my long scarves once round his waist and tied his wrists by his sides. I gently lowered him to the bed and covered him with the bedclothes. I got into the bed, turned out the light and positioned myself with his head resting against my shoulder.

“Reshad” I said.

“Yes?”

“You have been a good husband today but you have many bruises.”

I felt him nod.

“So I am going to treat you gently, as gently as a baby.”

I unfastened the top of my nightdress and pulled his head to my breast. My erect nipple sought his mouth and pushed between his lips. He opened his mouth and began to suck. I wrapped an arm round him and settled him comfortably. We stayed like that for a long time before his head fell back asleep. I snuggled next to him and went to sleep as well.

The next morning my alarm woke me. I was stiff from holding Reshad all night. I clambered out of bed gingerly so as not to wake him. When I was ready to go downstairs I kissed him, lightly at first and then with more passion. He woke, returned my kisses and then realised his hands were still tied.

“Are you going to leave me like this?” he asked.

“Not if you promise to be good.”

He thought for a few seconds.

“I promise to try.”

I untied him, kissed him again and went downstairs.

Reshad was at the door to kiss me goodbye when I left for work. He was shaved and fully dressed. I hugged him too firmly and he winced.

“Careful!” he exclaimed. “I’m still delicate.”

I was almost singing as I went too work. I was even happier when I heard that what had happened to Reshad had been spread around the drinking club. Several of the men on the hit list were worried and were beginning to be more moderate in their drinking and behaviour. Not all of them. That would be too much to expect. The hardened drinkers, some of whom were nearly as bad as Reshad, hadn’t changed. One would be ambushed soon.

I enjoyed my day until Mr. Jones chose his victim for appraisal. He chose me. I suppose I looked more attractive now I was happier. Well, if it had to be anyone, I suppose I can bear it. The extra money will be useful. Mary commiserated with me as soon as we had left his office.