Bath Time

I cut the lemon in half, cut off the ends, cut uneven slices, chose the thinnest slice, plopped it in my glass of Capital Gin Pink Lady, my fourth of the night. A must for open-minded women with an affinity for diversity in our accomplishments, women like me. There were five cubes left in the ice trays: I couldn't be bothered to fill them up. I cracked out two icebergs, floated them in my gin with a dash, and swallowed half the glass, smacking my lips at the sublime essence of floral hibiscus, earthy thyme grapefruit zest, and vanilla from Madagascar. Tipsy, merry not drunk, drinking for pleasure, drinking to still my nerves, I finished my drink and padded up the spiral staircase round-and-round-and-round the glitterball chandelier until I reached my closet.

I was trapped in a loveless marriage, a marriage where I'd become subservient to him, in return for treats. Other than those, all I had left were my adorable daughters, Adalyn and Savannah, and obscene amounts of wealth. I fancied a treat tonight, fancied my chances with him, fancied myself in the dresser mirror. Not bad, considering I'd borne children, not bad at all. I sprayed a liberal squirt of expensive scent, the Baccarat Rouge 540, behind my ears and applied a fresh smear of cheap lippy from the market.

He summoned me from the master bathroom, 'Come and look at this, Sheri.'

I crept into our aquatic playroom, or should I say palace? The basin was the essence of luxury, large enough for two of us, finished off in white marble with authentic brass taps, situated next to full-length windows which overlooked the grounds. I opened them to let out the steam. We kept all our bric-a-brac on the window shelf: a floral porcelain jug of freshly squeezed orange juice and glasses for me, my loofah, our shared antique carriage clock, a bar of Wright's coal tar soap.

Our en suite bathing set included a matching toilet with a warm wooden seat, white marble wash hand basin, a cupboard for his and her towels. An angular mirror hung on a steel chain on the wall above the sink. Next to the mirror, his pride and glory: the wide-screen plasma monitor dominating the bath.

Eager to share his bath, I padded over the polished wooden floorboards in my stockinged feet, past his favourite velvet red chair, where he dried his feet and legs and crotch, to be with him.

He sighed contentedly as I stood at the end of the bath, massaging his shoulders with my fleshy fingers. I pressed my naked breasts and soft belly onto his bare back. Pavel reclined, spreading his legs wide apart so that his knees hugged the rim of the bath. He was partially submerged in foamy, frothy water, watching a live video transmission of a fight. I wasn't particularly amused.

'Watching the girls play are we Pav? What's the matter with me? Or am I not allowed to ask?'

I pushed the palms of my hands as far as his barrel chest tweaking his tiny red nipples until he reached for me drawing my hurt face close to his. I looked beautiful hurt: my lips pursed, poker faced, fire in my teak eyes, my enchanting widow's peak frowning beneath my shocking mane of flouncy blonde hair. I was blushing hard: a sure-fire sign I was feeling horny, sensual, tonight - and left out. He took my hands in his, guiding them, rubbing them, all over his lean, muscular torso, permitting me to toy with his shallow cratered navel, as he put my mind at rest.

'My beauty,' he said, 'this is not a game. You are watching my girls fight. My girls understand? Stead trains, treats, even cares for them. I own them: they belong to me. Think of them as my horses chomping at the bit before a race. Except this, Sheri, is no race, and these are no ordinary girls. They fight. Fight for me. In two days, one of them, the tanned girl, will fight a man to the death. I back her to win. If she wins, I win, and you get to buy yourself a new frock.'

A new frock? A whole new wardrobe he meant. I calmed. In some ways, life for this spoilt brat couldn't get much better. I had everything I could ever wish for: a beautiful Georgian mansion hidden in acres of highland forest, a sensational sports car: my stunning metallic red Ferrari, a rugged, handsome husband.

If only he'd treat me with respect, more like a woman, less like his dumb blonde barbie doll.

I slid my fingers over his wet belly and scratched his proud flesh with my uncut fingernails.

'The tanned girl,' I asserted, tenderly caressing his genitals.

He sighed in blissful surrender to my feminine persuasive charms, 'mmmn, the tanned girl.'

'Not the pale girl?'

I removed my hand, wiped him on my thigh, went and stood at the far end of the bath, sideways on so that he could enjoy my stunning figure. His jaw fell. I had this incredible effect on him whenever I undressed into lingerie: my sexiest sheer see-through black suspender belt and lace stockings. Pouting my lips for him I unclipped my stockings from my suspender belt and peeled them off, then I took off my suspender belt. No point in getting them all wet. For a moment, I stood at the end of the bath staring at him with my little girl lost eyes, relaxed, resting one hand on my hips, stroking my thigh, jutting out my pert breasts, flashing him the divine curvature of my smooth rump, my subtle tease of curly hair.

I clambered into the bath. The water was perfect for sex: not too hot, not too cold. Perfect.

I slapped his face. He squinted and gawped at me standing over him like his matka used to do when she scolded him for beating up boys and girls at his prefabricated skola in central Prague, as if to say: what was that for? Bara exasperated me when he behaved like this: acting innocent.

'You don't even know their names, do you?' I said, 'Don't you have any respect for women?'

Bara just boasted, 'None whatsoever. Quit griping and watch the fight. They're about to start.'

I felt ill. I hated violence, especially if it involved vulnerable young women. Perhaps if I made it up to him? I ran my fingers over his lips, slipping them inside his mouth, intimately seducing him.

'Want to fuck you, Pav,' I growled, half-pissed, feeling the worse for wear after that much gin.

'You can fuck me when they've finished. Now do as your told.'

I tried to pull away from him, 'Don't want to watch them. Going to mix us both another drink.'

He grabbed me, digging his hard nails into the soft flesh of my underarm, 'I told you to watch.'

'Stop it! Your hurting me!'

'Sit in my lap,' he hissed, impatiently, 'Watch the girls fight.'

I nestled in my man's lap, making myself comfortable, loving the sensation of his strong arm wrapped tightly round my belly, his coarse hand gently kneading my doughy, pliant breasts as I playfully splashed my tummy with the warm, soapy, sudsy water.

Oh well, I supposed, wiggling my bottom to keep him hard. At least, he doesn't make me fight.

The fighters moved in for the kill. The cameras zoomed in for close-ups. Pav tugged my hair.

'Ouch! Stop it!'

'Move your head. I can't see.'

I rested my warm head against his stubbled neck, snug in his lap, and watched. I had to admit, the girls were stunning, beautiful, unblemished in every way. Just like me when I was their age really. I felt sad, missing their youthful vitality, not jealous, just sad. I said to him: is that better?

He felt better. I concentrated on the girls grappling in the pit, changing my mind, increasingly thrilled by the spectacle of the cockfighters: squatting, naked, sumo, on the soft, crinkled mat.

My heart pounded under my breast as the camera zoomed in on the pale girl. Her skin was pale as clotted cream. She was wearing her hair up. She looked tired. She had pinch marks, ridged slots either side of her nose: an industrious girl who needed to fight to make ends meet? But her eyes were bright and clear, lipstick freshly applied. Other than the spec imprints, her face bore no other tell-tale signs of exhaustion. The camera traced the contours of her body in slomo.

She had a phenomenal physique, firm chin, strong neck, finely muscled shoulders. Her armpits were shaven, her chest a fetching red with blush. But it was her breasts that impressed me most: her firm, full, fabulous breasts, her faintly tinted dusky nipples.

Pav placed his hands on my belly. The pale girl's waist narrowed to a lovely set of abs, slender pallid hips, a creamy belly, shallow navel, not a hair or spot on her unblemished skin, not even a sun kissed mole. I marvelled at her bald crotch. Smouldering, I ground my rear into my man's lap, flaunting myself, taunting him with my rudest dare: 'Tell me how tight it feels, won't you?'

'Slow down Sheri, I want to see them fight,' his voice pleaded, weakly, behind my tensed back.

Frustrated, I slipped my bull's pizzle out of me, let him take a breather, and leaned on his thigh. The tanned girl fascinated me. She was fresh-faced, smiling and confident, unlike the pale girl. She had a visible raw swelling on her neck which she persisted in rubbing. How was she hurt? Her wound was too large for a mosquito bite. Mosquitoes in October? Too red for a love-bite. This was no bruise. The girl had jagged teeth. Broken in a fight? The camera scrolled all over her body, revealing her intimate secrets. Overwhelmed by her natural beauty, I sagged inside, slanting my head to one side so he could see better and I could watch my favourite cocks fight. My selfish, uncaring, inconsiderate, man left it to the last minute before he sprang his surprise.

'The tanned girl is by far the most experienced at blood sports,' he said, sounding like a ring-side commentator, 'Her name is Isla McNair. She has never lost a fight. The pale girl is Bonnie Laird, a fading starlet who has lost the confidence to fight well and lacks the willpower to win.'

My spirits fell as I realised I was backing a losing horse. Still, miracles do happen, occasionally, I hoped, crossing the fingers on my free hand. The girls came to blows. Isla ducked and weaved. Bonnie hunched her shoulders, grimly determined.

Just one punch. If you can land a punch. Come on, Bonnie, you can beat her, know you can. I watched her throw a poorly aimed right hook, I think it was, missing her target's head by miles.

'Oh, you missed!' yelled Isla, greatly amused, showing her fans a slip of the lip, all wry smiles.

Isla dropped her guard. The haymaker smashed into her face, catching her by surprise, splitting her bottom lip, forcing her kisser on her jagged teeth, cutting her lip in a deep gash, filling her mouth with blood. She gagged, coughing up blood, spitting out a stream of scarlet saliva, over her chest, breasts and belly. I felt Pav's hands knead my breasts. Highly aroused by the profuse outpouring of the girl's blood, I lifted my bum, felt in-between my thighs and slid my man's rigid tarse inside me. His hand slipped down my belly.

My girl threw her fists up in the air, hysterical, euphoric, 'First blood to me! First blood to me!'

Isla spat a thick gob of blood at the pit. I waited, motionless, rivetted, glued to the silver screen while she spat out still more blood then dribbled her ominous words: 'You'll pay for that Laird.'

She reared up on her haunches, bloodied but unbowed, embattled, weakened, down but not out, flattening her opponent with a deadly kick to the jaw. My girl slumped to the ground: out cold.

I came all over my stud, twisting, screwing, swiving him, baring my teeth, snarling, scratching, pressing my breasts to his chest, writhing, in ecstasy, as he came inside me. Freed, subdued, I sank into the tepid broth, calming in unison with my man, easing, easing. He took his hand off my belly, let go of my breast and said, 'Please turn it off Sherri, I've seen enough.'

I reached for the remote and switched them off, ready for my bed - and a wet, dreamful night.