Róisín - Ch. 1

 Chapter One - The Fashion House

“Please come in Miss Murphy,” I had said to the attractive red haired young Woman who had come in to my temporary office. “Your full name is ‘Roy-zin’ Anne Murphy, is that correct?”

“No it’s bloody-well not,” she responded quickly in a very soft but broad Irish accent, with her sea-blue eyes flashing indignantly.

“Sorry?”.

“R-O-I-S-I-N.” She spelled out the name swiftly while leaning forward to stare me down as I quailed under her affronted gaze. “It’s pronounced ‘ROW’, as in ‘Row your fucking boat’. And ‘SHEEN’? Just like your shiny fucking shoes.”

“Apologies!” I stuttered, suddenly overwhelmed by this fierce beautiful stranger, and mindful of the weakness of my response. “It's not a name I'm familiar with.”

“Clearly!” she spat out. “But you're English, so it’s to be expected.”

“But you're English, so it’s to be expected.”

And then the room lit up with a triumphant smile that immediately shut down my strong protestation at the insult to my nationality. Furthermore I was left speechless as she dropped her ledgers, with a box of invoices, and purchase orders in front of me. 

‘Nice arse', I thought as she turned around and walked out of the door, leaving me with a day's work. As she left I wondered what she had thought of me, while hoping that she is not out of my league (4th Division) – a lonely single man does that doesn't he?

As one of the young under-managers, Róisín had been given a small budget to help her operate the commercial department of a small fashion house. I, on the other hand, had been one of the financial team sent from London, Villiers Street, to carry out an audit on the Company's fiscal propriety. Hence my being installed in a small, dimly lit spare office on their premises.

Róisín’s transactions had proved to be efficiently recorded, faultless and without any rounding errors – it was an easy audit, so I felt encouraged to go looking for refreshment after a couple of hours of number crunching and cross-checking. I was guided to the Company employee's small kitchen where I found Róisín standing by the vending machine drinking her tea. 

We talked. Her annoyance at my ignorance had abated, and after fifteen minutes we found that we liked each other, and started dating that very night. Four dates later, my little penis found its way into her slippery welcoming vagina and I was deeply in love with my feisty, sweary, Irish redhead. 

We were married six months later at a small Registry Office in Central London and immediately found happiness and commitment as a young devoted couple. 

Three years later found Mrs Róisín Anne Jeffries opening her legs, pulling my head down to her slippery labia, and telling me to, “get your tongue working Micky Boy,” as usual. I had enjoyed myself, thrashing around on top of my lovely Wife, and now, after I had erupted my salty cream inside her, it was my turn to finish her off with a nice session of pussy cleaning. It was messy, smelly, sticky, and a very delightful way to finish off a night of love, and I was good at it. I was also very good at something else, and Róisín knew it.

“Face time!” she chirruped. The high note of her voice betraying her happy little orgasms that had rippled through her body at each lashing of my tongue on her pretty pink clitoris.

“Oh yes please!” I cried as I rolled over to face upwards.

“Somebody's enthusiastic.” 

Like a svelte pink cat, she raised herself from the horizontal, withdrew her legs behind her, tipped forward, and placed her charming labia lips either side of my nose. I needed little encouragement. I had had my fun and now it was my turn to show my gratitude for this lovely girl becoming my Wife.

... my turn to show my gratitude ...

It had taken me almost a year before I could claim to be an ‘expert’ on Róisín’s trigger points, but I had worked diligently and hard on my journey of discovery. So within a minute I had her breathing hard, trembling, swearing like a dock worker, and leaning forward to kiss and lick my soft little penis.

“So pretty!” she exclaimed as I felt her warm breath on my little balls and soft red hair on my thighs.

We slept like babies that night and were happy and content when we awoke the following morning. Shower, breakfast in our pjs, and then back upstairs to prepare for the working day found us together dressing. Me in my grey, formal business suit, blue tie, and black ‘shiny' shoes again – the prefect accountant’s attire; and Róisín in her tight fitting plum red trouser-suit, white blouse, and white shoes.

“Christ, but I don't half fancy your body Mrs Jeffries,” I said to her as we closed the door behind us that morning before walking to the tube station to get the underground to work.

“That's very nice Michael,” she replied with a mischievous smile playing on her lips, “but we both know I've got a bony arse and tits the size of a fried egg.”

We were pressed together, standing on the packed Underground Northern Line train, when I whispered to her, “Your arse isn't bony and your breasts are pretty.”

I was rewarded with a soft but definite press of her body against mine, her lips on the side of my neck and a quiet, “Liar!” in my left ear.

The rattling old train threw us about and made its usual ‘ratatitat’ cacophony as it hustled us towards Central London, but as seasoned travellers we knew just how to converse between the period of lesser racket coming from the old wheels and the even older tracks. 

“What's in the bag?” I asked my pretty Wife. She had packed it the night before, while I had been loading the dishwasher, so I was intrigued by the addition of an overnight bag to her usual handbag.

“Oh that!” she exclaimed. “It's my little black cocktail dress and some makeup and other stuff for this evening.”

“Oh! Okay! Why?”

She looked up at me with that admonishing, ‘You've forgotten!’ expression on her lovely face. “I've got to do that presentation to our prospective American visitor this afternoon. His Company and ours are looking at a merger, so he's very important to the fashion house. We're having a Reception party tonight upstairs on the roof. I thought I had mentioned it.”

“Hence the cocktail dress,” I replied in confirmation.

“Yes!”

“The backless cocktail dress!”

“The only one I have Michael,” was her response, with the implied criticism of my husbandly generosity.

I took the reproval in good heart, because we both knew that our combined salaries barely covered the mortgage for our little house in Colindale, plus our living expenses. The end of the month was often a ‘beans on toast’ existence for the last few days before our bank account looked healthy again. But we were in love and we were young, so things like that didn't matter.

“There's some sausages in the fridge and a couple of eggs left from last night,” Róisín said to me as she extricated herself from my arms and stepped off the train, with the large crowd, at Tottenham Court Road. “I'm going to be late.”

“No problem,” I shouted as the flow of the crowd swept her down the platform and out into the pedestrian tunnel to the busy city above. The doors slid shut and, as usual, I felt my usual sense of loneliness as we trundled down to the Embankment Station, where I left the train and took the short walk up the hill to work.

Meetings, lunch of sandwich and coffee, more bloody spreadsheets submitted by simpleton accountants of the Companies we audit, and a report on a misappropriation of funds submitted to my Department Head, Roger Jezman, was my day of excitement. Róisín, on the other hand, had been making her presentation to an important American client and, as I sat in my seat of the train going home (late after discussing the report), I knew she was prettying herself up and changing into her cocktail dress. She would look a picture of beauty; she would make sure of that. And I wished I had been there; for a good reason.

That evening, it was a matter of business, so I hadn't expected to be asked. Nevertheless I had mixed feelings about this because they are a pretty wild bunch with, shall we say, interesting marriages and home lives. So as the stations noisily rolled by the window I replayed in my head an interesting conversation I had enjoyed with John McIntosh, the Head of Design, eighteen months before, at the last gathering on the roof of their building.

“Who's that talking with Marcie,” I had asked John, as we had gazed over towards the mass of models from our position near the edge of the roof.

There was no denying that John's pretty young Wife, Marcie, was very much connected to the tall Black male model who’s hands were very regularly disappearing underneath her short white dress to sensuously stroke her arse cheeks, that were divided only by the string of a tiny black thong. To any casual observer it would have been obvious that this sensuous married Woman was highly aroused by the man she was attached to. And her evening was only ever going to end with the man's dark cock buried deep inside her.

... her evening ...

“Oh that's Jonah,” John replied, as he nonchalantly sipped his gin and tonic. “He's Marcie’s Boyfriend.”

I was astounded. “Did you just say Boyfriend?”

“Well. Master really!”

I was confused and, not for the first or last time in my life, I asked a stupid question that perfectly demonstrated my naivety. “He's a lecturer? What's she studying?”

He turned his head to face me directly, and said, “For Christ’s sake Michael. You don't have a clue - do you!”

“About what?”

“The facts of life - that's what.”

“I’m married to a feisty Irish Woman. How many more facts do I need to know?”

John smiled in a tired, patronizing way and replied, “You know fuck-all mate. But I want you to look around this roof space and start asking questions. And you should start with the pretty models and the men they are with.”

“Okay. But what will that tell me?”

“I know you're a bloody Accountant Michael,” he snapped, “but do try and use your imagination.”

I peered at the throng of pretty models, the vibrant young Black Men that stood with them, and dotted amongst them the serious pale faces of men who looked like me. As I watched, Jaqueline, a beautiful blonde who was clearly enjoying the close attentions of a big male model called Ruben, turned to the small man beside her and spoke. I could not hear what she said but the white guy immediately disappeared through the door and left the roof.

“You saw that – right?”

“Did Jaqueline just ask him to leave?”

“In a sense – yes,” John replied, “but not for the reason you think.”

I remained silent. After the many time I had interviewed clients, I instinctively knew when someone wanted to talk.

“You probably thought that she had just told him to fuck-off. But I know that Jaqueline just told her husband, Bernard, to go back to their flat in Battersea and lay out their bed for a night with Ruben. He will fold back the covers, take his clothes off, put on some pretty lingerie, kneel by the bed, and wait for his Wife and her Master to arrive.

I was shocked at what he had just told me; it all sounded so far-fetched. Nevertheless I was intrigued. “And then what?” 

“Bernard will strip the clothes from his Wife and then beg Ruben to use her for his pleasure. And he will remain by the bed to watch their Master penetrate her and spend his black seed inside her.”

“Horse shit!”

John smiled secretly, said nothing, and continued. “And when Ruben has pulled his ten inch pole out of Jaqueline, Bernard will climb onto the bed and lick the seed from her pussy. Once he has devoured and cleaned all the sticky fluid he can, he will turn his attention to Ruben’s big floppy member and lick that as well. In fact he will attend to that male organ so well, he will bring it back to sufficient hardness. To make Jaqueline happy – again. What a guy!

‘This is so outrageous,’ I thought, ‘it can't possibly be true. Either that, or John McIntosh is a raving pervert. Surely not!’ 

“Are you taking the piss John?” was my response to the revelation I had just heard. “Nobody does that.”

He smiled patronisingly and sipped his drink. I had insulted him, but he sat quietly; still happy in my company.

“You would be surprised just how committed a cuckold can be Michael. But keep looking. What do you see now?”

“... just how committed a cuckold can be ...”

“Well I just saw Jaqueline and Ruben leave,” I replied making a note of the large Black Man's hand gently resting on her round undulating arse.

“And what about over there,” John asked, as he pointed to a very pretty pregnant young Woman who was standing between a handsome white young executive type and another of the Black male models. “And I'll give you a clue. One of them is her fiancée.”

“I would guess that her intended hubby has put her in the ‘family way, and they will marry soon,” I replied gormlessly. 

I say ‘gormless’, because nothing that evening, or in that Company was at it seemed, and I should have been more aware of the enlightenment that I was to be exposed to that evening.

John laughed and said, “ You are both wrong and right.”

“Oh go on then,” I said wearily - tired of being the naive ‘thicko’ to John's fevered imagination.

He caught my tone; looked me in the eyes and asked me why I didn't believe him.

“Sorry John, but this is all a bit much isn't it? Marcie, Jaqueline, and now that pretty pregnant girl. What is it you are trying to tell me?”

He took my petulance in a good way and continued. “Penny and her fiancée Mark are going to be married next week and we have all been invited to the wedding. Including Róisín and you. But who do you think will consummate the marriage?”

“How would I know? The Bridegroom I suppose. So which one is Mark?” 

“Mark is the little white guy, but Deven is their Master. It's his child she carries and it will be him that mounts her on the first night of their marriage. And it will be him who takes her on honeymoon.”

I stared back at him in incomprehension. What was John telling me? What was this place where my Wife worked? Was it a glorified brothel? What type of man is Penny's future husband.

“Master? That word again John. What does it mean?”

“Well here's another word to familiarize yourself with Michael,” John said, without answering my question directly. “How about the word ‘Cuckold’?”

“That's a guy who's Wife has sex with other men.”

“Indeed! Now how about these two words? Have you ever heard of the ‘Natural Order’?”

I hadn't, and said so.

“That's a shame Michael, because almost everybody here lives by its ideals and values.”

“And they are?”

“That our Wives deserve better men than us. Real men with strength, size and vitality.”

I looked around at the common factor. The pretty young (and some not so young) married Women hanging on the arms of their dark skinned Lovers. It was time for me to be a crass auditor again. “Black men?”

“Masters Michael. Black Masters! These men you see here are only the tip of the iceberg. All over the world, husbands and Wives are realising that having a husband is not enough and there must be more to a marriage. So having a ‘Master’ in their lives brings happiness to her, her Master, and let me tell you – her cuckold.”

“So you're a cuckold then John?”

“Well done Sherlock. Just like Bernard, Mark and ........” He pointed around the room at all of the other husbands and fiancées standing obediently near to their Ladies with their Masters, and named each of them.

I didn't want to make myself look an idiot again, so I remained quiet. John sensing my reticence, continued with yet another question.

“Are you ready for two more words Michael? Or have I told you too much and destroyed your cosy and safe assumptions?”

I nodded.

“All of our Wives are ‘Black Owned'.“

“Sorry? What? Did you say ‘Owned'?”

“By their Black Masters. Yes!”

I felt affronted suddenly. Slavery was not a frivolous matter and I said so.

I  was even more annoyed when he responded by saying, “It has nothing to do with enslavement you idiot.” But felt better as he continued, “But it has a whole lot to do with love, loyalty and devotion to a better man than the lady's husband. When a Wife is ‘owned' by her Master it brings with it a sense of belonging to each other – Master, Mistress, and their cuckold. The very principles of the Natural Order.”

“So what does that mean in practice?” I asked – still not convinced.

“That a Wife's Black Lover, or ‘Master’ if you will, is her mate. And her hubby is not.”

I was tempted to say, ‘horse-shit’ again but stopped open mouthed. I liked John, because he was good company but I couldn't shrug off the feeling that he was having some fun at my expense. That is until Marcie walked over to the two of us, with her little white hand enveloped in Jonah’s (his other arm wrapped possessively around her waist).

“Are you boring Michael, John?” she said as she held out her other hand to her husband to encourage him to stand up. Clearly they were leaving. “What have you been telling him?”

It was then I realised that John was a little over his limits and the whiskey he had been drinking all evening had made him the worse for wear. “Just the facts of life Dear,” he replied with a sudden slurring of his speech.

“What facts?” Her face was one of one of a cat chewing a wasp.

“Oh you know,” he slurred again, waiving his arm around at all of the others on that rooftop.

“What's the silly old fool been telling you, Michael?” Marcie asked me, as John stood up unsteadily and fell sideways against Jonah.

I decided to keep it simple and simply replied, “The Natural Order, cuckolding, and Black Ownership.”

“I see!” 

“Okay!” I exclaimed. “But How much of what he has told me is true?”

Marcie looked meaningfully at Jonah, then at her husband, and then back at me. “I can hardly deny it now can I?”

“I dunno!” I replied vaguely; now beginning to feel a little embarrassed.

“John might be tipsy, Michael,” Marcie continued, “But he's right. Jonah is my Lover and all of these pretty married models we have in our business have handsome Black Masters. Does that shock you?”

I had already been shocked by John's revelations, so Marcie repeating them was no longer the bombshell it should have been. But there was one question in my mind that I thought Marcie could answer for me. “So how did all of you Wives convince John, Bernard, Mark, and the others to entrust their husbandry duties and pleasures to these Black Masters, as you call them.”

“By talking to them dear,” she replied, “by being honest with them, devaluing their fragile sense of masculinity by pointing out the obvious differences in their physical attributes to those of the young and virile Master.” She paused for two seconds to allow those ideas to settle in my head, before continuing with, “Then we tell them the truth about their performance in bed, and just why a better equipped young Black Master is the answer to our problems.”

“And that's all It takes?” I asked incredulously.

“No Michael! That's not all,” she replied. “Once he understands our need for something new, we tell him we will never leave him for another man. And that my dear, changes everything. Within days she can have a little restraint on his little willy and a date with a Big Black Master.”

“S'right!” slurred John, “But there's one more question you need to ask, ‘Micky Boy'.”

‘Micky Boy?’ I thought, ‘he really is pissed.’

“What's that John?”

Marcie tried to intervene by grabbing his arm, but couldn't stop John from pointing over at Róisín, where she had been chatting and talking with some of the models and business clients. The rooftop fell silent as John's overpitched voice and drunken behaviour caught everybody's attention. 

“Róisín will confirm ....(hic!).. it ..(hic!).. all,” he said, now starting to be incomprehensible. 

My pretty Wife looked across at us with a concerned look, so, with a quick and quiet apology to her companions, came over to join us.

“Michael? Marcie? What's happening?”

“John has been talking to Michael,” Marcie said.

“What about?”

“Our love lives.” 

Róisín's face coloured to almost the same shade as her hair. Her lips compressed in anger, her eyes sparkled in indignation, and she looked at John Mcintosh as if he were something on the bottom of her shoe. 

“You promised! – You Twat!” She was about to hit him, but I stepped between them to avoid an even uglier scene, whereupon Marcie and Jonah dragged the drunken idiot out of the door, downstairs, and into a waiting taxi. This left my beautiful Wife standing with her hands on her hips with the metaphorical steam coming out of her ears.

“He said you would confirm it,” I said weakly.

“What!”

“Their love lives.”

“Another time,” she snapped, turning away to re-join her group of colleagues, leaving me to talk to another of the Company's pretty models and her husband.