Chapter 1

I was told that when you reach the end of your tether, you either fall off in despair or start climbing back in hope. My slide on the tether started the day my wife, Zena, came home early to find me in my office, slaving over a spreadsheet, dressed in a slim skirt, lacy blouse, stockings, heels and fully made-up under a strawberry-blonde wig.

My parents christened me Adam David Band. My early days would be as meaningless to you as they are to the older me. Suffice to say, I had a reasonable childhood and did well enough in my studies to complete University with a Business Studies certificate, specialising in accountancy and investments.

I did well enough on the side to completely pay my way through those years without having to tap into the Bank of Dad. I worked in a large company for the summer, and, by the time I turned twenty-seven, had an office there that I hardly used. I worked from home with a strong list of clients. I only needed the company to sign off on the tax papers.

It was during this time I met Zena at a party, and we hit it off like a couple of randy rabbits. She was renting a room, and I had my own house by that time, so it was an easy job to invite her into my bed, permanently. We married after six months and had a couple of years being very happy before she cooled off.

One day, one of my clients rang me and asked me if I would look after his investments, as well as for a few of his friends who he had spoken to about my skill. Looking at the likely size of the funds on hand, I agreed. I had to resign from the company and did so, signing an agreement that I would not attempt to poach any of my old clients.

Two weeks later I had started the process of registering my own business. I already had the full set-up at home with powerful computers and my private list of contacts that would pass me bits of gossip, usually for a bottle of good wine. On the face of it, nothing had materially changed, but I was now my own man.

Of course, as you now know, I was not just my own man but my own woman as well. I had a secret store of clothes, underwear, make-up, and wigs to create three distinct female characters. A couple of days a week I would spend all day in the house, in character. I had been into town without being outed and was quite comfortable in public in two versions of the female me. The third was saved for special days when I did other things on the computer, rather than accountancy.

The day my wife ‘found’ me was a set-up. Over a period of a couple of months I had suspected that she had been having an affair. She worked for an Evangelist Preacher called Clint Powers, going into Twickenham from our house in Leatherhead in our car. She was employed in the Event Organisation side and looked after large donors. She started to tell me that she was on duty at regular ‘retreats’ on a Thursday and Friday, and sometimes into the weekend. She took a case with her. I had investigated Clint Powers and would have been happy to be his investment advisor but wouldn’t have wanted him as a customer.

One of my clients was in the security business and I purchased a small bug that would record its position every fifteen minutes over a period of a week. He also sold me the software which I could use to download the results. What I found was that my wife’s case was going to Twickenham on the Thursday morning and then travelling to a hotel near Brighton, where it stayed until Friday afternoon, and sometimes until Sunday morning.

I went to the church for a few weeks and saw how the two of them interacted. Even one week when he paraded his wife and children on the stage the two of them exchanged sly smiles. Nothing you would have seen if you weren’t looking for it. I was dutifully full of worship and gave freely at the end of the service, putting my money into a large pot that Zena guarded. She smiled, “Thank you, sister, let the Faith carry you.”

I was, at the time, in character as Susan Slain, a secretary from Hampton Court. Susan was my most ‘normal’ version of me. She was the strawberry-blonde that my wife found in the office, but more of that later.

One Wednesday, when I was advised of an upcoming retreat, I started early the following morning to turn into another of my versions, one I really liked. This was Dianna Bender. Dianna was my version of Dianna Rigg, and I tried to recreate the essence, as seen in the old TV shows. She invariably wore skinny leather jeans, boots, and a biker jacket over a silky blouse. She was a brunette, and her make-up was striking. I had studied make-up techniques from the internet and was pretty good at it.

Dianna had a Ducati motorbike, secreted in a lock-up not far from the house. Also, in the lock-up, was the car my wife didn’t know about, a sporty Toyota. That Thursday morning was a bit damp, so the bike stayed at home while I took the Toyota down to the south coast. I had a digital camera with inbuilt zoom and was sitting on a bench when the happy couple arrived.

They clearly knew why they were there as they kissed passionately as the luggage was taken out of the car. I took some lovely pictures as they went into the hotel. I got up and moved to the seawall and looked back at the hotel, just in time to photograph them both at a window on the third floor, now semi-dressed. They didn’t bother to draw the curtains when they went out of sight. I went to the Toyota and pulled a small drone out of the boot, sending it on its almost silent way until it was just outside the bedroom window and taking some clear pictures.

It was only a matter of minutes before I had the drone back in its case and the camera pictures downloaded into my laptop, along with the others I had taken. It was almost lunch, so I found a nice little café and ordered. Imagine my surprise when the happy, and now satisfied, couple walked in and took a table next to me. I took a chance and quietly set my camera to record in video and sat it on my table pointing towards them.

By the time I had finished my meal, paid, and stood up to collect my bag and my camera, I had learned of their plans for the future. Clint told Zena, several times, that he couldn’t leave his wife because of the damage that would do to the Church. Zena vowed to be his lover if he wanted her.

I drove home, that afternoon, and started laying plans of my own. I was going to give my wife a good reason to divorce me. However, she couldn’t catch me with another woman, or even claim that I was abusive. I was going to greet her, one day soon, as Susan, a woman she had already met, and see where that took us.

In the end, the result was as I had expected. When I stood up from my desk her eyes almost popped out of her head. I could almost read the banner across her forehead that read “Got him with a floozy!”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Don’t you recognise me, Zena?”

“I’ve seen you in church, recently. How do you know my husband, bitch!”

“I’ve known him since the day we were both born in the same body, wife.”

“Adam! No, it can’t be.” Her face took on a sly grin. “How long have you been a deviant, Adam? Do you go out molesting little boys or are you a genuine cocksucker? Maybe you just go into the city looking for a bit of rough. Either way you’re toast in court.”

I laughed and turned my computer screen so she could see the picture of her, sucking on a well extended cock. I clicked the mouse which panned out to show Clint gasping for air. Then I brought up a series of shots of her and Clint trying to suck each other’s faces off. “Who’s toast, now?” I asked, with a smile.

“Ha! If you think that threatening to show these to his wife will cause problems, then you’re so wrong, buster. I reckon she’s already got a nice little album of him with other girls from the congregation. I’m not the first and I doubt that I’ll be the last.”

“So how much of a problem would my sending these to the papers bring? Or, even printing off some posters and putting them up outside the church while you’re all inside. While I have these you can’t touch me. There are copies in the cloud that will go to a lot of places if I don’t log in regularly. No, you’re two-timing whore, and we need to discuss this with a view to coming to an equitable agreement.”

If you had taken a picture of the two of us, sitting at opposite ends of the kitchen table, with her looking at me with hate in her eyes, you would be forgiven thinking that I had stuffed things up. I had a plan, and that started from today when I put a lock on my bedroom door and pulled out all my dresses to hang away in the walk-in. It was nice to be able to wash my undies in full view and set out my make-up on the dressing table.

We agreed that we would continue living in the house while I looked for somewhere else. Once I moved out, she was allowed to live there rent-free but to cover all outgoings. As I said earlier, the house was mine, free and clear. I told her that I would disappear and wouldn’t bother her, ever again. The speed that she agreed showed me that divorce was front and centre in her mind.

I looked for a place ‘in the country’ and saw an advertisement in ‘Country Life’ that looked interesting. Rather than selling the property, the content said that someone was needed to take up residence and that purchase would be dependent on the buyer meeting certain criteria. I called the agent and made an appointment to meet him, at his office, the following week. When I conveyed this information to Zena, her eyes lit up.

On the day I went to the agent, I left very early, in a car I had hired for the occasion. The agent was in Nottingham, a few hours north. I took it easy and stopped for a light lunch. The agent was very welcoming, telling me that I was about the tenth person that he had shown the property to. The previous ones didn’t pass the examination from the vendors.

I sat in his car as he took me out to the viewing. He explained that the property was one of six, all barn conversions. They were in two blocks of three, set well apart, with another big barn behind the two properties, making a big ‘U’ shape. He turned off the main road onto a country road which led, if the signpost was to be believed, to Eakring and Kneesall.

Some way along, among rolling fields, he turned into an unmarked lane which took us to the property. He told me that the vendors used to own the whole farm but had sold off the main farmhouse and most of the land, only keeping the lane and about five acres on which the obsolete barns stood.

When we arrived, he drove up, past one barn, and pulled up in front of the central one. The two conversions were about fifty metres apart, parallel, and the yard that would have separated them was now a very pleasant garden with trees, grass, and a few benches. The one he showed me was the front one, on the right if you were looking from the road. When he opened up and led me in, I was already in love with it. The finish was top-class. The conversion was ultra-modern with a touch of deco. It had three big bedrooms and an office that looked out towards the road. This end of the property was south-facing and the kitchen on the ground floor looked out at the same view.

The lounge and utilities were fantastic, and I was starting to wonder whether I could even afford it all. Whenever I asked about the price he skirted the question, saying that the vendors would explain it all. When we came out, he took me back towards his car. In the back barn I could see a couple of faces looking down at us from the upper left-hand window. The ground floor frontage was a pair of large roller doors, each side of a central entry door, which was now open.

“I’ll wait for you in the car. If you go in through that door there’s a stairway. You should be able to get to that room, up there. Take your time. You’re looking at the fourth, and last, property that’s for sale. I get a commission based on the market value of the place but never get to find out the actual sale price. These have been a nice little earner, as you no doubt realise, seeing how well the place has been presented.”

I entered the building and went up the stairs, turning to my left and walking towards an open door near the end. Going in, I saw a large room set out as a reading or relaxing room. It was occupied by five men. One rose to greet me and we looked each other in the eyes as we shook hands. I was reasonably tall, just under six feet, and he was an inch or so taller. He had the air of a man who ran a large business. I had met a few of these in my time.

“Welcome to Tethering Farm, Mister Band. Well, the bit we still own. I’m Brinton Edgerton, one of the original owners of the previous five hundred acres. This is my brother, Erik.”

The two were truly chalk and cheese. While Brinton was tall and imposing, Erik was dumpy and looked like an extra from ‘Lord of the Rings’ with a straggly beard and unruly hair. Think Arnie and DeVito in Twins. The brothers, I was told, lived in number one and two.

The resident from number three was introduced next. He was Gerry Grace and he told me he was a graphic artist and painter and looked like one. The occupant of number four was Kurt Wolff, a mechanic and general ‘Jack of all Trades’. Again, in his flannel shirt and jeans, you could hardly say he would be anything but a mechanic.

The fifth to be introduced was a type I had met often. My first thought was “advertising”, and I was proved correct. Brian Aggetter was into advertising and events organisation.

I was offered a seat and a glass of whiskey and then they started by asking me why I was looking for somewhere so remote. I said that I was fed up with the hustle and bustle of city life and wanted peace and quiet. We got on to what I did for a living, and I noticed a few flashes in eyes when I told them that I was an accountant, specialising in investments. The fact that I would set up and work from home caused a few smiles.

Over a period of about twenty minutes, we had covered most of the bases and I took the opportunity to ask the price. Erik grinned, “How much do you think it’s worth, Adam?”

“About seven hundred thousand, I think. That’s a bit more than I can spare now so I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time.”

“Not a waste of time, Adam,” Brinton smiled, “I like you and I think the others would agree. I expect that you have deduced that we are not your usual development residents. We tend to work together in our little escapades. We tend to go down the local pub together; we attend concerts and plays together. We are all in the nearby Amateur Dramatic Society. We all live a second life as another character. Do you lead a second life, Adam?”

I weighed up my answer and then said, “Yes, I do, more than one.”

“What is it that sets you apart, Adam? I can tell you that you’re more than halfway towards owning number six. This could tip things in your favour.”

“I write. Not just any old story. I have a series of books that you can down-load as e-books. They all follow the life of a Private Investigator called Max Force.”

There was an intake of breath from the two that I had surmised may be readers.

Gerry whispered, “You’re Maxine Fawcett?”

I nodded, pleased that I had a real-life reader.

Brian laughed, “My favourite writer, sitting here in front of us. Brinton, I don’t think the second interview is needed, I vote Adam into number six.”

“Let’s not be too quick, Brian. I still think that the follow-up is needed. Adam, you are just the second applicant to get to be asked to come back. If you come here, alone, a week from today, we’ll greet you in our second skins. I hope that you can pass well enough in yours. If you do, the property will be yours for two hundred and fifty thousand and we’ll use your skills to increase our own savings. I’m sure that, in a year or two, you will have made us the price difference. If not, we’ll just have to have a little chat about the purchase price again.”

We stood and I shook hands with them all. Back outside I woke the dozing agent, and he took me back to his office. All he asked was whether I was asked back and smiled broadly when I said I was. I think he could already count his commission.

Back in Leatherhead I returned the hire car and took a taxi home. Zena asked me if I had been successful, and I nodded. She said that she was going out and may not be home for a couple of days. She left, dragging her case, and gave me a smile as she went.

The day of the second viewing came around. When Zena took the car I walked to the lock-up and brought the Toyota home. When I left, I was in the open as Maxine Fawcett for the first time. Any reader of my books would be able to describe her. In long, high-heeled boots, I was now easily as tall as Brinton. The skin-tight soft leather jeans, the black blouse over a black bra, the obvious cleavage and the raven-haired wig completed the basic look. It took a while to get the make-up right, but I was happy with it as I picked up my bag and keys. There was just a matching soft leather biker jacket and a spritz of Opium to add and I was off again.

At the farm I pulled up outside the back barn. It was now wide open, showing five vehicles parked inside with a workshop behind each side. I took off my sunglasses and looked around. Brinton came out of the garage, and I grinned, being right with my guess of his second skin. His was a male version of mine, typical master outfit. I have to say that he looked good in his own leather top and jeans. This time he didn’t shake hands.

He walked up to me and kissed me on my lips. I allowed him a few moments of joy before I gently pushed my knee into his groin. He took the hint and let me go.

“Do that again, unasked, and the knee will be moving faster.”

He laughed, “The Body in the Tip.”

“You’ve been doing your homework, Brinton.”

“Jenny and Aggie have shown me the light. Your writing is fast-paced and very sexy. It almost made me cum.”

“Almost?” I winked at him, “I consider myself to be a failure if you hadn’t wanked yourself silly.”

“Between you and me, you’re right. Don’t tell the others, though, it would lower my stature in the group.”

I smiled, “That’s all right. I think we can keep your cock between the two of us --- some other time.”

Marianne Gregory © 2024