'His heart lurched, he hoped she was okay, but he thought of Mike, and pondered about him.They finished chatting, said goodbye with love and kisses.She got through the weekend, and by Monday night when he had flown at her with verbal abuse, and almost hitting her. She knew she had made a hugely massive mistake in marrying him.She resolved to talk to him on Tuesday night. But her efforts fell on deaf ears, she was his wife, she had to obey him, and that was the end of that, and if she didn't, she would be fucking sorry! He had roared at her.Now she understood that his upbringing had damaged him, she knew he was on pills, but he had told her it was because he suffered from vertigo and ear problems. And she had believed him.But they were really anti depressants, because he was depressive, and no way to be treated.She tried again to talk to him, asked him how she could help him, what could she do? I'll do what I can Mike, but you have to talk to me honey, she had said.He raised his hand. The livery of the staff was ducal. The waiters and their helpers could have come from Claridges or the Savoy. Perhaps they had. In the middle of it stood Dorinda, naked, handcuffed. No one stared. It was not a nightmare. She would not wake up. It was vividly real. Her hands were prettily linked before her so that she could manage the cup of tea with her usual competence. A British type in white flannels was being frightfully jolly for her benefit. His eyes rarely strayed below her nipples. ‘Frightfully decent of Sandos to bring you girls. Harriet´s delighted. I say….. Are you quite sure you can manage? I mean, those things on your wrists…..’ ‘Don´t you like my handcuffs?’ Dorinda twinkled at him. ‘Smashing! Simply smashing. The whole ensemble, I mean,’ he blushed. ‘Don´t suppose you did Goodwood this year?’ ‘They won´t let me in the Paddock in chains and sans clothes.’ ‘Quite so. See what you mean. You, er, always wear them?’ ‘I´m never without them,’ said Dorinda truthfully..
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