John Marsden lay back on his soft pillows and thought of Joyce. Only two hours ago she had lain here with him; wonderful, voluptuous, sexy Joyce. As refined as a high-born lady and as randy as a butcher's dog on heat. She gave him a real sense of being wanted, of being needed. She desired him and he desired her. It was a deep feeling of self-satisfaction.

For no particular reason, John cast his mind back to recall the first time. He had only gone round to collect a book and, with her husband being out, she spent a long time trying in vain to locate the item for him. John had said that it really didn't matter and then she insisted on giving him a drink and a tour of their Lydstep home. After looking at the new patio, the herb garden and the interesting pine shelving in the lounge, she showed him upstairs. It was there that she had pounced. It was there that she had said she was feeling hot and wanted a glass of water. The water was duly brought by an unsuspecting John, who discovered her lying half-naked in the guest bedroom. For a moment he froze but, after gentle encouragement and assurances that her husband was in Haverfordwest and not expected back until early evening, he was soon in an equal state of undress. They made love rather quickly, as John recalled, and he was home in time to see the news.

From there it went on with meetings arranged regularly at John's flat in Freshwater East. Joyce used various excuses to explain her whereabouts to her unsuspecting spouse - bridge evenings, hen nights and, more often than not, the Young Wives Group.

In truth, their meetings had become less exciting and rather mundane of late. That wasn't to say that he didn't enjoy tonight. It was certainly better than a round of golf or a game of scrabble. He smiled broadly and then let his face drop as he considered the situation in greater depth.

Instinctively, he knew that he would have to end things at some time. Soon, the relationship had to end. He would have to explain that, as a teacher, he could not afford to be linked with any scandal. Yes, he would have to finish it and it was imperative to tell her as soon as possible. But when? Usually, John was a great believer in procrastination, but not in this instance. Things were getting out of control. But, when could he tell her? Tomorrow? Yes, tomorrow. No time like the present. Strike while the iron's hot. But, should he tell her before the game or after? It was all a terrible worry.

John slumped further into the warmth of his pillows and pondered his immediate future. What if Peter found out? Would Joyce tell him in a heated moment? She might, it was possible ... After all, who could tell what she might do in an unguarded moment? John didn't know; that much was sure. They met in secret and made love - that was it. They certainly didn't discuss their relationship or the relationships of others. It was just sex.

At length, John decided to think about it again in the morning. Perhaps then, with his head a little clearer, he could consider the whole predicament a little more logically and a little more dispassionately.

He turned over and, with a mental picture of Joyce in his head, he quickly fell asleep.