At breakfast, Bob stretched out the length of his strong, sinewy arms, yawned, and shot Emma a shit-eating grin across the table. "I thought we might spend some time in the Factory today."

Emma shifted in her chair, and studied the chiselled features of Bob's face. He was thirty-seven, nine years older than her and his dark beard was just starting to be flecked with grey. She loved the way he was maturing, a strong, silent type. At six foot three his rugged good looks made Emma think he could play the bad guy in some old spaghetti western. Not quite pretty enough to be the hero. "You're really going to turn down some sick vibrating bum-sex with me just to nerd out with your stupid machines?"

"What could be better than playing with machines?" Bob was trolling, but his wife hadn't twigged yet.

"Well apart from actually using them, obviously finishing what we started earlier."

"Hmm." mused Bob, theatrically gazing up at the ceiling and stroking his beard. "*Actually using them.* Well I guess you'll just have to finish without me, while I'm checking in the new delivery."

Emma's green eyes widened as the penny finally dropped. "Wait - are you saying we've got a new visitor?"

"Dave brought a fresh delivery last night after you were in bed. Didn't want to wake you."

"*Didn't want to wake me?* For fuck's sake, Bob! And there we were, wasting time with that stupid role-play shit when we've got a real one to play with!"

Bob laughed at her annoyance. He had made her look foolish, so it was understandable that her pent-up frustration was finally boiling over.

So far Tara had been the only delivery, and that had been nearly a year ago. Dave had picked up that fake-fur clad, smack-addled street whore from some distant city and provided her to the couple to fuel a debauched day of lascivious entertainment.

Dave was their supplier. Bitcoin changed hands and no questions were asked. Of course, in his line of work the element of opportunism meant that a sporadic supply of flesh would be inevitable. Still, it had been a long wait for the couple. By day Bob worked on the machines, preparing for the day when he knew Dave would come good on his promises. By night the couple feasted on the videos of Tara's ruination. Memories may fade, but full-HD, MP4 encoded videos are forever.

Bob cleared his throat, knowing that his next statement would raise the excitement level in the room several notches. "There's three of them."

Emma gave sharp intake of breath and dropped her toast with a flustered look of wonderment. "Three!" she cried as she retrieved her toast from her milky coffee. "Three?" Her incredulity was palpable. "Bob, I'm getting wet just thinking about it! Why are there three? What are we going to do with them? Are they cute?"

Bob didn't answer right away, just nodded with a knowing smile, allowing a pregnant silence to settle across the table before resolving the turmoil of possibilities spinning through Emma's mind. "Dave really hit the jackpot this time. It's a mum and two daughters. He says the kids are ten and fifteen."

Emma had shared her husband's unspoken proclivity since fate brought them together ten years ago. Then a chance encounter and a unguarded conversation fueled by a little too much alcohol had made them partners in crime, eternally bound by a dark pact of sexual depravity.

Now fired with excitement and adrenaline, she jumped from her seat and started pacing the stone flags of their typically beautiful Welsh farmhouse kitchen. Bob appreciatively watched her long legs and cute butt clad in white yoga pants do their thing as she strode away past the Aga. He always thought Emma carried the perfect amount of body fat, and it was a feast for the eyes to see it jiggling nicely as it was propelled by musculature borne of much horse riding and the occasional toting of hay bales.

"Three!" she exclaimed again. "Bob, what are they like? Tell me!"

"Well..." Bob started to explain. Then he waved his hand dismissively. "Meh, you'll find out soon enough."

If anything, Bob thought that Emma was even more into their devilish kink than he was, even though he had been the first to broach his sick confession all those years ago. In any case, he was relatively chilled about the whole enterprise, his level-headedness perhaps a necessary counterpoint to her fiery enthusiasm.

Emma, having reached the pantry at the far end of the kitchen, suddenly wheeled around, presenting her pretty round face and full, D-cup figure. Bra-less, her breasts were roaming freely under her top.

She was quite the farmer's daughter, quality breeding stock with strong arms, child bearing hips and just the hint of belly, which Bob thought was her best attribute, as it softened the athleticism of her narrow waist just enough to feminise her abs.

She drew herself up to her full five foot eleven and declared, "Well, if you're not gonna tell me then I'm done with breakfast and your bullshit teasing." She returned to the table as if stepping down a catwalk and swigged down the last of her coffee. "Let's go see them."

Bob wasn't surprised by her impatience, and laughed happily. She left him with a big hug and a little kiss and with that, she fled barefoot from the kitchen, and Bob heard her sprinting up the old farmhouse stairs.

While she was dressing, Bob finished his bacon and eggs, then sat at the computer and did a security check. The couple owned land for miles around, and most of it was covered by CCTV, partly for security, but mostly to alert them to unwanted visitors. You couldn't be too careful in this game.

Emma returned wearing a pair of grubby white trainers, an old pair of jeans, slightly ripped and very faded, and a red checkered shirt, knotted about her waist to show off her yummy midriff.

Bed hair now dispensed with, she topped her outfit off with a red baseball cap, and had pulled a blonde pony tail through the hole at the back where the strap goes. Despite having just thrown a few things on for practicality rather than glamour, she still looked absolutely stunning. The look was completed by a large, bulging sports bag slung over one shoulder.

She looked down at the screen. "All good?"

Bob nodded in the affirmative and he pulled a well worn pair of hiking boots onto his size twelves. He stomped over to the door and grabbed a frayed Caterpillar cap from the peg. He judged that his old Nirvana t-shirt would be equal to the atypical clemency of the April weather, and he too wore jeans, dark with darker patches where engine oil and other stains had defeated the washing cycle.

He straightened his cap. "Lets go."