I never knew what I was getting into: how I became the mistress of two men and lost myself.
My name is Eleanor. I’m 37 and live in a quiet suburb of Manchester. Once an exemplary student, top of my class, now a secretary at a large logistics firm. My story might serve as a lesson for some, a warning for others. For me… it’s a confession too heavy to bear alone.
It began, as these things often do, with a hairline crack that widened over time into a chasm. Everything changed the day I let myself feel desired. That was the moment I made a choice that still robs me of peace and sleep.
My boss and I travelled to London for a business conference. The days were formal—speeches, meetings, discussions. The final evening, a banquet. He invited me for a glass of wine at the hotel bar. We spoke of work, of life, of how weary it all felt… There was something about him—confidence, quiet kindness, the charm of a mature man. He was married, but that night, neither of us mentioned it. He leaned in, brushed his lips against mine, and… I was lost.
I stayed with him that night. And the next. We barely left his room for two days. And so it began.
Back in Manchester, we carried on. At the office, all was proper and distant. We remained colleagues. But outside those walls, I became his. He was attentive, tender—never promised me the moon, but I was content with his affection. I was in love. I told myself, perhaps one day…
This went on for nearly three years. I told no one—not my friends, not my mother, not even myself in the lonely hours before dawn. I lied, pretending I was in control.
Then, one evening, everything shattered.
He suggested we drive to his family’s countryside cottage—just the two of us, like before. We spent the night, and the next morning planned to return. But a storm rolled in, the car stuck in the mud, and we couldn’t get back. The signal failed, our phones died—utterly cut off.
When the rain eased, he rang an acquaintance—a businessman who owned a nearby vineyard. The man arrived in a sturdy Land Rover and took us in. At first, it seemed a kindness. But he was not what I expected.
He invited us inside—to «dry off, warm up»—and refusing felt impossible. We sat at his table. The first glasses of wine brought polite laughter. Then the drink flowed freely, and his manners crumbled. His hands strayed, his whispers turned crude, while my boss, exhausted and drunk, dozed in an armchair.
I tried to protest, but he threatened me. Said if I spoke a word, he’d claim I’d led him on. That I’d wanted it. Fear and guilt coiled around me like fog, and I gave in.
So I became the mistress of two. One, the man who meant more to me than just an affair. The other, who saw an opportunity and trapped me in it.
Since then, I’ve lived in hell. Every morning, I stare into the mirror and don’t recognise myself. At work, I’m still «proper Eleanor»—punctual, composed, efficient. But inside, there’s only hollowness and shame.
I don’t know how to escape. Leave them both? Resign? Run away? But to where, to whom, with what? My mother believes I’m fine. My friends know nothing. And I, a grown woman, lie awake fearing discovery, fearing worse—that this is all I’ll ever be.
I don’t ask for sympathy. Only to know how to begin again. How to stop being a prisoner of my mistakes. How to find myself once more.
If you’ve ever stood where I stand, if you know the way out of this abyss… tell me. Don’t judge too harshly. I’m just a woman who faltered. But I’m still alive. And I want to be free.