Alibi

"And you are, Madame?" smirks the night desk clerk, following my enquiry of William Jones' room number at the hotel.

"His wife, Mrs Alison Jones," I say, handing over my passport, which he carefully compares to my rather red face before consulting his computer screen once more.

"Certainly, Madame," the receptionist is now all politeness. "Here is your card key, I will get someone to attend to your baggage." If he recognises me, and I am sure he does, his face is inscrutable with a painted on smile.

Five minutes later I am in the living room of Bill's wonderful penthouse suite. The bag boy indicates the bar and kitchen areas, the balcony, where the bathroom and two bedrooms are. How can we afford this? Is Bill blowing as much of our money as possible so that there is a whole lot less when the divorce courts eventually split our assets down the middle? God, I hope it doesn't come to that.

What do I know about how much of my affair does Bill know? He's not at the exhibition in Birmingham as he should have been since Sunday, so he may have been here almost as long as I have. Has he been spying on me since Saturday or Sunday? Does he think this is a one night stand, casually meeting a stranger in the hotel bar? Or does he know everything? Has he known since my affair began? Or did I make him suspicious about this trip? It was a stupid thing to do. How did I fool myself into thinking he would never find out?

I must find out how much he knows and do whatever damage limitation I can. Then I will be contrite, offer to do anything to keep us together. Perhaps I can suggest marriage counselling?

I tip the bag boy with my last tiny fistful of euros and show him out the door. All the lights are on in the living room, as they were when we entered. Where's Bill?

On the dining table is a completely empty bottle of Glenfiddick whisky, one of his favourite drinks, lying on its side next to a pill strip which is empty. Worried, I run into the main bedroom, finding Bill lying fully dressed, half on the bed, half off and completely unconscious. I desperately shake him by the shoulders, trying to wake him up, even slap him around the face without success. He's breathing, but what pills has he taken as well as having drunk all that whisky?

I run back out to the lounge and check that pill strip. Aspirin it says, I count 16 empty pill cells. Is that a lethal dose? Is aspirin even dangerous in high doses? At least they are not sleeping pills. But I honestly don't know if 16 aspirin tablets, mixed with alcohol, is deadly, damaging or not.

I notice a salt cellar on the bar in the living room. I empty the contents of the cellar into a glass of water, stirring to mix up a saline solution.

Back in the bedroom I pour as much saline into Bill's mouth as possible and hold his nose so that he has to swallow the mixture. He coughs up his guts, partly into the metal waste paper basket, fetched from by the desk, and partly on his clothes, on me, as well as the bedspread on the king-sized bed. All the while this is happening I am wondering what I should do.

Now I notice Bill's bloody mangled right hand for the first time and I allow a sob to escape my lips.

All my emotions are heightened and thinking it through quickly, I reach a simple conclusion. I realise that I had felt nothing for Marcel's feelings at the hospital, his facial injuries didn't touch me at all. In the ambulance and while waiting for the doctors to decide what to do, my feelings for Marcel were ... numb, I had only felt my own selfish pain and shame of discovery.

I had barely noticed the effects of Marcel's concussion, only the fog of isolation and fear of an empty future without my husband still fills my confused mind. Nothing registers on my conscience for the loss of my French lover's teeth, only the loss of my marriage matters to me acutely. I feel nothing at all for the damage to Marcel's mangled tongue, only the pain of being wrenched from the love of my life strikes me much more forcibly than Bill's devastating uppercut. But Bill's injured hand does bring tears flooding to my eyes, and the realisation that he has tried to kill himself with drugs and alcohol absolutely fills me with dread. This is all my doing. If Bill dies or is handicapped by this attempt, it is all down to me.

Now I have concern only for Bill's wellbeing. He cannot be allowed to suffer or risk permanent damage one moment longer. I will not allow him to die from an overdose caused by my cruelty and selfishness. I feel as though without him I am only a shadow of a person compared to the paragon I married. My children, our children, need him; he is the real solid anchor in their lives. I am easily secondary to the needs of my husband and children. By my sins I have made myself an optional extra, sidelined from my family by my vanity and insecurity.

Bill needs me now, he needs me to help to save him, even if it is the very last positive thing I ever do for him. Even if he never knows that I cared enough for him to help save him in his hour of need. Even if there is no hope for our marriage, I must save the life of Bill Jones.

"A doctor, emergency!" I scream down the phone, "I cannot wake up my husband. He has swallowed pills and drank a whole bottle of whisky. He has fallen down too, possibly broken his hand!"

"Aspirin por quai?"

"Oui, aspirin, up to sixteen tablets, I don't know exactly how many he has actually swallowed."

"Une moment," the line goes quiet for what seems like an hour. "The hotel docteur is on his way Madame."

"Merci," I gasp, almost collapsing in relief, "Wait! I don't know the room number-"

"We do, Madame Jones, the docteur is summonsed, l'ambulance en route, and the Night Manager is coming up to assist you, now."

"Thank you! Thank you! Merci!"

I drop the phone by the side of the bed and clutch the comatose Bill to my breast.

"Hold on Bill, darling, just don't leave me, sweetheart, not now..."

Chapter 5: Start

Bill:

I wake up with a thumping morning wood and a throbbing headache, or is that the other way round? It's still dark, completely pitch black, in fact. I am lying flat on my back on top of the mattress. Naked, I'm completely naked. No sheets or covers, so I am cool, almost all-over cool, except that one part of me is not only warm, but both wet and warm.

I try to touch my head with one hand and check out my hot stiffie, and perhaps scratch my balls while I am at it, with the other.

But my hands can't move much, I am restrained, tied up at the wrists. And I notice in addition that my right hand feels funny, it is heavily bandaged and, when I feel around with my thumb, I find it really bloody hurts like hell.

I try and think. Where am I? One possibility is the exhibition centre hotel in Birmingham, where my company have a sales stand selling machine tools for a week, maybe? Am I back home? What is happening to me? I know it's pitch black and I cannot see a single thing, I have a really bad headache, stomach, sore throat and some kind of bandage on my head, but that is really only for starters.

What immediately concerns me, frightens me if I am honest, is that my stiff morning wood appears to be immersed, as deep up to the balls as it can be, into warm wet, incredibly tight, pussy ... it can't be anything other than a pussy. Fuck! An accommodating arrangement, you might think, but completely off the scale as far as my state of composure is concerned.

Funnily enough, and this happens to be really disconcerting, this pussy isn't moving up or down, only pulsing slightly around my erection, squeezing and releasing, gently. I can now feel smooth, warm thighs kneeling next to my chilled outstretched thighs. There is no weight pressing down on me though, just the warm, comfortable but mind-blowingly disturbing sheathing of my manhood in the one place where it naturally feels at home. What the fuck's going on?

Various thoughts run through my confused and throbbing head. Have I been set up by my sales colleagues with some professional hooker? I remember I had a great sales result yesterday, was it? My legs will not move much either, they seem to be tethered in the same manner as my upper appendages. Did I get drunk last night and acquire the company of a Miss Whiplash-like prostitute? I realise now that the reason I cannot see is not because it is a cloudy moonless night but because something like a soft scarf is tied over my eyes and around my head like a bandage, keeping the identity of my gentle genital torturer a secret.

Fuck! I've never got myself into anything like this before, Alison's gonna fucking kill me when she finds out!

I open my dry lips and allow a soft groan to escape.

"Oh." I say, or something like that.

Unexpectedly, a set of soft warm lips instantly press to mine and a tongue gently insinuates itself past my astonished parched lips and tentatively grapples with my disgustingly furry tongue.

'What the fuck?' I think.

It is a long, increasingly passionate kiss. She, oh God, I hope it's actually a she, licks around my mouth, moistening my dry lips, nipping my upper lip, then chewing my lower lip before plunging that hot wet tongue back, deep into my mouth again, trying to tease my tonsils.

The kisser's chin feels smooth, unlike mine, I haven't shaved since yesterday morning.

I am helpless and cannot do anything about this invading tongue and embracing lips and am too petrified to respond in kind. I can feel that pussy begin to move now too, slowly up and down, barely a centimetre or two at a time, hardly moving at all, while continually pulsing, squeezing, teasing intensely. I am as hard as polished marble down there, my rigid reaction purely involuntary. Despite the cold air surrounding me, I feel my face red and breaking out in a sweat, which cools as it meets the air.

I breath in, sampling the familiar scent of Youth Dew, my wife's favoured fragrance, filling my head with wonderful remembrances of being awoken by Alison's gentle lip kisses. Old memories, mostly from before the kids came along to suck all those little magical acts of romance out of our increasingly occupied but mundane lives. I feel that built-up tension in my shoulders and legs gradually relax as at least I know what is happening and who it is that is carrying out this delicious torture to me now.

Thank fuck it's not a stranger, and thank fuck I'm still a faithful husband. I know I can trust Alison. She has never tied me up and blindfolded me before but then ... well, she only had to ask. And I'd do the same for her if that is what she wants. Maybe I will ask her, definitely will ask her after this thrilling episode is over.

I think Alison senses me relaxing my tensions, while I am now actively returning her kissing with the eager participation of my mouth and tongue.

Alison gives my lower lip another sharp nip before leaving my lips, both of us gasping after that searing toe-curling kiss. She must've followed me up to Birmingham, to celebrate my birthday! What a fantastic surprise! The best present I could wish for. Bless her! I love that woman to bits!

"Ali?" I ask hoarsely.

"Mmm," comes back a reply, sort of.

I feel her pussy rise up higher than before, lifting herself very slowly off my fully erect cock until I can feel the cool breeze from the air conditioning prickling the hot surface of the increasingly exposed part of my sopping foreskin.

She begins to sing to me with the sexiest breathy whisper I have ever heard from her, as she eases herself up until only my knobhead remains gripped, lovingly encased in her hot, soft and caressing labia lips.

"Hap-py birth-day, to-" she begins to sing, before plunging down hard until her pelvis collides with mine, "YOU!!"

She finishes with a grinding of her clearly stimulated clitoris on my pelvic bone. Ohh, so familiar a feeling, yet so different! My wife has never been as naughty as this! I like it, I love her!

Her hot breath exhales over my face, mere millimetres from her hot lips. I try and reach up with my head and tongue, receiving just a languid lick of her tongue on the urgent outstretched tip of mine, before she presses on with her heavenly hip movements, raising herself once more, inch by tantalising inch, her sexy, breathy refrain continuing without missing a beat.

"Hap-py birth-day, to-" before plunging down hard again, colliding pelvis on pelvis, "YOU!!"

Oh, that glorious endorphin-inducing grind again, sparking every nerve end in my body, which trembles with static electricity and building desire rendered frustratingly passive by my restraints. Delicious torture, but then it is my birthday and I'll never be just turned 55 again.

"Hap-py birth-day, Bill my sweet-," reaching the top of her unbelievable upstroke before plunging down hard again with a ball-twitching screwing twist at the bottom, "HEART!!"

I press back up at her with my hips as hard as I can with the limited movement available to me within my constraints, wriggling with all my might, and almost dislodging her from the bed.

"Hap-py birth-day, to ... YOU!!"

That glorious pelvic thrust shudders against my groin again and again as she simultaneously buries her tongue as deep as it will go into my mouth. I can feel the shape of her lips smile on mine as we hungrily suck each other's tongues, before she breaks it off with a gasping intake of breath. She's at the bottom of her delightful downstroke now and settles, insinuating her loins into my lower torso.

"Careful, Bill, honey. You almost threw me off onto the beach!"

She takes another deep breath and thrusts her rampant wet tongue into my open mouth again.

Beach? What? A fucking beach in Brummieland? What the fuck?

Only now, do the recent events that had been cloaked by the demon drink and the wonderful wake-up fuck finally dawns on me. Beach! Fucking South of fucking France beach! On my fucking birthday!

Of course, I now know where I am, even if not exactly. I remember leaving their room and returning to my suite, getting pissed on whisky. And I remember Alison's fucking French fucker. And here she is, fucking raping me, trying to fog my mind with a furtive fuck in the dark. How dare she? How fucking dare she!?

I bite her tongue, hard.

"Ow!"

She removes her tongue quickly from my bitter, stinging mouth,

"That fucking hurt, Bill! You really don't want to play rough, you know, not with you tied up and at my mercy, sweetheart."

She's still grinding slowly down on my cock, the fucking, fucking bitch.

"I fucking hurt, too. I fucking remember what happened now, you ... bitch! You and your fucking boyfriend, here in Nice. How the fuck did you get in my room?"

"How do you know this is your room, honey?"

"OK, I don't, exactly." I pause for a moment.

Is her fucking boyfriend in here with us? Is he watching us, waiting by the bed to beat me up in revenge for lightly tapping him on his cheating glass jaw? Unconsciously, I drop my voice down to a whisper, "So, where is Shithead?"

"Don't worry about him, sweetheart."

"Can you stop calling me 'sweetheart' and 'honey'? And, while we are at it, can you please stop fucking me, Alison, for crying out loud?!"

All the while, Alison is slowly grinding her evil vagina down on my treacherous rigid knob, which helpless to do anything other than respond to her evil ministrations. I try to focus on my cheating rival, imagining him hovering over me with an obscenely erect and unnaturally hairy penis, about to dish out his revenge; as if my unfaithful wife tying me down and raping me isn't enough retribution to last anyone a lifetime. I try to think about something else, anything other than sex. Any subject I can imagine should do, but my mind's a blank. I want my dick to go soft, but the bastard thing's got an agenda all of its own and what Alison is doing to it makes my rebellious member stiffer than I can ever consciously remembering it being before.

"I have some questions for you, Alison."

I am desperate now to break this cycle of torture.

I have to wrest back some control over this situation; over my bodily responses at the very least. I am fully conscious that I am completely at their mercy, stuffed like a Christmas goose.

"Fire away, Bill."

"So, who is this guy you're with, that you are fucking about with, and fucking whenever you can!? Where did you meet, how long has this been going on, why you got together and ... is he still the fuck here in my room with us?"

"Cookery teacher at the community college is the answer to your first point; for nearly six months, the second. Thirdly, I really don't know why except that since being over 50 I had begun to feel unattractive, especially as you've tailed off desiring me. Marcel chattered me up and I enjoyed the attention, I was flattered when he let me know that he wanted me. He's where you put him, Bill, for your last point, in Nice Hospital. Marcel bit off his tongue when you punched him and is recovering from an emergency operation to reattach it. Oh, and he lost four teeth, I think, two of which he swallowed." Involuntarily, it seems, considering the circumstances, she begins to giggle.

"What did I ever do to you, Alison, to make you ... give up on us?" My serious voice brings her back to earth.

"It's not your fault, sweetheart, really. You stopped paying me attention and I ... I didn't think you'd ever find out."

"So, are you leaving me, and moving in with the bastard?"

"No, honey, I would never leave you. I love you, not him. I never loved him. It was already over and had run its course. This week away was going to be the final fling. It is you, only you I want."

"So what were you getting out of this, some fantastic sex from your greasy equally cheating lover?"

"No, it was never that. It was only more exciting because it was naughty and from taking the risks of discovery. And to have those memories to sustain me after I stopped being ... even vaguely desirable any more."

"You were always desirable for me, up 'til now."

"I know, I believe you, except you should have told me more. I just felt I was becoming secondary, even surplus in your life-"

"-Well, you've certainly achieved that!"

"Don't say that, honey. I never wanted to break us up. I cannot think of us as anything else but a couple, joined at the hip," another strangled laugh, "and I want us to get over this little bump in our relationship."

"You call this deceit, cheating on your marriage with another man, just a little bump? This is a fucking unassailable range of mountains between us and we're not equipped to get anywhere near over this one. And why am I still in the dark? What have you tied me up with and blindfolded me with?"

"I tied you up with your neckties," she says, "There were five hanging in your wardrobe.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Are you going to release me, let me go?"

"No, honey, not yet," she sobs. She is still teasing my traitorous trouser snake with her subtle motions, although she had scaled it back to just vaginal squeezing and minimal movement again now. She's clearly learned some tricks and upped her sexual game since the last time I had any thoughts on evaluating the sexual potency of her techniques.

"Can you remove the blindfold so I can at least I see your cheating face?" I'm getting angrier now by the minute.

Alison hesitates for a minute or two, clearly considering her options, knowing that if I can't see her, I can't recognise the guilt tattooed across her face. Now I feel a fumble of fingers by the side of my head as she struggles with the knots. She gives up and yanks the tightly tied tie off.

"Fuck!"

That's bright! The low sun's flooding into the double aspect room, so intensely that I can't keep my eyes open. "Can't you pull those blinds?"

"I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart," Alison says, sounding like her chin is set in that determined way so familiar to me when she stands her ground.