Bailing Out

Fortunately, he had his back to the window, so it was only me that saw her climb out of the little Mazda MX5 that she loved so much and be greeted by three of the blokes she'd formerly worked with. Okay, it's one thing to greet old colleagues with a smile or even, at a push, with a little peck on the cheek -- but they went far beyond that. Each of them in turn received a huge, long kiss on the mouth while they hugged her tightly -- one of them even grinding himself against her!

I finished up the business with Freddie as quickly as I could and hurried down to the main door -- just as she drove up and parked in my reserved space. I don't make hasty decisions -- it's probably the reason why I'm one of the few from the estate who made it all the way to grown up without getting into trouble, and so I accepted a kiss on the cheek when I climbed in the car and waited, thinking it over, as we drove home. I did ask her, casually, if she'd only just arrived and, when she said she had, I knew what I had to do.

She was stunned -- and completely tongue-tied - when I told her what I'd seen. Naturally, she tried saying they were just old pals and so on -- but I lost my temper; the first time she'd ever seen me do that. "I don't give a fuck who, or what they were!" I shouted, "I don't even care that they were more than likely fucking you long before I ever did! If I ever see you act like that with any man... ever again... you'll be out that door and on your way back to your parents before you can get your tongue out of his mouth! Do I make myself clear?"

There were a lot of tears before bedtime, that night -- but I made her realise that I meant every word of what I'd said.

And then there was the second thing. That was about what we did in the bedroom. During those first few months we'd almost worn ourselves out trying everything we'd learned from our previous partners. The sex was absolutely great. Okay, there were times when we weren't in the mood, but they were quite few and far between. Gradually, though, she began to want more.

It was solved, for a while, when we bought her a vibrator from some company online. She loved the damned thing -- so much so that I told her we'd have to start buying batteries in bulk to save some money! Then, a few weeks later, she ordered another one -- a much larger one and, although it became part of our regular 'playtimes,' I was pretty sure she was also using it when I wasn't around.

Then she started reading sex stories on the Internet and telling me about them. To begin with, it was just about couples enjoying themselves together. They were okay -- and we picked up one or two tips from them - as well as getting turned on by some of the more realistic ones.

But, after a while, she started on stories about married people cheating. I didn't like them very much and, as soon as she realised that, she changed to ones about swapping, open marriages, wife-sharing and stuff like that. I wasn't exactly comfortable about it, but at least there wasn't the same element of deception, and at least she found a site where some of them were well-written enough to be believable. Of course, I questioned her as to whether or not it turned her on and, after a few denials; she eventually admitted that she used some of them as fantasies when we were together.

Although it may seem strange to some, this didn't bother me too much because, to be honest, there'd been times when I'd been guilty of something similar. The problem was, she began to take my acceptance the wrong way. The questions started, very gently, to be about whether or not I'd really get turned on watching her with someone else, or whether I fancied 'swinging' with another couple.

She made it appear that she was simply following what I said, of course, rather than trying to lead me along. But when she eventually pushed it just a little bit too hard one night -- and I told her that if it was putting ideas like that into her head it might be better to stop reading the stories -- I think she finally realised that I simply wasn't made that way. And that's when she started buying 'toys.'

It was, she explained, because she wanted to make sure that we didn't ever get bored of one another. All she wanted was to be demure at work, ideal in the kitchen, and such a complete tart in the bedroom that I'd never be tempted to stray. Well, I couldn't really argue with that except, of course, to insist that I was perfectly happy as things were and, for a few weeks, I could never be sure what was going to turn up in the post each day.

There were, of course, the skimpiest, sexiest items of underwear she could find. Then there were all kinds of weird and wonderful vibrators, dildos and similar things. After that came leather basques and boots -- but then she bought a riding crop and asked me to put her over my knee and spank her with it. Trying to please -- and trying not to appear too conventional -- I did my best to comply; but my heart was never in it. Either I did it too gently or too hard, because I wasn't really interested, but I have to admit that she seemed to enjoy it. Apparently, she'd been reading some BDSM stories and found that they got her going more than ever. She told me about that one Friday night, but I feigned a need for sleep.

On the Saturday, however, when I came home from the skydiving club, I heard her call to me that she was waiting in the bedroom. That seemed like good news, because I'd had an excellent day and the thought of some bedroom fun definitely appealed to me -- until I reached the bedroom! She was dressed in the leather basque, with black fishnet stockings that disappeared into high-heeled leather boots. Nothing wrong with that, of course -- in fact she looked incredibly sexy. But - she had the riding crop in one hand and, in the other, held up a pair of handcuffs which seemed to have some kind of fur trim.

"Come on, mister," she growled, I'm going to fasten you to the bed and give you the ride of your life!"

Oh, I forgot to mention - she was also wearing a 'strap-on!'

"No!" I said. There didn't seem to anything else to say. I said it gently because she'd obviously gone to a lot of trouble to set it all up -- but God knows where she'd got the idea that I'd go along with it!

"I'm not asking you... I'm telling you. Now, get your clothes off," she growled, dropping the handcuffs on the bed and tapping her hand with the crop as she tried to look dominant and threatening.

I just looked at her for a moment or two -- then I told her that I needed something to eat and if she hadn't prepared anything I'd send out for something. For a moment or two, she just stared as if she couldn't believe I was turning her down -- then her eyes widened into a glare, her breathing became fast and ragged, and she began to shout at me hysterically.

Suddenly, it seemed that I was a 'control-freak' who wanted to spoil all her fun. I was too dull to try anything new or different. I was insensitive and boring. I wanted nothing but missionary position sex (ah, now that one I could definitely refute!), and I was terrified of giving myself over to potential new pleasures. I simply wasn't prepared to share my lustful fantasies with anyone and....

...Which was when I quietly turned away, told her to put some proper clothes on, and went downstairs to ring for a pizza. I didn't see her for the rest of that evening and, in the months that had followed, nothing had really been resolved. I'd tried a couple of times to talk about it -- to tell her that I simply didn't like the idea of being tied up -- or of tying her up, for that matter -- and neither inflicting nor receiving pain held any appeal for me whatsoever. And as for the idea of having a strap on dildo shoved up my ass -- that was about the biggest 'no-no' I could actually imagine.

"You won't try anything!" she'd complained, and, "how do you know you won't like it if you won't even try these things?" And then it was: "All you ever want is a bit of foreplay and a straightforward fuck."

To be fair, there was some truth in that. I did enjoy foreplay; I enjoyed using her toys on her and bringing her to a climax, I enjoyed oral sex and I liked fucking -- in almost any position. I could even accept that a bit of imaginative fantasy was okay. Was it my fault that I didn't want to take fantasies into the real world? Those discussions always ended the same way: she'd lie back with her legs open and tell me to go ahead and take whatever I wanted since there was no need to concern myself with any of her needs -- then I'd say something like 'another time, perhaps,' turn over and go to sleep.

It had been going on like that for a few months -- on and off -- because there were many times in between when we did have passionate couplings; but I never knew what her mood was likely to be from one day to the next. I'd already begun thinking that, if things didn't change for the better in the near future, it would probably be best for both of us if we drew the curtain down on our marriage. No matter how much I didn't want to do that -- and no matter how much I tried to convince myself that there was still a great deal of love between us -- I knew it couldn't go on that way forever.

Therefore, it was unlikely that I'd go home and discuss Samantha's problem with Abbie that day and, the more I thought about it, the more I believed it was no use waiting and that it would be best to persuade her to call the police and at least get her concerns on record.

When I arrived home that Sunday evening, there was no sign of Abbie. I had a vague memory of her saying that she might pop over to her mum's house, so I wasn't too surprised by her absence. As I often did, I found a ready-meal in the freezer and popped it in the microwave. After that, I gave her a call on her mobile and discovered she was having a drink at the Forester's Arms with her sister. It sounded quiet there, although I could hear her sister's loud voice in the background.

She told me she'd be home in a couple of hours and, after I warned her not to drive, she promised she'd give me a call to come and collect her.

With nothing else to do, I decided to go on line for a while and get all the day's sports results. I used Abbie's laptop because mine was still in its case in my car. I booted it up, found the information I was looking for and, once I'd finished, started looking through the various folders. There was one that was labelled 'Bits & Bobs' which, when I opened it, seemed to have hundreds of icons and almost as many sub-folders. Because I'd opened it once before, I knew that it contained a whole hotchpotch of stuff that ranged from old photos to stories she'd tried to write herself, but usually given up on after half-a-page or so. It was also a place where she downloaded some of the stories she liked from Literotica - one of her favourite sites - and, knowing that, I'd begun using it to see what she'd been reading so I could (hopefully) anticipate whatever was likely to be thrown at me next. The newest made it clear that she'd spent a bit of time reading BDSM stories, but also a lot of 'Loving Wives - ones which, when I checked them, turned out to be mainly about cheating wives and cuckolds.

I gave a sigh, thinking that this wasn't helping her to sort out our problems. Then I looked at one that seemed completely out of place in the folder. It was 'System Info,' so I clicked on it and revealed a sub-folder marked 'do not change,' which led to another and another folder until I finally reached one with a warning that opening it could damage the computer.

Anyone with a modicum of common sense knew that a warning like that was bullshit, and so it turned out to be. Three sub-folders later, I reached a link to an email icon and, without hesitation, I clicked it. I wasn't at all surprised to find that it was password protected. I stared at it for a moment or two and then, almost as if it was the most natural thing in the world, typed in 'mrshotandwet' -- and it opened.

Sammy had said there were no capital letters used and the spelling of words with 'ie' in them had been wrong -- both of them errors that Abbie was prone to -- and that was exactly what I found..

It took me quite a while to do what I thought would be for the best, even though I barely glanced at the lewd photos she'd occasionally persuaded me to take -- or the ones she'd taken herself - and without pausing to read any of it, I just about had time to finish my task, and remove any indication that I'd been on it, before closing the computer down, when the phone rang.

With a deep sigh, I got into my car and headed off to pick her up from the pub.

CH03.

His name was Joe. He worked at the factory and he was 28 years old. It was, I believe, only his seventh solo jump -- and he screamed like a banshee until he hit the ground. Then there was the most complete silence I think I've ever heard in my life as everyone stood looking, in shock, at where he'd fallen with a thud that we all swore afterwards we'd actually heard.

The first people to move were the St John's Ambulance crew who were always in attendance at our meetings. In the past, they'd had to treat a few ankle injuries from clumsy landings and one or two cuts and bruises; but they, like the rest of us, had never seen anything like this and they hurtled towards the scene with the blue lights flashing uselessly on their vehicle. My immediate thought was the hope that the fall had killed him outright -- the only likely alternative was that he was going to be in a terrible state for the rest of his life.

I'd watched his fall. I don't normally bother, but he was one of Abbie's friends; one of those she'd managed to persuade to come along -- I think she'd actually dared them -- to provide some livelier company on the duller afternoons, so I could clearly see what had happened.

One thing that skydivers dread, possibly more than any other, is the malfunction known as a 'horseshoe.' Without getting too technical, this happens when a parachute actually deploys but is still attached to a skydiver by its risers and at least one other point. It will prevent the canopy from opening properly, and ends up with the canopy and lines formed into a horseshoe shape. More often than not, it happens when the closing pin of a skydiving rig is released from the closing loop, which allows the deployment bag to separate from the container.

Okay, it is sometimes possible to treat it as you would any other high-speed malfunction -- simply by releasing the main canopy and using the reserve. What usually happens in such a case, though, is that the pilot chute shifts during the entanglement and, plummeting towards the ground, the AAD (automatic activation device) on the reserve kicks in, the two get tangled - and then there follows a meeting with Mother Earth that is almost always fatal.

It's not, by any means, a common occurrence, and the correct procedure for dealing with it can be practised on the ground -- but on the ground is very different to hurtling towards it. Who can tell whether or not, in a moment of blind panic, the practising will be remembered?

An hour earlier, Joe had been chatting to Samantha and me in the kit room; showing a respect that bordered on deference to her and barely managing to hide his contempt for me. I was perfectly well aware of why he felt that way but, as I watched the ambulance racing towards his unmoving form, I wasn't about to concern myself with that.

In any case, I now had my hands full with the task of trying to console Sammy. Her head was practically trying to burrow through my sternum and bury itself inside my chest as she sobbed and trembled, helplessly, and only just on the right side of hysteria. I could hardly blame her; watching someone plummet to the ground like that was bad enough for anyone -- but it had to be a lot worse for the person who'd lent him her parachute!

"It could've been me, Robbie!" I heard her say in a feeble voice between sobs, "It could've been...."

"Shhh... it's alright," I responded as comfortingly as I could, my left arm around her shoulders while my right hand gently stroked her beautiful blonde hair; and I could feel every tremor of her lovely body as she clung to me so helplessly, trying to find comfort in our embrace.

We probably stayed like that for several minutes before I was finally able to prise myself loose and ease her down onto one of the benches at the front of the clubhouse. She was sobbing; "It's all my fault. I shouldn't have...." But then a new and even more intense flood of tears drowned out the rest of the thought.

I was about to sit down and disabuse of her any such notions when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mark Haley approaching. Actually, it was Detective Sergeant Mark Haley to give him his full title, and he was a very welcome sight.

Like me, Mark was one of the few from our old estate who hadn't turned to the 'Dark Side' and, also like me, he was a committee member of the skydiving club. Although he was a good few years older -- probably in his late forties -- he was a genuinely nice bloke and I'd always got on well with him.

"Who was it, Robbie," he asked without any preamble, "the rota said it was you and Sammy. How come?"

"We did a swap with Joe and Donald... we changed it on the manifest," I explained, "Don's using my 'chute... Joe had Sammy's. But there's something far more important than that, Mark."

He just raised his eyebrows fractionally, so I went on: "I don't think that was an accident. I've good reason to believe it may have been deliberate and it needs to be investigated. You need to get your lads out here to secure the evidence or whatever it is they do."

"They're already on their way," he assured me, "Do I take it you know something I don't about this?"

"Both of us do," I said, nodding my head in Sammy's direction, "but I think you'd be better off talking to me for the moment... poor Sammy's in shock...."

As it happened, we were all required to give initial statements about what we'd seen and what we knew about the 'accident.' Mark and his superior officer, Detective Inspector Kelsey, set up shop in the small room we normally used for committee meetings and we were taken in one at a time to give our version of events. The aerodrome had been sealed off while it took place and, even though those who'd given statements were allowed to go home, no one from outside was allowed onto the premises until everything was complete.

While we were waiting, I sat by one of the windows and watched the proceedings outside. There wasn't a great deal to see: a number of people in CSI coveralls were making themselves busy around the place where Joe had landed, while another group were swarming over the Finist SMG-92 SET, the plane which had taken him on what had probably been his last journey. That was still debatable, since a rumour had quickly spread that he was still alive -- though only just; probably it came from the way the ambulance had sped out of the place with sirens blaring and lights flashing, but I suspected that had only happened because the St John's people were every bit as much in a state of shock as the rest of us.

Samantha was on the other side of the room from me, being comforted by a female police officer, and I couldn't tell whether she was awake or asleep because she hardly seemed to move at all.

Mark had organised it very well. The first people called in to give their stories were those who hadn't really seen what happened and they were dealt with fairly quickly. Then there were the others who'd been outside and had watched the figure screaming and flailing in terror as it careered towards the ground and, eventually, the pilot of the plane.

After him, Samantha was helped into the room by her companion. I knew she'd be in there longer than the others, so I settled down to wait. When I was younger I used to smoke -- not heavily -- I'd never been more than a ten-a-day smoker and it hadn't been too hard to quit the habit, but as I sat there, all alone except for the uniformed constable who sat on a chair near the exit, I had the first craving for nicotine that I'd known for many years.