I stare down at my husband Bill as he blinks, desperately trying to accustom his eyes to the bright light of early dawn. My tears roll down my face as I realise there is absolutely no salvation for my ruined marriage.

It's all over now. And just three months short of celebrating thirty happy years since our wedding day on that hot July afternoon in 1984.

I sniff and wipe the back of my hand across my treacherous cheeks. What a fucking mess! Caught cheating with a French cuisine teacher, who Bill hospitalised last night in his fury. Later, luckily, I found Bill unconscious after he'd overdosed on aspirin and alcohol, and think I saved his life. And now I've ended up riding Bill cowgirl style after I had tied him up to his bed posts while he was still completely out of it, asleep.

Incredibly, despite him now being awake and fully cognoscente of my perfidious behaviour, Bill's cock is still granite rock hard, and buried in my dribbling snatch, right up to the hilt, my trimmed bush entangled in his short and curlies. It occurs to me that even while we are both aware that I have completely screwed our marriage up, I am still slowly screwing him in his king size bed. I cannot help continuing, it feels so fucking good.

So, I think, if this is the end for us, why not simply enjoy my final farewell fuck? He doesn't feel like he's going to lose that vigorous erection anytime soon, so I might as well fuck his eyeballs out while I still can.

Chapter 1: Nothing's Impossible I Have Found

It was high-fives all around as the deal was signed.

"Well done, young man!" Keith slapped Bill on the back, "Let's shut up shop and go get pissed!"

"You're the boss, Keith," concurred Bill, who didn't think he would be able to scrub the smile off his face for a month. This was definitely the best workday of his life. Only his wedding night, 29 and three-quarter years earlier, came anywhere near topping this joyous feeling.

Bill wished he could share this personal triumph with his wife, but while he was busy working on his company's annual week-long stand at the exhibition centre in Birmingham, Alison was on a recreational cookery course in Nice, down on the famous French Riviera.

It was the biggest contract that Bill had ever managed to sign at the National Exhibition Centre. That night the team celebrated in style.

Bill inherited a thick head and a mouthful of furry tongue as he stumbled down to breakfast at seven the next morning. He punched out a couple of aspirins from a bubble pack he carried in his suit pocket and swallowed them with a draught of chilled orange juice. Only now in the cold light of day on this fine spring morning, was the sales result finally sinking into his hungover mind. Not only was his bonus cheque in two months' time going to be a record one for him, Bill knew he was way out in front in the running for salesman of the year, an accolade that he could only dream of in the sixteen years he had slaved away selling machinery for Sparko Engineering.

It went without saying that Bill was the hardest working and steadiest by far of the sales team, with a dependable above average rate of return. However, average and below salesmen didn't last long in the company and he'd had a few lows in his career and even fewer highs. However, Bill was usually the first salesman in the office most mornings and the last to tear himself away in the evening. There was no more conscientious salesman and, at long last, it looked like his efforts were paying dividends.

Bill's customer, Caledonian Consortium, had hinted their possible expansion plans to Bill in recent months and speculative specifications and quotations had flown back and forth in wildly varying combinations of possible requirements. Bill had put in long hours gathering together the proposals and working through into long nights negotiating prices and schedules between the two companies. It had seemed a never-ending process and it was still a shock to Bill that Caledonian choose the first day of the National Exhibition to announce to the eager press their plans for complete refurbishment of their enlarged Glasgow factory, using Sparko's latest production machinery.

No-one would have been surprised that Bill was the first of the six-strong exhibition team to make it down for breakfast that Tuesday morning. We have already noted had he possessed the strongest work ethic, instilled by his Scottish engineering father, and was the most mature and therefore responsible member of the sales team by far. Despite his success, all who knew him understood he would be ready and willing to put every effort into the rest of the week for the team.

Bill had time to reflect too, that he would be 55 on Wednesday. Blimey, it occurred to him, that's tomorrow. Damn! That meant he wouldn't in all truthfulness be able to say he was "early fifties" any more. "Mid-fifties" just sounded depressingly so much older than he felt.

And he wouldn't be able to celebrate his birthday with his wife Alison, either, which he had become used to doing for the last four years. He sniffed, Ali hadn't even included a birthday card in his luggage, like she had made a point to do all those other years he was away on this day. He realised that they hadn't really been connecting the last couple of months. He had been obsessed maintaining this important and lately over-active Scottish account while she had been occupied with her various courses. He knew there was cookery, keep fit, hot yoga and lots of other stuff she was involved with that he honestly couldn't remember.

Bill was halfway through his full English breakfast by the time the next colleague was up and about, Sales Director, Keith Bowman, Bill's immediate boss. They greeted each other with smiles. Bill liked and respected Keith, who had been his boss since day one and always treated him fairly. Keith had supported Bill during those odd years when his results had been unspectacular, if compared to the young lions, who preferred a quick return rather than build good steady accounts.

"How are you this morning, young man?" Keith cheerfully asked as he sat down next to Bill at the dining table. Bill smiled good-humouredly every time he heard the expression. Keith was older by just nine days and took every opportunity to refer to Bill as "young man".

"Very good, Keith, considering the state I was in when I got back to my room," Bill replied with a laugh, scraping some beans onto his toast with a knife, "Remind me to never do those bloody shots again. I'm strictly a beer and scotch man and I stop when I'm bloated and know that I've had enough. With that tequila stuff, though, I'm well out of my comfort zone."

"You did well, Bill. That was a very nice order you nailed. When you opened that account, ooh, must be ten or twelve years years ago, no-one thought they'd turn out as good as it has. Keeping them sweet during all those piddling orders and much trailing back and forth to Glasgow for briefs and quotes every few months, well it has really paid off."

"Well, it's been a team effort all round, Keith," Bill said modestly, "Couldn't have done it without the support of the rest of the team, and the competitive pricing agreed by the board."

"Well, young man, good job the other directors and I don't believe all that 'spreading the glory' bollocks you're spouting!" Keith grinned, "I know that you've been prepared to slog through your birthday every year at these blasted shin-digs. And I've noticed, even though you've tried to disguise it, that you've been moping around since you arrived on Sunday. I know it's not the same without your Alison here with you as you've become accustomed to."

"Been that noticeable, huh?" Bill asked, pensively, swiping the last piece of sausage around his plate to soak up the remnants of his fried egg.

"No, not at all, Bill, you are my most professional salesman; the only one I never have to worry about always giving at least 100%."

"Thanks, Keith, I really appreciate you saying that."

"Bill, the rest of the board appreciate that very fine order too," Keith continued, sucking in a deep breath, "So, last night as a man they, we, decided to let you off the hook for the rest of the week."

"What?" Bill stuttered. Keith held up his hand.

"We have a plane ticket waiting for you at the international airport, flying out late morning today to take you over to Nice, Bill, and we have booked one of the penthouse suites at Alison's hotel, for the rest of this week right through to next Wednesday morning."

"Really!?" Bill almost choked on his toast and marmalade and needed to slurp some scalding tea to wash it down. That would explain the tears in his eyes.

"You heard me, young man. And none of this bonus break is coming out of your holiday entitlement. You deserve this little reward. So, Bill, finish up your breakfast, get your shit packed up sharpish and bugger off out of here. I don't want to see you in the office until Monday week, all right? And give your Alison one for me, won't you, young man?" Keith laughed as he slapped his choking friend on the back.


Bill Jones, has been happily married for 29 years. Attractive Alison Jones, at 51, is just over three years younger than Bill. A stay-at-home mother, she has always kept herself trim and beautiful by finding time from her home-making duties to visit the gym twice and more recently hot yoga classes once weekly. In the five years since the youngest of their three children left home, Alison has been filling up the time she found on her hands by taking regular day-time or evening vocational courses.

The results of her cookery classes livened up their evening meals, adding to Bill's expanding waistline, and the evidence of her pottery, artwork and tapestries adorned the walls of their now near-empty nest. For the previous four years, Alison had accompanied Bill to the exhibition centre during the spring half-term break rather than stay at home alone, no longer having the kids for company.

This year, however, she informed Bill that a select few of the French cookery course members had been given a unique opportunity to work in the kitchens of one of the top seafront hotels in Nice, on the French Riviera, for a whole week. Naturally, Bill was happy to let her go and enjoy the experience, even though he knew he would definitely miss her. While some of the unaccompanied married men who attended the exhibition looked forward to lads' late nights out, and a few used the opportunity to fool around with available ladies, Bill was a home bod at heart and always remained true to his marriage vows.

One drawback of the Nice hotel kitchen arrangement, Alison had informed him, was that the cuisine classwork for the six days would be hyper intensive, working every lunch and evening, including prep before lunch, with clear up between meals and at the end of the evening meals session. The students were getting a real taste of the frenetic life in a top class French kitchen, while the hotel got the benefit of their cheap labour for the week. Only students who had reached a minimum high standard were permitted to go. Alison pointed out that it was an honour to be invited, she was the only one from her local community college going, the rest of the students were from other colleges all over the country.

This intense workload would make direct contact between Bill and Alison well nigh impossible. He was working hard at the exhibition all day, with early to bed, early to rise: she would be late to bed and late to rise. Therefore they were only going to be able to exchange brief text messages each day, with replies delayed by up to a dozen hours, but they were prepared to accept that. It was only for a week, and Bill had been away alone for a week at a time on many occasions before the accompanied treats of recent years.

With the exhibition having started so well and that huge contract signed on the Monday morning, Bill was clearly in buoyant mood. With Bill's boss, Keith, recognising Bill's frustrations, and persuading the rest of the board to send him off to France at the Company's expense, was a dream come true.

The booking included return fares for Alison and Bill on the following Wednesday afternoon. When he checked out of the Birmingham hotel, Bill found he had been left a note by Keith allowing him a generous budget on his company credit card, in order to purchase appropriate holiday clothing and for excursions as well as wining and dining his beloved wife for the duration of his break. Bill knew there was little point in sending a text to Alison about his change of circumstances as she would be fully occupied in doing lunch preps. By the time he was due to arrive on Tuesday late afternoon, she should already be starting the evening session, so he thought he'd surprise her in person late evening before she even had an opportunity to read his text message.

He had been so preoccupied with work these last couple of months that he had spent little meaningful time with Alison. He reminded himself that they were only three months away from celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary. He determined there and then, that they would have a second honeymoon after her cuisine course ended and, when he got back home, things were going to have to be improved between them. He started thinking of different trips and presents, perhaps a family party, to celebrate the upcoming anniversary in style.

He was met at Nice Airport by the hotel limousine. When he arrived at the hotel reception, he was expected as a special guest and warmly welcomed by the Reception staff, of course, and shown up to the palatial two-bedroom suite. Bill was very impressed with the rooms and the beach and sea view he had from the penthouse. He showered and changed into one of his business suits, as he hadn't had a chance to shop for any casual clothes yet.

Bill thought he would check with the Concierge for a nearby restaurant where he could book a late night candlelit supper after the students had finished cooking and cleaning in the hotel kitchens. If there was nowhere suitable to eat that late at night then he would order a meal from the hotel restaurant and be able to keep it warm in a hostess trolley in the suite. But firstly, he thought he would arrange for the transfer of Alison's clothing and cases from her old room up to the suite.

That's when Bill ran into difficulties. There was no Mrs Alison Jones, or any Mrs Jones, or indeed any group of English trainee cooks booked into the hotel. The manager was summoned and he insisted that their Michelin multi-star kitchen had never before entertained a group of amateur trainee chefs from England, nor would they ever remotely consider doing so in the future. Was Bill even sure he had the correct hotel?

Embarrassingly, Bill could only go by what he had been told by Alison. As far as he understood the arrangements, Alison was staying in this hotel with a small group of trainee chefs, and that she was sharing a room with someone called Michelle. He admitted that he didn't know Michelle's second name, or the name of the organiser, other than some tie-up with a cookery course run by his local Tech College. He had no contact details with his local college. Everything he tried drew a blank.

What was clear was that his wife of 29 years, the love of his life, and the mother of their three grown-up children, had lied to him about the cuisine course. Did it follow from that lie that she had also lied about who she was sharing with? Was she even staying in this hotel or resort or country? He had dropped her off at the airport; but she could have flown off anywhere, knowing he would never bother to check the stamps in her passport. He simply had never had reason to be suspicious of Alison. He trusted her completely. But why would she lie about the destination? She almost invariably brought back fridge magnets from holidays, and she was bound to take photos of the hotel and surrounds, maybe even of the kitchen staff, even if she had to pretend they were students.

At about the time he would normally have left the Birmingham exhibition for the end of the day, allowing for the one hour time difference in France, Bill sent a brief text message to Alison, telling her that his company was having a successful show. He asked her how the lunch service went and how much she was enjoying her trip to the Riviera, adding that he had spoken to a customer who described the hotel and restaurant where she was staying in glowing terms. He didn't expect a reply until 11 o'clock in the evening, the time on Sunday and Monday night that Alison had previously sent him a brief text.

He was concerned where she was but was unable to decide what to do without the clear facts of her deception at his fingertips. Was she safe? Was Alison a victim of some audacious sting, luring unsuspecting housewives into white slavery? He simply didn't know anything, the thought that Alison was having an affair was equally ridiculous.

Back in his beautiful suite, his helpless loneliness and doubts bearing down on him, his headache made itself felt. He pressed out the last couple of aspirin tablets he brought with him into his palm and tossed the empty pack on the table. As an afterthought, he rummaged through his carry-on bag and extracted the unopened bottle of Glenfiddick he had bought from the duty free shop at the airport, pouring a slug into a shot glass and using it to swallow the tablets.

He sat at the table in the lounge and mentally listed on a sheet of hotel headed notepaper what little information he had to go on. He knew she flew out on Saturday afternoon, because he had accompanied her to the airport. As far as he knew, Alison wasn't expecting to meet anyone until she got to this end. The other participants were from all round the country and she said she was the only local student going. Having left her there, though, she could in theory have caught any flight to anywhere in the world. Once she got to Nice, she was supposed to be bunking with a companion, Michelle, in the hotel. She didn't in her messages mention any change of plans, so it was looking increasingly as though the only dupe in this scheme was himself. She was supposed to be fully occupied in the kitchens from pre-lunch to post-dinner with a short break in the afternoon, from Sunday through to Thursday.

She was due to fly back from wherever she was staying on Friday evening. He would still have been at Birmingham at that time, so he had been led to believe that she planned to get a train followed by cab ride home from the nearest station. Bill was scheduled to help his team break down the exhibition stand late into Friday night and commence his journey home after breakfast on Saturday morning. So, if he couldn't find her here, he would have to wait until he got home.

Home, he thought, was that place he shared with Alison. What kind of untrustworthy household would he be going home to? Would it ever really feel like home again?

What he did know was that Alison's lies were totally unacceptable. The only reason she would have to lie to him to the extent that she had was because she was hiding something, activities which she knew he would find untenable within the boundaries of their marriage.

He sat there quietly, because the tears were stinging his eyes. He needed to do something positive, anything.

Using his laptop, he accessed his current and deposit bank accounts, applied to open new accounts in his name only and transferred all the money to those new accounts. He left a balance of £1 in each of the joint accounts, to keep them open in the short term. Once the dust settles, he thought, the lawyers can divide the assets fairly.

He wasn't able to organise a new credit card over the phone, that would have to wait until he got home. He could however, close their joint credit card account and pay up the balance, effectively cancelling Alison's card. He didn't need the credit card in the short term, as he had the company AmEx card to use, knowing that if he over-used it he could easily recompense the company by the time the next statement came in. If he needed cash, he could transfer money online to their old joint account and withdraw the cash immediately. He could even do that using his iPhone while he was on the move. He would sort out a new credit card in his name only when he got back home.

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