Alibi

Otherwise, Bill still felt helpless. He was anxious to do something, anything, rather than sit there inactive and helpless. He had no appetite for food, even though he hadn't actually eaten anything at all since breakfast. Nor did he feel like drinking any more alcohol, other than the glass he had already drunk, he wanted to remain sharp to think on his feet once he was in a position to confront her with her actions. He screwed the top back on the whisky bottle and placed it on the bar in the suite's lounge. Satisfied that he had done as much as he could to secure his finances, he decided to go down to the reception lounge area and see whether Alison came in or went out. Then he would wait and see who she was with before revealing his presence.

From early evening, he set himself comfortably in the reception lounge area, from where he could easily see the entrance, desk and lifts. Sitting behind a large newspaper, Bill saw his life crumble to dust in front of his eyes.

There she was, his wife of nearly 30 years, walking out of the lift on the arm of a tall, distinguished-looking, slightly older man, maybe in his late fifties, early sixties, Bill estimated, with incongruously dark black hair without a trace of grey. The couple continued through the lounge and into the restaurant. Alison didn't see Bill behind his newspaper, but then she probably wouldn't have noticed him if he stood on a chair in a pink mankini waving his arms about. They were laughing and conversing, their smiling eyes focused only on each other. The man was wearing a smart suit, while she wore her hair up, in her sexy black cocktail dress and shiny high-heeled shoes that she once used to wear for Bill, and her face was made up to kill.

Following up behind the couple, Bill heavily tipped the maïtre d'hôtel to find the indicated gentleman's room number. Tipping the receptionist, Bill was then able to find out that their room was booked in the names of M. & Mde Marcel Bruton. An extra unfolded multi-euro note obtained a photocopy of Marcel Bruton's passport printed out from their file. Bill walked out of the hotel, round to the window of the restaurant, and peered through, where he could clearly see his wife, dining by candlelight at a romantic table for two, just the thing he had tried to book for her earlier, in order to celebrate his birthday, coming up after midnight.

Bill sent her another text at that point, saying, "Co lettin me go early. May pick U up @ Aport Fri nite."

Bill saw Alison pick up her mobile phone, while engaged in mid-conversation with her lover, glance to check the caller was her husband and return it to her bag without reading the message.

Bill noticed she wore both her wedding and engagement rings on her left ring finger, as well as an eternity ring which had once been his late grandmother's ring, on the ring finger of her right hand. She was proud to have received that fancy bauble, which dwarfed his engagement ring, in his grandmother's will just five years ago and she usually only wore it whenever Bill and Alison went somewhere special as a couple. For Bill this was a further damning betrayal of not only him but his family by his cheating wife.

The couple continued to eat their meal, swap titbits, drink their wine and converse non-stop. Often they touched, stroked or held hands across the table. Bill was certain now that they were lovers and not simply college friends; the significance of those touches were unmistakeable. He took several photos of them with his iPhone, although he was uncertain of the quality that would result, having shot them through the glass window and the candlelight soft where they sat. Once they reached the coffee stage of their meal, Bill returned to the comfort of the reception lounge and the camouflage of his crumpled newspaper.

When they had finished their leisurely meal, Bill saw them leave together from his chair in the lounge, and go up in the lift. Bill returned to his suite and immediately ordered room service of chilled champagne and a pair of cut crystal flutes to be delivered immediately to their room 542, charged to his suite 802. Then Bill headed down to the 5th floor where he had to loiter for ten minutes or so in the corridor before a waiter wheeled a trolley with an ice bucket from the service lift. As soon as the waiter knocked on the door to their room, Bill slowly walked up the corridor towards the waiter. There was a delay in answering and the waiter knocked again, louder, announcing in French that he had their room service order for them. Bill slowed his walk, peering at room numbers as if under the influence. Eventually the door opened and, after a brief exchange of words, the waiter entered, pushing the trolley in front of him with M. Bruton holding the door open for his entry.

Bill shoulder charged the door, forcing the dressing gown-robed Frenchman Bruton to stagger back, protesting angrily at Bill's violent intrusion.

There, sitting bolt upright in the bed, with the thin bedsheet pulled up to her chin, her engorged nipples clearly and accusingly poking through the starched linen, was Bill's unfaithful wife, Alison. Her mouth and both eyes formed perfect O's as she realised she'd been caught in the act.

Her lover loomed between them with clenched fists. Bill stepped forward without hesitation, stamping down hard on his rival's bare foot, following the movement with a devastating right uppercut, putting every ounce of effort and body weight he could muster into the blow, knocking his taller rival to the floor, where he lay prone, his face a bloody mess.

Alison screamed, short and sharp.

Bill turned his gaze to his stunned wife. He was amazed at how calm his voice was, even though every nerve end in his body was sending off alarm bells.

"Looks like your alibi is busted, Alison, and so is our marriage!"

Chapter 2: For When My Chin Is On The Ground

Alison:

I could make a statement here and now, using the excuses that I didn't know what I was doing, or that my cheating on Bill wouldn't hurt him as long as he didn't actually know about it.

I could protest my innocence with either of those excuses but, in truth, I would be lying.

I did set out to have a short secret affair, not necessarily to rub my husband's nose in it for not treating me as I had come to expect but desired to keep the affair on the quiet. I didn't want him to know or have this little episode affect our marriage. In short, I hoped to get clean away with it.

I knew exactly what I wanted. It was simple. Just a little bit of fun, that's all. I wanted an opportunity to be desired, courted and seduced; to be the centre of some man's undivided attention for a while. I wanted something brief but special, something that I could have happy memories to recall when I grew old and comfortable, as I settled into maturity. I certainly didn't want to lose my husband over it, or my home, my relationship with my children, upset my parents, or lose the respect of those I really cared about. I clearly didn't fancy the ignominy of having to face my family and friends with the shame of being caught out as a cheating sluttish whore.

Oh yes, I knew what I had really become at the outset, a compulsive liar. I was a sneaky, furtive little cheat, as rotten and worthless as earth soil trash. I made myself into a whore, a harlot, a scrubber, whatever derogatory term you want to call me. I was a wilful woman, willing to risk giving up everything I loved and had worked so hard for, in exchange for few nights of passion with a man I didn't even like, one that I could not possibly love in a million years of trying.

My seducer Marcel is just as low a heel as I am. He has never said that he's still married, and he gave all his cuisine class, that he took as Community College evening course tutor, the distinct impression of being predatorily single. I sensed early on though that for him there was someone permanent at home, a woman that he was playing around on. No matter, I wasn't looking for a lasting relationship, just a short fling, so I didn't care that he might have just as much to lose by his cheating and whoring as I did. If anything, the competition with an unknown rival only added to the sense of adventure.

I also knew, during the very first lesson in Basic French Cuisine held at the local Community College, that tutor Marcel Bruton was no professional chef. It was only a twelve-week basic course, but honestly, he cracked eggs like he only did did a couple a week for his Sunday breakfast. I didn't even find him particularly handsome or attractive either. He was tall, granted, six-one or so, two or three inches taller than Bill; he was slimmer than Bill, who had let himself go and developed a bit of a paunch in recent years; Marcel had a full head of hair (dyed black, I later found out from our hotel bathroom contents), while Bill has gone grey and rather thin on top; and Marcel appeared to be younger than Bill or I. I never asked his age but assumed he was in his late 40s, early 50s at a pinch. I was genuinely shocked when I eventually saw a copy of his 'passeport'.

What was particularly attractive about Marcel, though, was his voice, deep bass and slow-talking. And that accent? Swoon. He had me from Evening Class 1, just on his French accent alone. He had all us attentive mature ladies from the beginning, actually; we hovered on every word, and competed like doe bitches in heat for the alpha stag's attention.

Drinks immediately after evening classes are a bad idea; crazy, dangerous territory for compromising existing relationships. They became 'de rigour' for us mature students, though. All the girls wanted to continue the evening past the nine o'clock finish and Marcel was more than willing to join us all for an evening cocktail or three. We were buying, we were competitive, us girls, and eventually I won him. Mind you, I'm sure at least a couple of the other girls got to him before he let me in, though, but no-one was telling.

Six weeks into the course and Marcel and I were snogging in the back seat of my car parked at the back of the pub car park. That was the first French kissing I had indulged in with someone other than Bill for well over thirty years. Marcel was a brilliant kisser, I was instantly aroused and I happily let him stick his fingers under my knickers and into my leaking cunt. He was rough, finger-fucking me hard and fast. He made me sore but I confess to say I loved every single moment of it. I felt like a giggly gauche teenager all over again. Me, a woman over fifty! We escalated our intimacy quickly after that and two weeks later he was banging the shit out of me in the back of my car.

Bill was usually fast asleep by the time I got home after the cookery class. He always needed a full solid seven hours a night, having to get up early to, as he would say, "beat the traffic during the rush hour". If Bill had been awake that first night, could I have faced him, knowing I had spent an hour of heavy petting with a stranger?

The first night I fucked Marcel, Bill was in the middle of a three-day trip to Glasgow. He had asked me to go with him, but I couldn't miss my cookery class, I said. Well, I couldn't, could I?. Would I have fucked Marcel bare-back in the back of my car that Wednesday night if I was aware Bill had been at home to welcome me? No, I don't think so. As it was I had until the Friday night to convince myself that having extra-marital sex wasn't all my fault. I brought another fucker into my life and could pass most of my guilt onto Bill not being there for me.

What was wrong with Bill as a husband that made me do this despicable act of betrayal?

Nothing really, other than my husband was a bit boring. He was a steady, reliable breadwinner, a sure and dependable anchor in our marriage, a great father, but on the other hand was dull as dishwater. Good marriage material was Bill, but he lacked the thrill and excitement that I felt could be provided by an illicit lover. And exciting it certainly was, for a while.

Bill and I were still good together, we hadn't given up on each other yet. We still made love, not as regularly as we used to, partly because I was out so many evenings and he needed to go to bed so early. The sex when it happened was satisfactory but routine, there were no fireworks between us any more. After 30 years, it would have been difficult to maintain at the level where we started out. Bill was my only lover in all that time, having only made love to two rather immature boys before Bill came along and, by his natural charm, wormed his way into my heart. Bill always was the sweetest guy imaginable. One thing I could be certain of, Bill would never hurt me. He was always gentle and considerate, both in everyday life and in the bedroom. I didn't always get off during sex with Bill, but it was usually tender loving lovemaking, when we found time together, which had basically declined over the years to just Saturday night specials.

With Marcel it wasn't really lovemaking at all, it was rough unbridled sex, pure and simple. When we were together we couldn't keep our hands off one another. He did more than enough to get me off and then made damn sure he got off, too. It wasn't that I enjoyed his technique, if anything he was too quick, but boy, it was always exciting. Every time we fucked I literally came in buckets.

Making out and then fucking my new boyfriend in the car was full of danger: including discovery, possibility of violence, even murder at the hands of this man who was hardly more than a stranger. I knew he had fucked at least a couple of the other "girls" on the course, who were mostly older married women like me. I guessed he was still married or separated at best, and that he probably had sex on the side with other begging-for-it women, whose own morals could therefore be called into question. So, in addition to the thrill of seduction, there was the risk of disease or worse, which all added to the piquancy of two-timing my steady, dependable, rather unexciting other half.

There you are, all my reasons for fucking a stranger, out in the open for all of you to see. Basically I was probably always a slut waiting to go off the rails, long before the opportunity slapped me on the arse.

After using the car for sex for a few weeks, that short three-month basic cookery course came to an end, but Marcel was willing to continue having sex with me on a Wednesday night. And, boy, so was I.

I didn't tell Bill that the cookery lessons had run its course, I continued to go out at my normal time for evening classes. I don't think Bill noticed that I stopped bringing samples home for him to nibble. He didn't have a clue about term times, especially what I was actually getting up to. I was going down the gym during the day more often, too, and training harder while I was there. I put more gusto into my dance classes, to tone up and look good for Marcel. I was leaner and fitter than when I was married; the pity is that Bill never acknowledged that he even noticed how fit I was.

Bill's been really busy at work, as one of his clients was running him ragged and I got the impression that he was worried about the security of his tenure in the job if his sales figures didn't improve. He didn't say as much but maybe he was beginning to feel he couldn't keep up with the young buck rivals at work. That perception led me to respect him even less, so he was becoming lost and out of sight in our bedroom, too.

Without the chore of taking part in the cuisine class, Marcel and I had more time for ourselves, so we started using hotel rooms on Wednesday evenings, experimenting with different positions in the comfort of a bed and cleaning up with a shower before going home. He was forever trying to talk me into letting him fuck my arse but I wasn't sure I wanted him to do it. Bill had never attempted or even suggested sticking anything in my back passage and I had certainly never considered doing it. I was worried about how noticeable it would be, having my arse stretched out and loosened on a regular basis, and would I become incontinent earlier in life? It was all added worries.

To be honest, I didn't actually think Bill would notice the effects if I did indulge in anal sex, in fact by this time I was putting Bill off asking me for sex of any kind, even for our standard Saturday night ritual. Again, I don't think he noticed; if he was aware he was being rationed, it didn't appear to concern him enough to mention he was missing out.

I could never go to Marcel's place, his apartment, house, or whatever, which was a good half hour each way drive from college, because he admitted early on in our "relationship" that he had children at home. I believed him, of course; after all, I was the one who was the lying cheating spouse in this casual affair. For all I knew, and without me wanting to ask, he was single. He didn't wear a ring or appear to have a noticeable white mark on his finger.

Then I started going to hotels with him during the day, at least a couple of times a week, fitting in with Marcel's schedule, because while Bill was at work, my time was flexible. Oh, I could be flexible in more ways than time. These longer sex sessions were mind-blowing, alternating sucking and fucking, showering and even fucking again on one occasion and having to have a second shower before rushing home. I was feeling naughty and thought I was so clever that I was getting away with all this fun so easily. It made me think even less of Bill that he was and easy sap to trick. I was heading on a downward slope to sluttery and hadn't a clue that I was getting involved over my head.

I was completely obsessed with having sex with Marcel by now, and found I was horny all the time, and rubbing myself silly day and night. I found I couldn't make love to Bill any more. It was guilt, or rather a reverse form of guilt; it felt like I was cheating on my lover if I gave anything of my body to Bill. Strange, I know but that's how I had started to feel.

That was the pattern then, during the winter and early spring until the annual exhibition came around that Bill always attended with his company. It was an essential marketing exercise for selling the industrial machines they manufactured. He'd been working the exhibition stand for sixteen years and I had joined him for the last four. I actually had fun with him on those trips, only making coffee and keeping people occupied while demonstrations were being set up or waiting for a salesman to become available. Then we'd have pleasant evenings out together. It was enjoyable, and I thought, next year, and the nine or ten after that, until Bill retires, I'd make up for missing out this one trip.

Marcel heard about the exhibition coming up, when I let slip that we'd have to miss our Wednesday night and the daytime fucks that week. Marcel countered, pointing out that Bill's week away was a great opportunity for us to have this holiday together in France. Marcel told me he had arranged some organised activities with accommodation for his kids all that week, adding that this was the only time that he could manage to get away, it being school break. He persuaded me, using that sexy voice and his sly grin, that this would be the perfect chance for me to pop my anal cherry and, unbelievably, I promised to give it to him.

When I started giving Bill my excuses, I really hated myself for wanting to disappoint Bill, letting him face Birmingham alone once more. I could see that disappointment momentarily flash across his face. I felt guilty when I told him the lies about the Nice hotel kitchen opportunity of a lifetime and I was sure he would suss me out. But he immediately snapped out of his disappointment and cheerful insisted that the offer was too good to miss and I simply had to go. He didn't have to tell me twice.