In the Carpark

"Your salesman's expense claim should be for this period sir." said Claire, swivelling the monitor. "He's made a similar booking for the last four weeks, always the same day. And here is his fifth, booked for next Wednesday again."

Pete took a photo of the screen. It was an image of the credit card of someone called Keith Starr.

"Thanks for that miss. I'm glad he's not cheating me."

"Sorry to interrupt, but are you talking about Mr Starr?" asked Pat.

"Yes, how did you know?" asked Claire.

"I work the swing shift on Wednesdays, and Mr Starr is a regular. He may not be fiddling his expenses, but he does have a bit on the side."

"Really?" said Pete.

"Definitely. A woman with a short blonde bob comes in while he's at front desk. She sits on a sofa and pretends to read a magazine. Quite frankly, it's like a pantomime. He confirms his room number in a voice loud enough for her to hear. She waits five minutes, then gets up and goes to the same floor. They think they're being so discreet but we've seen it all before."

"Well that's a situation I need to keep an eye on then." said Pete. "Though it's hardly a sacking offence."

"Sure, but it's very odd."

"How so?"

"Well, if he's a sales rep, where's his company car? He arrives by taxi, and she walks here. And neither of them have any baggage. And when they've finished, they come back down separately, then go to the bar for a couple of drinks. They're away soon after ten thirty. Where does he spend the night? Not with her; they've already done the business."

"Hmm, very observant."

"As for fiddling expenses, he pays for the night with his own credit card, but only stays a couple of hours. I've been tempted to report them to management."

Claire was now wishing she'd never mentioned the words sales rep. They were digging themselves into a hole.

"Why would you report them?" asked Pete. "Surely they aren't doing anything illegal?"

"No, but management doesn't encourage prostitution, and that's what this looks like."

"Well thank you for that information. It looks to me as if he is using this hotel for sex. Then he's turning his travel allowance into cash, and staying with local friends or family."

"Ah, that makes sense." said Pat, apparently mollified.

Pete got home to find Sylvia watching a tv soap.

"Everything ok?" she asked.

"All sorted now."

Saturday morning it was drizzling. The plan was coming together. Pat's description had fitted Sylvia perfectly, so her lover was Keith Starr. It seemed too much effort to find out anything about him, so Pete decided not to bother. He didn't care anyway. Get involved with a married woman and you'll get what was coming to you. So will she. But he did want to see Sylvia with this Keith bloke, just for absolute confirmation. He called Claire with a query.

"Come in Tuesday lunch." she offered. "We have just the thing."

Pat was on again.

"Gentleman wants to see one of the rooms." Claire explained, and took a key.

On the way up the stairs, Claire explained.

"Some years ago, the hotel extended the carpark down the side. But there were complaints from adjacent guests. The new carpark lights shone into the rooms on that end. So they put floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains, at the window."

She unlocked room 101, and they entered.

"See? This layout is at right-angles to the others on this wing. Here, and the room above, are the only ones with windows on this end of the building."

Sure enough, there were long maroon velvet curtains, taking up most of the wall. Claire promised to book this room for the adulterous pair. And gave Pete a good tip about leaving the door unlocked.

Soon it was Sylvia's night out with the girls again. Pete called her with an excuse for being late, and got to the hotel at six. He was hiding an A4 card under his jacket. Claire slipped him the key and he went up to 101. He unlocked and removed the card which said 'CLEANING' and hung it on the door handle. He left the door open while returning the key. Back in the room, all he had to do was wait. Time dragged on, but at last he heard the beep of the card key. He stepped behind the curtain.

Keith Starr left the door open. Pete held his breath, sure that his heartbeat must be audible. Five minutes later Sylvia entered. She immediately removed all her clothes. Pete watched fascinated. No foreplay with their clothes on, no whispered endearments. She just stripped it all off, including her traditional tights, and white bra and knickers, and folded them neatly into a pile on the chair. Now this Keith bloke was stripping off too. Where was the passion?

He passed her a bottle of anal lubricant.

"Do I still need this? We've done it six times." she said.

"Yes, I think you should use it every time, even if you are getting used to it."

"OK. Come and help me."

She knelt on the bed while he poured lube into his hand and worked his oily fingers into her anus. Pete stared; she was going to take it up her arse, and obviously not for the first time! After she'd turned him down!

"Now make me hard, then put some on me." he instructed.

Sylvia sat and he stood in front of her. She stroked his penis until it was semi erect, then sucked it. When it was fully hard, he withdrew. She slathered the lube on her hands and coated his dick with it. Casually wiping herself clean on a hotel towel.

"How would you like it first? Doggy style or face to face?"

Pete thought it sounded as about as sexy as 'tea or coffee?' This whole scenario seemed more like a medical check-up than an extra marital affair.

"Do it facing me first. Doggy can be for second helpings!"

And that's what they did; with virtually no foreplay at all. Pete wondered if they always behaved like this. Perhaps Sylvia didn't think anal sex was proper cheating. Yet it was the one thing she had always denied him. And that made him angry. They didn't last long and, as Keith unloaded into her, she also climaxed' at last, some reaction. Then he went to the bathroom to clean himself up. Returning to the bed, he started again. Pete was impressed with his powers of recovery. Five minutes and he was up for it again.

This time they did it doggy style; Sylvia's arse was still dripping. And soon she had a noisy orgasm. But he was in no hurry and gently rolled her over so he was sitting on the end of the bed; they were facing a mirror. She put her heels up on his knees and bounced up and down. He held her waist and looked over her shoulder. They both stared at their reflections. Another five minutes and they came together; her third orgasm. They lay back and he stayed inside her, playing with her breasts and nipples.

"So, have you done it with your husband yet?" he asked.

"Not yet."

'And you never will!' thought Pete, still incensed.

"But I thought that was the whole point." he said. "Your husband wants anal, and you're trying it with me first. Like putting a toe in the water."

"Yes, that was the plan. I figured if I didn't like it, that would be the end of the matter. but if I did, Pete and I could add it to our repertoire, so to speak."

"Well, you clearly do like it. So, why aren't you doing it with him?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you're bigger than him. And I like doing it with you."

"Suit yourself; always happy to be of service."

Now Pete was really fuming. And this guy's dick was no more than half an inch bigger. Offering her arse to another man - before him? Just to see if she liked it? And keeping up the Wednesday night pretense? She must be insane! And the guy! Like some arrogant anal expert. Perhaps he thought he could just hand Sylvia over to him.

'Here's your wife mate. You can have her browneye now - I've broken her in for you!'

His fists clenched; soon they were going to suffer.

Pete snapped back to the here and now. They were both going to the bathroom; this was his chance. Sure enough, he heard water running; they were showering together.

"Don't be long." she said. "I want a few G and T's before we go. And I won't see you next Wednesday; I'll be at the wine bar; my friends are getting suspicious."

Pete slipped out from his hiding place, tiptoed to the door and left. He knew there were no security cameras in the corridor. In the lobby, he waited till the two late shift girls were occupied, then went out the front door, unobserved. He sent a quick text message to Claire. 'All finished. Don't worry, they're both safe.'

'For the time being anyway' he thought.

Pete avoided sex with Sylvia for the next few days. He wasn't a possessive person, but felt his territory had been invaded. He relented at the weekend and they had sex. But he felt it was mechanical. Sylvia didn't seem to notice. Perhaps she was thinking of Keith. He had vague worries about getting an STI, but figured if she'd caught anything, it would probably be up her arse. And he was staying away from that!

At last it was Wednesday again and he was ready. He got home in time to set things up. He crushed one of her regular sleeping tablets into a wine glass and hid it in a high cupboard. He checked a pair of latex gloves, and a long hippy wig he'd once worn to a sixties costume party. As Sylvia arrived home, he poured two glasses of unspiked red wine, and thrust one into her hand the moment she came through the door.

"What's the celebration?" she asked.

"Big promotion at work." he lied. "We're going to be rich!"

"Wow! Well done you!"

"Thanks. Big bonus coming too."

She'd bought salmon steaks on the way, and started to steam them. Pete stayed in the kitchen and knocked up a couple of salads. He told her all about his imaginary promotion and kept topping her glass up without drinking much of his own. At one stage he surreptitiously threw his wine down the sink. The last thing he wanted was to get stopped for drunk driving. Sylvia shared his excitement and they chatted about the future throughout dinner. He made sure there was enough for two glasses left in the bottle when she went up for her shower. Now came the tricky part. He slipped into the bedroom carrying the last glasses of wine; hers was now doctored. There were her clothes in a neat row again. Donning the latex gloves, he grabbed her phone and sent a quick message to GE.

'URGENT. Meet me in Rosebush carpark 7.00. Park under the light. Do NOT reply to this.'

The moment it had been sent, he deleted it. Then he sent another message to her usual taxi company.

'Sorry, need to cancel tonight's booking.'

Finally, still wearing the gloves, he took two pairs of her sexiest panties, and a pair of hold-up stockings, from her underwear drawer, and slipped them into a plastic bag.

Sylvia came out of the shower wrapped in a fluffy towel.

"Help me finish this before you go out." he said.

She took the glass and giggled.

"You'll be getting me drunk you naughty man!"

"Good. You're going in a taxi anyway. This'll warm you up for any playboys at Emilio's."

"No way. Even if I did get chatted up, the girls would keep me in check. We look after each other."

She took a generous gulp.

"Then perhaps this will warm you up enough to try anal when you get home."

"Ha! You keep trying, don't you?"

"Sure, one day I might get lucky."

"Maybe you will at that!"

She was looking flushed; from the shower and the wine. Pete engaged her in a discussion about where they might go on holiday, now he'd be earning more money. She started to get a little woozy. He poured the last of his wine into hers

"Finish up then Sylv."

She drained it and Pete went to the kitchen, where he washed both glasses. Then he went to his computer.

He turned from his novel as she came down.

"You ok? You look a bit tired."

"I do feel tired for some reason. Never mind. I'll perk up when I get to the wine bar."

"You've got another ten minutes yet. Fancy another drink? We've still got some Baileys left. You like that."

"Not really."

Pete poured one and passed it to her. She took it but looked confused.

"I said not really."

"Oh sorry. I thought you said you would. Never mind, drink it anyway; it's cream, it'll go off if you don't. You know I hate the stuff."

She drank it. Five minutes later, she complained her taxi was not here yet, slurring her words as she did so.

"Here, give me your phone and I'll call them and see if there's a problem."

"But..."

"What? I can't see your phone?"

"No, yes, of course."

She fished it out of her bag and passed it to Pete. He scrolled through and pretended to make the call.

"They apologise; they double booked and lost your number. Should be here in a few minutes."

"OK."

He retrieved the bag with her undies, took it out to her car, and put it on the passenger seat. Timing was critical. He needed Sylvia to be out of it very soon. But back in the living room she was already under; perfect. Latex gloves on and grab the bottle of Baileys - though the police were hardly likely to take fingerprints. He poured a glass and held it to her lips.

"Come on Sylv. Taxi will be here in a moment. This'll help you wake up; it's coffee."

She drank it, still more or less asleep. A couple of minutes later Pete was carrying her out to her car, not forgetting her handbag, where he strapped her into the rear seat directly behind the driver's. He pushed the bottle of Baileys into her right hand to get her prints on it. Then threw it on the passenger seat floor, where it spilled. Lastly he put on his long wig and drove to Rosebush carpark. He parked to one side, and across from, the solitary light. Again, he had to wait, but only a few minutes. Keith pulled in, as instructed, early at 6.55, in a Mercedes Benz.

At first he just sat there, so Pete flashed the lights. Keith got half way out when Sylvia's car slid forward, making contact with him and squashing him up against the Merc. It was a perfect hit - almost gentle. His arm was reaching into the car, and was badly crushed when the driver's door shut on it. He was trapped and barely had time to scream. Pete backed away and got out. Starr was now slumped on the ground and Pete stood over him. He was slipping into unconciousness.

"You won't be using that hand to lube a woman's arse for a while." he muttered.

He grabbed Keith's phone, found 'her' message to him and deleted it. Then he sent one; it beeped in her handbag.

'Meet me at Rosebush carpark, but I will not change my mind. I will never fuck you again. I'll bring the undies you left at my house.'

Now Pete lifted Sylvia into the driver's seat, belted her in, and put her hands on the wheel. Finally he retrieved the underwear, which he put on the Merc's passenger seat.

So, what would the police find here? A married woman who had just been dumped by her lover. She'd got drunk and driven at him in a rage. She'd worn her seatbelt, and was more or less uninjured. They would breathalise her but probably not check for drugs. If they did, they would only find the prescription sleeping pills she usually used. The timing of all this would not be precise; his last phone message would be their best clue. She'd get a prison sentence for GBH - grievous bodily harm. No-one would be surprised when he divorced her while she was inside, and she'd hardly put up a fight over the settlement. Starr? He might believe she'd driven at him; even though she'd deny it. But hopefully he'd learn his lesson.

Pete straightened his wig and set off home to watch tv and down a few beers. Anyone passing might see a slim long-haired woman leaving the carpark.