The Utility Room

Contents: British English spelling and grammar throughout. Cheating wife. Revenge. Anal. Group. And it ends exactly where I want it to end.

***

The utility room

My name is Bill Sykes; like the Charles Dickens character in Oliver Twist. Thanks mum and dad; though they always called me William of course. Still, I suppose it's better than Fagin. I'm in my forties, and live in a large detached house in Richmond, a pleasant suburb of London. It was built in the 1930s, and I inherited it from my parents. Bigger than I need but hey, a house is an investment right? I can always downsize if the bubble bursts. At the moment, the bubble is intact; I own my own company which manufactures security systems, and am doing very well.

My wife is Sammi. She's quite a lot younger than me and was an office girl working for one of my first customers when I met her. In the lead up to our wedding, like most couples, we shared our histories. Her father had left when she was still a baby, and she and her mother lived in a pokey flat over a B & B pub.

Her mum, dead now, was a barmaid in that same pub and I got the impression she supplemented her income with the help of some of the customers. Sammi's childhood was definitely unsavoury. She doesn't like to discuss it much, so I leave well alone. Let's just say she brought nothing to our finances, and everything remained in my name. There was a pre-nup of course.

The sex is always great when you first get married and, for us, it stayed great. Perhaps she's a tad short in the intelligence department but, as Billy Joel wrote: 'I don't want clever conversation'. She more than makes up for that with a killer body and a pretty face. We do oral, anal, and everything else. She's adventurous and never refuses to try anything. Guess I'm just lucky.

Soon, Sammi wanted a job. We didn't need the money of course, but I've never been one of those who insists his wife stays at home. She landed a position as a receptionist in a three star hotel. It's in the commercial district, and is busiest with businessmen from Monday to Thursday night. She works the late shifts those four days, from two pm till midnight, giving her a three and a half day weekend. I went in with her on the first evening. Her colleague on front desk had been there a year, and seeing them together was like chalk and cheese, despite the identical red blazers.

Sammi is tall and slim with light auburn hair. The other girl, May, is blonde and more busty. They look like Gillian Anderson and a young Dolly Parton. Every businessman that ever stayed there must have fancied one or the other; probably both. The hotel has a resident driver for airport and train pick-ups. And he takes the receptionists home when their shift is over. Convenient, as Sammi doesn't drive; much safer too.

Turned out the guy usually got her home between twelve thirty and one, which suited our lifestyle. I'm sometimes away on business trips during the week and when I'm at home, I stay up late most nights, tweaking our software systems. Sammi puts her salary into a separate bank account, where she can do what she likes with it. She's been at the hotel four years now.

There came a a phase of home baking, as well as her job. Bread, pies, cakes, and soon she needed an extra freezer, then a dishwasher. The expense was no problem, but we were becoming cramped for space. It's a big house but the kitchen is a bit on the small side. Finally, she asked if she could have a working island to give her more preparation space. There wasn't really enough room, so we got a local company in, to design and build a utility room extension to free up space in the kitchen.

For a month Sammi was in her element, 'overseeing' the contactors every moment she could. Our attached garage is flush with the front of the house, so the utility room went straight onto the back of it. It's accessed by the original back door from the kitchen, and from the garage itself. It houses the washing machine, the extra freezer, dishwasher, and a range of cupboards. An investment really, as an integral garage and utility room add more to the value of the property than I spent on them.

All this then gave us the space needed for her precious island. The worktop, on its dining side, extended far enough to accommodate two stools under, and acted as a breakfast bar. In fact we use it for most of our meals, except when we have people to dinner.

Then, right out of the blue, I nailed my biggest client ever. They had a branch in London but their main office was down in Brighton. I visited both sites, seducing them into the sale. Sometimes I overnighted in Brighton but always made sure I got back for Thursday night, and my long weekend with Sammi.

I took a massive commission when they made their down payment, and my team started the installations. I suggested to Sammi that we invest the money in a property in Brighton; somewhere for us to weekend by the sea.

"I know your job is important to you." I said. "So we'll keep living in London and just go to Brighton when we have time off. It'll be fun. A place where we can relax. I'll line up some viewings, while I'm down there, and we can look at the best ones together at the weekends."

"OK." she said, and then went rather thoughtful.

"Something wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Yes there is, spit it out."

"Well I was thinking ... perhaps part of it could be in my name? I mean, I know it's all your money and everything, but, well, would that be all right?"

"Of course, it can be in joint names."

Not long after that everything seemed to happen at once.

My new customer wanted full training sessions in their London branch. Their system involved clocking in and out, flextime calculations, tracking personnel around the buildings, and a fire alarm system. The latter could identify who was on site and what location they were in, if the Fire Brigade was called. We broke the sessions down to mornings and afternoons over two days, all to take place on site at their London premises. The Brighton managers, fancying an extra evening in London, came up a night early. Naturally, when asked if I could recommend a hotel for them, I suggested Sammi's Excelsior. And forgot to tell her.

Remember I said it all kicked off at the same time? I got home early from their first training day. When my car was parked, the garage door rattled down and squeaked loudly. It had been doing that for weeks and was really starting to piss me off. Today I resolved to do something about it. I hunted round the garage shelves and drawers for the WD40 but couldn't find it. Sammi had complained of strange noises from the washing machine so I looked in the utility room.

I opened the cupboards; they were all full. Strange how stuff will expand to fill the space available; a bit like the way work expands to fill the working day. No sign of my blue and yellow can though. I was about to leave when something niggled me. I'd just seen something out of place, in the corner of the wall. I opened each high cupboard door again but couldn't spot anything wrong.

On the point of leaving, I returned and opened both corner units together, and there it was. They were the same size; the same width as their doors. But one of them should have been bigger, extending back to the brickwork. I tapped the underside of the void. It was the bottom of a cupboard, like the rest of them. There was no access through the tops, as they fitted flush to the ceiling. This was weird. What was in the hidden corner?

Pulling trays of icing nozzles out of the way, I discovered a finger hole, low down in one of the cupboard walls. It wasn't quite visible but I could feel it and reached round and tugged. The side popped out and I peered into the void. A torch revealed bundles of cash. I removed the top stack and counted it. Five thousand pounds in fifties. I put it back and replaced everything. Fifteen bundles in all, gave a total of a seventy five thousand pounds! In some parts of the country you could buy a house for that.

No way a contractor could have left such a large amount, it could only belong to Sammi. She must have specified this design when she was monitoring the installation. But where on earth had she got it? Stolen it from the Excelsior? I'd occasionally checked her bank statements in the past, but there had been no unusual activity. Her salary went in each month and mostly stayed put. Sometimes she bought herself something extravagant, and recently had been financing her own driving lessons. Her balance was about thirty five thousand pounds.

Next morning:

"Problem? You usually eat a big breakfast." she said.

"No, nothing. Just thinking about today's training course, it will be the Brighton managers this morning."

"Is something wrong?"

"No. It's just we've never done this amount of instruction before. Our clock-in systems now remove lunchtimes, whether staff clock out or not. Maybe it's time for me to start delegating some of the training."

"Maybe you should."

After the morning session, we broke for lunch, piling into a nearby restaurant. I sat with the two managers I'd dealt with before; James and Robert.

"Got to thank you for last night's hotel recommendation, Bill. It's fantastic!" said James.

"Glad to hear it. Are the beds comfortable?"

"We didn't really notice. I could have slept on a pile of bricks, after the entertainment. We're thanking you for those receptionists!" added Robert.

I encouraged them to share their experiences, and kept calm as they told me the details. My stomach was churning, but I did pretty well under the circumstances and, no, I didn't get an erection.

It turned out that a casual remark to the hotel barman had informed my trainees there was no need to go into Soho for girls; there was top quality sex action to be had, right there in the hotel. They could choose whichever of the receptionists they fancied; like I said, chalk and cheese. Officially, each girl took a thirty minute break for dinner. And two twenty minute breaks during her shift. Unofficially, they covered for each other for some extra time whenever necessary. So both the guys had availed themselves of what was on offer.

"Don't thank me guys. I had no idea. How much do these girls charge, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Seventyfive pounds for a bareback blowjob with swallowing. A hundred and twenty for full sex with a condom, but you can whip it off at the end and come in her mouth for an extra thirty. Two hundred and forty for anal with a condom, and the same deal for an oral finish."

"Sounds pretty reasonable for round here. I imagine management must be taking a cut."

"Apparently not. The girls told us the hotel claims they bring in so much repeat business, they let them keep it all. They will even disguise some of the cost as legit expenses. Those whores must be at it every night during the week."

"And they encourage swallowing."

"Yeah, don't want to mess up their jackets or skirts."

"So, which one did you have?"

"The shorter blonde." said Robert. "James had the tall redhead. And we're both having the tall one tonight.

She's offered us a full hour with condoms for six hundred. Any hole, spit roasting, and double penetration. We can swap places as we please and both get a swallow to finish. With a little imagination on our expenses, that's about two hundred and fifty each for all three holes. We'd be crazy to turn it down!"

"I thought you said they only got twenty minutes off."

"We've booked her for an hour till midnight. They knock off at eleven."

"I see. Won't her blonde mate get jealous?"

"Hardly; she's servicing three Arabs tonight. The girls fuck them every month on a rota basis, apparently. They would usually stay in a five star hotel, but the Excelsior whores are so popular, word is spreading. They hinted the Arabs pay more too."

I flinched a bit at 'whores' but he was right of course.

"I wonder if you could do me a favour." I asked them. "The thing is, I think I know that red haired one slightly. Do you think you might get a photo or movie of her? I'd love to see her in action."

"Doubt it. They make a big deal about turning mobiles off, and stashing them where they can be seen."

"How about if I lend you my movie camera, it's small enough to hide. Make a show of discarding your phones, and she'll trust you."

"OK. We can give it a go."

So now I know where Sammi's secret stash comes from. she's been a busy girl, and she's going to pay. It's bad enough to be married to a slut, and worse to be married to a whore. But worse still, she must have planned all this as soon as she started that job, telling me she finished at midnight. Her colleague May probably encouraged her.

On the way home, I do the maths. Say, an average of three fifty to four hundred a week? Allowing for quiet weeks and holidays; about fifteen thousand a year? But it must have taken a while to build up to that, so seventy thousand in four years seems a bit high. But then, I'm forgetting the Arab contingent. There were a few times she had come home later. Always the same excuse; extra duties for a big conference; Arab businessmen. I wondered if the driver was in on it too.

I passed the camera to my clients and that night they did a great job, propping it up against a vase of flowers. The movie got off to a good start, as my wife took off her distinctive red blazer and black pleated skirt. Under the jacket was a black shirt, which also got removed, no bra. It was all folded neatly and placed over their mobile phones. Under the skirt, were black holdups, and no panties.

I could see why guests kept coming back for more. She was unlike any prostitute I've ever seen. She smiled, she laughed, and she kissed them both, open mouths, tangling tongues; other whores don't do that. Yes, it was hard core porn all the way. Good sharp images of her being fucked in every hole. But she looked for all the world like she would have kept going even if they'd said they couldn't pay her.

And it was excellent quality, with sound, showing Sammi's face clearly. For the most part, James and Robert kept their faces away from the camera, but I blurred out anything that could have identified them anyway. Not knowing the true identity of their whore, they fucked her vigorously. Cunt and arse at the same time, as she'd promised. And they did it in every possible combination and position.

What I was looking at was a sexy woman thoroughly enjoying herself. On the one hand I admired her for the amount of money she'd made. On the other, I had to wonder why she'd done it. She'd had nothing when we married, and I'd given her everything she'd asked for. Not least, that bloody utility room to hide her extra-marital earnings in. I copied the movie onto my laptop.

Time to start making plans. She was going to pay, and end up where she'd started, with nothing. I began in a sleazy pub which a friend of a friend suggested. I was wearing a hoodie, nearly every customer was. And I knew the place had no security cameras. The greasy young man sipped his lager. He was pimply and sweating.

"Three hundred quid?" he ventured.

"Tell you what I'll do. I'll give you one hundred now, plus fifty for the petrol. Then a further four hundred, one week after the job is done. Providing it's clear that you're not going to get caught. Remember, you must nick a car, fill it with petrol, and later syphon it off into cans, and abandon the car undamaged."

"Tell me again why I have to do it that way?"

"Because every filling station in the country has security cameras. But if that car is not damaged, and the owner gets it back within twentyfour hours, nobody will need to be checking any of their videos. And if they do check, they won't see anyone filling loads of jerry cans with fuel."

"Got it."

"And don't forget. You don't need to bother with petrol upstairs. Slosh one can in each of four downstairs locations, utility room, kitchen, study - that's the one with all the books, and the bottom of the stairs."

"Over the books?

"Yes. Pull a load off the shelves and scatter them about. And do not keep the car, or try to sell it on. They've all got trackers these days. You're getting five hundred anyway. Help yourself to any cash lying around, but be quick. And leave the jewellery, it can be traced. Anything that puts you in the frame later, you're on your own."

I found the perfect second home in Brighton and my offer was accepted straight away. It was a detached Georgian house, one block back from the seafront. The previous owners had emigrated so there was no chain. Sammi accompanied me at the weekend and loved it. I ignored my usual solicitor and chose one in Brighton to go through the purchase.

The following week, I took a lot of time off. I bought about two hundred old and second hand books, from about ten different shops. I replaced all my first editions with them. As soon as Sammi had gone to work on Thursday afternoon, the removal men arrived and took away all my most precious items, including the first editions. One nondescript box from the utility room, had her cash in it. It was all sent to a storage facility in Brighton.

I bought some gloss paint, on the pretext of painting the utility room. The last thing I did in was open the utility room window a crack. I thought that was a nice touch, as it was new and not yet alarmed. I frequently had to remind Sammi to close it properly. When all was ready, I waited for her to get home from work and we went to bed.

Early on Friday morning, we set off for Brighton. We viewed the house for the second time, and booked into a nice hotel. After lunch, we drove over to the solicitor's to complete the paperwork. On the way there, I presented her with my grand idea.

"I've been thinking about the part ownership of this new house Sam."

"Go on."

"Recently, I've been picking up lots leads in Brighton and need to be here for some months. So I've arranged to buy this place exclusively in my name. And when get back to London on Monday, we'll sign over the Richmond house to you."

"Really? It's worth more than the Brighton house."

"I know, but it makes sense for you to own that one. It's got your utility room and if anything ever happened to me you'd need to stay near your job."

"Thanks love."

"You're worth it babe."

There really would be more work coming out of Brighton. But everything else was bullshit. Thus, our new house was in my name only, with a couple of watertight clauses, which were skipped over when we signed. That night we had spectacular sex.

Next morning, we both had the full English breakfast. As we were on the last of the coffee, two police officers appeared, one male, one female. Talk about good timing.

"Mr and Mrs Sykes?"

"Yes?"

"I'm Sergeant Matthews and this is Constable Wilson. I'm afraid we have some bad news. Shall we sit here, or would you prefer to go back to your room?"

Most of the guests had left and the dining room was almost empty.

"Here is fine. I'll order more coffee."

"You live at 27 Willow Crescent, Richmond?"

"We do."

"I'm afraid there was a fire there in the early hours of this morning. Your next door neighbour was evacuated and told us where you work. This morning, your secretary told us you were here."

Sammi and I both asked a question at the same moment.

I said: "Was anyone hurt?"

She said: "How much was damaged?"

I don't think the officers read anything into that. The man answered that no-one was hurt. And his colleague said as far as they knew virtually everything had been destroyed. Sammi paled.

"Did you have much of value?"

"I have a collection of rare first editions in my study." I replied. "Well 'had' by the sound of it. Everything's insured of course, but they're irreplaceable."

They looked at Sammi.

"Um, nothing special of mine; just clothes."