Windows Bk. 02 Ch. 06

"Sylvia, I want you to come to my presentation at the school."

Ron stands there waiting for me to say something.

"You're my wife, you should be there," he adds.

Again there is something in his tone which is suggesting a hidden agenda. Obviously the headmaster will be there, and I'm sure he has got something to do with my husband's plan, so I ask.

"I assume the headmaster will be giving you the award?"

"Correct," he replies, but again he is waiting for me to ask more.

"People there will know what happened between the headmaster and me."

"Some will, and I'm sure you will be able to tell by the looks on their faces."

"He won't like me being there," I say quietly.

"You're my wife, and you're going, do I make myself clear?"

"And what if he tries it on with me?"

"He will, in fact I want you to offer it to him."

I slap my husband's face, and I get one back.

As I rub my red cheek, Ron throws a brown package down on the table. I know what it is, and my stinging cheek fades in to insignificance. I'm sat staring at the photos in the magazine.

"They haven't used them all."

"Well we did send rather a lot."

I turn over to the last page. I gasp.

"You said you wouldn't send the last one with the truncheon. I asked you not to, it looks vulgar stuck up my....."

"Sylvia, it is what the people who buy the magazine want to see. They don't care about how vulgar it looks. They want vulgar, they want to see the policewoman thoroughly degraded."

I look back at the photo, wondering if his words are true.

My poor wife's high heels echo across the wooden floor of the school hall. She's on my arm gripping it tightly. I quickly scan the eyes looking her over. I was right, the people who know about the headmaster and Sylvia, stick out like a sore thumb. The applause dies down, and the headmaster stands in front of us. He smiles at me for appearances, but deep down I know he never expected Sylvia to come along. What of course made the headmaster grind his jaw was seeing my Sylvia in the same red mini dress she wore when he assaulted her.

The presentation is made and we sit down to dinner. My pretty gazelle is seated between the two lions, myself and the headmaster. She can barely look in his direction.

As the dinner ends the headmaster stands and thanks everyone for attending. It is noticeable that he doesn't even briefly mention Sylvia at all.

I whip the napkin off her lap. I whisper to her, and then get up and move amongst the guests, accepting the congratulations on my achievement.

Great he's left me alone with this bitch. I go to stand up but something catches my eye. Her hands are slowly inching up her dress as she stares forward.

Her dress is now up showing off her bush. I look up to her face which is still looking forward, with redness in her cheeks. I don't know what the hell she is playing at teasing me like this. For the first time I notice her wedding ring in on the table, she has taken it off, like she did when I was in her house.

"Follow me to my husband's study in a couple of minutes."

I watch her pick up her wedding rings, and she dips between us to pick up her bag. Her hand rests high on my thigh, and she squeezes it briefly. I see her drop the wedding rings in her handbag.

The guest move into little groups, and I can see some of them giving my wife the odd glance, as she leaves the hall. They talk in hushed tones and it's plain to me, and I'm sure the headmaster that they are talking about what happened between him and Sylvia. I watch the headmaster stand, button up his jacket, and then leave by the same door my wife did a few minutes ago. She'll be there now, switching on the hidden cine camera and getting herself ready.

I walk in and there she is, leaning against her husband's desk. She's naked apart from her high heels. Her feet are crossed at the ankles. Her black trimmed pussy hair draws my eyes.

"My husband suggested we make up," she says quietly.

"Did he now and I suppose it has nothing to do with him wanting me to put him forward for the headmaster's job when I leave for Oxford University?"

"It has everything to do with that. I know you hate me for stopping you, and I know that is the only reason you won't back my husband to become headmaster."

"Does he know what you are offering?"

"No I just told him I wanted to talk to you, to see if I could persuade you to change your mind and back him. I know talking won't do it, so I'm offering something else."

"You're just as bad as he is. I always knew you were slut when you first started here. Your husband left you and you threw yourself at Ronald. Why should I.........." I start, and then stop talking.

She has walked up to me, and is pulling my zip down, as her lips kiss my face. She drops to her knees and pulls my trousers and pants down. I'm not having this little failed dinner lady scum dictating how things are going to go. I grab a huge hunk of her black hair, and haul her to her feet. She yelps and struggles, but I've got the wind in my sails. I rush her back to the desk and throw her on her belly.

"Nigel not so rough, you're hurting me."

"Shut up whore. Do you think you can call me Nigel when you nearly fucked up my career?"

I slam in her pussy, lifting her feet off the carpet with each thrust. She wails and screams out, but I've got my hand over her mouth now. As I fuck her, she pants and grunts and I can hear her grizzle about me hurting her. Well if she had let me fuck her the day I went to her house, then maybe I'd be a little gentler. I reach under her and grab a handful of pussy hair, and give it a sharp tug and twist. She yelps again, and I chuckle in her ear.

"Come on Mrs Smith, surely you didn't expect a nice loving fuck?"

She whimpers inaudible words into my hand, as I thrust my body against hers, sending her back and forth on the desk. Her left arm reaches back and she tries to hit me. It is such a pathetic attempt, which I would laugh at if my teeth weren't clenched. I let go of her mouth and grab her hips pulling her back, as I shove forward for the last two hard strokes.

I could do a lot more to her, but I'm spent, my anger is fighting with desire to make her pay. I pull out and pull my pants and trousers up, not sure when that asshole husband of hers is likely to turn up. She slips from being bent over the desk to the floor. I press my foot on her hand.

"You're not getting your husband the job, and you'll keep your mouth shut, or I'll tell him you came to me begging for it."

A sharp pain jolts through me, and then another. I slip to the floor and look up grabbing my side. There stands Ronald fucking Smith with his clenched fist.

I watch him go to a cupboard and pull out a camera. He puts it on his desk and taps it. He helps his wife to her feet and hands her the red fucking mini dress.

"Well it seems we have a problem headmaster. Perhaps you could reconsider while you're crouched down on the carpet, after attacking my wife?"

I pull myself to my feet still holding my side.

"Now I guess you will come to your senses, if you want that job in Oxford University. Or shall I have an edited copy of this sent there?" he says, tapping the camera.

I'm angry, but I nod realising I have no choice.

"Good man."

He smiles, and goes to the door, and then turns back.

"Shall I say you fell on the steps, headmaster?"

"Piss off Smith!"

My dear wife has never watched the film of the headmaster fucking her across my desk. I can understand that she doesn't want to. At first she was adamant she wouldn't let Nigel touch her with a barge pole. Then she asked me about the pension I would receive as a headmaster instead of just a teacher. I can see parts of myself rubbing off on my wife, and her love of money, now she has some, has made her deliciously greedy for more.

My friends have seen the film of Sylvia and the headmaster, and a few weeks later I played the part of Nigel, while my wife's friend Susan plays Sylvia. I have to keep the photos from Sylvia, and Susan has been paid well for her part.

Sylvia grows confused and I suspect annoyed that our first wedding anniversary has come and past by a few months, and I show no signs of dying. A few weeks ago she asked how I was feeling, and then last week she asked again. I have toyed with the idea of telling her that it was a lie, mainly when she is lying underneath me, to get some reaction so it doesn't feel like I'm fucking a corpse.

In truth I grow annoyed with her and her spending. I know she deserves whatever nice things she buys, but she is becoming painfully irritating wanting the latest fashions before they hit the high street.

A second anniversary arrives and passes, and she starts throwing things, telling me I've misled her. I tell my over drinking, and over eating wife that her thighs are too fat for miniskirts. She leans on the chair and spits that Terry still fucks her. She shoves a second cream horn in her fat mouth, and waddles out to the kitchen.

"We haven't done a photo shoot for 8 months now, not since Susan and I did the captured by pirates."

I tell her the boys have done a couple of shoots with Susan. Then I have to tell her why, it's because they think Sylvia has put on too much weight to be sexy. She spits back that a lot of men like women to have a bit of flesh on them.

I show her a letter from the magazine, which came when they rejected some photos of her 4 months ago. The letter states they want more photos of the blond, and they think the black haired girl is past her best. I leave her sat on the couch, hoping it will give her a kick up the ass to sort herself out.

A few months on and I have plans for a new patio, which she just huffs at, explaining she wants more important things. I've allowed her to carry on her affair with the brute next door, because being perfectly honest, the roll of fat on her belly turns me off, and she has started wearing tops with longer sleeves to hide her flabby arms.

My wife rides Terry, her muscle bound stud over my head in the master bedroom. My attentions turn to his wife, Vera. She has lost a little weight, and she looks better for it. She is nearer my age than my sulky money spending wife, and with my help Vera, could well blossom to perfection. I like her blond hair, and her full breasts, and the sympathy I received when I suggested I thought my wife was seeing someone else. Vera asked my forgiveness as she told me, she couldn't believe how much weight Sylvia has put on, and wondered who would be attracted to her now.

In truth my wife has started blackmailing Terry into bed. He actually grizzled to me that he fucks my wife in the dark now. My wife's double chin and fat ass does little to attract him, not to mention the crumbs in the bed from her midnight snacks.

Vera visited us a little while ago and as sweetly and as delicately as possible, she offered Sylvia the chance to go with her to the slimmer's club. I heard the screech from my wife, and witnessed her dragging Vera to the front door by her hair, calling her, low life council house scum.

Vera came to me a few nights ago, while Sylvia was out at a party. Vera suggested it was her husband who had been sleeping with my wife; she said she could smell Sylvia's expensive perfume on her husband's clothes. Through her tears I saw something deeper, anger, and hatred towards her husband and Sylvia. Once again she asked my forgiveness, and said after she lost weight she found it hurtful that her husband would go with my now fat wife.

She appears, my spoilt bitch of a wife, in her pink transparent nylon dressing gown, with those stupid feathers trimming the hem and cuffs. I watch the thin nylon glide behind her wobbling fat ass. She snatches the whisky from my hand, and throws it down her neck, closely followed by a chocolate from the box on the sideboard. Her hair is a mess and she gives me a nasty, "I've got what I want so fuck you" grin. She moves to the drinks cabinet, picks up the whisky bottle, and heads back to me.

She taps the top of the bottle on my chest.

"Why don't you come up and see what a real man can do to your wife. He wants more you know."

I look at her belly, and those once sexy thighs, which now seem too chunky. Her tits hang down even more. Okay they got bigger, but then again everything else has. It has been 3 years since we married, and apparently it is my fault she has put on weight. I watch her ass ripple as she walks to the door.

"Why don't you bring your camera?" she says swaying slightly.

"I haven't got a big enough lens."

I side step to the right, as an empty glass crashes against the wall behind me.

I watch out of the window as Vera comes up my path. I open the door quietly, as the lust filled cries of a woman being bedded slips down the stairs. Vera looks at the brown liquid stain on the wallpaper, and the shattered glass on the floor. She touches my cheek, and moves past me, taking the stairs slowly and quietly.

I take the top off a new whisky bottle, and then get a fresh glass. I start pouring, and then stop looking above my head. I hear one voice, my wife's, telling Vera she can explain. I hear her husband groan in pain, and then my wife pleading for her life. I pour the whisky in a glass and ascend the stairs. I hand it to the panting Vera; she sips it and then gulps it, and smiles nastily at the bodies on the bed.

We pull them down the stairs and out the back. In an hour under the moonlight, the two bodies are covered in soil, on top of which the concrete will be poured by the mixer tomorrow. I smile as I remember how I had Terry dig the out the soil yesterday, after telling him at last I was having a new patio. I smiled as the poor fucking sod dug his own and my wife's graves.

I glance over at the green house, which underneath the foundations my first wife lays. She has someone to talk to now. She planned to leave me for a doctor, well I couldn't have that.

A couple of weeks later Vera's husband's car was found at Heathrow, in it a hair brush containing a few strands of my wife's hair, and the wedding rings I gave to Sylvia. The policeman tells me, they obviously ran off together. Vera and I comforted each other, until such a decent amount of time had passed that we married. Of course I had a letter that I showed Vera about blood test results, and the news that I would be lucky to last another year, obviously not the same letter that I had shown Sylvia a few years ago, but along those lines.

Poor Vera wasn't as strong as she first appeared, she couldn't stand the thought of walking over her dead husband and Sylvia. She would wake up in a cold sweat and imagine them thumping on the floor, and calling out for her to help them. She became paranoid, which turned into a bloody headache for me. There was only one thing I could do. I sprayed a few squirts of Sylvia's favourite perfume on Vera's pillow while she was sleeping, and when she woke up to smell the perfume, Vera had a fit.

Poor Vera pressed herself in the shower in the adjoining room, trying to wash off what she thought Sylvia's ghost had sprayed on her in the night. The water was cold so I thought I'd help out, by throwing a small electrical heater to her, she caught it, and well the rest is history. She lies under my new shed, barley 3 months after our marriage.

February 2023

"Detective March, we've found four bodies in total. It looks like they have been there sometime. Maybe since the sixties or seventies, the pathologist reckons. She won't know until she gets them back to the lab for sure. I've told the guys building the new road, they can't do anything around this area for a few weeks yet."

"Who lived in house that stood here?"

"Around the time of the deaths, a Ronald Smith lived here Sir. He died quite a while ago in a stabbing, by Sean Smith, not related, but I suspect one of the victims in the garden was Sean Smith's ex wife, a Sylvia Smith, who later married Ronald.

"Where is Sean Smith now?"

"I'm afraid he too passed away a few years ago. Talking to the locals we have a strong suspicion that all three women lying out there could have been Ronald Smith's wives. Rumour has it Sylvia Smith was a porn model; Ronald himself would photograph her in various damsel poses back in the 70's. It was rumoured she ran off with a neighbour to Spain, but we reckon he and she are the bodies next to each other.

"Christ the press will have field day. Can you smell that?"

"Smell what Sir?"

"Some sort of perfume, ladies perfume."

"It must be that new WPC. She's a bit of alright. Her over there, oh she has gone. You must have seen her sir, the only one wearing a skirt and seamed hose; she was even wearing high heels. Probably a bit odd for this day and age."

"Stop blabbing and find her, and then get her over here."

"She's got lovely green eyes and black hair, good figure too. She's the one who told me what went on here. To be honest she seemed to know a hell of a lot."

"How long has she been at the station Jones?"

"She arrived today, the same moment we got the call from the men digging up the house for the new road. The workmen found the first body over there. Anyway I brought her here. She looked around and suggested we dig here, where we found the bodies of the man and woman together."

"Jones, go tell her I want a want a word with her. Well what are you waiting for?"

"Well, she's gone, I, I can't see her."

"Okay phone the station I want her back here."

"Christ where the hell have you been for the last hour?"

"No one knows anything about a new WPC. Sir, one of the guys said he saw me talking to myself in the car when I drove out the police station to go to the crime scene. He swears blind there was no one sat next to me; he said I opened the door, like I was opening it for someone to get in. I swear she was there, she got in and I shut the door."

"Jones if you're taking the piss."

"I'm not Sir, she told me she used to live around here, and she worked as a dinner lady at the school up the road for a brief time.

"Jones, how old was she?

"In her mid 20's Sir."

"Well she couldn't have worked at the school, it closed 16 years ago."

"I don't know I only moved here 6 months ago. What shall we do about her?"

"Forget about her Jones. In fact I suggest you never mention her to anyone ever again."

"But she knew a lot about what went on here, we have to find her."

A week later.

"Jones I found this old porn magazine on the internet. Is that the woman you saw?"

"My God it's her I swear it, she's even wearing the police uniform I saw the WPC in, and the exact same number WPC 69 but how the hell....."

"Jones, you were led to the grave by that woman, or rather the ghost of the woman lying in it. So just forget about the WPC you think you saw, unless you want everyone to think you've lost the plot."

The End.