64 comments/ 58138 views/ 37 favorites A Perfect Crime By: oldiethevoyeur "A Perfect Crime" is a story of pure fiction. There is no connection in the real world to any persons either living or dead and any similarities to such are absolutely unintentional. Please Note:- NO-ONE IN THE STORY PARTICIPATING IN ANY FORM OF SEXUAL ACTIVITY IS UNDER THE AGE OF 18 ***** A Perfect Crime (Or maybe just a happy ending) Hello! My name is John Grant. I am now well into the autumn of my life and feel the need to unburden myself with a confession of a terrible crime before I finally fall of my perch. This is my story. * * * Prologue I married my childhood sweetheart when we were both 21. We had been a couple from our early teens and I always thought we'd be together for the rest of our lives. Sadly this story resulted from the fact that my wife, the love of my life; my soul-mate, as I had thought at the time, obviously had a different opinion. * * * * * Chapter 1 We both grew up and lived until we were in our twenties in a typical close-knit small town of about 12,000 inhabitants. About 10 miles or so from one of England's major cities, it was the kind of place where everyone seemed to know everyone else's business. You maybe know the sort of town I mean. A kid couldn't do anything without his parents finding out from some interfering busybody or other. Any misadventures or slight misdemeanour's got back to your parents, often before you had even returned home yourself. Because it was off the beaten track slightly, yet also on a main railway line, our town was a very desirable place to live for people wanting to work in the big city but not live there. This led to house prices being way above the norm for the area and caused the problem of young locals getting married and not being able to afford a decent-sized house near their families and the friends they grew up with. That in itself created a separate problem: Splitting the town between 'locals' and newcomers who viewed living there as a stepping stone to somewhere better. The school we were both attending when we met was one of those large, purpose-built secondary-modern establishments that had sprung up around the country in order to cater for the war-baby bulge. Intended to accommodate kids from several nearby villages, it was cold, impersonal, and full of inter-village rivalries amongst its pupils. Large class sizes meant teachers only seemed to want to bother with kids who were willing to toe-the-line and do as they were told- not suited to my inbuilt rebellious streak at all. All in all, I grew up in a claustrophobic and lonely environment for any teenager to be a part of as I stumbled through my early years with no friends, a family that 'didn't understand' me and teachers who couldn't give a damn about me. And I fucking hated it!... * * * That is, until I met Claire. Claire was always a beauty. Slim and naturally fit, she couldn't help but draw attention from any self-respecting heterosexual male, even from her first blossoming into puberty. She had absolutely no idea at first of the affect she had on anyone who met her as she was going through her early teens. An effervescent, naturally friendly little girl who rapidly developed into a popular and beautiful young woman, everyone who ever had the joy of meeting her was totally entranced by her. Boys fell in love with her. Girls wanted to be like her, seemingly without any of the petty jealousies you would expect from others not as blessed as her. Her whole personality and general demeanour meant absolutely no-one disliked her. From her peers right up to her teachers, everyone would try to associate themselves with her, assuring she was always the centre of attention wherever she went. Me? - I always thought I was pitching way above my weight when Claire and I got together. It was strange that she and I ever connected at all, what with being as totally different as we were. She was my first girlfriend and I was absolutely enamoured by her. Totally besotted I will freely admit. She had apparently grown tired of me just shyly ogling her from afar and, one cold and crisp autumn day, amazed me when she suddenly appeared at my side as I sat alone at school lunch time. I didn't really have any friends back then, so being alone at lunchtime was not exactly unusual at that time of my life. She just started talking to me as though we were old friends, putting this stroppy, shy youth completely at ease with her naturally friendly disposition as she proceeded to inquire why I had never asked her out. To say I was gob-smacked was to say Mount Everest is a bit of a hill in Nepal. Within half an hour, we were holding hands and walking back into school like some star-crossed lovers. * * * Personally, I was nothing special back then, apart from being exceptionally tall for my age that is- I was over 6 foot when I was just 14. Other than that, I was a typically 'spotty' youth, full of attitude and surliness toward my long-suffering parents and any other form of authority that 'dared' to try to limit my life. Inevitably, that obnoxiousness would lead to me being punished in one form or another and I seemed to spend my early teens either in detention, or worse, at school- corporal punishment was still allowed in schools back then- or it led to me being 'grounded for evermore' at home by my despairing parents. Unfashionably long hair, skinny white body, heavy smoker, under-age drinker, I was the archetypal 'bad-boy' that for some inexplicable reason some so-called nice girls seem to be attracted to. In my early teens, I was perpetually in trouble. Inexorably and totally unable to back down in any shape or form, I always seemed to turn a discussion into a disagreement, a disagreement into a full-blown argument, an argument into a fight, a fight into a vendetta. You know the sort of insolent young twat I mean. You've all met them and wanted to give them a good clip round the fucking ear, no doubt. Consequently, Claire and I became an item. We were both 15 at the time and our two sets of parents had totally opposite views on the situation. Understandably, hers were appalled and disgusted. They couldn't for one millisecond understand why their beautiful, intelligent daughter should ever want to be seen dead with an out-of-control yob like me. Her solid, conservative father hated me. Her mother? Well she was probably a little frightened of me as well as hating me, (although I always had the impression she knew what her daughter was attracted to). My parents on the other hand were delighted. They saw the lovely Claire as an influence who would help get my life on track and make me settle down, make me grow-up if you like. I was very much the youngest sibling in my family, having come along as a complete and utter shock to my parents who were both in their early forties by the time I arrived on the scene. My father had been fortunate to not have to fight in either of the world wars- too young for the first, too old for the second he told me. I had one sister who was 22 years older than me, and also a younger one who was just 18 when I was born. The pair of them had been land-army girls in the second world war and had both married ex-servicemen. Both my parents admitted freely over the years, that if I hadn't had been the son my dad had always wanted, they would probably have been tempted to have me adopted and put the experience behind them, settling for the two girls they loved and adored and could afford. The strangest thing to my young mind though, was the fact that my eldest sister and her husband had twin girls the year before I was born, resulting in the embarrassing circumstance that I had two 'nieces' who were both a year in front of me at school. Try explaining that to piss-taking so-called school friends. No wonder I turned into such an introverted, rebellious prick back then. Sadly, but probably understandably, I turned out to be such a bitter disappointment as a teenager to all concerned. * * * Claire was an only child. She too, was a fairly late arrival; her mother was almost 30 and her father 33 when she was born. Not particularly old by today's standards, but, back then anyway, most couples had started their families much earlier in their lives. Her mother loved her dearly, but her father, her dear old dad, well it has to be said, he absolutely doted on her and spoiled her rotten. A state of affairs that no doubt contributed to the eventual problems in mine and Claire's marriage later on. Despite all her father's attempts to dissuade her, Claire and I became a union that wasn't for breaking. We would meet on every available occasion, and, as my parents had hoped, she became a wonderful influence on me. She persuaded me to change my attitude on life, and school in particular, encouraging me to study and knuckle down to try to pass my exams. Neither of us were college material though. We weren't thick by any means, but nor were we 'A' grade students. Claire had always seemed destined to go work for her father. He owned a few furniture shops spread across the local area, and that's exactly what happened. She started as a trainee after leaving school at 16 and, by the time she reached 21, she was managing one of the larger shops of the chain. I too had left school at 16, and, through a friend of my dad, had started an apprenticeship as an auto mechanic with the local Jaguar franchise. It turned out I was actually very good at it, having a natural talent for diagnostics, (this was way before it was all done by computers) and I soon became a well-valued and integral part of the workshop. Happy that I had finally got my life on track, both my parents were delighted when I told them I was going to ask Claire to marry me as soon as I graduated as a full-fledged mechanic and started earning a skilled man's wage. Claire's parents on the other hand? Well, let's just say it wasn't the most agreeable night I had ever had when I asked her father if I may take his only daughter as my wife. Actually he went fucking berserk, threatening to give me a 'fucking good hiding' if I didn't get out of his house immediately. Now, as a way of introducing discipline and anger management into my life, my dad had suggested I start taking Karate and Judo lessons when I was 14. I had taken to them as a duck to water and had been a junior black belt in both of the disciplines by the time I was 16, - the only person at the time to reach that standard in both martial arts by that age in the whole country - consequently, there would be no way in hell a fat, podgy, middle-aged man would ever have the wherewithal to throw me out of anywhere if I didn't want to go. I was 6'3 by that time and had started to develop a lean, muscular and very, very strong body. Claire's dad was only about 5'8 or so. Consequently, as he stood in front of me, red-faced and screaming all the vitriol he could muster, I was looking down at him from a position of dominance as he comically tried to intimidate me. Thankfully, the emotional control I had learned in those intervening years enabled me to calmly do as he demanded, leaving with a promise from Claire's mum, Gwen, that she would talk to him and try to make him see that his daughter and I were in love and he would surely alienate his little girl if he persisted with his attitude toward me. Gwen miraculously managed to come good with her promise and Claire and I were married a few months later in front of my delighted parents and siblings and Claire's scowling but reluctantly agreeable father. Gwen actually shed quite a few tears, gripping me tightly as she hugged me after the ceremony and whispering softly that whatever happened in the future with me and her daughter, I would always be welcome in her house, and she hoped we would always be 'family'. If only I had known just how poignant those quiet words would prove to be... Chapter 2 It had actually been quite a few years after we first got together that Claire and I had consummated our relationship sexually. We were both young and naïve back then, not knowing anything at all about sex other than what we had learned in biology class. We had no idea what 'oral' sex was about, or any other form of deviance from what had been explained to us as 'normal'. Even if we had, I think we would have been far too nervous and shy to try anything like that. Instead, for over three years, until we were both 18, we gradually escalated our tentative teenage fumbling up to the point where we both agreed to go the final step and physically seal our love for each other. * * * As we were both technically 'virgins', I didn't want our first time to be anything other than spectacular for the love of my life. I didn't want the usual back seat of a car, or rushing to get it over with before we were discovered by either sets of parents. Instead I wanted it to be 'romantic' and memorable for her, not something she would ever look back on with regret. Eventually I saved up enough money to enable me to book a lovely room at a small hotel miles away from where we lived. And so, on the pretext to both sets of parents of spending the night individually at a friend's house, we finally, and ever so enthusiastically, consummated our love. After waiting as long as we had done to physically enjoy each other, we were both understandably keen to get down to the nitty-gritty as it were. We had seen each other naked many times before that wonderful night. Consequently our mutual, impatient lust inevitably overcame any nerves either one of us may have had, dispelling even the faintest possibility of any awkward shyness between us as we undressed each other lovingly in our softly-lit bedroom, almost ripping each other's clothes off approximately 30 seconds after we had entered the scene of our eagerly anticipated sexual consummation. My God she was beautiful. Her alabaster white body was flawless. From her elegant neck, down past her gorgeous, tennis-ball sized breasts with their slightly-upturned pink, hard little nipples, over her smooth, flat stomach to the zenith of my desire. Her long, beautifully-shaped legs met at a junction so gorgeous I almost exploded just at the sight of her. Back in those days, girls didn't shave or wax down there. Instead, and you can check if you look up photos of naked women from that era, there would usually be a luxuriant bush covering the genitals of most females. Claire, however was a natural blond and, although not trimmed in any way, her pussy was only covered by a sparse gathering of soft, pale fuzz enabling her swollen labia, wet with anticipation, to be exposed to my lustful gaze. Smiling seductively, she approached my nakedness as I stood open-mouthed in admiration of her beauty. Grasping the hair at the back of my head, she pulled my mouth to hers, kissing me with increasing fervour as our tongues fenced and wrestled with each other. Taking my rock-hard, almost painful erection in her tiny hand, she used the convenient handle to lead me to the bed where she pulled me on top of her as she reclined on her back, her legs opening and spreading her womanly charms as she welcomed my eager body to hers. We had discussed our intended love-making thoroughly as we had made plans for the evening and Claire had been on the pill for several weeks before the actual event. She'd obtained them from a family-planning clinic in a nearby town as she didn't trust her family doctor not to tell either of her parents that she was using birth control. I knew then that all was taken care of as I rubbed my hard tip against her soft lips, using her wetness to lubricate myself as I had read in a book I had bought on how to seduce a woman for the first time. After a few minutes, and much more swapping of soft, open-mouthed kisses, Claire reached between us and took my throbbing penis in her hand. Carefully placing the tip at the entrance of her pussy, she gently raised her hips slightly, causing me to slip into her warmth for the first time ever. Not all of me, just about an inch, as she hugged me tightly and stared lovingly directly into my eyes "Now my darling, I'm ready," she whispered up at me. Gently I pushed my hips towards her, entering her a little more with each slow stroke until I reached the obstruction we both knew was the guardian of her virginity. As we gazed lovingly into each other's eyes, my darling took a few deep breaths and raised her hips forcefully at the same time as pulling my clenched buttocks down towards her. "Oh my God!..." Her softly murmured words were accompanied by a small tear running down her cheek as she hugged me to her. "Shit...I'm so sorry sweetheart," I gasped as I immediately withdrew, "I didn't mean to hurt you." Grinning up at me, she replied, "Oh my darling, you didn't. It's just so... so fucking awesome. Now get him back in me and fuck my brains out." Shocked by her words, as she hardly ever swore and certainly not 'strong' language, I gently pushed back inside her welcoming warmth. I suspected I wouldn't last very long- it was my first time after all, so I went as slowly as possible. "Mm-mm... So good," she gasped as she dug her fingers into my tensed backside and pulled me as far inside her as she could. I'd like to say that I fucked her for hours, bringing her to several orgasms before we finally 'fell off the cliff' together in a monumental, mutual climax; however, what really happened was what happens to every man on their first time I suspect. I came, flooding her with my hot cum as my cock pulsed inside her, succumbing to my excitement at finally making love properly to the woman of my dreams. My darling future wife lay there, gazing up at me lovingly as she hugged and kissed me. "I'm sorry...I couldn't...It was so wonderful..." I whispered. She ignored my apology and continued to move slowly beneath me, seeming to squeeze my intruding phallus even tighter than before. "My God I love you..." she breathed in-between kisses. My cock never softened one iota, (I was only 19 after all). Still firmly embedded in its warm sheath, it became even harder than before, pulsing and throbbing inside her as she ground her hips sensuously against me. My carnal thrusts started again. Slowly at first but then ever-more fervently as my passion rose once more. Below me, Claire began gasping repeatedly, grunting sexily as my rhythm increased. "Fuck me...Ooh my God, Yes...Fuck me hard..." A team of wild horses attached to my hips by chains couldn't have stopped me acceding to her demands at that moment. We became as one, welded together by our sweat and closeness. All too soon I felt my hot seed rising from deep within me once more as our mutual love and desire drove us to the ecstasy of our impending climaxes. "Oh Fuck... I can't..." I panted "Yesssss," my sweetheart screamed, "Oh God, Yesssss!" Once again my thick cum shot from me and deep into my lover's clasping body. Once more flooding her as it joined our previous juices. This time however, it was all too much for her tight, virginal passage to hold onto. Our combined love-fluids were squeezed from the confines of her gripping vagina by our vigorous coupling as our thighs became coated with the sticky residue of our first ever fuck. I slowly extracted myself from my lover's arms as my slightly-softened cock slid from her with an audible 'squelch'. We lay there, each in our own little world as we reclined on our backs. Gasping much needed air back into our lungs, we held hands as our bodies moulded against each other, our mutual love not requiring any words. A Perfect Crime Eventually Claire managed to raise herself up onto her elbows, laughing as she surveyed our love-soaked loins and the sticky mess on the bed-sheet between her legs. "Oops... That will take some cleaning up," she chortled I joined her on my elbows and looked at the scene she was laughing at, "I think we'll need to change the sheet," I laughed. "Oh, I don't think so, not yet anyway," she replied as she reached down and gripped my soft, sticky cock in her hand. "I've much more use for this big fella. I want to make soooo much more mess..." Rolling onto my side to face her, I placed my hand over her battered pussy and pushed two fingers deep into the swamp that was her sex. "You're such a naughty girl," I whispered as I pulled her hard nipple into my mouth and gently bit down on it... * * * We never made it down to dinner that night. Instead, we 'fucked ourselves sore', as my little angel so delicately put it. Every time one of us woke up through the night, we would attack the other, resulting in an almost continuous bout of sex for over 12 hours. Eventually, we just had to get up and check out of the hotel, laughing and giggling together as we threw the, by then, disgusting sheets into the wash basket. As we left our room, we bumped into an old couple just exiting the one next door. The look of disapproval on the old dear's face, combined with the furtive envious glance from her husband was priceless and caused us both to have another fit of giggles as we ran downstairs to reception. After our initial night of 'virginal sacrifice', we, of course, took every opportunity to fuck. Any time, any place, we satisfied our lust for each other, and although we never seemed to match the excitement and absolute love of that fabulous first time, it was never less than wonderful. Chapter 3 We'd been happy in our marriage at first. Although, as it eventually transpired, it seems I had been much happier than my wife. I had managed to make foreman at work, meaning a substantial rise in wages. Claire's father had increased her salary when we married, I'm sure with the intention of making me feel inferior to my wife, so in theory anyway, we had no money problems to hinder and impinge on our happiness as many other newly-married couples obviously do. Despite the fact Claire was bringing home much more money than I was, the majority of the household expenses, mortgage, electric, gas, etcetera were paid by me. I didn't mind that. In fact, in my eyes anyway, that was my role in our marriage: provider and protector if you like. Old-fashioned I know, but just the way I had been brought up. All of those financial contributions by yours truly meant that Claire was left with a great deal of disposable income to spend just as she liked. She willingly took advantage of that, always having trendy, designer clothes and shoes. Oh my God, so many shoes. Her father also bought her (as a company car of course) a brand new E-Type convertible from the dealership where I worked. Again, I am sure he did it purposely to try to humiliate me in the eyes of my workmates. To be fair to her, she also bought me many expensive presents. A Rolex for my birthday; designer suits; even hand-made shirts. All the trappings not usually associated with a foreman car mechanic. I, in turn, had completely renovated our little cottage, adding an extension and turning it into a good-sized family home we could be proud of, or so I thought. I first began to notice a change in Claire after we had returned from a holiday in Spain. Back then, there wasn't the cheap sort of package holidays around that are readily available now so she had paid for it out of 'her' money. Again I didn't mind, all my spare cash was going into our home so if we wanted a holiday, she had to pay. We stayed at a quite posh hotel in Barcelona, close to all the vibrant night-life and glorious beaches that wonderful city had to offer. We had become friendly with another couple our age that we'd met in the hotel bar on our first night there. At first I was OK with them, but after a few days of listening to how much their house in London was worth; how much money they earned in their 'wonderful' jobs, I soon became bored with them and didn't hesitate to tell Claire. I didn't really want to fraternise with them at every opportunity the way she obviously did. I was amazed when she flew off the handle at me, complaining that I was just a stick-in-the-mud who was quite happy to remain where I was and not try to get on in life as her dad had. I was stunned. Up to then I had had no idea whatsoever that my wife was dissatisfied with our life together. I felt safe in the knowledge that we were 'soul-mates' who wanted all the same things from our marriage, like a lovely home with maybe a couple of kids later on. How wrong I was... * * * It became quite obvious after our return home that my lovely bride was nowhere near as happy with our way of life as I was. Brought up by her doting father to have almost anything her little heart desired provided for her at the drop of a hat, she couldn't see any reason why we had to save for anything we wanted. If she wanted something, she wanted it now. Not in a few months or years when we could afford it, but NOW! Her father didn't help. He would still buy her anything she asked for, even though that responsibility should have been mine once we were married. I had adamantly refused his offer of buying us a brand new house on the 'desirable' estate development he insisted his daughter deserved to live on. Instead, I agreed that we would reluctantly accept him paying the deposit on our first home, but only if we had a mortgage we could afford on my income alone. Of course, working for her father as she was, Claire's salary was much higher than that of a humble car mechanic, and didn't her father let me know it. He would take every opportunity whenever we were together to 'snipe' away at me. Doing his best to undermine my relationship with his daughter. Still trying to split us up, even though we were 'happily' married, or so I thought. This of course led to resentment on my part and increasingly more vociferous arguments between my wife and myself. Frustrated by our constant bickering, I threw myself into my martial arts training. Four or five times a week, I would either be at the gym or running around the country lanes surrounding our little town. Inevitably I suppose, this led to an ever-increasing rift with my wife. She started going out with her single friends when I was training during the week, only going out with me at the weekend when we would go to a good restaurant for a meal, or a club for a night of drinking and dancing. Even though we were by then leading fairly separate social lives, our home life was still good. In-between the petty arguments we still laughed a lot, we still talked, and as for the sex? WOW! Consequently then, it never crossed my mind that our marriage was actually in deep trouble. That is until that day. The day that spelled the end of my idyllic life as I knew it. The day that destroyed my life. Destroyed me... * * * Looking back now, I remember every second of that horrible, fateful day. I had arranged to pick up a customer's car for service that involved driving past our house. As I always left home before Claire, and before the post had arrived, I thought I would call in and have a cup of coffee while I checked if an important letter I'd been waiting for had arrived. If only I had not been so impatient, my life could have been so different. I let myself in and picked up the post before going through to the kitchen and putting on the coffee machine. I much preferred proper coffee back then to the instant crap we drank at work. Noticing the 'message waiting' light flashing on the brand-new phone answering machine my wife thought we desperately needed, I flicked the switch as I looked through the post for my letter. Not really paying attention to the message, it was a few seconds before I realised it was playing back a conversation that involved my wife and a man's voice I didn't recognise in the slightest. It would appear, as I found out later, that if you picked up the phone at the exact moment the answer-machine kicked in, it recorded both sides of the complete conversation. That was obviously what had happened. That was the small technical fault that ruined my life. I stopped the replay and started it from the beginning again, wondering if it was something important. Hello, Hi sexy, Hello stud, how are you? Great. Just ringing to thank you for last night. It was great. Oh yes?... Well I thought it was wonderful too. I've never done that before. Always thought it was only for Puffs. I never knew it would feel so... Mm-mm I love it, always have. It's so fucking dirty... Do you do that with your 'needle-dick' husband? Oh my God no! He'd never want to do anything like that. Just jump on, Jump off. That's him. I thought I would have been too big to fuck you back there, but your little arse just swallowed all of me. I know, I'm getting wet just thinking about it, although I am still a little sore back there. We'll have to do it again the next time we meet. I love your pussy and your mouth, but now I've fucked your arse... You can fuck off if you think you are going to stick that thing in my backside every time we meet. It's a special treat I reserve for men I like with big cocks. Oh, you think I have a big cock then? You know you have, you smug bastard. You bragged about it all the time when you were chatting me up. Was I right? Is it the best you've ever had then? Maybe. Maybe not. That's my little secret. Anyway lover, I have to get off to work. Will you be there next week? Oh fuck yes! I want more of you, you sexy fucker you. Well, I'll have to see if I get a better offer. Bitch! Prick! See you soon. Bye. I couldn't believe what I had just heard. I dropped my coffee cup and slumped to the floor with my back against the wall, shaking with shock and disbelief. What had I just heard? My wife? No, it couldn't be... Could it? Not the love of my life surely. I stood again, tottering slightly as I raised myself. Pressing the 'play message' button once more, I again listened to my wife's filthy conversation with a stranger. Was it a joke? No, of course not. She would have no idea she had been recorded... Oh Fuck!!... * * * I again listened to the sickening tape, paying careful attention to what had been said this time. What did she mean? Needle-dick? Jump on, jump off? I was 6'3 and much more than adequately built in proportion. How the fuck was I a 'needle-dick'? Our love-life was great. We occasionally had a 'quickie', but more often than not, we would spend ages making love until we were both satisfied, or so I thought. My mind was racing, trying to take in her words. They were talking about anal sex too. The few damn times I had tried that on, she had made it quite clear it was definitely off the menu. Now she was discussing having her arsehole plugged by a 'big' cock that wasn't mine- and how much she fucking well loved it. Wait. "I've always loved it," she'd said. It wasn't her first time. How many other men had she allowed access to something that she'd always denied me, her loving, faithful husband? "We'll have to do it again the next time we meet." How fucking long had this affair been going on? "See you next week," She obviously intended it to continue. "Unless I get a better offer." Was it a regular thing? Did she fuck other men than him? My mind was in turmoil. So many thoughts and images running through my brain. Up to then I had thought I had a wonderful, happy marriage, admittedly with a few ups and downs along the way, but no more than any other couple surely. Now I find that my beautiful, faithful wife had been damn well fucking around with anyone who happened to take her fancy. Shaking with rage, I rang work and told one of the other mechanics he would have to pick up the customer's car, snapping, "Mind your own fucking business," when he enquired why. I then cleaned up the mess from the kitchen floor and once again listened to the tape. I was still sitting there, my inner rage hardly abated, when my loving wife arrived home from work several hours later. "Hi sweetheart," she said happily as she bent to kiss my cheek when she found me in the kitchen. I glared back at her, breathing deeply as I tried to keep my temper in check. "Who is he?" I asked quietly. "Who's who darling?" She replied, going to the fridge and getting a can of diet Coke. "WHO THE FUCK IS HE? YOU CHEATING BITCH..." This time she stopped, still facing away from me as her shoulders slumped. I pressed the 'play' button once more. Once again the sounds of their voices filled the room. I just managed to hear a murmured "Oh fuck" as she turned toward me, her face looking anxiously towards the tape machine. "I won't ask you again. WHO THE FUCK IS HE?" I demanded. Taking a deep breath and pulling herself up to her full height, she said firmly, "I don't fucking need this in my life." With that, she turned and left the kitchen, leaving me to glare after her. Seconds later, I heard the front door slam followed by the sound of her car engine starting, then the wheels screeching as she obviously sped away at maximum speed. Chapter 4 I never heard from her again. Oh I tried to get in touch with her of course, especially when I was served with the divorce papers citing my alleged 'mental cruelty' as the reason for her leaving me- her damn father's idea no doubt. Every time I tried to ring her at her parents house I was informed by him that I was no longer part of his daughter's life and to keep away from his family or else. After several failed attempts to reach her, I was eventually served with a 'restraining order' preventing me from trying to contact her or her family again, and not allowing me within five hundred yards of them as they feared for their safety because of my martial arts skills and my well-known temper. That was all bollocks of course. No way I would have physically harmed her, I just wanted to find out what had happened that caused her to no longer love me. Her father? Different matter. I would gladly have kicked the shit out that interfering prick. * * * After she had stormed out of the house, I'd rung work and explained to the boss that I needed some time off urgently. He was not happy, complaining that we were far too busy for me to suddenly take a holiday. Eventually he reluctantly agreed, but only after I threatened to leave completely if he didn't. I told him I had things to do- personal things - and that I'd be back at work in about 2 weeks. The majority of that downtime I spent moping around the house and feeling sorry for myself as I continuously wondered what the fuck had happened. Trying to ring mys or, I'm sorry to say, drinking alone until I passed out, occupied most of my waking hours as I rapidly turned into a drunken mess. Toward the end of my self-imposed solitude, I heard the doorbell ring early one evening. I was sat in the TV room with a nearly empty bottle of scotch in one hand and the TV remote in the other. I was not really watching some inane rubbish that was on the large monstrosity my dear wife had insisted we buy, as I drunkenly cursed her, her father and everyone else who fucking knew her. Hoping beyond hope that it was my wife returning to me so she could explain it had all been a mistake and she still loved me dearly, I staggered to the door and opened it to find, not my wife, but my mother, Gwen. "Oh my God, John. Look at the state of you." She exclaimed, her face showing her shock as she pushed past me into the hallway and slammed the door behind her. "Good grief son, you look a right mess." "What the fuck do you want? And where's my fucking wife?" I snapped, obviously shocking her with my foul-mouthed drunkenness. "There's no need for that sort of language. It's not like you at all." my mother replied sternly. "Sorry," I mumbled, suitably chastened by the woman I had always liked and admired, "I just want to know where she is so we can sort all this out." Sitting down in a fireside chair, she suddenly burst into tears. "Oh John dear, I'm so sorry. I don't know what's come over her; I had no idea anything was wrong, why she felt she needed to leave you. I'm so sorry, but it appears she's adamant that your marriage is over and she wants a divorce. She's gone away on a holiday somewhere. I'm so sorry, I really am..." she sobbed. "Hey, it's not your fault," I replied as I sat on the chair arm and put my arm around her, "There's no need for you to get so upset." Leaning her head on my arm, she answered, "Oh I don't know. Perhaps if I had been stronger when she was growing up and not let her father spoil her, perhaps she would have appreciated more what a good man she had. Maybe not been so keen to have everything her own way." "Is that what it was? Did I not give her everything she wanted? Bloody hell... I don't know what more I could have done. I thought she was happy. She never mentioned she wasn't... Never!..." I replied. "I know you did, sweetheart. Compared with what I have, you are a brilliant husband. She's just so... so FUCKING stupid!..." Wow! I'd never heard that lovely, mature lady use any sort of swearing before, certainly not the 'F' word. I was shocked, but for some strange reason I started laughing as I hugged her close. "There's no need to swear you know," I laughed, mocking her previous admonishment of me for doing the same thing. "Oh fuck off," she laughed back, wiping her tears from her cheeks. "By the way," she continued, extricating herself from under my armpit, "You absolutely stink... Now go have a shower and shave while I clean up the mess you've made of your lovely house." I did as ordered, standing under the hot water until it ran cold. Then staying there until I was shivering, in an attempt to sober up quickly. It worked, sort of. About an hour later I walked back downstairs, clean and dressed in fresh clothes for the first time in days. Still with a slight buzz, but also the makings of a monumental headache starting in my throbbing brain. I found Gwen in the freshly-tidied kitchen, holding a mug of coffee as she sat at the breakfast bar. "Here, you look as though you need this more than I do," she smirked as she passed the steaming mug to my trembling hands. "Have you had anything to eat? Other than the other half of the pizza that was upside down on the living room carpet, that is." Trying to remember, I replied, "I don't think so. I haven't been in the mood." "Idiot...That won't do you any good. Now go sit down while I make you something." She ordered, pushing me back out of my kitchen toward the living room. I noticed the slightly-sickly smell of freshly sprayed deodorant as I sat on the sofa and drank the strong black liquid. My headache was getting progressively worse as I continued to sober up, causing me to feel ill. I couldn't help myself, I needed to throw up if I was going to feel better. I went to the downstairs loo and, after pushing a couple of fingers down my throat, deposited the acrid-smelling contents of my stomach down the pan. A Perfect Crime "Feel better now?" Gwen asked as I returned to the living room to find her sat back in the chair. "Think you can keep that down?" She asked, pointing to the bowl of chicken soup and noodles on the coffee table. I nodded, smiling embarrassedly, just happy that the movement no longer made me feel sick, "I can only try, thank you." "OK. I'll get off now. Come round to our house tomorrow lunchtime and I'll make you a proper meal." "You don't have to do that. I can manage," I protested. "Maybe I don't, but I want to. OK?" "OK," I replied, "What about Frank though?" "Oh, he'll be at work until after 8pm, so there's no need to worry about that old so-and-so," she laughed, as she put her coat back on and made her way to the front door. "Now eat that soup, get yourself to bed, and we'll have a good chat tomorrow. OK?" Chapter 5 After a good 12 hours sleep, I was finally feeling better when I pulled into mys drive the following day exactly as I had been ordered to. Gwen opened the door before I had the chance to ring the bell and pulled me inside. "I'm so glad you decided to come. I really am sorry you know. I can't let that stupid girl deprive me of the son I never had can I?" She said as she walked in front of me toward the living room. "I got the impression I didn't really have a choice," I laughed in return. As I followed my mother down the hallway, I noticed for the first time how short and tight the skirt she was wearing was. Much sexier than her 'normal' attire. Puzzled, I followed her into the room and sat opposite her as requested. Now that I could see her upper body properly, I was pleasantly surprised to notice how her blouse was much tighter than she would normally wear too, and shock of shocks, the clearly-visible nubs of her nipples made it quite obvious she wasn't wearing a bra. Her face was made up carefully too. And her hair. Normally tied in a ponytail, it was brushed out and flowing down to her shoulders. She smiled nervously as she caught me staring at her chest. Leaning back into her sofa, she crossed her legs, affording me a tantalising glimpse up her skirt toward her thighs and exposing the edge of the black lace of stocking tops in the process. I felt myself blushing. I had never had any sexual feelings toward my mother- well not that I would admit anyway - and yet there I was, staring openly at her and feeling the first stirrings of excitement in my groin. She lowered her eyes from mine, nervously pulling at her shoulder-length hair. "I listened to that message yesterday when you were upstairs having a shower. I'm so sorry John, I really am. I'm thoroughly ashamed of my daughter. How could she do that to you? How could she do those things with another man?" Embarrassed, I grimaced at her, "I don't know Gwen. I thought she was happy..." "I did too," she replied stern-faced, "She always was a wilful girl, but I don't know what the fuck has come over her." I again grinned in shocked surprise as she once more used language I was not used to hearing from her. "Oops...sorry. I know I shouldn't swear. She's just made me so...fucking mad!..." she went on, her face reddening with embarrassment. We burst into laughter then, grinning at each other as we both relaxed a little. I again glanced down at her exposed thighs, marvelling at how much she looked like a more mature version of her daughter- and blushing again as she once more caught me looking. * * * "Do you like what you see John? The clothes are Claire's. I thought you would appreciate seeing them again." She breathed huskily as she re-crossed her legs, causing her skirt to slide a little farther up her thighs and exposing even more of the lace. "Gwen?" I queried, raising my eyebrows in astonishment at the sexy woman in front of me I had never suspected existed. Her voice trembling with obvious nerves, she continued, "Please don't turn me down, John. I know I'm not as young or firm as my daughter, but I've fancied you since the first time I met you and now that she has abandoned you I was wondering..." "Oh my God, Gwen. I had no idea. I have never felt about you that way." The look of disappointment that crossed her face was obvious as she lowered her eyes. Suddenly she smiled. "Well it certainly looks as though you feel that way now." She chuckled, as she nodded toward my groin. I followed her gaze. My jeans were being stretched in an obscene manner by an erection I hadn't even realised I had. Blushing furiously, I grabbed a magazine and covered myself, trying to hide the evidence of my arousal from my grinning mother. More confidence in her voice now, Gwen spoke softly, "We can either put this conversation behind us and eat the lunch I've prepared," she said, opening her legs a little more and showing a glimpse of white thigh above the stocking tops, "Or we can go upstairs and you can get some sort of revenge on my husband and daughter by fucking my brains out in our marriage bed and then eat later." Taking my bemused silence as a 'yes' to the latter, my previously staid and conservative mother stood and took my hand, pulling me to my feet in one smooth movement. Reaching up and pulling my head down toward hers, she locked her warm, moist lips to mine and immediately probed my mouth with her wriggling tongue. Kissing me with an explosion of sexuality, she pressed her soft body against my ever-increasing hardness. I responded. Of course I responded. It had been over a month since I had had sex. I had not relieved myself in any way either, as I'd sunk into drunken depression. Consequently my body was reacting naturally to the advances of a sexy, warm woman kissing me with a fervour I had never imagined she had in her. Reaching down and grabbing her tight arse cheeks, I pulled our loins together as we kissed passionately for the first time ever. Taking my hand, the naughty little minx led me upstairs to the master bedroom. Obviously hoping her seduction technique would work, she had prepared the room for the sexual activities that were about to ensue. The curtains were drawn. The room was lit by several candles flickering dimly. The heating was turned up, and covering the bed was a shiny, pristine, white-satin sheet just awaiting our bodies to mess it up... * * * Standing at the bottom of the bed, she started undoing my shirt buttons, swiftly exposing my smooth, muscular chest to her wanton gaze. "Oh my God!... It's just as I imagined." She whispered, running her fingers sexily over my six-pack stomach. Covering my chest with soft, fluttery kisses from her open mouth, her fingers continued down to the belt holding my jeans up. Impatiently, she pulled the buckle open and popped the button of my fly in one movement, opening the top of my jeans and exposing my bulging boxers. "Oh fuck, John. You're beautiful... What the fuck is she thinking of?" My mother gasped, kneeling in front of me and pulling both garments down to my knees. My rigid cock slapped against my stomach as she released it from the confines of my underwear, standing proudly before her lustful gaze as she stroked it with both hands. Taking my shaft in one hand and my swollen balls in the other, she looked up at me. Her eyes filled with a mischievous smile as she pushed her tongue forward and licked the large blob of pre-cum gathered at the pulsing slit at the end of my cock. "Mm-mm, it's been so long since..." she murmured, dropping her eyes to my groin. "Oh fuckkkk..." I gasped, as only the second mouth I had ever felt there enveloped the end of my cock and sucked it like a vacuum. Only the second, and it belonged to the mother of the first one... That thought, suddenly flying through my mind, almost caused me to lose it as Gwen's warm, soft mouth continued to suck me ever deeper into her throat. Not wanting to disappoint the lovely lady, I had to push her shoulders firmly away from me, causing my twitching cock to spring once again against my stomach. I pulled her to her feet, bending and kissing her once more, tasting myself on her moist lips. I slowly started to pull open the buttons on her blouse, only for her to take over and rip them all off in one swift tug. Her unfettered breasts bounced provocatively as she dragged the blouse from her shoulders and started to pull her skirt over her hips, rapidly exposing the fact she wasn't wearing any underwear at all. Just a black garter belt holding up the black lace-topped stockings. "Oh God." I heard myself exclaim, enraptured by the sight in front of me. My eyes filled with wonder at how much she looked like her daughter- my errant and adulterous wife. They looked so much alike. There was just... well, more of Gwen I suppose. In her mid-fifties, there were none of the sharp edges her daughter possessed. Her hips were more rounded; her breasts more full and not quite as high; her long legs a little chunkier. But the biggest difference though, the most notable, was the older woman's total lack of a pubic bush. She was completely bare between her legs. Her womanly lips were clearly on view as they glistened with the moisture of her arousal, exposed to my fascinated gaze as I stared open-mouthed at her beautifully-rounded, sexy body. "I knew you'd like them," she laughed, "All you men do. A garter belt and stockings and you're all putty in our hands." She mocked, confidently posing for me with hands on hips, spreading her legs slightly to expose even more of her pouting sex to my lustful gaze. She lay back onto the bed, her legs dangling over the edge as she spread her arms and invited me to join her. "Now do I have to beg? Or would you like to fuck this old woman and make her dreams come true? Do whatever you want to me, my lovely, sexy son." I laughed loudly as I dived between her legs, my jeans still around my ankles. "You are such a naughty woman," I chuckled as I thrust into her in one stroke, embedding myself in the warm depths of her cunt. "Oh sweet Jesus!... I just knew it would be like this," she gasped as I started to slowly pound our loins together. "How the fuck can my stupid daughter call you a needle-dick? It feels like you're going to split me in two and come out of my mouth. Oh my God...I've never had so much... Oh fuck... so much COCK!..." She was panting heavily as I settled into a forceful rhythm, fucking her mercilessly. Looking up, I happened to glance at the bedside table. On top of it was a picture of my wife and her father taken on our wedding day. Smiling happily together. Together as he always wanted. No sign of me at all. "Fuck you," I mouthed silently as I fucked his wife, "And fuck your unfaithful bitch of a daughter too." * * * I took my 'revenge' a further 3 times that afternoon. Twice depositing my hot cum in my mother's tight cunt, and the last time down her throat as she sucked me as far into her mouth as she could whilst grinning up into my eyes in a deliciously salacious display of her wantonness. That was the first time anyone had ever taken me in their mouth and swallowed everything I had. My wife, the only other person to ever taste my cock, had always flatly refused to swallow my cum. Always refused to let me come in her mouth. Now her mother, her gorgeous, sexy mother, had eagerly gulped down the hot and sticky liquid as it spurted to the back of her throat. Later, as we lay sated in the sticky mess that covered the sheet by then, she snuggled into my side, pressing our damp, sweaty bodies together the same way her daughter had always done after we had made love. Idly stroking my completely 'wasted' cock, the lovely lady was musing contentedly as I gently extracted myself from her embrace. "You know you are only the second woman I have had sex with, don't you?" I asked as I sat and pulled my knees up to my chest, putting my arms around my legs and hugging myself defensively. "Really? Wow!... I had no idea. I always thought you had put it around a lot before you met Claire," Gwen answered, joining me in sitting and leaning against the headboard, "You mean you were a virgin when you first got together with my daughter?" "We both were." I answered wistfully, glancing at the photo of my estranged wife on the bedside table. "Wow! I can't believe she thinks she can find someone better. She should think herself lucky she's not married to her father because he is fucking useless at it." She laughed as she softly punched my shoulder, before jumping out of bed and strolling into the en-suite. I heard the soft tinkling of her relieving her full bladder, accompanied by her happily singing to herself, before she returned a few seconds later and once again joined me on the bed. "Oh yuck!" She exclaimed as her backside settled into the large wet patch where we our combined fluids had gathered. "I suppose we had better get out of bed and clean up then?" I laughed. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps I'll just leave it for him to sleep in. I don't think he'd notice. He certainly wouldn't recognise the smell of sex anyway." She chuckled mischievously, grabbing my poor penis and squeezing him. "You can forget that, you sex-mad bitch," I joked, "He's completely knackered." I admonished, firmly removing her hand from my sore, spent cock. "Oh dear... Are you sure? I really think I could get him interested again." She murmured sexily as she tried to bend down and take me in her mouth once more. "Get off!" I laughed firmly, "We have to get up. I don't want your husband finding us like this. It would be just too much hassle with everything that's going on in our lives." "OK. If you insist." The unrepentant woman replied, pouting her lips in a mock sulk. "I do. Now let's get cleaned up before the brown stuff hits the fan." I replied. * * * We showered together, washing each other thoroughly- certain parts more thoroughly than others I might add- before I put my jeans and shirt back on and she pulled a pink tracksuit over her naked body. Catching me looking at her quizzically as she dropped the top over her bouncing breasts, she asked, "What?" "No underwear?" I replied, grinning at her. "I may never wear knickers again if I don't feel like it. And my tits are too sore for a bra after you've been mauling them all afternoon." She replied, sticking her tongue out at me and shaking her hair loose as she tilted her head back in mock indignation. Laughing together, we left the bedroom and went back downstairs. "Oh yes, I'm starving." I exclaimed as I spied the sandwiches and snacks she had prepared for our delightfully postponed lunch. "Fuck off. You haven't time. You'll have to get a takeaway on the way home whilst I tidy up. Frank can have the food when he gets home. You've had his wife all afternoon so he may as well have your lunch." My naughty mother joked as she pushed me out of the door. Not before we exchanged even more oral fluids in a hot, sexually-charged kiss on her front doorstep though... *** My affair with my sexy mother continued for the next few months as I came to accept that my marriage was over. We would meet at every opportunity. Sometimes she would come round to my house and we would spend hours just fucking each other to a standstill. The best times though were always when we did it in her marital bed under the watchful gaze of her husband and daughter. It was there one day, as we lay relaxing after our first energetic fuck of the day, that she turned to me and said seductively, "I've had an idea." "Oh yeah, what's that you dirty woman?" I asked "I was thinking back to that tape the other day, and I was wondering if what my daughter had said was true." She replied, shuffling up and looking me directly in the eye. "If what was true?" I asked, bristling slightly at the mere mention of the start of my marital break-up. "That you didn't want to have anal sex. Is that true? Didn't you want to do that?" "Not at all. It's just that whenever I mentioned it, your daughter adamantly refused and said it was dirty. Why do you ask?" I replied. "Well it's just that I've never done it either, and I was wondering..." she murmured, grinning shyly. "Really? Really...? Well if you're sure, who am I to deny a lady her desires." I joked, raising her mouth and kissing her as we looked into each other's eyes. "Oh goody! I hoped you'd say that. That's why I gave myself a good enema this morning. So I'd be nice and clean for you." She giggled, as enthusiastic as a little girl getting her first Barbie doll. "Oh my God, woman! You really are a dirty, naughty mother aren't you?" I chuckled. Firmly turning her over and pulling her hips up, I pushed a pillow under them so that her soft backside was raised into the air. Gently gripping her cheeks in both hands, I spread them apart to expose the tight, little brown ring I was about to invade for the first time. "There's some lube in the top drawer," she panted, reaching back with both hands and spreading herself obscenely for me, "Please be careful when you shove that big cock in my poor virgin arsehole. I have to say, the feeling of my cock sliding into her tight, velvety, virgin backside for the first time was something I'll never forget. She gripped me with the force of a soft clamp as I slowly entered the previously uncharted territory, gasping and moaning as she buried her face in the pillow and screwed the sheet up with her fingers. We gradually increased our rhythm as her bottom got used to being plundered and loosened its grip slightly. Eventually she was thrusting back at me as hard as she could, begging me to "Fuck my dirty arse" as she used her fingers to firmly massage her clitoris. Of course her tightness, the uniqueness of the first anal fuck, and her screaming in ecstasy as she came, soon led me to deposit a huge load of thick cum deep into her clasping bowels before we both collapsed on the bed gasping for breath. "Well that was... interesting," she giggled, wriggling her bottom against me as I lay prone on top of her sweat-coated back. I slowly extracted my wilting member from it's tight sheath, a small blob of my deposit slipping from her slowly tightening, dark hole as I withdrew completely. "Fucking hell...I mean... Fucking WOW!" I exclaimed softly, flopping onto my back by her side. Gwen chuckled sexily as she raised herself and disappeared into the bathroom, emerging again a few minutes later carrying a warm, soapy flannel and a towel. "I think we had better wash this big-boy if we are going to put him back where he really belongs later." She laughed, taking my limp cock in her hand and starting to wash it with the hot cloth. "Fucking hell woman. You're insatiable." I laughed. "You think so?...Are you complaining?" She mocked, as she once again started playing with her new 'toy'. "Not at all, just give me a few minutes though. OK?" I begged, chuckling at her attempts to raise the dead. "Haven't time to wait. I need him in my pussy as soon as..." she murmured, bending her head and taking my abused, but freshly cleaned, penis into her warm mouth. "Oh Fuck..." I complained happily, resigned to my fate... Chapter 6 On my own father's advice, I had employed the services of a lawyer friend of his as my divorce attorney. Just as well really, as I found out later Claire was suing me for alimony and 50% of all our assets. I had always thought she would have more than me to divide up. My lawyer found out though, that according to her father's books, she had only ever been paid a pittance compared to what I had been led to believe. She had no savings whatsoever, and her car was leased by her father's company. Consequently, she demanded we sell the house and divide the proceeds up 50/50- even though all the work and expense put into it had been mine. Because of the extension and renovations, our home was worth several times more than we owed on it so she would be due a considerable lump sum. Much more than me as I would be responsible for all her expenses concerning the house sale and ensuing divorce. A Perfect Crime My lawyer fought tooth and nail (and very expensively) to get the settlement down. We counter-sued her because of her adulatory, only to be shot down by her shark of a lawyer persuading the judge that I had driven her to have affairs through my mental cruelty and neglect of her feelings. Even though the judge was obviously sceptical, I still had to sell the house and pay her legal expenses, although he did decide I should not have to pay alimony. I'm convinced he knew her and her father were lying through their back teeth about her salary when we were together. Inevitably then, by the time everything was sorted out and paid, I was left with just a few thousand quid to show for all the work on the house I had done, and all the time and effort I had put into our marriage. I now had nowhere to live- and I still had no fucking idea why she had done what she did... * * * A few months after our divorce went through, I had moved to the city and was living in a small, two-bedroomed flat that I was renting. It was okay I suppose, just nowhere near as comfortable as our old house had been. My affair with my ex mother had continued unabated as we took advantage of the opportunities for her to go to the city 'shopping' and instead spend the afternoon and evening fucking me to a standstill. I know some of you will think of me as a hypocrite as I continued to fuck another man's wife, yet still condemned my own for shagging around whilst still married to me. Well all I can say in my defence is that my father fucking deserved it for being such a cunt toward me for as long as he had known me... I had had no contact whatsoever with Claire since we had walked out of the divorce court. Not a word. Nothing. She too, it would appear, had moved to the city and was living in a penthouse flat she had purchased with the divorce proceedings and help from her father. In a far more up-market area than the one I was living in, there was little chance of our paths ever crossing. She had virtually severed all contact with her mother, too. Gwen told me they had had several major arguments as a family over her treatment of me. Claire and her father on one side, and Gwen alone fighting my corner. Eventually Claire had snapped at her mother telling her to 'mind her own fucking business' and to 'keep her interfering nose out' when it came to her daughter's life. Inevitably, the atmosphere in her parents house became unbearable whenever Claire would visit and eventually she stopped going as her father took to visiting her at her own flat whenever they wanted to see one another. Gwen just gave up on her daughter. Ignoring her husband whenever he told her anything that had been going on in Claire's life in an attempt to avoid any further arguments about 'his little girl'. She and I settled into an unspoken agreement too- we would never discuss my ex-wife whenever we were together for our sexual shenanigans. That suited me down to the ground I must admit. I didn't really want anything to do with the unfaithful bitch so not even mentioning her was perfect for me. I have to say, I was full of resentment toward my ex-wife. The lies she had told in our divorce after she had betrayed my love for her; the way she had never offered an explanation about why she had become dissatisfied with our life together; the way she had totally ignored her vow to love and cherish me 'til death us do part when we married in front of all our friends and family- all this greatly contributed to me crossing the thin line between love and hate. As much as anything though- perhaps what hurt more than all- was the look of contemptuous disinterest she gave me when we left the court after our divorce was granted.10 years together as a couple and it obviously meant fuck-all to her. Some time after our split I had discovered through a friend of a friend of one of my 'nieces' that, months before our separation and divorce, Claire had apparently started going to a well-known pick-up joint in the city: a club where married women were known to go when they were looking for a bit of strange cock. She had been seen there quite a few times when we were still supposedly together, usually with different men but toward the end of our marriage she always appeared to be with the same one. He was reputedly quite a bit older than my wife, rich, very flash, and with a reputation for the darker side of life. This information of course added to my sense of despair and anger about my marriage, further fanning the flames of the burning feelings of betrayal and hate I had toward the former love of my life. She obviously wanted something completely different from what she was getting from me. Something she felt she needed other men for. I still didn't understand what the 'something' was though... * * * The following summer I had reluctantly agreed to join my work colleagues on a night out to celebrate the 21st birthday of one of them. They had arranged to go on a pub-crawl around the city, and then go on to a nightclub to finish the night off in the hopes of chatting up some girls to round the evening off with a good fuck. I had agreed to go on the pub-crawl, but stated that I would give the nightclub a miss as I already had a 'girl' whenever I wanted and didn't need to chat up any 'fresh pussy' to get myself fucked. Much to my surprise, I had actually quite enjoyed my night out drinking with my work-mates and left them as they began to make their way into the club, suffering the resulting piss-taking as an 'old git' as they all set off on their drunken stagger. I had a bit of a 'buzz' going myself as I left them at the door and set off on my way in search of a kebab- as is the want of all drunken men in the UK. As I walked happily down the street, singing away to myself, a car door opened suddenly as I was passing and banged against my hip, causing the door to rebound back and apparently trap the driver's foot in the door-well. "Oops. Sorry mate." I apologised. "Watch where you're going you fucking idiot." Came the reply as the door burst open again and a short, stocky middle-aged bloke stood up to confront me. "OK...OK...My fault. No problem." I again apologised, not wanting any trouble. "Leave him alone, Karl. He's always been a damn fool." A female voice I instantly recognised rang out from the other side of the car- a Bentley I noticed for the first time. "You know this cunt?" Karl demanded of her. "He's my ex-husband." Claire replied, the disgust in her voice quite obvious even to my drunken brain. "Is he really? Well it's about time he learned a fucking lesson." The man spat, pushing me in the chest and sending me staggering against a shop window. My training and self-defence instincts subconsciously kicked in and I pushed him forcefully back against his car, hearing a satisfying grunt as he slumped to the floor. "Fuck off bitch!" I snapped at my furious ex-wife as she ran around to the driver's side of the car and I set off on my way again, her hysterical vitriol ringing in my ears as I walked away from her. Mumbling a few hundred expletives about 'that fucking bitch' and her new man, I forgot about my kebab and flagged a taxi down, making my way home where I collapsed onto my bed without even getting undressed and immediately fell asleep. * * * The following morning I awoke to the sound of loud banging in my head. I slowly realised through my emerging consciousness that it wasn't a brain haemorrhage, or even just a hangover, but instead was some idiot pounding violently on the front door of my flat. Moments later I was confronted by a gang of uniformed police staring down at me as I lay on top of my bed in a semi-conscious haze. "John Grant? Are you John Grant?" I dimly heard a man in plain clothes address me from the doorway. I nodded, unable to speak properly due to the fuzz that appeared to have grown on my tongue overnight. "John Grant, I am arresting you on the suspicion of the murder of Karl Simpson. You do not have to say anything, but whatever you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you. Do you understand?" My head was scrambled. Who the fuck was Karl Simpson? Murder? What the fuck was going on? "I...I...What the fuck are you talking about?" I finally managed to get out of my mouth. I felt myself being dragged to my feet by two burly coppers, my arms roughly pulled around my back as my wrists were secured in steel handcuffs. "Take him to the station," the voice said, "And be careful with him, he's a dangerous man." "What the fuck is going on? Dangerous man? What? Who's a dangerous man?" I demanded as I was dragged down the stairs and pushed unceremoniously into the waiting police car, much to the obvious astonishment of my watching neighbours who had been disturbed by all the noise. I was taken to the local police station where I was formally charged and had my possessions, belt and shoe-laces confiscated before being placed in a cell and the door locked behind me. Shaking my head in disbelief as I massaged my sore wrists, I tried to make sense of what all this was about. Slowly my befuddled brain began to clear sightly, the memory of the previous night gradually coming back. Karl, wasn't that what Claire had called the man who had pushed me? Claire screaming something at me as I walked away from them. It all started coming back. "Oh Fucking Hell!..." I thought to myself as I put my head in my hands and sat down heavily on the plastic-covered bench... * * * Chapter 7 How the hell had this happened? I hadn't hit anyone had I? So how the fuck could I have murdered someone? The police were not very forthcoming either. They tried to interview me alone at first, pressuring me to 'confess and make it easier on myself'. At least I was alert enough to realise I desperately needed a lawyer, refusing to answer any questions until I had one. Eventually the police left me alone in my cell to wait. There was no way me or my family were going to have the wherewithal to pay for some fancy-dan defence lawyer, so I was appointed a legal-aid solicitor to act as my defender. Luckily he wasn't just a wet-behind-the-ears newcomer, but a seasoned professional who refused to let me be interviewed until he had found out all the facts, leaving me alone whilst he went to find out all about the charges. When he returned about an hour later, the expression on his face was enough to tell me I was in deep, deep shit.. It appeared that Karl Simpson had, during our alleged fight, banged the back of his head violently against the corner of his car door causing a massive bleed at the rear of his brain. The accidental blow had knocked him unconscious and eventually killed him before any help had arrived. "Fucking hell... I only pushed him." I protested to my freshly appointed lawyer. "That's not what the police have been told," he replied, a note of disbelief quite obvious in his tone, "They have a witness who says you caused it all." "A witness?... Who?... Honestly I just pushed him slightly... Just the once." I protested, feeling sick to my stomach through a combination of the trouble I was obviously in and the raging headache- caused by the previous night's alcohol intake- that was pounding in my brain. "His companion, the woman who was with him. She alleges that you attacked him without provocation." He stared into my eyes over the top of his glasses, looking for a clue whether I was telling the truth or not, "Are you saying she is lying?" he demanded. "Lying?... Of course she's FUCKING LYING!..." I yelled, "SHE'S MY FUCKING EX-WIFE...SHE LIES ABOUT ME ALL THE FUCKING TIME!..." "Oh dear!... Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. And I thought it was just going to be a simple drunken brawl that resulted in a tragic accidental death. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear..." His words echoed through my befuddled brain as the seriousness of the accusation against me resonated in my confused mind. "My ex-wife... My fucking bitch ex-wife... I might have known she was the cause of all this shit." My stomach couldn't take any more. I couldn't hold back any longer. I violently threw up the contents of my churning guts all over the cell floor... * * * What made me absolutely realise I was up to my neck in the brown stuff, even more so than anything my solicitor tried to tell me, was when I received a letter from Gwen whilst I was on remand awaiting my trial. In it she told me she would be unable to ever forgive her husband and daughter for what they had done to me and that she would be seeking a divorce from him as soon as she could. She told me she had been to the police and tried to tell them that her daughter's statement that I had ever been violent toward her was just a pack of lies and that I had never in any way threatened or intimidated my wife in all the time we had been together. Sadly the police had refused to believe her. They had informed her that everything she had told them was only hearsay and that it would be inadmissible as evidence at my trial. They went on to admonish her and tried to make her feel ashamed, telling her that maybe she should be supporting her daughter rather than defending someone who was, after all, only related to her by marriage. Gwen finished the letter by saying she did in fact feel ashamed. Ashamed of her daughter and husband. She then apologised for not coming to see me. She felt she would be unable to hold herself together if she ever saw me locked up. She also confirmed she would not be at my trial either. Having to watch her daughter doing her best to get me sent down while her husband gloated was something she just would not have the stomach for. That letter broke my heart... * * * Looking back now, I realise I never stood a chance in my trial. Not after my tearful, distraught ex-wife had testified. Testified? What I really mean is lied through her fucking teeth... She stood up in front of all my family, the judge and jury, all the press, and lied from the start to the finish. She told them she had always been frightened of my violent nature. Had always been worried whenever we had an argument. That was why we had divorced. - Never mentioned the fact she was fucking anyone who happened to have a cock. She went on to say that I had obviously been drunk when I came across her and her boyfriend that fateful night, shouting abuse at both of them as I went to confront her boyfriend. He, of course, had been totally innocent. He'd asked me politely to leave them alone and stop swearing at his girlfriend. She told how he had not known his fiancée was my ex-wife. How he was a placid, calm man who wouldn't harm a fly. - All complete and utter bullshit!... My barrister tried his best. Tried to convince the jury of my side of the story. Unfortunately, confronted by the sight of that manipulative lying bitch, the 12 good men and women chose to believe her and found me guilty of the lesser charge of manslaughter. The judge was a different matter entirely. He had completely fallen under the spell of the beautiful, distraught woman in the witness box. Convinced by her that once again I had ruined her life by taking away from her her one true love. In his sentencing statement, the dozy old twat pandered to the watching press, telling them he was determined to make an example of me. Someone who had used his considerable martial-arts skills to cause the death of a significantly older man just because he was with my ex-wife. He went on to say that, because of my expertise, my hands and feet could be classed as deadly weapons in the eyes of the law and the sentence should be the same as if I had attacked the poor victim with a knife or even a gun. Consequently he felt he had no choice other than to sentence me to the most severe punishment possible under the guidelines of the law, and that I would serve 20 to 30 years imprisonment with a minimum sentence of 20 years. * * * My poor mother collapsed, sobbing her heart out as she hugged my father in the public gallery. My poor dad. My strong rock of a father had tears streaming down his face in a display of wrought emotion I had never witnessed from him before. Both my sisters sobbed quietly as they hugged one another. All the while my ex-wife glared unblinkingly at me, a look of revengeful hatred across her face as I was led from the dock to begin the end of my life as I had known it up to then. That look, that expression of hate, would stay with me for the rest of my days. It would turn my previous adoration of the woman into an obsessive, reciprocal hatred for the one-time love of my life who had now ruined me completely. Ended my hopes of ever finding love again. Ended my dreams of ever having children and a family of my own. I had been a 'nice' man. I was always loving and attentive once I had grown out of my teenage angst. That moment, the moment when I was led away from my sobbing family under the hateful smirk of my ex-wife, that single moment changed me completely. It made me bitter, resentful. I hated her. I hated the law. I hated myself. I hated the whole fucking world... Chapter 8 I'm not going to pretend otherwise. I was scared shitless when I was first locked up in my cell at a high-security prison somewhere in the wilds of the west country. I had never been incarcerated anywhere before. I had heard the rumours. Heard what happened to 'pretty-boy' lags like me in jail. I knew I could look after myself if I had to, but if I was ganged up on? Who knew what would happen? My first day in there I met a man who was to remain a friend until his death a few years ago. A habitual criminal called Archie 'Rembrandt' Squires. He was just a few years older than me and I was to share a cell with him. I suppose you could say he took me under his wing, explaining all the do' s and don't s, who was who in the prison, all that sort of crap. He was, he informed me, the best forger in the country and was only locked up because he'd been grassed up by someone he'd sold a forged work of art to, who had then tried to sell it on at a Sotheby's auction.. Archie was a right laugh. He was relatively small in stature, delicate even, but also one-hundred percent heterosexual. He was just a really smashing bloke who happened to be serving 8 years for making money out of his hobby. He became my best friend when I intervened in an argument that was going on one day when I got back to our cell. A big bullying thug was threatening him for his 'ciggy' allowance, demanding that he hand them over or he'd tear him a new arsehole. I made it quite clear that sort of behaviour toward my cell-mate wouldn't be tolerated and a swift kick to the bollocks further stressed the big man's understanding of the situation. From then on, Archie was my mate, watching my back and letting me know what was going on in the prison that I should know about. Prisons are not quiet places. All night long someone is either coughing and sneezing, or singing as they try to forget where they are, or even in many cases, crying themselves to sleep. Guards are not quiet people either. Even if they wore rubber-soled boots, they would have their bunches of keys jangling on their belts as they walked the balconies during their constant night-time patrols. Consequently sleep is very difficult in prisons. Especially when you are locked up for the first time in your life. I was no exception. For weeks I suffered from insomnia, laying awake at night, totally unable to get to sleep. Archie would stay awake with me. Talking about anything and everything under the sun as he tried to distract me from the nightmare that my life had become. A Perfect Crime I told him the truth about how I had come to be there. He believed me. The only person I felt ever did truly believe my version of events. In return he told me all about himself. How he was an orphan, never knew either of his parents or anything about them. Never even knew his real name- he had been called Archie Squires after the man who had found him and handed him in to the police when he was an abandoned baby. As a baby, then a young child, Archie had been brought up in several Barnardos orphanages as he was moved around the country during the war. Never settling, never making friends he could call mates. He never even knew when his birthday was. Someone had told him his age once but they were unable to confirm his date of birth so he had picked the 21st of June as his birthday- the longest day of the year- wanting his birthday to last as long as possible whenever he celebrated it. Gradually, with Archie's help, I managed to start sleeping at night as I became more used to my environment. * * * It was through Archie that I found out in advance that some sort of attack on me was being planned in retaliation for what I'd done to Karl Simpson. Turned out the bloke I'd accidentally killed was a small-time low-life who unfortunately was related to one of the main drug gangs in the city where I lived. I don't know if my ex-wife was into the drugs or whether she was with him because of his money and bad-boy reputation, either way it would appear I had deprived the bitch of her meal ticket and that possibly went some way to explain her hatred of me at my trial. Maybe it even went some way to explain why she lied in court as she did. Revenge for what she reckoned she had lost I suppose... Archie pointed out that I would have to defend myself wholeheartedly when the attack came. I would be unable to placate whoever it would be that came after me. They wouldn't listen if I tried to talk them out of it the way my martial arts training had taught me to do. It would be me or them. No half measures. If I didn't finish them, they would finish me. A few days later, several weeks into my sentence, the attack came. My path was blocked as I was leaving the shower block by two huge men, as tall as my 6'4, but much wider, together with another shorter bloke who looked as mean as a starving rottweiler. The two big guys circled either side of me, whilst the ugly bloke blocked my path and pulled a home-made shiv from his sleeve- a knife fashioned from a shard of glass. Weapons like that are much more dangerous than an ordinary knife. The intention being that they are stuck into the victim and then snapped off so even if the medics do get there before the victim dies, the glass is almost impossible to extract before he bleeds to death internally. I knew instantly that I was not meant to walk out of there. The screws had conveniently disappeared leaving me to my fate, not caring one iota what was about to occur- it would just mean one less villain for them to look after in their jaundiced view. My three intended assailants were certainly trying their best to frighten and intimidate me, telling me in great detail what they were going to do, how they were going to carve my chicken-shit body into little pieces. It worked, to a certain extent anyway. Their confidence in their numerical advantage had turned into blind arrogance as they surrounded me and cut off any means of escape I may have had, whilst the adrenaline surging through my body was making me a very nervous prey. I had only maybe two small things in my favour. Firstly, they had no idea I possessed the defensive capabilities I did. For a highly-trained fighter, the fear for your life and the adrenaline surging through your body turns a mere man into a deadly war machine. Everything seems crystal clear- your concentration is at its peak and you have an enormous increase in your body strength too. But they didn't know that did they? Secondly, and the one true advantage I really had, the one that could give me an edge, was the fact that I knew I would be fighting for my life whilst they were just doing a job. Archie's words came into my head as we squared up to each other: "It's you or them my young friend," he'd warned me. With that in mind, all thoughts of avoiding a fight went out of the window. The bloke to my right was taken out with a kick to his leg with the heel of my shoe that agonisingly dislocated his kneecap and left him writhing on the floor. The one on the left received a 'roundhouse' kick to the face that broke his nose and a few teeth, leaving him spitting blood and snot as he sat back dazed onto his fat backside. The ugly one was much more wary after his mates had been incapacitated so quickly, not quite as confident. He still had the advantage of having the weapon though. All the hours and hours of Karate training came to the fore automatically as I spun and gave him a backward kick to the head causing him to drop his weapon and fall to his knees holding his shattered jaw. I could have walked out then. I could have left them to their agony. But again, Archie's warning went through my brain. I had to finish it. I had to make a statement to any other of the prison lags who fancied their chances of ending my days... I jumped behind the moaning shorter man, his weapon now useless on the floor as he held his broken face. Grabbing him around the neck, I hesitated only slightly as I gripped his newly deformed jaw and wrenched it sideways with all the force I could muster. All my pent-up anger came out at that moment. The hatred I felt, the despair, the revenge I needed- it was him who suffered for it. His body went limp. Instant death overcoming him as his neck snapped with a loud crack. I stood and glared at the other two, unblinking as I looked them alternately in the eyes. "Tell whoever ordered this to come for me themselves if they want to finish me. Understand?" I growled quietly, making it quite obvious I was completely in charge of my emotions and there would be more to come if anyone wanted it. With that I calmly walked out of the shower block and went back to my cell to await whatever was to follow... * * * In prison, the worst offence for anyone to commit is to grass a fellow inmate up. It ranks up there with paedophilia and wife-beating in the eyes of the true criminal fraternity - the real hard-cases. Consequently, when my three assailants were discovered by the screws, all the two survivors would say was that they had all slipped on the soap and collided with one another. The prison rumour-mill being what it was, every other person in the jail claimed to know what had actually happened in the shower block that day. Archie knew the truth, but I'm damn sure he never let on, so anything else was just rumour and conjecture as far as the rest of the inmates were concerned. What it did mean however, was that I was treated with a new-found fear, even respect by the rest of the prison community and given a wide-berth whenever I was out of my cell. Of course a major inquiry into the incident by the police ensued. They never found out anything though, just what they were told by the two injured men as they repeatedly denied any wrong-doing. The investigating officers eventually gave up and settled for the fact that a highly dangerous and violent man was no longer part of the judicial system, and that it would save the tax-payer a small fortune in not having to keep him incarcerated for the rest of his sentence. The prison hierarchy was different though. I don't mean the governor or the rest of the prison officers, I mean the men who actually did run things in there. All prisons have 'The Man'. Someone who the rest of the inmates are frightened of. Someone who runs everything. Every little scam that is going on. Even the screws know who is really in charge and go along with it if they know what's good for them. Our main man was a psychopathic killer called Billy McVie- a London gangster who reputedly had an IQ of over 160 to add to his homicidal and criminal tendencies. He was the oldest of three brothers who apparently ran the biggest and nastiest of the major crime gangs in the country. They had their hands in everything: drugs, prostitution, protection rackets, you name it, they controlled it. All this had added up to have made him number one on the police's most wanted list before they finally got their man. The boss of one of the country's biggest crime gangs, he had been almost untouchable by the law on the outside, the fear of terrifying reprisals preventing anyone from testifying against him. He had finally been convicted of several counts of murder and been sentenced to life imprisonment with no chance of parole for 30 years. That was the maximum punishment allowed in the UK at that time and anyone who received that sentence was inevitably regarded as a master criminal by the country's press and judiciary. More importantly, as far as prison was concerned, the rest of the inmates treated them with the fear and respect that reputation demanded. McVie had been betrayed by his second-in-command on the outside. A life-long and trusted friend of the gang boss who had turned super-grass on his fellow villain in return for immunity from prosecution for himself. No-one seemed to know what had happened to the Judas after the trial, he had disappeared somewhere into witness protection. What everyone did know however, was that the super-grass' parents and siblings had all died in suspicious circumstances within 6 months of McVie being locked up. Car accidents, house fires, drownings- all causes of death for various members of his family. All traces of his nearest and dearest wiped out except for the actual man who'd grassed Billy up. If he was still alive, he would know he was responsible for the death of all his loved ones. Something even the most hardened criminal would find difficult to live with. * * * A few days after the police enquiry into the prison death had been wrapped up, I was laying on my bunk talking to Archie when four of the biggest screws at the prison came to the door and ordered me to go with them. I thought I was being summoned to the Governor's office for some sort of punishment. Maybe he had heard the rumours and suspected the truth? Maybe I was being moved for my own safety? I had no idea. I sensed something was amiss though, when, instead of turning right toward the governor's office, I was led the other way and up a further two flights to the top balcony of the cell-block. I was marched along the top corridor to an open cell door and ushered inside. Nervously trying to watch all four screws at once in case they were intent on tossing me off the balcony as some kind of reprisal, it took me a few seconds to realise that this was not an ordinary prison cell like mine. This was more akin to someone's comfortable living room. A single bed in one corner, pictures on the wall, a radio softly playing the Jimmy Young show on BBC radio, a couple of comfortable armchairs, and a desk across the other corner, behind which sat a smart, well-groomed, middle-aged man dressed casually in jeans and an expensive looking sweater instead of the usual bright orange overalls the rest of us prisoners had to wear. I instinctively knew immediately whose cell I had been taken to. Billy McVie. The boss. The main man. All those descriptions flew through my brain as I looked toward the man smiling coldly at me from behind his desk. "Thank you gentlemen, that will be all for now. Just wait outside and close the door will you." McVie said softly, addressing my escorts. As the door clanged shut behind them, I nervously stood in front of the seated man who was staring intently into my eyes. Billy McVie wasn't particularly big, probably just short of six feet. He looked powerful enough though. Strong muscular forearms and broad shoulders. A relatively unmarked face though for someone with his terrifying reputation for violence. What he did have though, what made him so uniquely frightening, were the most piercing, cold and unemotional eyes I had ever looked into. They seemed to stare directly into my soul as he looked up at me, making me feel as scared as I had ever felt in my life before... He looked me up and down for a few moments before addressing me in his soft, commanding voice. "Sit down please, Mr. Grant," he said quietly, indicating one of the armchairs situated in front of the desk, "You and I have a problem to discuss I believe." I did as requested. I parked my backside, complete with its nervously twitching sphincter, on the most comfortable chair it had been on since I had entered prison. I was trying my best not to shake. Not to give any indication of just how terrified I actually was of that man. The man who I knew held my immediate future in his well-manicured hands. I was 29 and a car mechanic, not a hardened gangster like him, so how the fuck was I meant to cope with that situation? "I'll call you John, if that's OK," he went on after I had sat down, "You may call me Mr. McVie." There wasn't a hint of superiority in his words, just an unspoken indication to me of that's how things were. He was Mr. McVie and I was whatever he fucking wanted me to be. "It seems you are a very dangerous man, John Grant. What went on the other day was very impressive, I must say." He spoke the words softly. That meant they had much more effect and were even more threatening than if he had shouted them. "The men concerned belonged to me. You do know that don't you?" My heart sank. I was in too deep to get out of this now. I had killed one and seriously injured two more of the prison boss' men and he wanted revenge. I was not religious in any way, but if I had have been, I would have been praying to any God who might just so happen to have been listening at that moment. "That has left me with a problem, and consequently, left you with a problem too. I am now a man short from my staff and I will need to replace him." His voice was showing no anger or emotion of any kind. He was talking about the death of one of his men as though he had mislaid a pen or something equally as trivial. It confirmed his reputation. Human life meant nothing to him. No more than any other of his possessions. I kept my mouth shut, not trusting myself to reply in any sort of coherent manner as the maelstrom that was my brain tried to think of a way out of the obvious danger to my life. "It would appear that you upset some acquaintances of mine before you came in here. They requested that I help them out and exact their revenge, and, as return for a favour I owed them, I agreed to help them do just that. Now you will notice I said acquaintances and not friends. If they were friends of mine, and you'd better believe me when I say this, you would not be here having this conversation with me." There were no histrionics. No violent threats. Just the clear message that I owed my continued life to him and that he held my whole future existence in his hands. "So... This is what is going to happen," he continued, his expression barely changing as he tapped his fingers in time with a song playing on the radio, "You will replace the man you killed. You will become my enforcer in here. You belong to me now. Am I clear?" I felt dizzy. What the fuck did he mean? I wasn't an 'enforcer'. I wasn't a gangster. I was just an ordinary bloke caught up in a disastrous downward spiral of unfortunate circumstances. How the fuck was I supposed to be his 'enforcer'? "What you did to those three fools has established you as a man not to be messed with John. Everyone in here knows this now. Everyone fears you. They were three so-called hard men. The dead man was here on three murder counts and you took him out in a matter of seconds." His soft, almost musically rhythmic voice continued as I tried to get my head round what he was saying, "We will make use of that fear. It will make my life much more simple having the threat of you hanging over anyone who dares to question my authority. Do you understand?" I nodded, the realization of what was happening starting to dawn in my confused brain. "And what if I don't want to? What if I just want to serve my time and live a quiet life in here?" I managed to get out of my mouth without sounding too terrified. Not fooled at all by my false bravado, McVie smiled coldly and replied, "Not going to happen John. If you refuse, your parents will pass away fairly quickly followed by your sisters, and then your nieces and nephew. I know where they all live, I can give you their addresses if you'd like. We both know you can look after yourself, but you will have to sleep sometime. Do we understand one another John?" The chilling threat, although softly spoken was quite obviously real. It wasn't implied. It was a promise from a cold-blooded killer that If I didn't do as I was being instructed, the consequences for me and my family were too dire to even contemplate. That is what his reputation said had happened to the relatives of other people who had crossed him. I knew, if I turned down his offer, I would live long enough to hear about the deaths of all my family before I died myself in my cell one night. I felt a raging anger welling up inside me at the terrifying prospect for my family. Anger at the psycho in front of me. Anger at my ex-wife for causing the disaster that my life had turned into. Anger at myself... Inevitably my path became clear. I had already killed two men, one accidentally, the other quite deliberately, no way could I still put myself morally above anyone else locked up in that hell-hole. I couldn't think of any sound reason not to agree. I was to be there for at least the next 20 years so why not make the best of it. I slowly raised myself to my feet. Reaching out and offering my hand to my new boss, I answered his question, "I understand Mr. McVie. You have a new employee." "Glad to hear it John. Now go back to your cell and I'll be in touch when you are needed. Although I should imagine once the word is out that you now work for me, your expertise will not be needed too often." He rose too, shook my hand and for the first time showed his teeth in a smile. Not those eyes though. Those eyes just continued to stare right into my soul... * * * Chapter 9 He was right. I wasn't needed as an enforcer too often. Like all rumours, the story of my decimation of the three hard-cases sent to kill me was totally exaggerated. Most of the things that were supposed to have happened were complete fabrications, made to sound more and more ridiculous every time they were passed on. The two injured men were transferred to other nicks as soon as they were fit enough, so no-one was able to contradict the story apart from myself. And as Billy had suggested, it was in our interest to keep up the myth. Also at his suggestion, I took to training in the exercise yard when it was full of other lags. That of course put my expertise on full view and helped perpetuate the idea that I was a killing machine. Much further into my sentence, the first Lethal Weapon film would come out in the cinemas and I would be saddled with the nickname of 'Riggs' after the Mel Gibson character. It was a name that stuck with me for the rest of my stay in jail, passed on through generations of new prisoners as they came and went. A nickname that would feature much, much later in my life. It turned out that the three men who attacked me were acting at the request of the drug gang that Karl Simpson had belonged to. Happily, once they found out I was working for Billy, they made no further attempt to end my stay on earth, and I was more or less untroubled for the next few years. Working for Billy turned out to have many benefits. I was left alone by the screws. I was avoided at all costs by the other lags apart from Archie, and my food in the canteen always seemed to be better and more plentiful than anything my fellow prisoners received. I also had an unlimited supply of soft toilet paper, something that was actually used as currency by some of the lesser lags.