69 comments/ 50400 views/ 38 favorites Bailing Out By: mitchfren INTRODUCTION "Very well... there may be other charges to follow but, for the moment... Abigail Ruth Davies, I am placing you under arrest for the attempted murder of Samantha Lloyd-Smith. You do not have to say anything...." And that was when my wife fainted. If I'd been quick enough to react, I suppose I could have caught her before she hit the ground. At the same time, I reasoned that it was a much lighter bump than the one she'd intended for Sammy -- so I just made a half-hearted attempt that was never likely to succeed. CH01 Perhaps I should introduce you to the major players in this little drama before I go any further - and I'll begin with myself. I'm Robert Davies -- Robbie to my friends -- and I'm an unexpected accountant. By that, I mean that I grew up on a pretty rough council estate and most of my contemporaries -- at least those who didn't end up in prison -- either became manual workers or were swelling the numbers of the long-term unemployed. I got lucky. I went to work in a carpet factory and, quickly displaying a gift for screwing up whatever loom I was on, got shifted to the stores. After a while, my ability to organise, along with a bit of a gift for numbers, attracted the attention of the owner, Griffin Lloyd, and he moved me into the despatch office. For no particular reason, I took a bookkeeping course at the local College of Further Education, found that I really enjoyed it (no, honestly!), and once I'd achieved an exceptionally high pass, Old Man Lloyd shifted me into the main office and supported me through my training as a Certified Accountant. That was where I first met his beautiful daughter, Samantha and, strange to say now, but it was hate at first sight. She was nothing at all like her dad. Where he was a good bloke who'd worked damned hard to get where he was, she was a completely spoilt brat -- an only child who was indulged by her father and resolutely pushed up the social scale by an ambitious mother. I'm sure you know the kind of person I mean -- you've probably met one or two -- but I was the unfortunate one chosen to be her mentor on the path from given riches to partly earned riches. What probably made it worse was that she was absolutely gorgeous: beautiful long, blonde hair, the cutest face imaginable; a figure that was full and womanly even when she was 19, and a pair of legs that trampled through the wet dreams of most of the male staff. And she knew it. She was, to put it in simple terms, a teasing bitch. A couple of years later she married Gerald ("please don't call me Gerry -- it's common") Smyth; someone who seemed a perfect match. She was flirtatious, he thought he was God's gift; she was spoilt, he was an arrogant asshole; she had plenty of money -- he had a lifestyle that required it. But now it's time to bring the last of this small cast onto the stage. Enter, Abigail Ruth Marley (as she was when I first met her). She worked in the factory as one of the 'creelers.' That is to say, she sorted out the hanks of wool or nylon and operated one of the machines that transferred them onto plastic cones that were used to feed the threads into the looms. Like me, she was the product of a council estate but, unlike me, she hadn't done anything to further her education. No, Abbie had decided that her appearance would be enough to help her rise out of the depths; all she needed was a man who'd be suitably impressed by her looks and her sexual prowess to take her from hard times to easy street. And I'm sure you can guess who she targeted. I wasn't a complete dummy, nor was I totally inexperienced, but Abbie was pretty difficult to resist. She was 22 (I was 28 at the time) and she was stunning. Her raven black hair was cut fairly short, almost boyishly so; but, paradoxically, it seemed to make her even more feminine. She had liquid brown eyes that seemed to smoulder with sexuality while her figure, though slender, had all the right curves in all the right places. At the time, the company was handling a large order to supply green carpeting to some Ministry of Defence establishments and, to make sure it was done on time, the boss had authorised quite a lot of overtime work in the evenings. The looms were going full-tilt up until midnight, at which time one of the keyholders had to check that everything was switched off and lock the place up. Naturally, being one of the keyholders, I had to take a turn or two. In fact, I had to take more than my fair share because Samantha couldn't possibly give up her social obligations and the boss was already feeling the effects of the illness that would lead to his demise within a year or so. It was early December so there was no shortage of volunteers to do the overtime with the prospect of a heavy pay packet in time for Christmas, and it was the first night that snow began to fall. Snow is something we don't get much of in our part of the world, so no one is ever prepared for it. With the risk of people having trouble getting home, I allowed them to finish an hour early and went through the usual routine before going out into the biting wind and locking up. I was happy enough to drive in my Land Rover, even though there was an inch or two of snow on the roads by then, and it was as I pulled out of the carpark that I saw Abbie standing forlornly at the bus stop. I pulled alongside and asked if she was alright and she told me her lift had let her down because her sister wasn't any good at driving in those conditions. I'd seen her sister's car -- a Mondeo -- and knew that its rear-wheel drive would turn it into a ballerina on a surface like that, pirouetting all over the road, so I offered her a lift. She was grateful, of course, especially since she was freezing cold, and I let her use my mobile phone to tell her sister that she was okay. Along the way (she was still living in the estate where we'd both grown up) we chatted happily enough. She was excited because the foreman had arranged for her to move to a different job after the holidays -- she was going to be a 'picker;' one of the ladies who scan every bit of carpet, pulling bad stitches out and finding the missed ones before sewing them in by hand. I guess I flirted a bit. I didn't have a girlfriend at that particular moment and, as I've said, she was very attractive so it was perfectly natural; and I think I probably told her that someone with her looks ought to be raising her sights a bit higher than such a mundane job. We shared a few laughs and I enjoyed her company during the half-hour drive. When we arrived at her house, she asked if I wanted to come in for a coffee, but I politely declined. Instead, she thanked me with a kiss. Now, there are kisses -- and then there are kisses! And I swear that if my feet hadn't been on the floor, that one would have blown my shoes and socks off! And she obviously knew exactly what effect it had; I could tell that from her huge smile when she climbed out of the car and said goodnight. I don't think I slept very well that night. Over the years, I'd had plenty of opportunities to have a bit of fun with some of the females who worked in the factory - both single and married -- but I'd made a point of keeping clear of them. I was very well aware of the complications it can cause -- especially if one is working on the floor and the other's part of the management team. Therefore, I did my best to forget about it and I kept a distance from her -- until the last day before the holidays. At lunchtime that day the machines closed down, there was a full Christmas dinner served in the canteen and, of course, most of the employees had brought some 'refreshing' drinks with them. The mood was really good because they all had their pay-packets -- swollen with overtime, with a bonus for completing the contract ahead of time, and with the customary holiday pay and bonus. There was a bit of unease, though, because Griffin Lloyd had been taken into hospital the previous day and I think everyone was concerned. Not only was the old man a well-liked employer who treated his staff fairly, there was the concern about who would take over if anything happened to him. The other directors were his wife, who had been to the factory no more than a dozen times in total; Samantha who, I have to admit, had begun to be far less arrogant than in the past; her husband, who hadn't changed at all except to decide that he was now a captain of industry with ideas to revolutionise production, and myself as company accountant. Apart from us there were three minor shareholders who only turned up to board meetings for the free drinks and buffet. No wonder they were worried! Still, the party was soon in full flow. The tables were eventually cleared to one side, a 'Ghetto Blaster' (remember them?) began pumping out music, and people let their hair down and danced. As usual, I was dragged into it; at the age I was, plus still being single and earning well, I think I was regarded as an eligible bachelor and some of the females were clearly interested. They never got a chance, though, because Abbie homed in on me; and the only dances I didn't have with her were the ones I had with Sammy. I'd never even seen Sammy at one of these unofficial parties, so it came as a bit of surprise to find myself dancing close to her and even more of a surprise when, finding ourselves under a piece of mistletoe, she gave me a chaste, but very pleasant kiss. It was also a shock when she whispered, "Be careful of that one. She's trying to get her hooks into you... and you can do much better." And then, just as the tune ended and we broke apart Gerald arrived, gave an imperious wave, loudly wished everyone a happy holiday, and they both disappeared. Well, she was probably right, but I was too dumb to see it. About ten minutes later, Abbie reappeared from wherever she'd been and then stayed behind and waited until I was left to lock up. Then, just as I was about to leave, she suddenly said: "Damn! I've left my other shoes in the warehouse!" She explained that she'd left her flat heels there and changed into the ones she was dancing in, so I went back inside with her. I think I suspected what was about to happen but, to be honest, I wasn't exactly unwilling. She led the way through the aisles of carpet rolls until we came to a place where some small rugs were stacked. Her shoes were, as she'd said, lying on the floor in a carrier bag. Being a gentleman, I stooped to pick them up and, by the time I straightened up she was facing me, standing uncomfortably close, with one arm in the air. It was no surprise that she was holding a piece of mistletoe. The kiss that followed was, if anything, even more shattering than our first had been. If I wanted to be both brief and a bit cute about what followed, I would say that even if it didn't blow my socks off, I certainly got my rocks off. But it remains a decent memory so I'll indulge in a bit of nostalgia. Both of her arms wrapped themselves around my neck, she stood on tiptoe to reach my face and then our lips met. Almost immediately, her tongue slid into my mouth and did more exploring than Indiana Jones. My response, going from semi-erect to a throbbing bar of steel took about a tenth of a second and she ground her hips against it eagerly. To be honest, there wasn't a great deal of foreplay. I know she purred "Mmmm... that feels nice," when we broke from that first kiss, but that was more or less the limit of our conversation. By unspoken mutual agreement, we settled down on a small pile of rugs, kissing frantically. I eased my hand beneath her sweater and only just had time to realise that she wasn't wearing a bra, and to appreciate the firmness of her tits and the hardness of her extended nipples before she began eagerly -- and expertly -- unfastening my trousers. For a second or two, she broke away -- just time enough to lift her lift her skirt and remove her knickers -- before we were back into a passionate clinch. I was still concentrating on the luscious tits, kissing and sucking them like a half-starved baby while she dealt with the practicalities of disposing of my trousers and underpants. Then she gently grasped my erection -- expertly, again -- and her arms urged me to climb on top of her. It presented no difficulty because her legs were spread wide and, as soon as I was in position, she guided me into her with surprising ease. There were a lot of appreciative murmurs -- from both of us -- as I began to slide in and out, and I relished the smooth slickness of her incredibly hot and clinging passage. I did my best to make it last, trying to hold back for as long as I could but, quite simply, she didn't allow me to do that. Rolling and grinding her hips against me, then thrusting upwards beneath me, she gave me little or no chance to hang back so that, after what seemed like no more than a minute or two, I knew that I'd reached my crisis point and was about to hurriedly withdraw. But she urged me on and I heard her whisper something about being 'on the pill.' And then it was too late as relief flooded over me -- and into her. It honestly felt as if the climax lasted longer than the sex. I seemed to just go on and on, gushing like an oil well inside her until, finally spent and exhausted, I stopped. Almost immediately, she pushed me aside and reached into her bag for some tissues. Seeing my look as she swiftly began to clean herself, she said; "Do you know how much these rugs cost?" "To the penny," I grinned, "I'm an accountant!" Then she giggled, finished her task, and hugged me very tightly. "That was a bit quick... I'm sorry...." I said, but she kissed me and replied: "Don't worry... it's quite flattering, really. But if you want to make it up to me I won't argue. Just... not here, though... if you don't mind?" "Where d'you suggest?" "Well... I don't know, really. I mean, my place wouldn't be much fun. Mum and Dad are busy packing to spend Christmas at Auntie Norma's place... and my sister and her boyfriend are probably waiting for them to go so they can dive into the bedroom...." "How about my place?" I suggested innocently, not knowing that those four words just about sealed my fate. I'll cut to the chase a little bit here. I took her back to my apartment -- quite a decent two-bedroom affair with a nice sea view -- and she was mightily impressed with it. After we'd both showered and spent several hours testing the strength of my large bed, and allowing me the chance to make up for my hasty effort at the factory, she wanted to inspect everything; you know, the way someone carefully examines a place they're thinking of buying? She'd already expressed her satisfaction with the bathroom which was, to be fair, almost three times the size of the ones on the council estate -- and giggled helplessly when I explained the purpose of the bidet because she'd never seen one before -- and been delighted with all the wardrobe and storage space in the bedroom. The kitchen also pleased her. As a matter of fact it was full of gadgets that I rarely used (even the ones I knew how to), with an open-plan dining area. She seemed, in fact, to drool over it; saying that she loved cooking, and having a place like that was one of her major ambitions. But it was the living room that really made her gasp. I suppose I'd grown accustomed to the view but her response to it made me recall the first time I'd been able to gaze out across the expanse of the bay and watch the tide rolling in and out. I think I may have said something corny about the view being so much better when she was part of it (alright, I admit it, I really did say that!) and she hugged me and kissed me, and thanked me and, in no time at all, we were back beneath the bedcovers and I was getting an amazing blow job -- the first I'd ever had where the woman actually swallowed and appeared to enjoy it. The following day was Christmas Eve and we woke to find the ground covered with a slight, but very beautiful frost. After a good session that proved very satisfactory for both of us, she insisted on making breakfast -- proving that she certainly knew her way around a kitchen -- and we sat at the dining table to talk. The conversation quickly turned to what we intended doing the following day: my plan was to have a microwaved meal, watch TV and maybe spend some time on the Internet; she was faced with watching TV and trying not to listen to her sister being noisily banged in the bedroom. It seemed entirely reasonable to make some better arrangements. I dropped her at home to sort out a few clothes for herself while I went to the supermarket and gathered the list of stuff she'd asked me to buy so she could cook a proper meal for us. It was all quite romantic in a way -- probably because I managed to avoid seeing that I was being manipulated. We ended up having a great holiday together. A carol service in the town square that night with a bag of roast chestnuts to eat on the way home; a Christmas Day spent trying to fuck each other to a standstill, and a Boxing Day showing her around the local aero club and explaining how I needed the adrenaline rush that skydiving gave me to make up for the boredom of my working week. She had her doubts about it -- quite severe ones, to be honest -- but she was a game girl, I'll give her that much! Her first jump, with a qualified instructor, took place at the beginning of February. There were six more before the end of that month and then, in early March, she made her first solo descent. And it was when she landed that I offered her an engagement ring. Slushy? Yes. Romantic? Yes. Then it was totally spoiled by an asshole saying, "Aw... how sweet... the council house kids marry into their own class!" Looking around, I saw the sneering face of Gerald Smyth and, without even stopping to think, I slammed my fist as hard as I could into his gut. I heard a kind of 'whooping' noise as the air was expelled from his lungs, watched him sink to knees with a look of total disbelief on his face; then there was a loud retching sound as he expelled whatever he'd recently eaten all over the grass. "You bloody cretin," I heard Samantha say; and I was going to take issue with her until I realised that she was addressing the remark to her stricken husband. "I'm sorry about that, Robbie," she said, turning to me, "he had a few drinks with his lunch and it's given him verbal diarrhoea." Then she turned on her heel and walked away without as much as a backwards glance at any of us. Abbie and I were still open-mouthed in amazement, watching her depart, as Gerald climbed to his feet. He wiped some vomit off the wispy goatee beard he'd grown and muttered; "You've made a big mistake, Davies... one lucky punch doesn't mean this is over... not by any means." "Any time you're ready for more, just let me know... Gerry!" I snarled and turned away to find that Abbie was still in a state of shock. I just took her arm gently and walked away. So, the engagement was ruined, but we got over it and were married a couple of months later. We were uncomfortable about working in the same place together and so, after we returned from our honeymoon in Tenerife, Abbie handed in her notice and found a job working in an employment agency that was only a short walk from the apartment. Despite her never having taken education too seriously, she was bright enough to adapt to an office environment and (although I didn't dare to mention it) I think she was mainly hired because she was a very nice piece of 'eye candy' when she occupied the reception desk. Everything seemed to be going pretty well for us during those first couple of years. We weren't exactly rich, but our combined incomes made us fairly comfortable. My lovely young wife proved to be a good housekeeper and a good cook, as well as wonderfully inventive in the bedroom. I mean, I knew she carried a bit of history with her -- she never denied that she'd 'been around a bit' before we got together - but the same held true for me as well, so I didn't have anything to complain about on that score. Bailing Out Once we were both properly equipped for skydiving, it was only the actual jumps that we had to pay for -- plus occasional replacements and upgrades of course -- and we lived very comfortably; although Abbie had a passion for new clothes that sometimes threatened to get out of hand. We even had occasional minor arguments over that and, though I gave in to her most of the time, there were odd incidents where I had to put my foot down about something or other. At work, things had been a bit uncomfortable for me for a short while after Griffin Lloyd passed away. Gerald tried throwing his weight around but, as I knew full well, he only had a nominal amount of shares in the business -- the vast majority were in Samantha's name only. Fortunately, it came to a head pretty quickly. We were at a board meeting and he actually tried to get me fired. It was Samantha who put him in his place. "Before anyone even thinks of supporting that," she said, "I'll tell you that Robbie taught me whatever I know about this business and... to be honest... I think he's the only one who really knows how everything works. Therefore, vote for it if you will but, as chairperson and majority shareholder, I can promise you that I'll veto it." There was a deathly silence while the two of them glared at one another for several seconds -- and then Gerald backed down. We all knew full well that Sammy was his meal ticket - he'd managed to fritter away the inheritance his parents had left him -- and she kept him on a tight leash. I knew he wanted me out of the way because I was vigilant enough to prevent him dipping his fingers into the company's financial resources. They stayed behind after the rest of us left -- obviously to have 'words,' but I realised that I'd left some of my notes behind and was about to go back in for them when I heard Gerald's voice rasping: "You've always had a soft spot for that bloody Davies, haven't you? And I bloody-well know which part of your body that soft spot's in, too! What else did he mentor you in? You're like a bitch on heat whenever he's around." I stopped listening at that point because I didn't want to hear any more. I crept away quietly and returned to the office, not quite understanding what I'd heard. As I've already said, Samantha and I hadn't really got on very well when we'd first worked together -- I'd thought her feckless and she'd probably thought me dull. Actually, because of my background, I'd believed that she thought me a bit too 'common' for her taste and all the teasing and flirting had merely been a way to torment me. Could I have been wrong? Well, it was too late for any regrets. Not that I had any, of course, because things were still very good in my marriage -- even if hers didn't seem to be terribly happy. I liked her, and she was still absolutely gorgeous; that was as far as it went -- but it certainly gave me food for thought. That night, I told Abbie about the board meeting, but I was glad I hadn't got around to telling her what Gerald had said later because Abbie suddenly interrupted me with: "Watch out for that stuck-up bitch. I always knew she had the hots for you! She'd just love to get her hooks into you (that struck a familiar chord!) and if she ever does, I'll not only scratch her eyes out... I'll rip your balls off as well!" "So... you're definitely not up for a threesome, then?" I asked. For a moment I thought she was going to kill me, then she saw the look on my face, burst out laughing and called me a pig and a bastard and a lot of other things that I can't actually recall at the moment. So, as you can see, things were pretty good for me by then. I had a decent, if slightly boring, job that was pretty well remunerated and secure. I had a beautiful and loving wife plus, if what I was hearing was true, a rich and beautiful lady lusting after me. And I had the means to indulge my partner and me in a hobby that gave me a genuine 'rush.' I don't really know exactly when it all started to go wrong -- it was probably a good while before I even realised what was happening -- but go wrong it certainly did. ** CH02. The first indication I had that something wasn't quite as it should be came when Abbie suddenly lost her enthusiasm for skydiving. I don't mean gradually, I mean it was as sudden as flicking off a light switch. We'd had a spell of really good weather that summer and we'd been able to get plenty of opportunities to leap out of planes, 'flying' and hurtling towards the ground at about 120mph. Okay, I know it sounds dangerous, and anything between 50 and 70 fatalities are recorded each year. Most people seem to think equipment failure is common, but it really isn't; the majority of accidents are caused by simple mistakes and errors. For the fully trained, the fatality average is 1 in 100,000 jumps. Compare that, for example, with driving your car; if you drive 10,000 miles per year, your chance of dying in a car wreck in any given year is something like 1 in 6,000. Abbie knew all that, we'd talked about it many times but, as she began to insist, for some completely unknown reason, the risk of accidents and fatalities are much greater for females than they are for males. So she stopped. Her final one had been the tandem jump we'd made together on her 24th birthday, just a couple of months after our first anniversary. For the first couple of weeks after that she came with me to watch (I thought it was more likely that she wanted to keep an eye on what Samantha might be up to than anything else), but then she said it was more nerve-wracking to watch than it was to be doing it, and she left me to go on my own. Of course, I was perfectly prepared to give it up, but she was insistent that she wanted me to continue as long as I was enjoying it. The surprising thing about it was that, the second week she went along to watch, Samantha was also on her own. Apparently, Gerald had injured his back by falling off a horse and it was going to be a long, slow process of healing before he'd be fit enough to strap a parachute on again, but Abbie didn't seem all that bothered that Samantha and I were both unaccompanied. So it was that I kept pursuing my hobby and my usual companion became Samantha, rather than my wife. Now, don't go getting the wrong idea. Samantha and I were getting on very well together by this time. She'd changed beyond all recognition from the snotty snob I'd first met and, as well as becoming a pretty good business woman, she was good fun to be with. We had a lot of laughs and we got on well with one another -- but that was all. Did I fancy her? You can bet your ass I did! Did she fancy me? I was pretty sure by this time that she did. Was either of us likely to do anything about it? Not a chance! We became very good pals and we talked a lot, and we sometimes confided in one another. Which is how, one Sunday afternoon when we'd been able to enjoy the benefit of some friendly thermal currents to float in the air for ages instead of hurrying earthwards, I found it hard to understand why she was looking so depressed afterwards. We were sitting in the little clubhouse sipping cool soft drinks (they wouldn't serve any alcohol until all the day's flights had been completed) and I tried to find out what was wrong with her. At first, she denied there was anything but, after a bit of gentle probing and a good deal of patience, she finally said: "Okay, then... what would you do, Robbie, if you thought your partner was cheating on you?" "What... you mean...?" "I don't know... I really don't," she insisted, "but I think Gerald might be having an affair." "Good God! Really?" I responded; surprised, and not at all sure that I wanted to explore any further. "Yes... really," she answered with a forced smile, and then, "Look, Robbie... I don't want to be a pain or anything, but I need to talk to someone I can trust and... well, there aren't all that many I can think of at the moment." "Oh, surely...." "No, I mean it. At work, they're all a bit intimidated because of who and what I am... and I've become more and more disillusioned with our so-called 'social set' in recent years. I dare say a lot of women in my position would turn to their mothers but... well, let's not go there!" That caused me a wry smile. Her mother had never been concerned with anything as much as her position in the social scale. From what I understood, she'd pushed hard to get Samantha and Gerald together because he came from the 'right kind of family;' one that had 'old money' to give an air of respectability to their more recently acquired wealth. I'd actually been nervous that the old witch would be left with a majority shareholding when her husband died, because I'd had a couple of unpleasant run-ins with her in the past. So I just nodded my understanding. "You're about the only one who's ever treated me the way I deserved, Robbie. No, don't deny it! When I used to behave like a bitch around the office, you were always prepared to treat me like one and to put me in my place... even though you did it with a light touch. You were also prepared to offer praise on the odd occasions I deserved it. "You may speak quietly, Robbie... but you don't take crap from anyone. And you sort out problems in your own quiet way... you don't go bleating to other people and I know for a fact that you don't take any interest in gossip and scandal. There're lots of other things, too, Robbie... and the fact is that I've come to regard you as someone I can trust. You're probably the only one, to be honest." "Whew! I'm honoured!" I said, probably sounding a bit facetious but, when I realised her eyes were glistening with unshed tears, I went on, "Look... I am your friend, Sammy. I wouldn't have said that when I first met you... you were a pain in those days... but you've changed a lot since then; a hell of a lot, to be honest! If there's anything I can do to help you... well... y'know," I ended lamely. "What I need is for you to promise that you won't tell anyone what I'm going to say, Robbie... can you do that?" I started to nod, but she added, "Even your Abbie," and I had to think about it for a moment. I don't like keeping secrets but, as long as it didn't directly affect her, I reasoned there wouldn't be any harm done. Finally, then, I agreed and gave her my word that it would remain in confidence. Even though there was no one near us, she kept her voice low as she began: "You're probably aware that things aren't all they should be between me and Gerald... and since you're no fool, you've probably realised that we haven't been happy together for some time." Well, maybe I was a fool, but it simply hadn't occurred to me. I disliked the man intensely -- I thought him to be a poseur, an idler and a complete prick -- but I don't normally look at other couples to see if I think they're happy or not; I've never regarded it as any of my business. So I kept quiet and let her carry on. "The thing is, everything was fine at first. I mean, it seemed that we were two equals, y'know? My dad was never too sure of Gerald, but Mum thought he was ideal. She said 'at least you can be sure he's not just after your money.' "But she was wrong, Robbie. I soon found he was close to being penniless when we got married but... well, y'know how it is... he spun me a line about having hard luck with supposedly secure investments, about being cheated by unscrupulous partners... oh, all kinds of things. "Of course, I was still in love with him and I suppose I was a bit naïve. I swallowed it all... hook, line and sinker! It didn't take Daddy long to suss him out. He gave him jobs that weren't too demanding; ones that he couldn't screw up... and he paid him far more than it was worth; but he made me promise that I wouldn't let him fritter away what Dad worked so hard to provide. "Before the end of our first year together, I discovered that he was playing around... there was one of the secretaries in a legal outfit that he wined and dined when he said he was entertaining clients. Remember, you queried his expenses? He was terrified you'd come to me about it... but you never did. You didn't have to... he was scared enough to drop her like a hot brick and it gave him another reason to hate you, Robbie." "So... since I didn't tell you...?" I queried. "I found out by examining your notes. Oh, I know that no one examines them normally... who the hell would examine everything an accountant writes? But you were always very thorough... I remember you telling me how important that was in business... so I examined them. Don't look guilty, Robbie... I already knew about that one... your notes only confirmed it. Anyway, there were others after that. I could never prove any of them, of course... and at least he stopped trying to use the company account to finance his dirty deeds. "He denied it all whenever I challenged him, of course. He just claimed that his position as head of sales meant that he had to do a lot of out-of-hours entertaining." "That was never more than a nominal position," I said quietly. "I realised that eventually. It was just something my dad gave him to make it look as if he was useful. I know now that it was Freddie Watson who brought in most of the new business." She paused, so I intervened with: "So... if you knew was having affairs, why did you put up with it? And why have you suddenly decided...?" "I put up with it," she almost whispered, "partly because I couldn't face the kind of conflict it would cause with my mother... but also because I didn't want to share the same bed with him anymore. We'd had a big row because he has some very weird... well, I won't go into that. Suffice it to say that it was a tremendous row and it's ended up with us mostly sleeping in separate rooms now. "As for your second question, all of those affairs he had were brief things that clearly weren't all that important to him. Mostly, they were with friends' wives... I think he got some kind of kick out of it. I think it fed his superiority complex or whatever it was. Or maybe he just tried to hide his inadequacy by notching up loads of conquests. Anyway, it was fairly obvious that they didn't mean anything very much to him. "But... well, whatever he's involved with now seems to be far more serious." "How can you tell?" I asked. "It all started when he seemed to be spending a lot of time on his computer... actually, a pretty unreasonable amount of time. And when I took a look at it, I found there were all kinds of things that were protected by passwords. That worried me a bit. I mean, I tried to tell myself that he was more than likely looking at porn sites and didn't want me to know about it. But it nagged away at me until... well, this may sound a bit... y'know... but I got an old school friend who's a bit of a genius with stuff like that to help me break into it. "I didn't tell her the truth of what it was about, of course. I just told her it belonged to someone I suspected of giving confidential information about our contract quotes to a rival. Anyway, she added some clever little piece of equipment to it and, about a week later, she came back, removed the device, and gave me a list of all the passwords. She made it look so easy. "Anyway... once I had them, it didn't take long to find out that there were e-mails flying back and forth between Gerald and some tart who calls herself 'Mrs Hotandwet.' I downloaded copies and read them all; there're hundreds of them! And they go back to over six months ago. "I mean, most of them... especially the early ones, were exactly what you'd expect. Y'know, there were the slushy declarations of love; but then loads of crude ones about the things they wanted to do together and how much they'd enjoy it. Those ones made me shudder. I mean, I'm not a prude or anything, Robbie... but...." "I'm sorry... I really am, Sammy," I said as she pulled out a small handkerchief and wiped tears away from her eyes as discreetly as she could. "The thing is though, Robbie... I could have taken all that. In a way I was glad that he had someone else to indulge all his disgusting... well, y'know... at least it meant that I didn't have to. But, the thing is, that the most recent ones have started to frighten me. "They've started to talk about how they'll both be free to be together soon. They keep mentioning a 'plan' of some kind to put me and her husband 'out of the way' ... although they don't specify what the plan's about. There's even a couple of them where she reminds him that the whole thing has to be put in writing so he can't try to dump her once she helps him to 'come into his fortune.' I'm scared, Robbie... I'm really scared." "Why haven't you gone to the police?" I asked. "Because it would probably end up making me look like a fool. If they had to, I'm sure they'd say it was just a game of some kind... some kind of weird turn on. They could say that it was nothing more than online chat... that they were just talking about fantasies and nothing had ever happened. And anyway... there's no direct threat to harm me, is there... not when you really think about it?" "And you've no idea who this woman is?" "No... I've no idea at all. At first, I thought it might be one of the girls on our fundraising committee for the local hospice... I know she fancies Gerald. But I ruled her out when I saw one of the reports she'd written. Whoever 'Mrs Hotandwet' is, she nearly always gets the 'e' and 'i' the wrong way round when she writes words like 'relief,' and she never bothers with capital letters at all. I think...." It was at that point that some of the other members joined us, fresh from their own adrenaline hit and ready to talk for hours about the joys of sailing through the sky, so we had to leave the discussion where it was. I eventually had to go, and I just said 'take care of yourselves' to all of them, but Sammy knew I was really addressing her when I said it. I was deep in thought as I drove home and, to be honest, if I hadn't given my word to Samantha, I wondered whether I would normally have talked it over with Abbie. Mind you, even then it might not have happened because we were going through what some married couples might describe as a bit of a 'rough patch' at the time. After our first few months together I'd discovered two things about Abbie that I didn't really like very much: the first was that she couldn't help flirting with other men. It wasn't a major problem -- it was just that she seemed to attract them without even having to try - and once she fixed them with those smouldering brown eyes they just turned into puppy dogs begging to be petted. I guess I couldn't really blame her for lapping up the attention -- especially if the man was good-looking -- and she never crossed the line in anyway. By that, I mean that she was always quick to introduce me as her husband and to make sure I was always fully included in any resulting conversation. But it often made me uncomfortable the way they looked at her -- and then at me, with a look that said 'I wish you weren't here, pal!' We talked about it a few times but she always said the same things: "It doesn't mean anything. He was just flirting with me. I didn't invite him over. Did you want me to be rude to him? Don't you like it when other men find me attractive? I wasn't exactly showing any cleavage and I've got a decent length of skirt on; and, If I still wasn't happy it would be: "For fuck's sake, Robbie! D'you want me to wear a fucking burkha when we go out?" So I bit the bullet -- sort of. I still wasn't happy about it; I made it very clear that I wasn't, and she started showing a lot more restraint. Everything settled down for a week or two but it came to a head again on the day my car was in for a service and she came to collect me from work. If I'd been in my own office, I wouldn't have been able to see her arrive and park by the employees entrance; but I happened to be in Freddie Watson' office discussing a large contract he was trying for in Belgium and trying to find a way of cutting the transportation costs. Bailing Out Fortunately, he had his back to the window, so it was only me that saw her climb out of the little Mazda MX5 that she loved so much and be greeted by three of the blokes she'd formerly worked with. Okay, it's one thing to greet old colleagues with a smile or even, at a push, with a little peck on the cheek -- but they went far beyond that. Each of them in turn received a huge, long kiss on the mouth while they hugged her tightly -- one of them even grinding himself against her! I finished up the business with Freddie as quickly as I could and hurried down to the main door -- just as she drove up and parked in my reserved space. I don't make hasty decisions -- it's probably the reason why I'm one of the few from the estate who made it all the way to grown up without getting into trouble, and so I accepted a kiss on the cheek when I climbed in the car and waited, thinking it over, as we drove home. I did ask her, casually, if she'd only just arrived and, when she said she had, I knew what I had to do. She was stunned -- and completely tongue-tied - when I told her what I'd seen. Naturally, she tried saying they were just old pals and so on -- but I lost my temper; the first time she'd ever seen me do that. "I don't give a fuck who, or what they were!" I shouted, "I don't even care that they were more than likely fucking you long before I ever did! If I ever see you act like that with any man... ever again... you'll be out that door and on your way back to your parents before you can get your tongue out of his mouth! Do I make myself clear?" There were a lot of tears before bedtime, that night -- but I made her realise that I meant every word of what I'd said. And then there was the second thing. That was about what we did in the bedroom. During those first few months we'd almost worn ourselves out trying everything we'd learned from our previous partners. The sex was absolutely great. Okay, there were times when we weren't in the mood, but they were quite few and far between. Gradually, though, she began to want more. It was solved, for a while, when we bought her a vibrator from some company online. She loved the damned thing -- so much so that I told her we'd have to start buying batteries in bulk to save some money! Then, a few weeks later, she ordered another one -- a much larger one and, although it became part of our regular 'playtimes,' I was pretty sure she was also using it when I wasn't around. Then she started reading sex stories on the Internet and telling me about them. To begin with, it was just about couples enjoying themselves together. They were okay -- and we picked up one or two tips from them - as well as getting turned on by some of the more realistic ones. But, after a while, she started on stories about married people cheating. I didn't like them very much and, as soon as she realised that, she changed to ones about swapping, open marriages, wife-sharing and stuff like that. I wasn't exactly comfortable about it, but at least there wasn't the same element of deception, and at least she found a site where some of them were well-written enough to be believable. Of course, I questioned her as to whether or not it turned her on and, after a few denials; she eventually admitted that she used some of them as fantasies when we were together. Although it may seem strange to some, this didn't bother me too much because, to be honest, there'd been times when I'd been guilty of something similar. The problem was, she began to take my acceptance the wrong way. The questions started, very gently, to be about whether or not I'd really get turned on watching her with someone else, or whether I fancied 'swinging' with another couple. She made it appear that she was simply following what I said, of course, rather than trying to lead me along. But when she eventually pushed it just a little bit too hard one night -- and I told her that if it was putting ideas like that into her head it might be better to stop reading the stories -- I think she finally realised that I simply wasn't made that way. And that's when she started buying 'toys.' It was, she explained, because she wanted to make sure that we didn't ever get bored of one another. All she wanted was to be demure at work, ideal in the kitchen, and such a complete tart in the bedroom that I'd never be tempted to stray. Well, I couldn't really argue with that except, of course, to insist that I was perfectly happy as things were and, for a few weeks, I could never be sure what was going to turn up in the post each day. There were, of course, the skimpiest, sexiest items of underwear she could find. Then there were all kinds of weird and wonderful vibrators, dildos and similar things. After that came leather basques and boots -- but then she bought a riding crop and asked me to put her over my knee and spank her with it. Trying to please -- and trying not to appear too conventional -- I did my best to comply; but my heart was never in it. Either I did it too gently or too hard, because I wasn't really interested, but I have to admit that she seemed to enjoy it. Apparently, she'd been reading some BDSM stories and found that they got her going more than ever. She told me about that one Friday night, but I feigned a need for sleep. On the Saturday, however, when I came home from the skydiving club, I heard her call to me that she was waiting in the bedroom. That seemed like good news, because I'd had an excellent day and the thought of some bedroom fun definitely appealed to me -- until I reached the bedroom! She was dressed in the leather basque, with black fishnet stockings that disappeared into high-heeled leather boots. Nothing wrong with that, of course -- in fact she looked incredibly sexy. But - she had the riding crop in one hand and, in the other, held up a pair of handcuffs which seemed to have some kind of fur trim. "Come on, mister," she growled, I'm going to fasten you to the bed and give you the ride of your life!" Oh, I forgot to mention - she was also wearing a 'strap-on!' "No!" I said. There didn't seem to anything else to say. I said it gently because she'd obviously gone to a lot of trouble to set it all up -- but God knows where she'd got the idea that I'd go along with it! "I'm not asking you... I'm telling you. Now, get your clothes off," she growled, dropping the handcuffs on the bed and tapping her hand with the crop as she tried to look dominant and threatening. I just looked at her for a moment or two -- then I told her that I needed something to eat and if she hadn't prepared anything I'd send out for something. For a moment or two, she just stared as if she couldn't believe I was turning her down -- then her eyes widened into a glare, her breathing became fast and ragged, and she began to shout at me hysterically. Suddenly, it seemed that I was a 'control-freak' who wanted to spoil all her fun. I was too dull to try anything new or different. I was insensitive and boring. I wanted nothing but missionary position sex (ah, now that one I could definitely refute!), and I was terrified of giving myself over to potential new pleasures. I simply wasn't prepared to share my lustful fantasies with anyone and.... ...Which was when I quietly turned away, told her to put some proper clothes on, and went downstairs to ring for a pizza. I didn't see her for the rest of that evening and, in the months that had followed, nothing had really been resolved. I'd tried a couple of times to talk about it -- to tell her that I simply didn't like the idea of being tied up -- or of tying her up, for that matter -- and neither inflicting nor receiving pain held any appeal for me whatsoever. And as for the idea of having a strap on dildo shoved up my ass -- that was about the biggest 'no-no' I could actually imagine. "You won't try anything!" she'd complained, and, "how do you know you won't like it if you won't even try these things?" And then it was: "All you ever want is a bit of foreplay and a straightforward fuck." To be fair, there was some truth in that. I did enjoy foreplay; I enjoyed using her toys on her and bringing her to a climax, I enjoyed oral sex and I liked fucking -- in almost any position. I could even accept that a bit of imaginative fantasy was okay. Was it my fault that I didn't want to take fantasies into the real world? Those discussions always ended the same way: she'd lie back with her legs open and tell me to go ahead and take whatever I wanted since there was no need to concern myself with any of her needs -- then I'd say something like 'another time, perhaps,' turn over and go to sleep. It had been going on like that for a few months -- on and off -- because there were many times in between when we did have passionate couplings; but I never knew what her mood was likely to be from one day to the next. I'd already begun thinking that, if things didn't change for the better in the near future, it would probably be best for both of us if we drew the curtain down on our marriage. No matter how much I didn't want to do that -- and no matter how much I tried to convince myself that there was still a great deal of love between us -- I knew it couldn't go on that way forever. Therefore, it was unlikely that I'd go home and discuss Samantha's problem with Abbie that day and, the more I thought about it, the more I believed it was no use waiting and that it would be best to persuade her to call the police and at least get her concerns on record. When I arrived home that Sunday evening, there was no sign of Abbie. I had a vague memory of her saying that she might pop over to her mum's house, so I wasn't too surprised by her absence. As I often did, I found a ready-meal in the freezer and popped it in the microwave. After that, I gave her a call on her mobile and discovered she was having a drink at the Forester's Arms with her sister. It sounded quiet there, although I could hear her sister's loud voice in the background. She told me she'd be home in a couple of hours and, after I warned her not to drive, she promised she'd give me a call to come and collect her. With nothing else to do, I decided to go on line for a while and get all the day's sports results. I used Abbie's laptop because mine was still in its case in my car. I booted it up, found the information I was looking for and, once I'd finished, started looking through the various folders. There was one that was labelled 'Bits & Bobs' which, when I opened it, seemed to have hundreds of icons and almost as many sub-folders. Because I'd opened it once before, I knew that it contained a whole hotchpotch of stuff that ranged from old photos to stories she'd tried to write herself, but usually given up on after half-a-page or so. It was also a place where she downloaded some of the stories she liked from Literotica - one of her favourite sites - and, knowing that, I'd begun using it to see what she'd been reading so I could (hopefully) anticipate whatever was likely to be thrown at me next. The newest made it clear that she'd spent a bit of time reading BDSM stories, but also a lot of 'Loving Wives - ones which, when I checked them, turned out to be mainly about cheating wives and cuckolds. I gave a sigh, thinking that this wasn't helping her to sort out our problems. Then I looked at one that seemed completely out of place in the folder. It was 'System Info,' so I clicked on it and revealed a sub-folder marked 'do not change,' which led to another and another folder until I finally reached one with a warning that opening it could damage the computer. Anyone with a modicum of common sense knew that a warning like that was bullshit, and so it turned out to be. Three sub-folders later, I reached a link to an email icon and, without hesitation, I clicked it. I wasn't at all surprised to find that it was password protected. I stared at it for a moment or two and then, almost as if it was the most natural thing in the world, typed in 'mrshotandwet' -- and it opened. Sammy had said there were no capital letters used and the spelling of words with 'ie' in them had been wrong -- both of them errors that Abbie was prone to -- and that was exactly what I found.. It took me quite a while to do what I thought would be for the best, even though I barely glanced at the lewd photos she'd occasionally persuaded me to take -- or the ones she'd taken herself - and without pausing to read any of it, I just about had time to finish my task, and remove any indication that I'd been on it, before closing the computer down, when the phone rang. With a deep sigh, I got into my car and headed off to pick her up from the pub. CH03. His name was Joe. He worked at the factory and he was 28 years old. It was, I believe, only his seventh solo jump -- and he screamed like a banshee until he hit the ground. Then there was the most complete silence I think I've ever heard in my life as everyone stood looking, in shock, at where he'd fallen with a thud that we all swore afterwards we'd actually heard. The first people to move were the St John's Ambulance crew who were always in attendance at our meetings. In the past, they'd had to treat a few ankle injuries from clumsy landings and one or two cuts and bruises; but they, like the rest of us, had never seen anything like this and they hurtled towards the scene with the blue lights flashing uselessly on their vehicle. My immediate thought was the hope that the fall had killed him outright -- the only likely alternative was that he was going to be in a terrible state for the rest of his life. I'd watched his fall. I don't normally bother, but he was one of Abbie's friends; one of those she'd managed to persuade to come along -- I think she'd actually dared them -- to provide some livelier company on the duller afternoons, so I could clearly see what had happened. One thing that skydivers dread, possibly more than any other, is the malfunction known as a 'horseshoe.' Without getting too technical, this happens when a parachute actually deploys but is still attached to a skydiver by its risers and at least one other point. It will prevent the canopy from opening properly, and ends up with the canopy and lines formed into a horseshoe shape. More often than not, it happens when the closing pin of a skydiving rig is released from the closing loop, which allows the deployment bag to separate from the container. Okay, it is sometimes possible to treat it as you would any other high-speed malfunction -- simply by releasing the main canopy and using the reserve. What usually happens in such a case, though, is that the pilot chute shifts during the entanglement and, plummeting towards the ground, the AAD (automatic activation device) on the reserve kicks in, the two get tangled - and then there follows a meeting with Mother Earth that is almost always fatal. It's not, by any means, a common occurrence, and the correct procedure for dealing with it can be practised on the ground -- but on the ground is very different to hurtling towards it. Who can tell whether or not, in a moment of blind panic, the practising will be remembered? An hour earlier, Joe had been chatting to Samantha and me in the kit room; showing a respect that bordered on deference to her and barely managing to hide his contempt for me. I was perfectly well aware of why he felt that way but, as I watched the ambulance racing towards his unmoving form, I wasn't about to concern myself with that. In any case, I now had my hands full with the task of trying to console Sammy. Her head was practically trying to burrow through my sternum and bury itself inside my chest as she sobbed and trembled, helplessly, and only just on the right side of hysteria. I could hardly blame her; watching someone plummet to the ground like that was bad enough for anyone -- but it had to be a lot worse for the person who'd lent him her parachute! "It could've been me, Robbie!" I heard her say in a feeble voice between sobs, "It could've been...." "Shhh... it's alright," I responded as comfortingly as I could, my left arm around her shoulders while my right hand gently stroked her beautiful blonde hair; and I could feel every tremor of her lovely body as she clung to me so helplessly, trying to find comfort in our embrace. We probably stayed like that for several minutes before I was finally able to prise myself loose and ease her down onto one of the benches at the front of the clubhouse. She was sobbing; "It's all my fault. I shouldn't have...." But then a new and even more intense flood of tears drowned out the rest of the thought. I was about to sit down and disabuse of her any such notions when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mark Haley approaching. Actually, it was Detective Sergeant Mark Haley to give him his full title, and he was a very welcome sight. Like me, Mark was one of the few from our old estate who hadn't turned to the 'Dark Side' and, also like me, he was a committee member of the skydiving club. Although he was a good few years older -- probably in his late forties -- he was a genuinely nice bloke and I'd always got on well with him. "Who was it, Robbie," he asked without any preamble, "the rota said it was you and Sammy. How come?" "We did a swap with Joe and Donald... we changed it on the manifest," I explained, "Don's using my 'chute... Joe had Sammy's. But there's something far more important than that, Mark." He just raised his eyebrows fractionally, so I went on: "I don't think that was an accident. I've good reason to believe it may have been deliberate and it needs to be investigated. You need to get your lads out here to secure the evidence or whatever it is they do." "They're already on their way," he assured me, "Do I take it you know something I don't about this?" "Both of us do," I said, nodding my head in Sammy's direction, "but I think you'd be better off talking to me for the moment... poor Sammy's in shock...." As it happened, we were all required to give initial statements about what we'd seen and what we knew about the 'accident.' Mark and his superior officer, Detective Inspector Kelsey, set up shop in the small room we normally used for committee meetings and we were taken in one at a time to give our version of events. The aerodrome had been sealed off while it took place and, even though those who'd given statements were allowed to go home, no one from outside was allowed onto the premises until everything was complete. While we were waiting, I sat by one of the windows and watched the proceedings outside. There wasn't a great deal to see: a number of people in CSI coveralls were making themselves busy around the place where Joe had landed, while another group were swarming over the Finist SMG-92 SET, the plane which had taken him on what had probably been his last journey. That was still debatable, since a rumour had quickly spread that he was still alive -- though only just; probably it came from the way the ambulance had sped out of the place with sirens blaring and lights flashing, but I suspected that had only happened because the St John's people were every bit as much in a state of shock as the rest of us. Samantha was on the other side of the room from me, being comforted by a female police officer, and I couldn't tell whether she was awake or asleep because she hardly seemed to move at all. Mark had organised it very well. The first people called in to give their stories were those who hadn't really seen what happened and they were dealt with fairly quickly. Then there were the others who'd been outside and had watched the figure screaming and flailing in terror as it careered towards the ground and, eventually, the pilot of the plane. After him, Samantha was helped into the room by her companion. I knew she'd be in there longer than the others, so I settled down to wait. When I was younger I used to smoke -- not heavily -- I'd never been more than a ten-a-day smoker and it hadn't been too hard to quit the habit, but as I sat there, all alone except for the uniformed constable who sat on a chair near the exit, I had the first craving for nicotine that I'd known for many years.