Blue Guitar

“We should forgive our enemies, but not before they are hanged.”

Apéritif

Justine breezed down as I was finishing my coffee, and struck a hand on hip pose in the doorway.

“You like?”

She was wearing a new blouse, a cross between pink and pale orange.

“Lovely colour.”

“First time I’ve worn it; it’s called Autumn Rose. This year’s colour.”

“I can see it now. It’s exactly the colour of, well, that coloured rose.”

Her pale blonde hair was up in a bun, ready for work. The ensemble was completed with a straight grey business skirt, an inch above the knee, bare legs, and grey shoes. Under the new shirt was a plain soft bra. The white material was very thin and there was a clear nipple shape, though not overt. She looked fabulous. I’ve always liked her to look sexy, so I approved.

I went up to brush my teeth and heard a beep. It was Justine’s phone, on our bed. Idle curiosity made me look at the message. The title was so short, I didn’t even need to open it. It was from ‘Office’ and said ‘Coq au vin?’ Intriguing, I tossed it back on the bed. While I was flossing, I heard her in the bedroom, and when I’d done, the phone was gone.

That Friday afternoon I got a phonecall at work.

“John Edge.”

“Johnny! What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Denis! When are you going to stop calling me Johnny? You know I hate it.”

“Sorry, mon ami. I forgot.”

“You’re forgiven. The answer is I’m not doing much. Justine will be at the hairdresser most of the morning.”

“Perfect. Please come and see me at the restaurant.”

“Which one?”

“I’ll be at Blue Guitar.”

*

Denis has been my friend for decades. He’s a bit on the short side and French. So the pronunciation is the same as in the Blondie song. We met at secondary school and were both fans of a certain Birmingham based band. Still are.

Like many mild-mannered men I have a vicious streak, usually well under control. But one incident at school, tipped me over the edge. We were waiting for our French class teacher to arrive and some of the kids were taking the piss out of Denis. They were chanting ‘wee, wee’ mocking his French accent. Then one of them punched him in the balls, as if to illustrate how amusing he was.

Denis dropped to his knees clutching his groin. The bully sat on his chair and looked innocent, while the rest scrambled away. I walked up to the boy, Graeme Laine as I recall, and opened his desk.

“Look.” I said.

As he looked at his text books, I pushed him down into the open desk and slammed the lid down onto the back of his head. The classroom went quiet. Then I did it twice more and returned to my own place.

Graeme sat up, blood streaming from his broken nose. Clutching his face, he rushed for the door, opening it as our French teacher came in.

“What happened?” asked Mr Patrick.

For a while no-one answered, then one of Graeme’s cronies replied: “He had a nose bleed sir.”

To this day, Denis thinks he still owes me.

*

Today, he has seven restaurants across the city. Sur La Mer was his first, and Seventh Sojourn the most recent. If you haven’t worked it out by now, you never will. They each have their own style, but are all French. Justine and I don’t patronize them much these days. But when they first opened, I visited every one. My favourite has always been the third one. It’s less French than the others and has a blue guitar on one wall.

Denis Moraz took a few shortcuts on his way to the top. And he is at the top. I doubt he needs to get his hands dirty with any rough stuff these days, we’re all more mellow. Anyway, he has ‘people’ for that kind of thing. He is the richest man I know, but I stopped eating at his restaurants because the extra attention and freebies got over-the-top. He never commented on my absence.

*

“I come straight to the point mon ami. I know you’re a busy man. Is this your Justine?”

He passed me his phone, which displayed a photo. She was wearing the new rose-coloured blouse, so it must have been taken yesterday. The man had a dark beard.

“Yes that’s her.”

“John, I fear she may be ‘aving an affair.”

It was too early for customers yet. We sat down and a waiter brought us coffee. This sounded serious. He rarely called me by my name.

“What makes you think that?”

“You know me, I am a people watcher. I observe the small body languages and so on. These two alternate between here and Voyageur, each week. And they lunch on a different day each week. The lack of pattern makes a pattern, oui?”

“Go on.”

“He looks like her boss.”

“He is, I met him once. His name is Tom Hayward.”

“Bon. He always orders by phone twenty minutes before they arrive. Though many do this when their lunchtime is so short.”

He had never hidden his disdain for uncivilised English lunch breaks. Apparently in France, they take hours.

“A boss can take more time, so he walks here and comes in through the front door. Justine drives, parks in our carpark, and comes in through the back. They always choose a table away from the window. Tres suspicious. And she usually slips her shoes off. I believe she plays, how to say, the footie under the tablecloth.”

“Footsie.”

“Yes. He pays in cash, never a card. And they leave separately. I could be wrong, but… ”

“But you’re not.”

He shrugged. A Frenchman can say a lot with a shrug.

With assurances of Denis’ help if he could ever do anything, I went home and thought it through. I was as sure as I could be that Justine was having an affair with Tom Hayward, her boss. Could it be innocent lunches once a week? No. She had set off for work with bare legs. Yet by lunchtime they were black-clad. And I’d bet a year’s salary those were not tights.

I close my eyes and wade through the memory banks. Am I missing a clue somewhere? How about last month? She’s putting a gift-wrapped box in her handbag.

“Somebody’s birthday?”

“It is actually. Tom is fifty today.”

“Cool, what did you get him?”

“Some cigars. He’s not allowed to smoke at work, but enjoys one at weekends.”

But Justine’s a team leader. There’s not really anything strange about buying your exec manager a birthday present. It doesn’t come close to an affair. But that box does look a bit short and square for cigars. What does that prove?

Entrée

I start a thorough search; all the usual places. But there’s no sign of new sexy undies. She must be changing when she gets to work. I go to our bathroom and splash cold water on my face. Think! The laundry basket! It’s sitting there behind me. We’ve all read the stories; if yesterday’s panties are not in there, that’s suspicious. But if they are, and are full of crusty semen, that’s proof! I don’t even know which ones she was wearing.

I lift the lid. There they are, right on top. Small briefs, the same white material as her bra, naturally. I pick them up. No male deposits, just a slight fold in the gusset. Her vulva made that. I drop them back in.

And then it happens; a slight waft of my cologne. But mine is on the shelf with the top on, so I’m not smelling that. And I just washed my face. I pick up her panties again, and lift the gusset to my nose. Calvin Klein’s ‘Eternity for Men’. Can’t be mine, it’s been days since I went down on her. I close my eyes my imagination runs riot.

Justine is with a man. On an office desk? She takes off her panties and opens her thighs. He ‘drinks from the furry cup’. They have sex, and when they’re done, she cleans her vagina, puts the panties back on, and comes home. But a trace of his aftershave, ‘my’ aftershave, stays in them. I should be working for CSI!

I open my eyes. The gusset is right in front of my face. I can smell Justine too, which stirs my dick slightly, and I lick the crease which her cunt lips created. I get a hair in my mouth! One of life’s great pleasures is removing pubic hair from your teeth. But this isn’t, it’s not even blonde, it’s black. Probably from a beard.

If Justine gave Tom ‘Eternity’ as a birthday present, that’s an awesome display of caution. She probably had kissing in mind, the smell of his cologne around her neck or collar might alert me. But ensuring she only ever smells of me shows forethought. I need to up my game.

Justine has quite a high-powered job. There’s a line manager between her team leader position and Tom, her exec manager. Not long back, her company was sued by a disgruntled employee, who won their case. Now they’ve gone to town on Health and Safety, and Justine is heading a group in the H & S Department. Maybe that’s where her cautious attitude began.

The following Monday, Justine announces she has been selected to go on a Health and Safety update course. She’ll be away next week in Leeds for two nights; Tuesday and Wednesday. Tom will drive them there in his company car, and they’ll return directly to work around Thursday lunchtime. So we won’t see each other from Tuesday morning to Thursday night.

I’m secretly elated, this might be my chance to catch her. I’m nonchalant, and tell her to have a good time.

“I’m the first team leader to go on one of these. It could lead to greater things.”

“Do you know which hotel you’re staying in?”

“They haven’t told us yet. You know Browning Industries; everything is left to the last minute. You can always reach me on my mobile phone, anyway.”

“Sure. No problem.”

She’s talking crap. Since the court case, her company is extremely well organised.

A call to Browning Industries’ Human Resources:

“Sorry to trouble you, but some of my staff are confused about the H & S course. What’s the venue again?”

A pause.

“Sorry, we have no such course on the books. Did you mean the Sales Seminar in Leeds?”

“My mistake. Thanks for your help.”

So where is she going?

“Denis, I need a big favour. Have Hayward and my wife lunched at one of your restaurants this week?”

“No. My people have been watching out for them.”

“How difficult would this be?”

I told him what I wanted and he laughed out loud.

“Mon ami, you have no idea how easy that will be. I will get in touch with you when I have what you want.”

So, I asked for more, making it increasingly complicated. Denis took it all in his stride.

I met him down The Beehive two nights later; he was carrying a holdall. He particularly liked the pub as they had Kronenbourg 1664 on draught. The French are more famous for their wine, but Denis likes a beer occasionally. Kronenbourg is their best.

“They are staying Tuesday and Wednesday night at the Threshold Lodge, just north of Gloucester. It’s got poor security. CCTV at Reception, and in the corridors. That’s it, nothing in the carpark. Here are all his keys.”

“Gloucester? That’s barely an hour away. Denis, this is awesome! I know you must keep trade secrets, but how on earth did you manage to get these? Give me a clue.”

“We have just started a new customer service. A gentleman puts his jacket on the back of his chair. A lady also, and her handbag. One of my waiting staff then puts a beautiful cover, with my logo, over those jackets. Prevents food, or anything else, from spilling on them. Customers like the attention.”

“Nice touch.”

“It is simplicity itself, to take his wallet and keys for thirty minutes. The wallet reveals the booking details, credit card number, driving licence and car registration. The keys were copied, and everything was replaced.

“You’re a star!”

“We will ensure they are allocated room 207 in the Threshold Lodge, and will set up camera surveillance in the room over this weekend. It is movement sensitive and will be relayed to your laptop.”

“Brilliant! Now I definitely owe you one!”

“One or two carpark lights will be broken after he has parked and Ray, one of my guys, will be nearby.”

He passed me the holdall.

“In here, are the other items you requested. You can keep the bag. And you do not owe me one, John. No keeping score here. This is the best fun I have had in ages!”

I bought him a couple more beers and, before we left, he handed me another car key.

“Five year old Ford Focus, red, it’s in the corner of Blue Guitar carpark.”

We said our goodbyes and I took the bag home.

Justine came back from shopping on Saturday with a new case. The roll-along type with the extending handle.

“I thought I’d use this for my business trip. We keep saying we need a new one.”

“It doesn’t look very big.”

“It’s designed to be used as carry-on luggage if we fly anywhere. It’s more than big enough for two days.”

She left it in in the bedroom and I sneaked up to have a closer look while she was preparing dinner. It was locked. I shook it and could hear something inside. It sounded like paper. In her handbag, I found the bag’s receipt and called the shop where she’d bought it.

“Hi, my wife bought a case from you today. She’s locked it, and forgotten the combination. It’s a Samsonite.”

“Champagne?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, the default is zero, zero, zero. But we did show her how to change it. If she’s changed the code and forgotten that, we cannot help, I’m afraid.”

She hadn’t bothered to change it. Inside were packets of stockings and sexy thongs. What should I do? I could remove her new purchases just before she left. I could take everything out come to that. Or I could leave it all, and change the combination at the last moment. 317 would be appropriate: it reads LIE upside down. But in the end, I did nothing and went down to dinner.

The night before she left, we had spectacular sex. I used plenty of lube, and fucked her up the arse. Our anal sex is usually fairly gentle, but that Monday I was brutal. It’s best with Justine on her back so I can see everything. I pushed her knees up to her shoulders and pounded away, expecting her to ask me to take it a bit easier. But she reached round her buttocks, yanked them wide open, and arched her back till it came off the bed. It didn’t take me long.

Maybe Justine likes it rough with Tom. And maybe I’m just getting a pity fuck, before she lets Tom in her browneye for two nights. Who cares? An arsefuck is a an arsefuck, right? Might as well make the most of it, there won’t be many more. I shoot into her bowels and she goes to have a shower. She usually does after anal, and stays in there a long time.

Tom picks Justine up on Tuesday morning. It’s far too early for a trip to Gloucester of course. But they’re supposed to be going to Leeds, aren’t they? I make sure I stay well away from the door and windows, so he won’t see me. I happen to check the bathroom cabinet after they’ve driven off. The anal lubricant is missing; big surprise. At work, I check their progress on my laptop several times during the day.

They have sex once, as soon as they get to the room. Justine gives him a nice blowjob to get him hard, then they get down to the main event. Straightforward missionary sex, though she is wearing new red stockings. Perhaps she’s saving her arse for tonight. I don’t know where they go in the afternoon; what can you do in Gloucester?

I retrieve the anonymous Focus after work, drive down there, and park where I can see his car. It’s getting dark. On the laptop, I watch them on the bed again. But they only kiss and indulge in some groping. then presumably go to dinner. While I’m watching and waiting, nobody comes out to the carpark. I’m the only one who hears the tinkling sound as one of the lights goes out. The one nearest Tom’s BMW. I put on my gloves, raise the hood on my jacket, and unlock his door. Then place my new purchase on his driver’s seat.

I return to my own car and check the laptop again. They come back to the room and Tom strips and lies on the bed naked, playing with his dick. Justine leans over him, and gives him a deep kiss. It lasts about a minute.

Then she turns her back on him and bends over, stretching her buttocks apart. He sits up and sticks his face in there. I can’t see, but there’s no doubt where his tongue is.

“Good luck up there, mate.” I mutter.

The scene is not turning me on, it’s making me angry. But there is a certain element of pleasure imagining his tongue. It’s wriggling around where my dick was unloading less than twentyfour hours ago. When he’s had his fill, he picks up the lube. Sliding his fingers under her cunt, he thrusts a thumbful up her shitter. He’s probably scratching her clit at the same time. I certainly would be.

Justine now straddles him and lowers her anus onto his dick, cowgirl style. She bounces up and down and throws her head back. He grabs her nipples and pulls her down for another kiss. It’s not long before they finish. What’s she getting out of this? He’s no bigger than me, and doesn’t last as long. It wasn’t particularly rough, and I don’t think she had an orgasm. If she’s just fucking him for promotion, that’s prostitution.

She climbs off and he says something. Justine smiles and dips her head over his dick. Surely not? But she does; takes the whole length, such as it is, into her mouth and sucks it clean. She’s never done that for me, but then, I wouldn’t particularly want her to. Even if she had an enema, it must still taste shitty. As expected, she now heads for the bathroom; she’ll be in there a while. Game on!

Gloves on, hood up, I run up to room 207 and rap on the door. He’s wearing very little when he opens it on the chain. He doesn’t know me.

“What is it?”

“Mr Hayward, come quick! Someone’s trying to break into your car! The police are on their way.”

He rushes out in his toweling robe and hotel slippers. I slip into the room and superglue the bathroom door shut. Justine is singing in the shower and doesn’t notice. Then I stuff all their clothes into both cases and put them by the door. A final look and there’s nothing of theirs in the room. Except the anal lubricant, which I leave on one of the pillows. When I get to the BMW, Tom is coughing, and lying half way through the driver’s door. A shadowy figure stands next to him, holding a can of Mace.

Sitting in the car, hands on the steering wheel, is a male sex doll. It’s wearing an old sweatshirt and nothing else. Ray and I manoeuvre it sideways. It’s still in the driver’s seat but now its legs are dangling out of the driver’s door. Then we manhandle Tom’s groaning body so he’s kneeling.

I force Tom’s mouth over the doll’s anatomically correct erect penis and remove his robe. My accomplice moves its hands on top of Tom’s head. Then I take some photos with my phone.

“You’d better make yourself scarce now Ray. You really don’t want to witness the next bit.”

He shrugs and squashes the hotel robe and slippers under his jacket. Next, he disappears towards the hotel, to remove the hidden cameras. Tom starts protesting and tries to get up. I check there’s no-one else around, and position him with his shoulders outside the car. Then I slam the car door, trapping his head. It makes a satisfying crunch and Tom goes quiet again. I open the door slowly. He still appears to be gobbling the mannequin but looks unconscious. There’s blood pulsing out of one ear. I slam it twice more, just to make sure.

I take the cases back to the Ford, and check my haul. I take all her cash, and all his. I don’t really need it but their luggage may turn up one day. Better if this looks like a robbery. Everything else is put back in the bags and I leave. No police cars around though. Maybe they’re not coming.

I haven’t gone far, when I find a quiet spot near a river, probably a tributary of the Severn. I throw Justine’s case in, and watch it float a short way before I sinks. Just outside Hereford, an unlocked builder’s skip swallows Tom’s bag.

When I return, I park back behind Blue Guitar. The hoodie and gloves stay in the car; I’m sure Denis will find a use for them. Then I post the Ford Focus keys through the restaurant front door as agreed.

It’s getting late by the time I get home, but there are still things to be done. First off, I send a message to Justine: