Services

Phil couldn’t concentrate. The more he tried to focus on Strictly Come Dancing, the more his mind filled with memories of sweaty bouncing flesh mingled with a heady mental cocktail of guilt, fear and arousal. He worried he was going to faint.

He spun his wedding ring nervously, then stopped himself. He was going to give the game away fidgeting like this. Had no one really noticed anything different about him since he got home?

Next to him, Sandra gazed at the screen, her mouth ajar. Phil looked across at his daughter, Fran, half hidden behind a magazine, casting occasional bored glances at the TV. Ben was in his room, “probably having a wank”, according to Fran.

On the screen, a sequinned woman leapt upon a man in a tuxedo, her legs astride his, the audience cheering wildly. Phil thought of Belinda’s smooth thighs squeezing around his, the sensation of her firm bottom bouncing up and down on his legs.

He’d noticed her straight away; how could he not? The entire male population of Fleet Services was staring at her. Instinctively, he had sucked in his gut and puffed out his chest as he walked past her to the coffee bar. Sitting down at the next table, he risked a glance across, his eyes drawn to her top, its clean white fabric stretched across her chest.

He watched her stand up, her long legs disappearing into an indecently short skirt. Jesus H Christ. She walked slowly over to the table and leaned over him. “Do you mind if I join you?” Her voice low and husky, her blue eyes gazing into his.

He had gawped up at her for a moment, then stammered out a “Yeah, of course,” staring as she sat opposite him and smiled. Twiddled idly with her long blonde hair. Told him her name: Belinda.

These motorway services were such lonely places, she said, especially for a lady travelling on her own. He agreed.

It was good just to talk wasn’t it, get a bit of human interaction? She was staying the night here, in the hotel just next door. All she had to look forward to was a night in front of the telly. But she was in the mood for adventure. We all need to do something a bit crazy sometimes, don’t we? He agreed.

She was feeling reckless, she confessed; maybe it was all the driving, making her edgy. She was craving company. She hoped he didn’t think her too forward, but would he like to come back to her hotel room? For a coffee?

God help him, he agreed.

In the room, she locked the door and turned to him. He stood awkwardly, thoughts of Sandra and the kids crowding in, demanding his attention. Belinda reached up, pulled his head down and kissed him. Her tongue slipped into his mouth and he forgot all about Sandra and the kids for some time.

She undid his shirt, his belt, his trousers. Stepped back and peeled off her top, letting him look at her for a moment. He stared at the small butterfly tattoo on one breast. She knelt down before him and he looked down at the top of her head moving backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. Standing there with his pants round his ankles, it felt too dreamlike to be real.

She took total control, put him where she wanted him to go, told him what to do, where to put his hands, what to say. It seemed to last for hours; twice when he was convinced he could go no more she teased him back to life for another round.

Afterwards, he had made a hasty, stunned call to Sandra from the car, babbling about meetings running over, horrible traffic on the M3. He had almost no memory of the drive home. It was a miracle he hadn’t crashed.

“Oh my god. Oh fucking hell, no.” The three of them looked up at the cries from upstairs. Fran smirked. There was the sound of running feet on the stairs, the front door opening then slamming shut. Phil ran to the window to see his son sprinting away down the street.

Sandra stared at Phil, who shrugged. She frowned then started up the stairs. Fran followed, grinning delightedly at her brother’s weirdness. Phil looked out the window again, but Ben had gone.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Phil. Phil, no. Oh god, no.”

“What is it, love, what is it?” Phil ran up the stairs.

Ben’s room smelled stale and musty, clothes and energy drink cans littered the floor. His laptop sat open on a chair by his bed. Sandra and Fran stared at it in horror.

“What is it, what’s going on?” Phil asked. Sandra reached out a shaking hand and turned the laptop to face him.

It was the butterfly tattoo he noticed first, bouncing, the pale hand below it clutching the breast, the gold of the wedding ring gleaming. The camera pulled back, his own twisted and absurd face coming into view.

He carried on staring at the laptop, unable to bring himself to look up at his wife and daughter. The words in flowing red at the top of the web page: ‘Busty Belinda traps cheating husbands in her hot honeytrap’.

His mouth moved uselessly, trying to form the words, “I can explain,” but all that came out was a dry clicking sound, before the darkness descended and he crashed to the floor in a dead faint.