F#$K YOU!

Written by Vandemonium1

Edited by CreativityTakesCourage

I got the inspiration for this one while reading CindyTV’s ‘Sweet and Sour’ It been independently rated at 4/5 pickaxe handles. Many thanks to my partner, CreativityTakesCourage for the edit. We’ve made it as unique as an old concept can be.

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I shushed Michael to silence when I saw my home number come up as the incoming caller on my cell and lay back near naked on our hotel room bed. He gave me a little-boy-denied-a-sweetie look.

“Dave, darling, I was just about to ring you. I got into bed and just had to hear your voice again before I went to sleep.”

How easy lying had become. My affair with my boss, Michael, had been going on for three months, although this was only the fourth time we’d been together, and the first time for something other than a quickie in a motel room.  This was night two of a four-night work conference two states away from home. Last night, we’d fucked like bunnies all evening, and again in the middle of the night, and again this morning. Tonight, we’d been to a swanky restaurant and just gotten back and stripped. Me, down to a black suspender belt and stockings. I thought the text I’d sent Dave, ‘really tired, turning in early, kiss the kids goodnight for me,’ would have given me some peace for the evening. It hurt to talk to Dave last night, my conscience making it hard to speak normally so I’d tried to wriggle out of it tonight.

I didn’t go looking for an affair, but the half drunken first encounter with Michael was so deep down satisfying that I just kept going back for more. He was big and he knew how to use it. That’s not to say that the thought of what I was jeopardising with my fantastic husband and two beautiful daughters didn’t scare the crap out of me. It did. I just couldn’t deny myself the pleasure. I hoped the infatuation would fade soon and I promised myself I’d never do this again.

But then again, I’d said that after John and Paul and Ian.

I missed what my husband was saying as Michael moved to the foot of the bed, roughly spread my legs, and got busy with his tongue. An involuntary groan escaped my lips in anticipation until reality returned with a bang and I was forced to remember by Michael’s actions that he’s shit at cunnilingus. I mean, really, he doesn’t have a clue. His tongue went straight to my clit and beat away at it. Dave, now, he was good at it, loved it, and quite often spent twenty minutes or more down there just sneaking up on my sensitive bud and almost always gave me a deep orgasm when he reached his goal.

The amount of wine I’d consumed with dinner, the naughtiness Michael was up to, and memories of Dave’s oral skills made for a surreal combination and I was so horny I was almost panting. That, combined with the roaring of blood in my ears made me hazy on exactly what Dave had just asked me. Thinking quickly, I assumed he was asking about my day like he normally did.

“Mmmmm, Dave, let’s not talk about my boring old conference, let’s talk about what I’m going to do to you in bed when I get home on Friday.”

Dave’s response to my pillow talk made me drop the phone like it was a hot potato and throw myself towards the edge of the bed, presumably to sit upright at the edge.

A burning pain flared in my groin, I screamed loudly, “That hurt, Michael, you bastard.” Later, I realised the pain was because Michael had been nibbling my clit at the time. Coincident with my scream, Michael squealed and rubbed his face which now sported a deep scratch caused by having the hook of my suspender belt scraped across it.

Cupping my throbbing for all the wrong reasons crotch, I reached for the phone again but heard the disconnect signal before it even reached my ear. I punched speed dial 1 but only got the engaged signal. Two more attempts elicited the same non-reply. Michael was bewildered.

“What the fuck did the loser say to you?”

“He… he…,” deep breath and a gulp. “When I said I was going to rock his world when I came home on Friday, he said, ‘Are you feeling horny, babe? Did Michael leave you hanging last night?’ “He knows, Michael. Dave knows about us. I have to get home. NOW.”

Ignoring the pain, I quickly dressed, threw my clothes in my suitcase, and headed for the door. As I was opening it, Michael spoke in a worried voice, “Cind, do you think your husband knows my wife?”

With not even a glance at the selfish prick, I ignored his whining question and rushed down to the lobby and had the all-night reception call me a cab. Then I sat at fucking Brisbane airport from 11 p.m. till fucking 5 a.m. Why the hell did Melbourne airport have a bloody curfew? Constant calls to the home phone only returned engaged signals. Dave’s cell was no better. There I went direct to voicemail.

I disembarked Melbourne airport at 7.30 in the morning and caught a $150 cab to our suburban home. I expected it to be empty with the kids at school and Dave at work but it felt more than empty as I opened the door. It felt vacant. A dreaded but quick inspection revealed what I’d feared. A bunch of Dave and the kid’s stuff was missing. I screamed in frustration at my plight. Knowing it was all self-inflicted didn’t lessen the severity.

Desperately needing alertness—I’d been awake for over twenty-four hours and hadn’t slept much the night before that—I made a strong coffee. Where would Dave go?

It took me an hour to remember we’d loaded our phones with find-a-phone apps. It took another hour to figure out how to use it but it showed Dave’s phone on the move and heading north on the Hume Highway. I should have known.

In times of stress, Dave always headed to his sister, his only living relative. She lived in Albury which you reached via the Hume. Heading out without packing anything but the luggage I’d taken to Brisbane, I gave chase.

The four-hour drive to Albury was a nightmare. The roads are boring and I battled to stay awake. I just knew, though, that the quicker I got to Dave, the better the chances of my wonderful marriage surviving were. Wonderful marriage! Why was I only thinking of that now?

I kept awake by trying Dave’s cell constantly and wracking my brain for what I knew about divorce. I knew that the law favoured women getting custody of any children and that even the presumption of ‘shared care’ had devolved into the husband being allowed access to the kids irregularly. Dave lived for our children; he’d never agree to live like that. If necessary, I could use that against him, if my pleading had to turn to threats.

I managed to stay awake until I was parked outside my sister-in-law’s house. Which was empty and quiet. They’d probably anticipated my chase and made themselves scarce. I decided to sit in my car and wait for them to return.

I must have drifted off for a couple of hours as it was late afternoon when I roused. The powernap must have done me some good as I kicked myself for not doing the obvious, using the find-a-phone function again. What the hell? Dave’s phone was now entering the outer suburbs of Sydney. Without too much thought, like a Jack Russell Terrier, I gave chase. A near death experience from sheer exhaustion forced my hand and at the town of Yass I pulled into a motel. Before I collapsed on the bed I checked where Dave was. Mascot in Sydney. Who the hell did he know in Mascot? No one that I could think of.

I slept until just after 4 a.m. and, thinking I may wake Dave when he was too dopey to reject my call, tried his cell. Straight to voicemail. I ground my teeth in frustration and headed north again. By eight I was on the outskirts of Sydney and decided to be smart. I stopped and looked to see where Dave was now. Phew, still in Mascot. I programmed Mascot into my Satnav and headed out again.

Do you know what Sydney traffic is like on a Thursday before a long weekend? One word, nightmare. My car was running on fumes when I finally arrived at Mascot, and quite honestly, so was I. Roadhouse greasy food is just not enough to sustain someone as stressed as I was.

Pulling over, I decided to see Dave’s exact location. What the fuck? According to the readout, he was fifty kilometres east of Sydney. How could that be? All that’s out there is the Tasman Sea. When I looked closer, his altitude was 6,000 metres and speed over 500 kilometres per hour. The bastard was on a plane. I watched as the trace turned north then disappeared. Dave and my kids were on a plane going to who only knew where.

Getting some inquisitive looks from some dodgy locals, I decided to move on but I was bewildered to know what to do. Seeing signs to the airport hotel, I pulled in. Paying for a room for even one night put a dent in the funds available on my credit card.

In the relative serenity of my room, I kicked myself for not checking at home to see if the kids’ passports were in the safe. I just stared at my phone and got excited when sometime later the locator showed Dave being 10,000 metres over Port Moresby, in Papua New Guinea. Surely, Dave wouldn’t take the kids to a dangerous place like that? It got me wondering, though. How long had Dave been preparing for this? If he knew the divorce laws as well as me, could he be running with the kids to somewhere I couldn’t retrieve them? Surely not.

I must have dozed for a while because on awakening I discovered Dave was in Bangkok. I wasn’t making the same mistake again, though, I decided to keep an eye on him to make sure he wasn’t transiting somewhere else. It was a long night, at the end of which Dave was still in Thailand.

Now my problem was how to get from Sydney to Thailand when my damn passport was at home in Melbourne. In a word, FUCK! Trying to book a flight home revealed my credit card was maxed out. I jumped on the internet and within a few clicks found that all but two grand was gone from all the accounts I could access. It certainly looked like my clever hubby was doing a runner and leaving me with no resources to find him. Why leave me anything, though? His sense of fair play? A shred of love for me?

I transferred the lot to my credit card, then booked a cheap flight from Sydney to Melbourne. Dumping my car in Sydney airport parking station—who said piracy is dead?—I sat in another airport lounge, fuming for fucking hours while the budget airline cancelled the first two flights I could have been on. I hoped Dave and the girls were having a ball in Thailand, because I was bloody miserable.

I arrived home after another exorbitant taxi ride, checked Dave hadn’t moved on, rang the travel agent I usually used, and got a fast-tracked super cattle-class seat out to Thailand the next morning. She confirmed I didn’t need a visa. A trip to the safe to get my passport confirmed my kids’ one’s weren’t there.

As the flight was at 8 a.m. and I didn’t have a car, I booked a taxi for 4 a.m. and went to pack. My alarm waking me while the skies were still pitch black found me pretty much unrested even though I knew I must have slept. Stress piled on stress as I went to pick up my small suitcase and the handle broke off. The cab driver fumed as I quickly stuffed all my gear into the only other similar sized suitcase I had.

Flying was popular that morning and I fretted through the long queue at check-in and customs, making it to the gate lounge just in time. Once I was seated, I checked that Dave was still in Bangkok until the hostess growled at me to turn my phone off. Once we were airborne I used the plane’s internet to enable international roaming on my phone, that took my mind off the fact my ass was already numb from the rock-hard seat and I was surrounded by big, hairy, men that smelled like they hadn’t bathed in a week. The hours dragged.

I walked off the aerobridge and along a row of windows to the outside, trying not to think how dangerously low my funds were but quietly confident I could talk or bully Dave around. Impatiently, I enabled the find-a-phone function on my phone and it started beeping immediately. Dave was only 346 metres away from me, due east. Racing to the nearest window I found east from what Dave-the-ex-boy-scout had taught me.

My blood ran cold as I looked in the indicated direction. There was only one building in the right direction and at about the right distance. It bore the huge logo of an international courier company.

My brain made the connections. Dave’s plan now apparent. Put your turned-on phone, probably with a power-bank backing it up, and send it via DHL or the like to somewhere where your wayward wife would follow. All of a sudden the purpose of Dave leaving me a small amount of funds made sense. He wanted me to be able to make it this far.

Two certainties struck me. Dave knew me well enough to know I would give chase immediately. The second – Dave really, really wasn’t in a forgiving mood.

With no recourse, I continued my tramp to customs. Once out, I would change my return flight to get-me-the-fuck-out-of-here and stay at the airport until I could get home. What other choice did I have? None. I didn’t have the cash to stay anywhere, and I might well have to walk home from Melbourne airport.

I joined the end of the queue at Thai customs. It was while standing there with the past day or two catching up with me—head aching, ass sore, lower back knotted, a stomach that didn’t know if it wanted to hurl or be fed—that I saw the two heavily armed police walking slowly up my line, peering at a photo, then looking at each woman in the queue intently. Their eyes lit up when they saw me.

Fuck you, Dave.

EPILOGUE

Dave Brown tiptoed away from the bedroom where his two delightful daughters were finally asleep, sat in his comfortable old recliner and poured himself a small scotch. He wasn’t used to being alone and was having trouble deciding whether to watch an old movie or read a book. It had been a relaxing couple of days at a local resort with his work mate Bill, Bill’s wife, and their son who was about the same age as his eldest. His only job being to keep an eye on his two excited girls enjoying the pools and other facilities. The brief trip back home at 2 a.m. the previous night while Bill minded the girls was taking its toll and he doubted he’d last long at either reading or watching a movie.

His musing was interrupted by the house phone ringing.

“Hello, Dave Brown speaking.

“Hi there. My name is Jack Bloodstone and I’m with the Australian Consulate in Bangkok. I’m calling about your wife, Cindy Brown.”

Dave interrupted before Jack launched into his reason for the call.

“Yes, I suppose Cindy Brown is still officially my wife, but we’re separated, Mr Bloodstone, and I feel I’m not obliged to help her with any problems she may have.

“Are you aware, Mr Brown, of your estranged wife’s money issues?”

“Yes, it would be right to say that she has had money problems since the separation.”

“Hmm. Interesting. Do you think she would be desperate enough for funds to act as a drug mule? As in, transport half a kilo of cannabis?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. She may be acquainted with people that could supply half a kilo of marijuana. I’ve recently found out she was hanging around with all types of undesirables. Where did you say she was arrested? Thailand? They take an extremely dim view of drug importers, don’t they?

“Yes, Mr Brown, they most certainly do. If convicted she’ll be looking at something like fifteen years in a Thai prison, which I can assure is nothing like an Australian prison.”

“Fifteen years? Oh my god, that is a very dim view, isn’t it?

“The Australian Government will supply legal counsel if she can’t afford to pay for one herself.”

“Yes, I suppose she’ll just have to rely on the legal counsel the government supplies, or I could give you some of her family’s numbers if you like.

“So, to confirm; you’re not willing to help?”

“No. As I said, we’re separated, but please do keep me informed. I’ll have to tell our daughters something.”

“As you wish, Mr Brown. I will text you my direct email. If you could please supply those names and numbers of her family as you previously offered.”

“Okay, will do. I’ll wait for your call. My new cell number is………..

“I shall be in touch, Mr Brown.”

“Okay. Bye.”

Dave put the phone down and leaned back in his chair. Something spiked his leg, he stretched out and removed three screws from his pocket. The type that were commonly used to attach suitcase drag handles to the suitcase itself. He put them on the table next to his recliner, smiling.

‘Oh, the agony of choice,’ Dave thought to himself, ‘Shall I send the photos to Michael’s wife and employer now or tomorrow? Bugger it, tomorrow’s fine.’

Once Cindy was convicted, he’d consider sending her some reading material. The diaries of hers he’d found seemed an excellent choice. His first glance at them was when Cindy was unpacking the stuff they’d picked up from her mother’s place after she died. Cindy behaved like she didn’t even want Dave to know they existed. Her attitude had rang alarm bells. Had she played it cool he’d have thought nothing of them.

He had to admit, she hid them well. It had taken him two weeks of searching to find them. Reading her thinly disguised references to her first three affairs, Dave knew she would stray again and he could get absolute proof, for not only himself, but also for his daughters. He knew in the years to come; he’d need both so that his daughters would understand and forgive him for what he was about to do.

Funny how trust could make you blind because once he was looking for signs of her infidelity, he spotted them almost immediately. The rest, as they say, was history.

Picking up his glass, he raised it to the photo of he and Cindy on their wedding day which hung in pride-of-place above the mantlepiece.

“Fuck you, Cindy.

THE END

Now lighten the fuck up.

She was standing in the kitchen, preparing our usual soft-boiled eggs and toast for breakfast, wearing only the T-shirt that she normally slept in.

As I walked in, almost awake, she turned to me and said softly, ‘You’ve got to make love to me this very moment!’

My eyes lit up and I thought, ‘I’m either still dreaming or this is going to be my lucky day!’

Not wanting to lose the moment, I embraced her and then gave it my all; right there on the kitchen table.

Afterwards she said, ‘Thanks,’ and returned to the stove, her T-shirt still around her neck.

Happy, but a little puzzled, I asked, ‘What was that all about?’

She explained, ‘The egg timer’s broken.’