ONE-SIDE CONVERSATION

By Vandemonium1

Again, this story is vastly more readable because my wonderful partner, CreativityTakesCouraage, wielded her magic on it. Thanks, Sweetheart.
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“Oh my god, darling. I’d no idea that I’d hit you so hard. How bad is it?”

“Seven stitches, Julie. And, really, what did you expect when you hit me on the back of the head with a heavy lamp base? You could have killed me.”

If I was expecting Julie to show remorse, I would have been disappointed. She stared at me with chin tilted, eyes defiant.

“Well, what did you expect me to do when I came home early and found you in our bed, I mean, IN OUR BED, screwing that… that… woman?”

I forced myself to look into the eyes of the woman I’d betrayed so badly. The emotions her eyes reflected back at me were many. I recognised defiance, anger, shock, and confusion, all battling for dominance on one face. Defiance retreated briefly and a tear trickled down the cheeks of the woman I’d loved above my own life for fifteen years. I felt I owed it to her to keep silent and braced myself to face her justified anger.

“Who was she?”

“Um, Karen.”

“What! Your new secretary? The one you told me not a month ago was, and I quote; plain, unquote?”

I didn’t deny lying to my wife. I had. Through my teeth. My gaze dropped back to the wooden surface between us. With her next words, the croak in her voice revealed Julie was obviously choking back a sob.

“How old is she?”

“She turned twenty-eight yesterday.”

“You know her birthday?”

At the sound of shock and hurt obvious in her voice, I chose to remain silent. No point in making her feel worse.

“Oh, my god. So, what was it that I witnessed? A thirty-nine-year-old man giving a birthday present to a psycho bitch with daddy issues?”

Again, I chose to remain silent. What was the point of telling her that Karen had been subtly but persistently pursuing her boss, me, since shortly after she was employed? Ever since my faithful old secretary, June, retired six months before. It was June that interviewed and ultimately recommended Karen. Her flirtations had been so subtle that naïve old me hadn’t even noticed. It took Karen pointing it out to me a couple of weeks ago for me to finally see all the incidents, moments, with a new filter.

“And how long has it been going on?”

“That was the first time, Julie. Honest.”

Julie eyed me critically. I returned her gaze, unafraid of being caught in a lie. Yesterday had been the first time Karen and I physically crossed the line.

How unlucky were me and Karen? We’d only just got naked and were rubbing against each other in the awkward way only two people nervous and unfamiliar with each other’s body can when there’d been an offended shriek from my wife just before the lights went out. One minute I was in Julie’s and my marital bed with a raging hard-on, the next I was in an uncomfortable hospital bed with anything but a hard-on, unless that’s what you call a god almighty headache.

Julie’s eyes searched mine for the truth. I did her the courtesy of holding eye contact until she was satisfied. I spotted the moment she accepted I was being honest as the anger quickly faded, to be replaced by, what? Insecurity? The feeling that must be almost automatic to every cheated-on spouse. One day you think you know your spouse, your world, and, to an extent, your future. The next, the rug is pulled out from under you and nothing is as you thought. The word quicksand comes to mind – anything but solid and a whole lot of shit trying to drag you under and drown you.

Followed instantly by questions. What was I doing wrong? How was I inadequate? How did I fail? Those feelings must be crushing her, and I’d caused it. The questions torturing her; also my fault.

 I let her lead the conversation, later would come the apologies I thought were her due.

“I know I’ve been bitchy for a few months, Dave. Moody and withdrawn from you and the kids, but it was because of the promotion coming up at work, you knew that.”

Oh, I knew all right. Julie and three of her peers were being pitted against each other, competing for the one vacancy, a sizeable promotion. The other three were unmarried and didn’t have children. Julie had explained that the new role would have work hours that weren’t as regular as those of her current position. She might be expected to stay back for thirty minutes to half the night when the need arose to meet a deadline. She wanted to impress the manager and show him that being a wife and mother wouldn’t be an obstacle, even though I pointed out it should be. Pig-headed Julie couldn’t accept that, of course. Instead, she threw herself into impressing the boss, despite the damage it was doing to her relationships with myself and her children.

It was now the new norm for Julie to stay back at work for an hour or two, stumble in to eat whatever I’d prepared, then retreat to the study to do ‘homework’ until the kid’s bedtime. Fuck, quite often I was asleep before she finished. Most Saturdays, Julie either went to the office or worked from home, meaning that every Sunday she needed to rest and was as grumpy as a cat that sat on a wire brush. If all four of the hopefuls were working to the same degree Julie was, then the boss was getting a crap-load done for free.

“I know I neglected you and the kids, Dave. I know that apart from a few quickies when you nagged me, we haven’t been, er, intimate, for a while, but it was going to be over soon, you knew that. The promotion is being announced at the end of the month. If I get the job, I’ll only have to work back a couple of times a week and go on the occasional trip away. If I don’t get it, I’ll be telling Mark where he can stick his fucking job. With your business booming, I can afford to take my time looking for something else.”

Silence returned and we stared at each other for a moment that seemed to last for hours rather than seconds. Throughout, Julie grasped both my hands in hers. At the break of eye contact she glanced over my shoulder and released my hands as if they burnt her and quickly placed hers back in her lap under the table.

I was briefly distracted by my pounding headache and without conscious thought reached up and felt the bandage around my head. I simultaneously wanted it wound tighter and looser. Anything to relieve the pain.

“Was I that neglectful that I drove you into the arms of another?”

I stayed quiet. I’d already tried and failed to match my recent behaviour to the belief system I’d held since I was old enough to make my own arguments—that there are no excuses to betray those that deserve your trust.

Julie’s thoughts and emotions were obviously flitting from pillar to post if the expressions crossing her face were to be believed. She was a woman betrayed, with all the pain and insecurity and anger that inevitably comes with that. The silence dragged on between us.

“Do you have any idea how I feel, Dave? To come home early to what should have been the safe haven of my home, the comforting arms of my husband, to find him in my bed with his fucking secretary? I mean, he’s too tight to fork out for an el cheapo motel room and too unfeeling to fuck the slut in some other room in the house. You had to destroy our sanctuary with your disgusting behaviour. Your… your betrayal. You know I’ll never sleep in that bed again, don’t you?”

I just kept my expression neutral and my eyes downcast. I knew that tears again sprang from Julie’s eyes by her sniffle and the roughness of her voice.

“It’s not fair, Dave. How can I compete with her? I saw her boobs are bigger than mine. You always told me mine were fine. What did you always tell me when we were newlyweds? That more than a handful was a waste? Were you lying? Did you want to handle some D’s on the side? Get bored with my B’s? Or was it that her nipples still point upwards, whereas, after breastfeeding our two children, your children, Dave, mine point down and are riding the rollercoaster towards my navel? Hmmm?

“Or was it her tight little tummy? Yes, I saw that too when she leapt off the bed to stop me hitting you with the lamp again. What was that shit she used on me to pin me down while she called the cops?”

I was about to say, ‘Krav Maga, a mixture of boxing, martial arts, and street fighting developed by the Israeli defence forces. Karen is an expert. It’s the same fighting technique Matt Damon uses in all those Jason Bourne films. That’s why she wasn’t afraid of you after you knocked me out’, but Julie was on a roll.

“Yes, trim and slim, not like me, huh? Me having a soft belly after carrying your kids. Your fucking kids, Dave. I know I’ve put on a little weight recently. I haven’t been eating right and I’m too tired to go to the gym. I’ll fix all that when this is over. And don’t tell me, her pussy was as tight as mine was before it got permanently stretched in childbirth.”

Julie stopped, panting. I debated whether to defend myself at this point. Should I tell her that she’d interrupted Karen and I before I’d made an actual entrance, so to speak? I decided against it. We were naked, and the intent was certainly there which was as good, or bad, as the act in my book. I decided to let Julie vent her spleen until she was done.

It might have been some comfort to her to know she was wrong. None of the things she’d mentioned regarding her appearance versus that of Karen’s were a factor in my decision to bed Karen, although she was correct. Karen did sport the smoothest skin, the juiciest tits, equally inviting to nuzzle or squeeze together so a guy could fuck the cleft. And her taut belly did lead to a neatly trimmed pussy that just ached to be tongued while the muscular legs either side squeezed a man’s head and rendered him deaf.

Hindering my defence was what Julie must have heard just before she busted us, “God, Julie, you’re so tight.” Julie wasn’t to know that conclusion was reached from the evidence of my probing middle finger while my thumb massaged the younger woman’s clit.

Julie must have been reading my mind.

“You used to say that to me,” she said, as her unfocused eyes looked back fifteen years. She rapidly focused again and the determined Julie was back.

“This relationship, our relationship, is now imbalanced. You have no fucking idea what seeing the shit I did yesterday does to a person. How soul crushing and ego destroying it is. How painful. It’s worse than being stabbed. Until you feel exactly what I did, our relationship is going nowhere.

“So, this is what’s going to happen. I’m going to pick up some young stud and fuck him in our bed. I don’t care who it is so long as he’s younger than you, trimmer than you, has a bigger cock than you, and can keep it up for longer. And do you know what? You’re going to damn-well sit there and watch as he fucking pounds me into our mattress. I’m going to keep doing that until I judge you’ve suffered exactly the same amount of pain I have.

“If you don’t agree to that, I’ll apply for a divorce and take you for everything you’ve got and you might be lucky enough to see your precious children two days a fortnight. How does it feel to be attacked by someone you love, shithead?”

She stopped, panting. The shrew that my loving wife had become in recent months was well and truly back. The spit had been flying as her fear and self-doubt was transformed into rage. Realising that, in her anger, she was giving up the moral high ground with her unilateral decisions, she forced herself to calm again.

“I can’t believe you soiled our bed like that, Dave. What say that, after I’ve had my revenge, when you truly know how I devastated I feel, we go out and buy a new mattress, huh?”

This time she obviously meant for me to contribute to the conversation. I debated opening with, “Yes, I know what it’s like to be attacked by a loved one, and I have the stitches to prove it.” But that was too cheap. She’d left me so many openings.

“Where were you going to fuck Mark, Julie?”

My wife’s hands thunked the underside of the table in their haste to reach her chin before it hit the tabletop.

“Wh… What?”

“It’s not a complicated question, Julie. Your boss, Mark, the man that was right behind you as you walked into our bedroom yesterday, where were you going to fuck him this time? In our bed as you usually do? Tell me, whose idea was that? His? Did he get off on the thought of fucking you in the bed we shared? Or was it you? Was it you who got off on the idea of humiliating me? Of knowing I was sleeping on a bed you had defiled with another man?”

Julie’s mouth was opening and closing like a guppy fish on steroids.

“You don’t have to show me what it feels like to witness someone you have loved and trusted for years stabbing you in the back. That moment came for me when I left work early one day when I was feeling sick. You should be able to remember the exact date, except you’ve been so focused on screwing your way into that promotion.

“What was your logic, Julie? ‘I may not have all the natural advantages of my competitors, but I can show him what this mature woman can give him that they can’t.’ And, before you ask, yes, I do know what it feels like to see your partner with someone who is younger, trimmer, and judging by your words that I overheard as I reached the bedroom, what was it? Oh yes, ‘Fuck me with that huge cock, daddy’, I presume he is, ah, blessed more than me.”

Now it was my turn to stop and pant. The anger, white hot and scorching, at what I’d felt that day and while watching subsequent recordings, was still raw. It didn’t take much to ignite the flames of rage.

At least the anger masked the pain. The merest thought of Julie’s betrayal was like pouring salt on an open wound. Heck, make that acid.

Karen’s reaction when I confided in her in a vulnerable moment was outrage. When I then showed her the recordings her reaction was again a fair proportion of mine as well. It touched me that she was angry and affronted on my behalf. The fact that she was glad she could finally admit to her interest in pursuing a relationship with me assuaged my ego tremendously.

“When did you get so dumb, Julie? You don’t think the girls in your office saw what you were doing? Fuck, Julie, two of the other contenders that I know of have also been in Mark’s bed for the last six weeks. His wife should be getting tapes of the three of you any time now.

“For the record, Karen and I have only been intimate enough to teach you a little lesson yesterday, but we’ll change that as soon as we can, I’m sure. She’s at home now getting to know Jen and Lauren, they were getting on famously when I left. They’ve missed a female influence in their lives since you’ve been so emotionally absent. Karen wants kids, they want an engaged mother, win-win if you ask me.”

I could see Julie’s eyes practically spinning with all the things I was saying. It wasn’t a pretty sight. For old time’s sake, I waited and said nothing.

“Bu… but, Dave, I only did it for us. That promotion pays an extra twenty grand a year. Think of what that could do for us.”

“I don’t have to think, Julie, I’ve seen what it does for us. It made you a shrew to live with and turned you into a slut. And turned our home into a broken one.”

With the first evidence her decisions were threatening her family, Julie’s hands streaked from under the table and reached for mine, grasping them tightly. The guard supervising the visitors at the holding cells strode over and spoke loudly.

“No physical contact! I let you get away with it once, Mrs Brown. Don’t push your luck. Remove your hands or you will be returned to your cell immediately.”

Julie looked down at her orange jumpsuit like she was just remembering where she was. She looked at me, pleadingly.

“Get me out of here please, Dave.”

“What? And squander the opportunity for Karen to get to know our kids?”

“But I’m your wife, Dave. You have to forgive me, take me back.”

“Why, Julie? Why take back someone I’ll never trust again? Why subject my children to someone who endangered their emotional wellbeing for something so petty as money?”

“Then fuck you, David, when I get out I’ll make sure you and your slut never get to see my kids.”

I smiled and shook my head ruefully. Now, when it suited her, they were her kids.

“Oh, Julie, wake up and sniff the dog shit. Unless you can find some other idiot to pay your bail you’re here until your trial. Then, according to my lawyer, a custodial sentence is almost certain for assault. You won’t get the full seven years on the statute books, but even a suspended sentence will mean getting custody of the kids ain’t going to happen.”

I watched the horrible sight of the woman I used to love realising that far from being here to bail her out and explain it was all a mistake to her gaolers, it was in my interest to press full charges, with Karen as a witness, to keep her here. Here, which put her in the back of the bus for access to money and lawyers, not to mention divorce distribution benefits. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Gone was the arrogance of assuming she’d be out soon to subject me to a life of cuckold misery. In its place was the sudden realisation that she should have used the time she’d spent threatening to humiliate me to beg me to bail her out. All of a sudden, she looked really, really sick.

Should I tell her that what she’d witnessed between Karen and myself had simply been a set-up to provoke her? That my one slip-up of penetrating Karen digitally would not be repeated—I would follow my moral code until we were legally separated at least? Should I tell her that the courts rarely handed down custodial sentences for assault these days, especially not for provoked assaults of passion like hers?

Fuck no! Let her terror of being locked up with a bunch of bull-dykes be part of her punishment. After all, she’d committed two of the worst crimes in my law book. Destroyed something beautiful between us and endangered the emotional wellbeing of our children, a danger I was putting almost all my effort in to minimise..

“Come on, Julie, accept that you gambled and lost, now you get a divorce. Accept you screwed up with good faith and maybe when you get out the girls will still want to have something to do with you. Put up a fight and I’m pretty sure you’ve lost them for good, in fact, I’ll make sure of it. Goodbye, Julie, I loved you once.”

With that, Dave Brown stood and walked to the barred door to the visitor’s room. The guard let him out and, without a backward glance, he headed for his car, smiling with thoughts of the three beautiful girls waiting for him at home.

THE END

 ps This story was inspired by Ohio’s fine tale, The Conversation. I normally acknowledge my inspiration in the foreword but that would have given the game away. Do yourself a favour, go and read it.

Before we lighten the fuck up, I want to jump on my soapbox for a little while.

I despise political correctness in all it’s forms. The Australian National University, School of Nursing, recently directed its teaching staff to eradicate the terms ‘mother’ and ‘father’, in favour of ‘gestational parent’ and ‘non-gestational parent’. This is so we don’t offend same-sex parents. They also outlawed the term ‘breastfeeding’ in favour of ‘chestfeeding’. So we don’t offend transgender parents. I suspect 99.9% of the population think this is all total bullshit, so why are these changes happening? Because the silent majority don’t say anything, allowing the vocal minority to run rampant. The good news is the solution is simple. The next time you hear someone spout this PC BS, just say, “Mate, you’re a dickhead.” Believe me, the vast majority of witnesses will agree with you.

“Hey, non-gestational parent, can I borrow the car?” No, just doesn’t have the same ring, does it?

Now lighten the fuck up.

A prospective husband in a book shop asked, “Do you have a book called ‘Husband – Master of the House’?” The sales assistant replied, “Sir, fiction and comics are on the 2nd floor!”