Sophie’s Dilemmas

by Vandemonium1

This one has been independently rated at 3.5/5 pickaxe handles on CTC’s and my rating system. Feel free to email me, via the SemperAmare contact link to find the system.

Once again, your thanks should go to the beautiful CreativityTakesCourage for improving this story with her editing skills. Thanks also to my old mate Charlie for his inciteful observations.

To give credit where credit is due, this story was inspired while I was reading Cinical’s ‘A Painful Confession: Cliff and Amy’. It ended up somewhere completely different, but fair’s fair.

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The look my husband, Dave, gave me as I walked through the garage battered into the confidence and determination I’d felt mere seconds before.

I’d been loaded for bear and fully prepared for a strenuous confrontation before that look. Now I was back to confusion and self-reflection. All due to that expression on his handsome, familiar face.

I’d walked into the garage, from the house, to find my youngest son, Carl, under his old wreck of a Nissan Skyline, probably covered in grease, while his father leaned into the top of the engine bay, handing him tools and offering advice. There was a second pair of legs poking out from under the car. I presumed they belonged to Paul, a friend of Carl’s. A year older and attending the university in the large town a half hour drive away. I don’t know how long they’d known each other, but I’d first met him around February this year. Seemed a good sort. He was a fellow car nut and whenever Carl was covered in grease in the garage, Paul was normally by his side.

When he saw me enter, Dave looked up and gave me the same beaming smile he had for the last thirty years.

That smile said he was pleased to see me. I’d entered the garage fully intending to accuse him of trying to kill me; yet I was once again immediately disarmed by that familiar, unchanged smile.

CHAPTER 1

I guess I’ve got some ‘splainin’ to do. You see, I, Sophie Brown, have exactly three choices at the moment. I can maintain my current, non-confrontational approach, and risk dying violently in the near future, or, at least, being maimed. I could confront my husband and demand he stop trying to kill me. That seemed the logical choice and the one I was set on when I strode into the garage. But that smile ripped the certainty from me. What if Dave wasn’t my assailant and didn’t know? I’d be outing myself to a man whose words and actions indicated he loved me as he’d done for the thirty-two years we’d known each other. The third choice was to go to the police with all the evidence they needed to charge Dave with attempted murder. That would ensure my safety but would not only reveal my… lapses to Dave, if he was still ignorant, but destroy the career I’d spent all my adult life building.

Dave came to me, and after wiping his hands on some rags, kissed me as he’d done thousands of times before when I came home at the end of a day. He took my hand and led me out the side door, through the gate, into the back yard and around the end of the house. I looked at the shining metal object, new to the back yard, and my blood froze.

It was one of those prefabricated raised garden beds. Made from riveted corrugated iron, it stood about as long as Dave was tall, its sides reached his waist, it’s width a similar length. With Dave still paces away from me, I ran. Not stopping in the house, I sprinted down the walk to the street, checking behind me for pursuit. Rounding a corner, I paused for breath and rang the police emergency number, 000. Fear had made my decision for me.

CHAPTER 2

The mutterings began quietly around the staff room of the exclusive girl’s school I was headmistress of. A man had written in to one of those internet forums claiming to have discovered his wife was having an affair and seeking advice on what to do about it. Not an unusual tale I hear you say. However, the writer had named the town where he lived, and it was our town. With a population of less than ten thousand, it immediately caused much public interest.

The guy gave his age as late forties, but with few extra details, the gossip mongers were frustrated. Apparently, more information was being released every day, but I took little interest. Then, about day five, the writer revealed that his wife worked at a local school, which had our staff room’s full attention. Names of all the female teachers from all the town’s schools known to the gossipers were analysed and put on a suspects list or relegated to unlikely. With the guy in his late forties, the assumption was made the wife was within five years of that. There were only thirty something names on the shortlist when the time to return to classrooms came. I surreptitiously garnered the name of the thread and site from the young PE teacher who was in less of a rush than the others.

In my office, I relaxed after reviewing my urgent to-do list, then, on a whim, found the thread that had the others agog. I started at the latest posts. It seemed followers of the thread were either giving the guy advice on what to do with the cheating slut or pumping him for more detail. What did he know about the wife’s lover? Was he big and tough or could the husband take him on?

I backtracked to the time that morning when the writer, a Mr. John Smith, yeah, right, had last written. He thanked the readers for their advice so far. I went to the beginning of the post and started reading, concentrating on John Smith’s comments.

The initial post was on a Sunday. He’d come home at an unusual time the previous Friday, after being tipped off by a friend, to find his wife and an unknown man going for it in their bed. He’d left again quietly, but not before looking at the wallet in the pants lying on the loungeroom floor. He’d done some research and now knew who his rival was. He asked the readers what he should do about it as he’d never imagined he’d be in this situation. Immediately, the responses ranged from ‘find out what you did wrong to drive her to this so you can correct your behaviour’, to ‘burn the bitch’. There was little else from this John character of interest. Married for decades with grown children and the like.

Approaching real time on the thread, I read the question that prompted John’s latest response. The question was whether the wife was a professional or not, like that made a difference on whether to forgive her or not. The answer was, ‘education professional’.

I could see more comments were being posted almost continually. Then on the little pop-up about new posts, John Smith’s name came up again. I followed the trail and my blood ran cold.

The answer to queries on the wife’s lover, was that he was about 5’ 8”, rich, of slim build and was the father of one of the wife’s students!

My eyes bugged out at that. Until now I’d felt sorry for this John Smith and read nothing into him catching his wife porking another guy in the marital bed. The extra information just released, brought it all crashing to earth. Against my better judgement, I’d had sex with my lover in my marital bed, on a Friday a few weeks ago. My lover, Michael, being the wealthy father of one of my students. The physical description fit him to a T as well. My chest constricted as if an invisible hand had reached into it to squeeze my heart. I wondered if I was having a heart attack.

CHAPTER 3

This previously faithful housewife never set out to have an affair, although a little introspection showed I was more than averagely vulnerable to falling into one. I was a typical arts graduate in my early twenties, aimlessly working several waitressing jobs. Dave, a child from the poorer side of the tracks, had recently finished an electrical trade when I met, fell in love with and married him. It was he who settled me down and encouraged me to do a Diploma of Education to become a teacher. I worked at the chalk face for six years and was offered a senior staff position two weeks before I found out I was pregnant with Peter, our eldest child. That sniff of a career prompted me to take only a year of maternity leave after the birth of Peter, and later, Mary. Carl’s birth, four years later, was proof of the fallibility of condoms.

My return to work after Carl, coincided with the industry wide push for more worldly experienced females in education management. I was fast-tracked to headmistress in the public sector before applying for and winning the head position in the exclusive private school I’d worked at for the last eight years.

I was happy in my family and career, but, as I mentioned, vulnerable to an affair. To explain why, I’d better tell you about Dave. You see, he’s still a working tradesman. He refused promotions to avoid the stress and the extra hours away from his primary duty as he saw it; his family. About ten years into his career, a colleague leaned on him to go into business together on their own. Dave refused, again to avoid the stress and distraction. As he said at the time, “If we’re careful, we’ll be rich someday without taking any risks. Why chance it? When his friend went on to develop a multi-million-dollar business, Dave wished him well, and, as far as I could tell, never regretted his decision. The friend was on his third marriage and looked ten years older than his biological age.

The nett result was here I was, a well-respected, well-paid professional, who looked good in a suit and could mix in polite society, while Dave was still… a tradesman. Unless it was to advance my career, he pretty much refused to attend anything that required him to wear a suit, because, as he said, when he did wear one, he looked like a gorilla that had been put in fancy clothes and strategically shaved. What’s the old saying? You can take the man out of the ghetto but it’s much harder to take the ghetto out of the man.

He was a brilliant husband and father, though, and I never regretted marrying him. I didn’t even seriously begin my criticisms of him until after I’d started my affair. Criticisms, which I suspect, helped me justify it.

CHAPTER 4

Michael, my lover, came to my notice when he moved his daughter to my school at the start of the year. We had one of those moments you all recognise. ‘Don’t I know you? Yes, I feel you’re familiar as well’. This was at the meet-and-greet social we always held for new parents at the start of the school year. After ten minutes we both thought we’d hung with the same crowd in my wilder youth. It was a better than even chance we’d even shared a one-night stand. He monopolised my attention all night and it brought to mind, freer, simpler days. From then on it seemed he took every excuse to visit me at the school. The compliments flowed freely, and I began comparing him to my husband.

He is the diametric opposite of Dave. Born wealthy, running the company he inherited from his father, drove a Porsche and wouldn’t be seen dead without a tailored suit. After one visit, for some lame reason, he happened to mention his wife was away for the week. It just so happened that Dave was also away; his company having recently won a high voltage switchyard contract a couple of towns over.

Both having reputations to protect, we made plans to meet at a very small, but exclusive, restaurant out of town the following night. After a lovely meal, much overt complimenting on his part, and too much alcohol on mine, we both revealed to the other that our kids thought we were possibly staying away overnight and had both packed a bag of essentials. The hotel where the restaurant was had an available room, so Mr. and Mrs. Smith rented one. In the here and now I wondered if there was any significance to the coincidence that the forum thread was authored by a John Smith.

The sex was… good. Just good. Michael was a considerate lover and took his time with this old lady. However, even with copious oral sex on his behalf, followed by a slow entry and good rhythm, he failed to bring me to orgasm. By my age, a lover had to know which buttons to press and when. It was still good, though. He was done after he came and we felt asleep spooned together. Our coupling in the morning was a little more hurried but equally unfulfilling for me on a physical level but complex on a psychological level. I’d been wined, dined, and seduced by a rich, handsome, sophisticated man for the first time in my life. In hindsight, a man I thought I deserved. Sure, the sex was nothing to write home about, but with the line crossed, I agreed with Michael we should consider seeing each other again.

Was I wracked with guilt after that first time? Not really. I’ve always been a little emotionally detached, but I did feel a little bad that I was getting something David wasn’t.

I knew enough about Michael to know he was happy with his wife and family, which, deep down, so was I, so the affair was never going to lead to anything emotional.

I knew being caught having an affair was unacceptable for both of us. It would be bad for Michael’s business, and for me, my main driver was earning, then keeping, people’s respect. I risked losing the respect of my school’s board, my peers, my husband, family and friends.

In hindsight, I was taking an illogical risk to keep an affair going, so why do it? Simple. As time passed, the memory of Michael and my illicit sex grew to mythical proportions and the thought of doing it again had my pulse racing. Avoiding being caught was an intellectual challenge rare for me at this late stage of my career. I knew not only complete idiots were caught, but how hard could it be? There must be thousands, if not millions, of affairs that were never uncovered. Lastly, I suppose, I was excited by doing something that unheadmistressish.

The ultimate result of all this was that the next time I saw Michael at the school, my breathing shortened, and my panties moistened. I was ready with my list of conditions to slip him. We were only to talk at the school or on work phones; no personal emails, texts, or phone calls from home computers, home phones, or cells. Everything must be untraceable. Meetings were only to be when our spouses were out of town and always only at the small hotel our first tryst had been at. Even then, he was to pick me up from the school in nondescript cars and I would wear a wig for the travelling and until we ascertained there was no one at the restaurant and hotel that we knew. I won’t bore you with the rest of the precautions.

I slipped him the list and mingled with the other parents and teachers while he read it. He nodded his agreement across the space between us, then asked to see me in my office on a confidential matter. As soon as I’d closed the door, he grabbed me from behind and squeezed my breasts. I almost swooned. It was the hottest feeling I’d experienced in years. I could feel his erection pressing into my buttocks. I thrust back against it.

Leaving his left hand pinching a nipple, his right slid down, under my skirt, into my panties and his middle finger quickly found my clitoris. He took the strain as my knees went weak, then began stroking. I came within seconds. His left hand moved quickly to stifle any grunts, squeals, or screams that might escape me as a massive orgasm ripped through me.

I’m glad he had a good hold of me as I’m pretty sure I passed out for a few seconds. When my strength returned, he stayed behind me and lifted his slippery fingers to his mouth, licking them one at a time. I almost swooned again.

By this time, I was beginning to ‘sober up’ and suggested we’d had the door of my office closed long enough. As if to reinforce that, there was a knock at the door. I told them I’d be out in a tick. Michael, of course, was unrelieved and wanted more. I’d previously discarded using local hotels and motels; too much chance of being caught. He harshly whispered that his house would be empty for the next hour at least. Against my better judgement, I followed him there, parked at the back and was let in the utility gate.

Michael practically dragged me into a spare bedroom, forced me to my knees, unzipped and pushed his cock in my mouth. I hadn’t blown anyone in years and was never a deep throater, even in my wild youth, so when Michael grabbed the back of my head and pushed in as far as he could, it took all my energy not to puke.

He bellowed like a bull as he shot his cum down my throat. I dry retched. It was lucky it was so long after lunch time. I was going to give the prick both barrels but when he piteously hugged me from where he’d sunk to his knees, saying how incredible it had been, and how it was the best he’d ever had, pride replaced anger. I was as horny as hell and tried to get him up again so he could fuck me, but he was drained. With an agreement to never do anything dangerously impromptu again, he snuck me out of the utility gate.

CHAPTER 5

That was eight months ago and apart from one lapse, a Friday, three weeks ago, we only got together having taken extreme precautions.

We’d managed eight or nine rendezvous in that time. Always arranged in person at the school, or calls from his desk phone to mine, with no paper trail at all. And, apart from those breaches of security, we always met at the small hotel, on quiet nights of the week, when we’d organised to be away from our homes for the night, supposedly on business. The only other exception was when I’d gone to a genuine seminar, out of state, for three days, and Michael had invented an excuse to join me. Even then, we’d organised separate but adjoining rooms in case a spouse turned up unexpectedly. We always used protection and critically examined each other before going home. We even reminded each other to not change sexual habits with our partners.

The affair remained physically unsatisfying for me, by and large, but it stroked my ego and filled a social niche I never realised I had. Wealth and power are, indeed, an aphrodisiac. Plus, it appealed to my sense of adventure. I was worried, though. Maybe when his daughter finished at my school at the end of the year, it would be time to terminate the relationship. I knew Michael’s eldest child, was a boy, and a year older than his sister, but that was the limit of my knowledge as Michael rarely spoke about his children in our times together. We were starting to take risks to spark up the affair. Even in an affair, familiarity, it seems, breeds contempt. I’d have to be more careful about how we added that spark, though, as I’d allowed things to get out of hand, security wise, twice in recent times.

Once was a little over a month ago. Frustrated by having one spouse or another at home, Michael came to the school and groped me in my office. After the near miss of the previous time, I wasn’t going to lock the door again, so I arranged to leave five minutes after him and met him in a local park. There, in my roomier, more nondescript Honda, rather than his Porsche, I blew him again. Me fellating him had become a regular part of our routine. Even though it still disgusted me on one level, I just loved it when he lost control and bellowed like a bull. Swallowing his bitter brew was unpleasant but better than what happened the one occasion where I’d tried to pull him out before he pumped his jizz in my mouth. That time it ended up going all over my face which was not only messy, it was degrading.

When I’d finally swallowed his load, I looked around and a man walking his dog was approaching us. I was horrified that we’d taken such a huge risk and vowed it wouldn’t happen again.

The second impromptu meeting, while not nearly as exhibitionistic as that of the park, was another dangerous breach of security. It was a Friday, my hormones were all over the place, and I was so horny, I literally squirmed in my seat at my desk all day. Dave was out of town and Carl was not due home until after dark. I’d arranged to go to a movie with my sister-in-law later that evening. Still, I needed relief so as soon as school finished, I rang Michael’s office.

“I’m horny. Is your place available?”

“No, Deb is there.”

“Okay. I’ll pick you up at the main entrance to the park in twenty?”

“Shit yeah!”

Michael was waiting as I drove up, hopping from one leg to another. He jumped in the back seat, as directed, and I headed home. He became more and more excited as he realised where we were going. He’d asked me on two previous occasions if we could meet at my house, for some reason. Each time I’d said no.

Two blocks from my house, I told him to duck down until we were in my garage and the door was shut. I quickly ascertained the house was empty and Michael scampered up to my room like an excited schoolboy. So excited, it seemed that he was able to get it up for a second performance before I dropped him back to the park an hour and a half later.

I should perhaps explain here the sex Michael and I had evolved to. After all, that was our ninth or so meeting.

It was strange. He still failed to get me off physically. The first time on that Friday, he was so excited he lasted all of two minutes. The second time, I was so slippery from his first deposit that there wasn’t much pleasurable friction. Still, on an emotional level, it was very satisfying when this dominant business alpha unloaded into me, with obvious signs of loving it. I got a high from it that I experienced in no other part of my life. I may never have orgasmed, but I was no longer horny, if you know what I mean.

Returning from dropping Michael off, I thoroughly cleaned and aired the bedroom before having a pleasant night out with Dave’s sister.

CHAPTER 6

So, you see, apart from three impromptu episodes, Michael and I had maintained very tight security, and discovery was virtually impossible.

So, why was this John Smith, from the very same small town where I lived, describing an affair that sounded uncannily like mine? My internal coward wanted to believe it was all a monstrous coincidence but the professional woman within me knew that facing it head on was the correct course of action.

Or was it? If it wasn’t a coincidence, that meant this John Smith was my husband, Dave. That just wasn’t right. This John Smith character sounded like a lost soul, crying out for advice on what to do about his discovery. My Dave was still the same confident, competent man I’d known all these years. I just couldn’t relate one to the other.

That’s why, when my heart had quieted from the latest John Smith revelation, I went home early, cooked Dave and Carl a nice meal, then sat there and watched my husband like a hawk. He kissed me like he always did; smiled at me throughout the meal, like he always did, talked and joked as he always did, and in every way acted normal.

He and Carl disappeared into the garage after dinner while I cleaned up. But when, two hours later, I texted him that dessert was being served in the bedroom, he appeared like magic and made love to me.

I deliberately let him take the lead, and sure enough, he did the same things he usually did. Normally, with him tonguing my clit for that long before he mounted me, I’d have cum. This day, I was just too confused and preoccupied. My mind was racing as I listened to Dave snoring afterwards. I would swear he was not John Smith. Thus assured, I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke in the morning to find myself alone in bed and a note from Dave reminding me he had an out of town job for the next two days.

The staff room was abuzz that morning with the latest John Smith post. As I said before, various kooks had been writing into the thread, offering outlandish suggestions of what John should do to his wife and her lover so he could retain his pride. It seemed one commenter suggested simply waiting outside the lover’s place of work, after dark, and belting him with a pickaxe handle. The advisor continued on to say John should check the place out for cameras, get an alibi in advance, remove the guy’s valuables to make it look like a mugging, and avoid damaging the guys meat and two veg. The latter, the commenter said, would make the police look for a cuckolded husband.

What had the staff room so fired up was that John had specifically thanked the commenter for the idea, saying he needed relief from the anger and frustration he was feeling. On top of that, the local media had reported the story for the first time and joined in the witch hunt of deducing who the lovers were.

I retreated to my office and brought up the thread. The latest post from this John was him saying he was mad that his wife had never expressed disappointment in any aspect of their marriage, particularly their sex life. When asked by another commenter if he would forgive his wife if she confessed at this point; the reply was, ‘possibly’. I found myself feeling for the guy and urging his wife to throw herself on his mercy.

I noted the time of the posts, the last two of which were made at 7.30 the previous night. That was when I was cleaning up after dinner. It gave me a renewed sense of relief. Dave was with Carl at that time and he couldn’t have accessed the house computer without me seeing him. Sure, he had a laptop for work but was only literate on it enough to use for diagnostics on electrical systems. He had no personal email account, didn’t surf for porn, or have a Facebook profile. As he always said, if they were close enough friends to care about what he had for breakfast, they’d already know. I guess he could have used his smart phone, but he hated the thing and only used it to call or text. I’d never seen him use any other feature.

The problem was, I just wasn’t completely sure and that led to my first dilemma. Everything screamed that Dave had discovered me cheating on him with Michael. Everything, that is, except my gut. That said he was acting too normal to be John Smith. The only way to settle the debate was to confront him. If I did that and by some scream he didn’t know about my affair, he soon would. Then there was the scenario of the longer the forum thread ran he’d find out by listening to the local gossip. I re-read what John Smith had written on the thread, slowly and carefully, analysing every word. Nothing positively identified me, so I decided to keep my mouth shut.

CHAPTER 7

I slept badly that night and awoke early; worry does that. Dave was away for the night on another job, so I didn’t have to worry about waking him. It was at times like this I felt proud that his skills were in such demand. His employer once told me that he suspected his company won jobs simply because Dave worked for them. They may not be the lowest tender, but the job would be done right, first time. In hindsight, having subconsciously decided to end my suddenly very stressful affair, I’d emotionally started re-bonding with my husband.

I logged into the forum and checked out the latest posts from John Smith. He was in conversation with someone who was telling him how to tamper with a vehicle’s brakes so they failed suddenly but it all looked accidental. The last post had been at 11p.m. the previous night. It simply read, ‘Thanks for the suggestion, Pete M, it felt goooood’.

Whizzing back through the posts, I found the one from Pete M was the suggestion about waiting for the wife’s lover with a pickaxe handle. The whole thing, read together, sent chills down my spine. I even contemplated breaking security and ringing Michael’s mobile phone directly but held firm.

I went into school a little early, just managing to avoid being harassed by a media crew that hadn’t fully set up yet. Surprisingly, the staff room was half full already, with unusually noisy teachers. They were gathered around one maths teacher who was reading aloud a newspaper article in the local daily rag. When I interrupted and asked what all the fuss was about, she thrust the paper at me, pointing to a headline on the front page, then went back to gossiping with the rest of them.

The headline leapt off the page in huge bold print, ‘TARGET IDENTIFIED’. The article recapped John Smith’s story to date and went on about the violent suggestion that he wait for the wife’s lover outside his office and bushwhack him. It went on to say that, quite coincidentally, local businessman, Michael Fenton, had been viciously beaten with a blunt instrument outside his office the previous night. He was in hospital with a broken nose, fractured cheekbone, and widespread bruising. Police had no leads to date. The paper then obscurely accused Michael of being the lover in the John Smith story.

I panicked, worrying that Michael’s name being revealed would lead to me. After all, the list of suspects had gone down from a woman at one of the local schools, to a woman at this one. That’s when I realised that every time a female teacher came into the room, the hubbub subsided as they staff present checked her out. After a little thought, I gave them a speech about it all being rubbery conjecture and staying focused. However, after the morning bell sounded, I retreated to my office and fretted. After some legitimate work, I logged into the blog to read the latest. Encouraged by John Smith’s apparent liking of a violent solution, all sorts of kooks were offering suggestions, from how to burn the lover’s house down such that it appeared an accident, to how to wire up a car bomb.

At eleven, my secretary, Anne, came in to say I had a visitor request. The mother of one of our students, Deborah Fenton. Michael’s wife. Shit! Shit! Shit!

I considered asking Anne to stay. At least that way I had a witness when my lover’s wife bitch-slapped me. In the end, I sincerely wished she had belted me. That way I could have received some of the punishment I deserved.

It wasn’t a confrontation, as I’d expected. It was simply the mother of one of my girls, informing me that she was pulling her child out of school, at least temporarily, while she went to her mother’s place interstate for some support through a family crisis.

That’s when she broke down. Through tears and sobs, I learned more about Michael than I’d ever suspected. She’d been following the media coverage of the forum and confronted her husband in the hospital the previous night. He’d confessed but she hadn’t pressed him on the name of the slut this time.

This time?

It turned out ‘this’ was the third time she’d caught him straying. She’d swallowed his grovelling after number two, but enough was enough. She couldn’t stand the public humiliation that was sure to come shortly, so was off. I felt her pain as she sobbed through all this. I could feel the human urge to comfort her, but my shame wouldn’t allow it.

Yes, shame. Shame at what I’d done to this woman. Devastated someone who, until this very moment, I hadn’t spared a neuron’s worth of thought for. And then came a worse shame; shame I felt more self-disgust for what I’d done to this woman and her family than I had for what I’d done to Dave and mine throughout the entire affair.

She finished her piece and bade me farewell. Showing her out the door, I saw her seventeen-year old daughter, my student, in the lobby. She was clinging to her younger sister. The latter looked about eleven or twelve and absolutely distraught. She was living through that most devastating of events; the death of her family. And I was the cause. I felt lower than worm shit.

I’m not ashamed to say that I locked my office door and cried… and cried. I cried for that little girl’s pain. For Mrs. Fenton’s obvious agony but resolve to terminate their children’s idyllic existence. I cried from my fear that if my relationship wasn’t dead already, the dying would probably come soon. I cried in anticipation of the contempt my children would feel for me when the truth came out. And it would; the media hyenas would see to that. I cried in shame. Shame in that I’d felt myself entitled and had seized an extremely selfish opportunity when it presented itself. An opportunity to have more than my share. I cried at the probable impending implosion of my career and social standing.

But mainly I cried for my husband. If my Dave didn’t already know, then pain the equivalent at least of Mrs. Fenton’s was coming his way. If he did already know, then he’d already been through that pain, was possibly still in the middle of it, without the person whose main job it was to support him through such crises.

I cried.

CHAPTER 8

Anne transferring a call through roused me god knows how much later, and I was back into business mode. It wasn’t until nearly four when I had a chance to check out the forum again. By this time, I was reading it with dread, not knowing when something would be revealed that would either confirm that Dave knew of my philandering, or something else was said to expose me to the world.

I went back to the last I’d read. John gave pretty graphic detail of the attack on his wife’s lover and the hounds were congratulating him on getting retribution. Several asked what he intended doing about his wife. The response to that was, ‘watch this space’. Then, at a little before 3p.m., the topic on the thread changed. John wrote, “I didn’t hit him hard enough, he’s out of hospital already.” I didn’t know what to think about that. Part of me was happy someone who held a special place in my heart wasn’t that badly hurt. Another big part of me blamed Michael for my current terrifying predicament and wished him ill. I forced myself to keep reading.

One contributor reminded John what he’d said about sabotaging his brakes. Another suggested setting up a simple fuel/air bomb, started with an electric match, to blow up “the cunt’s car”. John’s response to that was a simple, “streets ahead of you there.”

It was chilling. I doubted Michael was following the thread, or even knew it existed, until his wife confronted him. I felt I had to warn him. The last thing I needed was his death on my conscience. Besides, that could well leave Dave in gaol. I took the risk of ringing Michael’s mobile from my desk phone, using the number secreted under an alias in my address book.

He answered and soon started dribbling about the loss of his relationship. I bit my tongue; after all he’d brought it all on himself. Based on his history, if it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else.

When I asked where he was, he interrupted and started reassuring me that he hadn’t revealed my identity to the police. What? He explained that the police had pressed him hard on my identity. My identity would lead to my husband, their chief suspect. I hadn’t thought of that angle. Another reason to be petrified. He then volunteered that he’d caught a cab to work and reassured his people he was okay while denying he was Mr. Smith’s wife’s lover. It was all just a coincidence. Now he was driving home.

I told him about the recent forum comments, and he asked me to read him the latest posts. That prompted me to remember why I’d rung him; to warn him. I read him the relevant comments about firebombing his car. He laughed it off, saying he was still alive so that threat was a dud.

Just then new words appeared on my computer screen from John Smith. I backtracked a little to put them in context. The question to him was, “How old is your wife anyway?” The stark answer, “mid 50’s”, froze my blood. The press thought Michael’s lover worked at his daughter’s school. Having his name gave them the school. A school at which there were only three married female staff in their mid-fifties, four if you included Anne, my secretary.

I voiced my terror to Michael, but he was so self-obsessed with his own problems that he didn’t spare a thought for mine. Just then, he announced he was home and I could hear the Porsche’s engine wind down as he pulled into his driveway. Suddenly, there was a muted whoomp noise followed by Michael screaming and a car door opening. After a few seconds of a roaring sound, I heard a male voice yelling, “drop and roll, Dad, drop and roll”, before the phone went dead. I hope Michael’s son managed to save his father.

To keep myself sane, I disciplined myself to stay in work mode. I spent the afternoon arranging for a security company to commence the next day to keep the expected media away from school property. I then called in Anne and the two teachers in their mid-fifties and updated them on the forum. They already knew. I suggested we all meet away from the school the next morning and travel in together. One of the teachers said she might call in sick. I pointed out that would make her look guilty. By the end of the meeting, I’m certain no one thought the cheating bitch causing all the trouble was me.

I arrived home late, to be welcomed by Dave, who’d finished his out of town job early and who had cooked dinner for myself and Carl. Dinner conversation touched on Michael’s beating, but we were never ones to spread gossip, so it was a perfunctory talk. I dreaded what would be spoken of when the newspapers inevitably revealed tomorrow the name of the school involved. I briefly considered telling them Michael was a father at my school but I couldn’t summon the courage. It was such a ‘normal’ meal, I just wanted to cherish it.

Just before bed, I checked out the internet news. Michael had survived with moderate burns thanks to the quick actions of his son, Paul. Relief at Michael’s survival was mixed with dread that the increased violence would escalate the news story and keep it to the public fore.

I didn’t recognise Dave’s unspoken request for some bedroom intimacy for what it was until he’d given up and was already asleep. I was distracted. If I was 90% sure John-fucking-Smith wasn’t my Dave, then who the fuck was he? Was he even a real person from our town, or just a shit stirrer from Timbuktu and the attacks on Michael were purely coincidental?

As expected, there was media outside the school the next day, and they did run a speculation piece in the paper, identifying my school, but no names were mentioned. Dave rang me halfway through the day when he finally listened to the gossip enough to notice. I kept it vague, distracting him with my theory that possibly it was a random attack associated with some coincidences. I must have done a good job convincing him I was unconcerned as he let it alone after a short conversation.

If it was all a coincidence, then they were starting to pile up. John Smith’s post that afternoon was, “Okay; Shithead has been taken care of. What do you think I should do with the slut?” Again, came advice from both ends of the spectrum; from, ‘you have to do the Christian thing and forgive her’, to ‘burn the bitch’. The brake tamperer reminded John about his suggestion, which was scary enough. That faded into insignificance compared to another one. This guy quoted statistics on murder convictions gained when there was no body found. Miniscule. Then went on to describe in graphic detail how to burn the body in one of those galvanised iron raised garden beds, before dissolving what was left in acid. God, there are some scary people out there.

The next day we had a coup. The mayor was finally found with his hand in the till and our story disappeared from the front page. Any relief was short-lived, though. The police visited the school and interviewed the four mid-fifties females, including me. I denied an affair or knowing who the philanderer was.

Dave was late home that night. He’d been interviewed by the police as well, where he was asked if he thought I was having an affair; what he knew of the forum story; and then asked to account for his whereabouts at several time periods in the last week.

He said, “I told them it couldn’t be you. You’d never do something like that would you, Soph?”

I looked him in the eye. “Of course not, darling.” And that was the end of that.

All evening, though, as we sat and watched TV, I could sense him glancing at me occasionally. The two times I turned towards him he was slow masking an unreadable expression. That night I hardly slept a wink, and in my exhaustion, just before dawn, my thoughts weren’t good. I was no longer able to delude myself that John Smith was a random attacker supported by coincidence. More significantly, by the time the alarm went off, I was more than half convinced that Dave knew all about me and was a far better actor than I could ever believe.

The forum thread that day was chilling. John Smith thanked everyone for their time and effort, and said this was his last post, finishing with, “Plans for the cheating bitch have been finalised.”

I did no work that day at all, my mind preoccupied with my second dilemma. Throwing myself at Dave’s mercy was suicide if he didn’t know of my affair. If I feared for my safety enough to go to the police for protection, I practically outed myself to the world. Family, friends, career; up in smoke.

At the afternoon recess, Andy, my Vice Principal came in to say that I should have my engine looked at. Apparently, after I left the previous day, he’d noticed a spot of fresh oil on the ground where my car had been parked. I called the auto club, who, despite it being Friday afternoon, had a guy out within the hour.

Fifteen minutes after that, he came in to tell me I should have the car towed to their workshop. It wasn’t engine oil; it was brake fluid. He must have wondered why such a trivial announcement made me slump in my chair and go pale. I hastily agreed to the tow and signed his paperwork.

CHAPTER 9

Now you can see why I came home tonight, by cab, loaded for bear to accuse my husband of trying to kill me. I already told you how I was disarmed by his usual beaming smile.

I just stood confused as he gave me a peck on the lips before leading me around the house to the backyard, where he said he had a surprise for me.

With a ta-daa, he revealed his gift to me. I’d been nagging him for months to build a raised vegetable garden and plant some tomatoes, as I love them fresh, and the shop ones are flavourless. There, separated as far from all the fruit trees as was possible, was a gleaming new galvanised iron raised garden bed.

I ran.

Car-less, I kept running. When I was out of breath I slowed, fearfully glancing behind. No Dave but he could be catching up in his ute. I took some random lefts and rights, but always returned to a base course that took me to the centre of town and the police station.

Once there, I entered and told them everything. Who I was; who my lover was; what had happened to him; who John Smith was and how he’d sabotaged my brakes and plotted to kill me. The CID detective immediately arranged for my car to be impounded, Dave’s work laptop and our home computer seized, and Dave arrested. He did confirm they’d already interviewed Dave but not very thoroughly. No one believed that a woman of my standing was involved in an affair, plus, one of the other women’s husband had a record and was a much more believable suspect. They hadn’t even checked out Dave’s alibis.

When I went to leave the station there was a media pack outside, so I stayed inside and rang my sister to come by the back door to pick me up. That meant I was standing there when Dave was led in, in handcuffs. His facial expression I would describe as ‘confused’. When he looked at me, I couldn’t help my gaze dropping from his, but I still saw a look of sorrow on his face. He aged ten years in a matter of moments.

Sue, my sister, successfully snuck me away from the station and home. Luckily, there was no media presence there. Unluckily, my key didn’t fit the new door locks. Carl didn’t answer his phone. I was confused as all hell. The look of sorrow on Dave’s face didn’t gel with the gleaming new locks. I began to wonder if the shock of discovering my infidelity had created two Daves.

Sue offered to put me up for the night and we shared several bottles of wine while I told her the whole story. Hence, I was hung over the next morning when I received three unwelcome pieces of news in very quick succession.

The first was when Sue’s husband, Bob, threw the local newspaper on the breakfast bar. There was a file photo of me on the front page and I glanced at enough of the article to see it was about everyone not having a clue about who the wife was at the centre of the John Smith scandal until I’d broken cover the previous day.

The second was when Bob told me in no uncertain terms what he thought of me and my betrayal of his friend, Dave. He finished with, “Sister-in-law or no sister-in-law, I want you gone from my house in an hour.” I was.

I answered the first two times my phone rang. The first was from Dave’s sister, tearing me a new one and telling me never to darken her doorway ever again. I suspected that was going to be the response of over 90% of people that knew both Dave and myself. After all, he was a give-them-the-shirt-off-your-back kind of guy. The second was from my daughter, Mary. She rang to confirm the rumours. I did and she politely but firmly ended the call. If she was like that, I knew I’d get no sympathy from Peter, my eldest child. He, like Carl, was daddy’s boy. I tried to ring Carl again with no success.

The third piece of news that morning was a call I received while I was in a cab on my way to my house. I assumed Dave was still in custody and if Carl wasn’t there to let me in, I’d call a locksmith. The call was from the police with an update. The leaking brakes on my car were from a fitting coming loose on one wheel. That could have been a fault or done deliberately, there were no signs one way or the other. The disconnection of the brake pressure switch that alarmed when there wasn’t enough fluid, hadn’t occurred. This ran contrary to the advice on the forum. Therefore, before my brakes became inoperable, the warning light would have prevented me going into danger.

The rest of the call was how Dave had alibis for the time Michael was beaten and when his garage blew up. One was solid, the other unassailable. He’d been on a job site with surveillance cameras the whole day. Hence, he’d been released without charge near midnight last night. I wondered how he pulled it off. Did he hire some shady characters to do the actual deeds or were they done by mates of his? The fact he’d not once tried to ring me since his release, was a whole story in itself.

I told the taxi driver to drive past the front of my house. There were two media vans, Carl and Paul were in the open garage, working on his Skyline, but Dave’s ute was missing. One of the journalists saw me and raced for his truck but I quickly told the taxi driver to do a block. A minute later we were back out the front of my house but both media vans were gone. I threw a fifty at the driver and raced down the driveway to the safety of my property.

I’d just said hello to Carl and Paul when, with a rumble, Dave’s ute pulled into the driveway. He turned the engine off, then just sat in the cab and we stared at each other. For the first time ever, he didn’t smile at me in greeting. That hurt.

Then a range of emotions flitted across that beautiful, familiar face. First came loss. The realisation that whatever happened, we were never going to be the innocent couple we’d been for so many years. Then came disappointment. His once right hand had betrayed him in just about the worst way possible, then lied to his face about it. However he’d learned of my betrayal, it wasn’t from me. Horribly, his expression finally morphed to a mix of disgust and contempt. I’d taken a man who loved me to the exclusion of just about everything else and turned him into a highly publicised cuckold. Then, to protect myself, I’d tried to get him in trouble with the law for regaining a little pride by going after Michael. But, I told myself, I had to do that. He’d sabotaged my brakes; he’d bought the accoutrements to destroy my body after killing me.

All this I saw from my peripheral vision. There was no way I could look at him directly. His expression morphed into anger and he opened the door of his ute.

Instinctively, I backed toward Carl saying, “Help me.”

For whatever reason, that made Dave change his mind. He shut the door again, spat out the window, started the ute, and drove away.

I looked after him, stricken. That spit told me more of the future than a whole book of words. That spit said that there would never be any forgiveness from him.

The click and flash of cameras brought my mind to realise the media were back. They stayed at the property boundary but shouted their questions at me. Before I thought to turn away, the roll-a-door descended and blotted them from view. Silence reigned.

“Why should you need help?”

Carl’s words confused me a little before I replayed the last half minute of action in my head.

“Because your dad found out about me and Michael somehow. He beat Michael, then tried to blow him up. He sabotaged my brakes, was going to kill me and burn my body in that garden bed thing.”

I stopped when I saw incongruous smiles on both Carl and Paul’s faces.

“No, that was us, I’m afraid. You should know Dad; he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“What was you?” Talk about confused. I was it.

“All of the above.”

As rattled as I was, all I could manage was a weak, “What?”

Oddly, it was Paul that replied first.

“I’m guessing you don’t know my surname. It’s Fenton. Yes, I’m Michael’s son. I came home from school one day to find you fucking my father. I followed you here and came to speak to Carl to find out your name. I told him what had happened, and we decided not to tell his father and my mother until we found out if it was a one-off thing or ongoing. We kept an eye on you and him, even bugged your cell phones, but nothing seemed to happen for months. We had pretty much decided it was only the one slip up and to say and do nothing, but then we began comparing notes on when you were away and saw a pattern. You were both clever little back-stabbers, weren’t you?”

Carl took over.

“That’s when we put GPS locators on your phones. Within a week we tracked you both coming here. I left college early and eavesdropped on you and Paul’s dad. From what you said afterwards, it was obviously an ongoing affair that you had no intention of stopping on your own. That’s when we decided to… intervene.”

“Yes, Mrs. Brown,” Paul continued. “That’s when John Smith was born. I knew my parent’s marriage was over, but I couldn’t just tell Mum, she may have confronted you. I had the evidence and knew the postnup she forced Dad to sign after the first time she caught him cheating left her so well off there was no need to warn her. The plan was to punish Dad and make him fear for his future; to give him an idea of how Mum feels. “

I was horrified. Whether it was Paul, Carl, or a third party that beat Michael up, I knew I’d never know, but they were both well in on the conspiracy.

“How could you do that to your own father? How could you try to blow him up?”

“I’ll admit that we stuffed that one up. It was just a simple fuel-air bomb, triggered by the garage door opening. I didn’t account for the fact he might have the roof down on his Porsche. Instead of just being scared, he ended up a little singed. As to how I could do it. All us kids know how devastated Mum was the first time he cheated. He promised not to do it again and here the fucker was disrespecting her, us all really, again. He was saying loud and clear that a few casual fucks with you were worth more than his own family. I hate the fucker. We knew their marriage was over and I just wanted to administer a little pain. Of course, if you repeat any of this to anyone else, we’ll just deny it. Carl and I can alibi each other for most of the shit that’s happened. If the cops try to get John’s email address from the US forum, they will have to chase it through about a hundred dummies.”

The fact Paul said this all fairly emotionlessly was scary. The unspoken comparison with me, that I’d destroyed my family for the same ephemeral reward was clear to all present. If I’d ever considered I might be caught, I would probably think that, about now, I’d be frantically thinking of the best approach to get Dave to forgive me. Now, I realised forgiveness wasn’t the remotest possibility. As soon as I stopped asking questions and keeping my brain distracted, that knowledge was going to hurt. Badly. Carl continued.

“With you, the plan was to slowly ramp up the pressure until you did the right thing. Firstly, to stop your affair, then force you to confess of your own volition to your husband. But you never did that, did you? I know him almost as well as I know myself. He was always the one we turned to when we were growing up. You were this aloof visitor, always talking about your career. It wasn’t until I was old enough to see what other mums were like that I started to see how ‘not there’ you were. Dad always did the bulk of the parenting. He’s a great man and deserves your respect, not a knife in the back. Like I say, I know him. I’m pretty sure that if at any time in the last few weeks you’d confessed what you’d done and thrown yourself on his mercy, he would have elected to continue the marriage.”

Carl paused to draw a long breath after this diatribe. I knew he was right about Dave’s probable decision. I’d always known it deep down. In the beginning, I’d used the excuse of not wanting to hurt Dave by confessing. Towards the end, I’d just dithered. The precis of my parenting skills was too big a deal to be allowed to sink in at that exact moment, though. I could only handle so much.

“So, tell me, Mother, what was your big plan when your sordid behaviour with Paul’s dad started to come to light? Was it to have a sabbatical from your fling until the heat died down? That would have been unacceptable. Or were you planning to end it and keep it a secret from Dad? That would have made you feel empowered and superior and given you all the power in the relationship, wouldn’t it? When Dad should have been the one who made an informed decision. He deserved to be the one in the driving seat.”

At this, my sense of entitlement battled with my inner sense of decency. I knew there was months of debate left in that one. The problem is, I suspect I already knew which would have won. Apart from that suspicion, my mind was reeling with the sudden change in my reality. Carl watched my face for a while, then obviously gave up waiting for a response.

“When we revealed enough on the forum for you to be in no doubt that you were about to be outed, and you still didn’t confess, we continued to ratchet up the pressure and harmlessly tampered with your brakes.”

Sudden outrage overwhelmed me.

“How could you endanger me like that? Your own mother.”

Paul jumped in to answer this one. “He didn’t. Just like my dad’s beating, the act wasn’t perpetrated by a loving son. It was committed by the son of the family you had destroyed. Someone with a reason to hate you.”

This last was spat out with obvious loathing. I realised I’d been fortunate with just a warning with my brakes. That voice was obviously capable of violence. The gritted teeth shouted that. Paul was panting, so Carl continued.

“The brake trick still didn’t force you to act, though, did it? That’s when we ratchetted it up with the garden bed. You nagged Dad about it all last summer. I reminded him and even helped him clear a spot for it. He did buy it a day earlier than we planned it, but hey ho. Isn’t it unbelievable, Mum? You know, deep down, Dad would never touch a hair on your head, but because you are capable of evil, you assume everyone else is as well.”

How did I miss my youngest son becoming so wise?

“I admit we made a mistake by not taking account of the public shame that would come Dad’s way if your name was ever revealed. But, in our defence, we thought you’d confess to him and end it all well before he was uncovered. Then, we were too committed to stop it. I was certain you’d throw yourself at his feet yesterday; save yourself the public embarrassment and Dad the shame, but, no, you forced us to reveal just how selfish you are, just like Paul’s dad did.”

He paused here and the thoughts banking up in my head were clamouring for attention. I suppose, like most humans, when under pressure I focused on the last thing said. By the sound of it, Carl had known for years I was selfish and thus Dave couldn’t have avoided realising it as well. Who else mattered?

Not only wise, but Carl revealed himself to be a mind reader as well when he accurately guessed the meaning of my, “Who?”

“To you, Mother.”

“What?”

“I wanted to reveal how selfish you are to you.”

That hurt. Of all the things that had happened in the recent past and in the extended future, that was one of the most wounding. Until then, apart from some obvious exceptions, I thought I was a decent person. To have the evidence of a huge character flaw rubbed in my face was painful. Perhaps that’s why I decided to strike back at the closest thing to me and the one currently inflicting the pain. It was my turn to spit through clenched teeth.

“What about you? You’re the one who destroyed our family. Just like your sick friend destroyed his.”

“No, Mum, we didn’t destroy our families. By indulging your selfish wants and valuing your own physical safety over your respect for your husband, your own sense of justice… shit, over everything; you destroyed them, literally. The reason Dad will never forgive you, the reason you’ll lose the respect of your family and friends, hell, the whole community, is because you went to the police to save your own ass, thus outing yourself to the entire world.”

With that, Carl and his friend crawled back under the jacked-up fixer-upper and did whatever it was amateur mechanics and part time assassins do, leaving me as alone as I’d been since I’d left the womb.

EPILOGUE

From there, it took two-and-a-half weeks for my once ideal life to be dismantled completely.

Two days later, when drunk, I thought it would be a good idea to face the media. By telling the world how blameless Dave was and how it was all down to my selfish behaviour, I think the alcohol convinced me the scales would be rebalanced enough for him to talk to me. However, he continued to rebuff any attempts at dialogue and all I achieved was to publicly confirm my guilt beyond doubt.

Carl made sure he wasn’t home when I picked up my stuff to move to my new apartment.

One after the other, my other children, my mother, mutual friends of mine and Dave… fuck, just about everyone, either ignored my calls or let me know what they thought of my behaviour, at various volumes.

Michael was running his business from some secret location and must have cancelled his phone service pretty much straight away, proving that maybe I wasn’t the most selfish person in the world, only the second most.

It took the cumbersome committee that was the school board only a matter of days to find an excuse to sack me. Officially it was for bringing the school into disrepute by my actions. Unofficially it was because I was the laughingstock of the town.

I tried counselling, but it became obvious after the first two sessions that the tactic was to get me to excuse the inexcusable to myself and after Carl’s insights, I couldn’t let myself off that easily.

So here I sit. Alone with my memories and my conscience. Separated from a family who I’d always taken for granted and treated as second priority, and from a good man who I’d betrayed as cruelly as it is possible to do so. Here I am, wanting to leave town but committed to another four months of an apartment lease. With the family assets frozen by various lawyers, I don’t have the funds to just leave and start afresh somewhere no one knows me or doesn’t despise me.

I ponder my immediate choices. I could grab another bar of chocolate from the fridge, although the mirror this morning said I shouldn’t. I could sit here and soberly recount all my mistakes over and over…, again. I could write myself off with alcohol; but that’s getting old. Besides, I’m out, and getting more would involve me facing a condemning public.

Or there was the box of twenty-four sleeping pills I’d been prescribed this very afternoon.

Oh, the agony of choice.

THE END

Now friends of the Van1andCTCstories blog, greetings from myself and my partner in life and crime, CTC. Before you go on to the joke, I would like you to sing for your supper. I don’t like publishing things with flaws, so if you spotted any, please let us know by commenting on the blog. If you are reticent to comment publicly, then feel free to give anon feedback by emailing via our profile on Literotica, SemperAmare (my Van1 profile won’t pass on feedback for some reason). Please feel free to be brutally honest, we’re neither of us precious.  

NOW LIGHTEN THE FUCK UP.

A tree hugging, vegetarian, anti-hunter, woman from Sydney purchased a piece of native bushland in northern NSW. There was a large gum tree on one of the highest points on her property. She wanted a good view of the natural splendour of her land, so she started to climb the big gum.

As she neared the top, she encountered a koala that attacked her. In her haste to escape, the woman slid down the tree to the ground and got many splinters in her crotch.

In considerable pain, she hurried to a local ER to see a doctor. She told him she was an environmentalist, vegetarian, and an anti-hunter and how she came to get all the splinters. The doctor listened to her story with great patience and then told her to go wait in the examination room and he would see if he could help her.

She sat and waited three hours before the doctor re-appeared. The angry woman demanded, “What took you so long?”

He smiled and then told her, “Well, I had to get permits from the Environmental Protection Agency, Native Vegetation, Parks and Wildlife Service, and the Bureau of Land Management before I could remove old-growth timber from a ‘recreational area’ so close to a Waste Treatment Facility.

And I’m sorry, they turned you down.