A Strange Car in the Driveway?

Here's how one man dealt with it.

No sex, no RAAC, not much BTB. If you need those, please move along. Tanglosax

MAX

Sitting in LaGuardia airport in New York wasn't the most pleasant way to spend an evening, thought Max Tronder, as he watched the boarding process for what he hoped would be his flight back home to Charlotte. Max, along with his two sisters, owned a small pharmaceutical company created by their father some decades earlier. The father had developed a series of valuable but rarely used drugs that made the company profitable but never offered much growth opportunity. Both parents had passed, and Max had spent the last few days in New York negotiating the sale of the company to a big pharma concern. Max, with his lawyers and brokers, had reached a deal today so Max was leaving it to them to finish the contract negotiation.

Max hoped he would get home tonight, but it looked doubtful. The last flight of the day to Charlotte was fully booked and he was number three on the waitlist. He had not called his wife Camille because he wasn't sure what to tell her. He sat at a bar where he could watch the gate and drank his second gin and tonic, thinking about the deal and the money he and his sisters would share. Something over $10 million for him, plus a well-compensated transition period with big pharma, meant a new lifestyle for Camile and him. Their twin girls were already out of the nest, or at least on their way. Both were attending college, juniors at Duke, where the tuition was eating him alive. But that would all change when the pharma deal closed.

Meanwhile, the boarding process was finishing, and the gate agents were shooing the last passengers into the jetway. And then a bit of a miracle: the boarding sign changed, and Max saw his name appear as having cleared the waitlist. He threw money on the bar, waved at the bartender who gave him the thumbs up sign, grabbed his briefcase and overnight bag and sprinted to the gate. The gate agent handed him a boarding pass and quickly explained to him and two other waitlisters that a party of four, who had checked in remotely, had failed to show so they got the seats. Max ran down the jetway with his new buddies and as he arrived at the boarding door realized he had gotten a first-class seat. A good sign, he thought: cleared the flight, sitting in first class, home a day or so early. Maybe that means the pharma deal really will close. The boarding door closed as he sat down, and the flight attendant asked if he wanted something to drink as they taxied to the runway. He felt like he had earned one more drink, so he had another G&T, and then fell asleep, dreaming of a future for him and Camille with enough money to always fly first class.

The bump and screech of landing woke him up. He eventually got to the taxi stand to take a taxi home. He had driven his pickup to the airport a few days earlier, but now he was exhausted, a bit drunk, and it was really late, way too late to call Camille to come get him. They lived a few miles outside of Charlotte so the taxi ride was long enough for him to fall asleep again. The driver had to wake him up when they arrived. Max paid him, added a generous tip and got out of the cab, a bit sluggishly. It had been a long, stressful day and half the night; he was already thinking of snuggling into bed with Camille as the cab backed away and he turned toward the house.

What he saw stopped him and fully woke him up. A gold-colored Mercedes was parked in the driveway, in front of his side of the garage. It looked like a very fancy Mercedes to Max, but then all Mercedes would look fancy to him. The house was dark; it was past midnight by then and Max just stood there for a few minutes. He had talked to Camille from his lawyer's office about midday and she had said nothing about having overnight visitors. He was trying to avoid thinking the unthinkable, trying to create a happy scenario that would have him snuggling with a warm, sleepy Camille in just a few minutes. His mind wasn't working that way, though, so he slowly walked to the door in the breezeway between the garage and house. He unlocked it, walked into a silent house and even more slowly walked through the kitchen and up the stairs to his and Camille's bedroom.

The bedroom door stood open, obviously no expectation of visitors, and Max stepped inside. And he shut down; no other way to express it. His brain stopped working, he stopped breathing, even his heart, it seemed, stopped beating. He was seeing what he had thought was the unthinkable. Camille was sleeping, naked, splayed across her side of the bed, with one arm draped across a man, also sleeping, even smiling a bit in his sleep.

Max stood there, forever, it seemed to him. But eventually his brain did start working again. He looked again at Camille's arm across the man, with her hand was resting on his flaccid cock; no wonder the asshole was smiling in his sleep. And both of them were snoring. That broke Max's heart. Before tonight, he had loved hearing Camille snore. She snored quietly, almost purring Max thought. He had thought her snoring meant she felt absolutely safe, deep in a restful sleep that came from sharing a bed, and a life, with Max. He had often drifted off to sleep with that soft purring sound in his ears. But no more. He would never hear that snoring again, never again fall asleep next to her.

Even with a broken heart, Max did start to think again. He saw the man's clothes, folded carefully, laying on a chair Max where had sat hundreds of times. A smoldering fury was beginning to burn inside Max. He picked up the pants and pulled out the wallet and car keys, then stopped to think some more. He could get a tennis racket out of the bedroom closet and use it to beat the man, hereafter referred to as Asshole he decided. He could also beat Camille. Both of those actions, while satisfying in the short term, could cause big trouble for Max in the long term. Another idea was beginning to form; he pulled out his cell phone for a few incriminating pictures as the idea germinated and expanded.

Max finished taking pictures and then picked up all of Asshole's clothes and shoes. Asshole was a big guy. Max was five ten, about 160 pounds. Asshole looked to be at least four or five inches taller and maybe 50 pounds heavier. The tennis racket might not have been a good idea even in the short term. With the clothes and shoes in hand, Max took one last look at his wife, his loving, loved wife, the mother of his precious daughters, and hardened his heart against that love that had nourished him for more than 20 years. He left the bedroom, no tears yet, headed back down the stairs and outside.

The key fob beeped the Mercedes doors unlocked. Max put his briefcase and overnight bag inside and slid into the driver's seat. He had never been a fancy car aficionado, but as he sat inside the Benz he realized he liked it. He figured out the controls, put it in gear and drove off.

After about a mile Max pulled over and took a look at Asshole's wallet. The usual stuff: some money, business cards that id'ed Asshole as Franklin Thompson, senior sales associate at a local Mercedes dealership, a driver's license that showed an address in Charlotte. If Asshole had a family there Max thought he could cause some real trouble, certainly for Asshole and maybe for Camille also. In the meantime, Max was exhausted, and he headed for a nearby motel and a night's sleep.

CAMILLE

Camille Tronder was a very careful person. She knew she was not as smart as her husband Max, but her carefulness had let her affair with Franklin Thompson go on for almost five months, with no suspicions from Max. Max was still in New York, she thought, as she lay in bed that next morning with Franklin. He was okay in bed, maybe not quite as good as Max, but out of bed no contest. Too much of a car salesman, she thought as she was concluding that it was time to end the affair. She did love the size of a man like Franklin, like the football players she had dated in college. Big and heavy, they pinned her to the bed and she loved that feeling of helplessness as they fucked her. But Franklin was getting a bit too possessive. He had wanted to spend the night with her and she had allowed it, but this would be the last time she ever did that. She planned to spend the rest of her life with Max, and having a strange man in their marriage bed, even though Max would never know about it, was still too disrespectful. She turned to Franklin to.....

BRATTT, BRATTT, the alarm went off. Seven am, time for one last, quick wake-up fuck, this time with Camille on top, and then both of them to shower and off to work. She would call Franklin later today and gently but sternly tell him the affair was over. The fuck was quick; he came and she had an okay but not great orgasm. Then she climbed off and headed to the shower. Back in her bedroom, she was dressing when Franklin came back from the guestroom shower, with a towel around his waist. He stood there a moment, and then asked:

"Camille, where did you move my clothes?"

"What? I didn't move them anywhere. Where did you put them last night?"

"Right there, on that chair. But they're gone."

"Did you take them into the guestroom with you? They must be here somewhere."

"Uhh, I..." he mumbled as he walked back down the hall to the guestroom, and then immediately came back. "No, they're not there, they're not here, they're ...." His voice trailed off as he tried to make sense of his clothes' disappearance.

"Did you maybe leave them downstairs when we came in last night?" Camille asked, a bit impatiently, as she thought about both of them having had too much to drink the evening before.

"No, I'm sure I didn't, but I guess I'll go look," Franklin replied as he headed out of the bedroom. He was back quickly, running up the stairs. "Camille, Camille, my car is gone, my clothes aren't downstairs. Somebody was here last night, they took my clothes, they stole my car. Ahhh, fuck, what is going on?"

"What, what?" Camille tried to make sense of what Franklin was saying. How could his clothes and car be gone? The two of them had been in the house all night. Could someone have broken in? Of a sudden Camille collapsed onto the bed.

It was Franklin's turn to ask, "What, what?" Camille tried to formulate a response, but she was having trouble breathing, much less speaking

"Franklin, what if it was Max?" she finally said. "What if he came home from New York while we were sleeping. What if he took your stuff and your car?"

"Oh fuck," said Franklin as he collapsed onto the bed next to Camille. "You need to find out where he is. It might have been him but if he is still in New York, that means some burglar broke in. And that means we need to call the cops. I have to get my stuff back and my car. Ahh, shit, that car. If we call the cops, they will want to know who owns it, and it's titled in my wife's name. For some goddamn tax reason, I..." His voice trailed off as he contemplated a future that might range from just bad to absolutely disastrous.

"I'll call his office. His secretary comes in really early and she will know where he is." Camille pulled out her phone and punched the number for Max's office. Even thought it was not quite eight o'clock, Max's secretary answered immediately.

"Max Tronder's office, may I help you?"

"Hi, Sheila, this is Camille, uhh I know it's really early, and uhh I'm not sure where Max is. He didn't call last night so, uhhh, have you heard from him?"

"Camille, it is early, and I know the team in New York worked really late last night. They probably are getting a late start today. I talked to Max about 6 yesterday, just before I went home. He said they were making good progress and they might have a deal today."

"That's great to hear. So he is still in New York, right?"

"Yes, I'm sure he is, and I expect to hear from him as soon as they all get back to the lawyer's office. Do you want me to ask him to call you?"

"Yes, please, but only if he has time. I know how important this deal is."

"Okay, will do. Bye." They hung up and Camille turned to Franklin.

"Max is still in New York, so we need to think about calling 911 to report a break-in and a car theft."

"Camille, what do we tell them? That your lover had his clothes stolen from your bedroom and his car from your driveway? I mean, what the fuck, we are really screwed here."

"Okay, okay, I get it. Let's think about this. How about if I drive you to your house and leave you there? You get clothes on, and you report the thefts as if they happened there. Uhhh, while your wife was taking the kids to school. And, uhh, maybe you don't report the stolen clothes. That might be harder to explain than a stolen car."

"Yeah, except I told my wife I was going to Atlanta yesterday for a meeting about the new Mercedes S class, and I wouldn't be home until this afternoon."

"Okay, but the plan still works. We just wait until maybe noon, when you would be getting back anyway. You stopped by home, left the keys in the car since it was a quick stop before you went to the dealership, and your car got high jacked while you were in your house."

"You know, I think that might work, and I could say I left my wallet in the car, and they took that too. And we can hang out here for a few hours, maybe end up needing another shower, maybe together."

"Franklin, uhh, okay, yeah, uhh, I need to call into work to take a sick day." Camille worked as a paralegal at a small law firm. The work was okay, if a little boring. She stepped into the hallway to make the call, and came back into the bedroom to find Franklin back in bed, no towel around him and stroking his cock back to what she had to admit was a nice erection. She was tempted, but thinking about Max and about her decision earlier to end the affair, she decided to say no.

"Franklin," she said, making no movement to take her own clothes off, "I think it is time to end this. We've had a good run, but you know it could have been Max last night. We were lucky that it was actually a bad guy. Let's find some clothes for you, and maybe go get some breakfast at a drive thru place." Franklin looked at her, thought hard about trying to change her mind, but finally realized she was right. They had been lucky, and there was always another attractive middle-aged mom coming into the dealership.

"Okay, I agree, it has been a good run. So: what about some clothes?" That turned out not to be so easy. Franklin was 50 pounds heavier and four inches taller than Max. Camille finally found a pair of ragged old sweatpants that sort of fit Franklin after she cut some V's out of the material at the waist. She then tied together some shoelaces to go around his waist to hold up the sweatpants. She also found a sweatshirt that had turned pink when it got washed in the wrong washing machine load. She cut out the sleeves and cut some more space in the armholes and Franklin had his outfit. She started to make a comment about clown wear, but just smiled a bit when she saw his face. They decided to watch TV until time to go to Franklin's house.

MAX

Earlier that morning, just about the time Franklin was discovering his missing clothes and car, Max had pulled into the driveway at the address on Franklin's driver's license. A nice house there, a small bicycle leaning against the side of the garage. Max sat in the car for a moment, thinking, wondering, still no tears. His night in the motel had passed quickly and he had gone out for a run just at daylight. He was surprised he wasn't feeling worse, maybe he was still in shock. He approached the front door, carrying Franklin's wallet with the driver's license out. He rang the bell and a young woman, looking still in her twenties, attractive in a frazzled sort of way, answered the door. Max had on his suit from the day before in New York, a white shirt, looking wrinkled now, no tie. He didn't look his best, but he hoped he didn't look threatening. He held up Franklin's driver's license so the woman could see it and pointed at the gold Mercedes. Before he could say anything, the woman slammed the door in his face, but then opened it again in a few seconds, holding up her cell phone.

"I have 911 on my phone, ready to hit send, unless you tell me my husband is okay."

"Ma'am, I have a picture in my phone of your husband and my wife in bed last night, naked and sound asleep. Frankly, I don't think your husband is okay, and I don't think my wife is either. If you want to call 911, go right ahead and I'll just wait in the car." They looked at each other for a moment, until her face fell, and she opened the door to let him in. She started to say something when they both heard "Mommy" from the kitchen.

"Wait here, I'll be right back." She turned away, going back to the kitchen Max assumed. He heard voices, hers and at least one child's voice. She returned, holding out a cup of coffee for him. "I hope you drink it black. I have to get my kids ready for school and then drive them. I'm afraid I trust you right now more than I trust my husband. You can stay here until I get back and then we'll talk. Okay?"

"Fine," Max replied, "I'm afraid you and I are in the same boat." He sat down in the living room and soon the woman and two kids appeared. She introduced him as a friend of daddy's and hustled them out the door. Max just sat there, drank the not very good coffee, thought about calling his office, but in the end just sat there.

When the woman returned, she ran up the stairs off the living room without speaking. A few minutes later she came back down, looking better with her hair combed and wearing some makeup and lipstick. She held out her hand to Max. As they shook hands, she introduced herself.

"Sorry about the turmoil earlier. I'm Molly Thompson, currently married to Franklin Thompson, who is currently involved with the woman to whom you are currently married." Max had to laugh at her turn of phrase, and it felt good to laugh.

"You are absolutely right, about all the 'currentlies.' I'm Max Tronder, and my wife is currently Camille Tronder." He then explained what had transpired the night before, and watched Molly's tears start to fall. "Camille and I will be getting a divorce and I'm sure the pictures will help me get a decent settlement. I can send them to your phone if you think you might need them."

"Yeah, I guess I should have them," Molly replied, with dead eyes looking at Max. He reached for his phone, but stopped when she said, "Wait, don't send them to me. If I see them I will never get those pictures out of my mind's eye. You keep them and if I need them I can call you. Right?"

"Sure," Max said, but then added, "I may not be in my current job much longer and I will definitely not be in my current home any longer. Let me give you my lawyer's name and number. You can always reach him if you need the pix, or if you need any help in a divorce situation."

"Okay, thanks," Molly said. "But what do we do right now? Are you returning the car? Are you going to wait for Franklin and try to beat him up? You saw him, you could see he's a pretty big guy, even though he's gotten sort of fat. He was supposed to be in Atlanta yesterday for some kind of car meeting and stay overnight there. He should be home sometime today."

"You know, I kind of like the car, and I've never driven a Mercedes before. I'm thinking I will keep it until somebody makes me return it. Your husband, and I have to tell you my name for him is Asshole, may have ...." Molly burst out laughing, and then Max joined in, both of them needing any comic relief they could find.

"Actually, the car is in my name," Molly said. "For some tax reason, more depreciation I think, Franklin, or should I say Asshole, put it in my name since I drive more than he does. And," she paused in thought, then went on, "You know, since I own that car, I can write out a permission slip for you to drive it, and the cops can call me to confirm if you get pulled over." Max liked that idea but didn't respond since Molly was obviously still working out a plan.