Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

by Vandemonium1

Edited by CreativityTakesCourage

This one is another shorty, around 3,000 words with no sex.

My thanks to CTC, once again, for the edit.

I still hear people saying that all the new discovery methods are gone. I beg to differ.

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FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! How does he know? How did Dave find out? My marriage is toast, I just know it. The courts will judge Dave to be the primary caregiver of our kids, he'll be awarded custody. I'll be a social pariah, shunned by just about everyone in this church-going community. Forgiven by the priest with the soft words but the judging expression. Just like he did with Mary Skelton. She only lasted about three months after her husband discovered her affair. Three lonely months of being shunned by the rest of the community, despite what the priest had urged. This community really hates cheating spouses of both breeds.

I slammed on the brakes and screeched to a halt, stopping two scant metres from hitting a little girl who had run onto the road chasing a ball. She looked to be about three, about the same as my Paula. I was driving too fast, too preoccupied by my huge problem. The child's mother frowned at me from the kerb, even though it was her fucking fault for not supervising her kid better. I looked around and saw I was near the big park, five minutes from home. I suppressed my fears, drove with shaking hands another 200m and pulled over before I hit someone in my distraction.

How could Dave possibly think... No, that's stupid. Once Dave discovered I was having an affair it's only logical he'd think ill of me and want to cover his bases. He might run a dinky little editorial service from home but that doesn't mean he's stupid. Far from it. Once he found out, of course he WOULD think it wasn't my first and get the kids DNA tested.

But how the fuck did he find out? Carl and I have been so careful.

Thoughts of Carl reminded me. I picked up my phone and navigated to 'Carla', if Dave ever asked, a recently started work colleague. Stick as close to the truth as possible was my motto. My text, 'Can you talk'?

While waiting for a reply I continued to kick myself. Why, oh why, did I let that smooth talking little fucker seduce me? No, no, now come on, be honest, that's not fair. Why we slept together the first time wasn't seduction and is perfectly explainable.

It happened while we were out of town. We'd just spent two whole days negotiating an exhausting deal, celebrated with too many champagnes and fallen into bed together.

If I had stopped there it would have been fine. I would have a secret that I would rue to my final day. A grave secret that could only hurt my husband and family. But I, or should I say, we, didn't. We'd both been ensnared by the excitement of sleeping with someone different after 10+ year of marriage. The allure of the illicitness of it all, the thrill of the naughtiness of it. The superiority of knowing we were fooling our spouses, two people who knew us so well, and successfully hiding it.

Or not successfully hiding it as it turns out.

My thoughts were interrupted by the ding of a text from Carl. Finally. ' No, having dinner with Mary and the kids. What's up?'

Well, misery loves company they say. 'He knows. Dave knows about us.'

How the fuck had Dave found out? We'd been incredibly careful. Only getting together when we were away and then only if we could get adjoining rooms. We never walked into the same room door together, always used condoms, even the first time. Made absolutely sure we behaved normally in public and when we were home with our respective spouses.

Ding. 'Fuck! Mary is acting normally so he hasn't told her. Do you think he will? How angry is he?'

'Dunno. We haven't spoken yet. I did a runner as soon as I discovered he knew.'

This time I didn't have to wait long for a reply.

Ding. 'Please beg him not to tell Mary'.

The selfish little prick. Fuck my marriage, so long as his is unaffected. Arsehole! I've a good mind to tell his wife if Dave doesn't.

Like I say, misery loves company.

So how were we discovered? I'd made sure my loving of my husband hadn't suffered. Not introduced any new positions or techniques I'd learned from Carl. Fat fucking chance. To say sex with Carl was vanilla and uninspiring would be an understatement. He was smaller, lasted less time, and was not nearly as experimental as my Dave. In fact, if it hadn't been for the illicitness of it all it wouldn't have lasted the seven months and six liaisons it actually had. How unlucky we'd been discovered before I terminated our affair after our next trip in two weeks' time.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Focus, Megan. How you were discovered isn't relevant. You were found out and now your husband trusts you so little he's getting DNA tests done on your kids.

My mind flashed back to a scant twenty-minutes earlier, when I'd come home late, too late to enjoy dinner with my family. Luckily, Dave worked from home, did the school runs and cooked dinner six nights a week. I was supposed to cook Sundays, but I normally went and got takeaways. Let's just say, cooking isn't one of my strong points.

Walking in the door I'd frozen at the horrible sight. Dave sitting on one of the kitchen chairs with one of those cotton swabs on a stick, wiping it around the inside of the mouth of Jillian, our five-year-old. The open sterilised packet sitting on the table. Peter, our seven-year-old, standing there also, either waiting his turn or having been done already. I'd read enough stories and seen enough TV to know I was looking at the opening act of a DNA test.

My initial reaction was one of rage. How dare Dave think the kids weren't his. I wasn't a slut. Or was I? Knowing I had to think how best to survive this, I just turned and fled. Just before I did, Dave turned to look at me, a neutral expression on his face. I raised my hands to my cheeks, remembering the feeling of the blood draining from them which was a blatant confession of the truth in the circumstances of what the testing was accusing me of.

Twenty minutes later, here I am. Contemplating my family's and my social destruction.

I knew Dave, I knew him as well as he knew himself. Once he was ready to confront me he would do it firmly and quietly. He wouldn't want the whole town to know he'd had the horns hung on him. If I couldn't prevent him at least divorcing me, I'd ask him to do it quietly, just say we'd grown apart. That way, even though I'd lose the security of my marriage, I could still stay in town and see my kids, maybe have shared joint custody. I did love them.

My mind wandered off for God knows how long, running different scenarios of how Dave would react, trying to find the one that made me lose the least. Suddenly, I realised I was thinking like a defeatist. I was using my knowledge of Dave and assuming that separation was a given and the best scenario from here was a quiet divorce.

But what if I was wrong?

What if I threw myself on Dave's mercy? Told him about the forgivable first time and the regrettable continuation. He wouldn't want a divorce any more than me. Sure, his faith and trust in me would be shattered and it would take years for him to fully trust me again, but I would still have respectability and the support of the community.

If you do this, Megan, you'll have to be absolutely honest with Dave. One whiff of an untruth and you'll arrive at the kerb quicker than a cheetah on speed.

I glanced at my watch. Just under two hours since my discovery that I hadn't been as clever at hiding my affair with Carl as I'd thought. Two hours since I'd gone from being secure in my marriage to fighting for its very life. Two hours since seeing my husband DNA testing my children raised my blood pressure a hundred points.

I tapped out a quick text, 'I'm on my way home to beg you for forgiveness for my affair with Carl, please don't do anything hasty', then slowly headed my car home.

MEGAN'S EPILOGUE

Well, what happened after that exceeded my worst nightmare. Ten minutes after sending my text I reached home. As soon as I pulled into the driveway, Dave stormed out the door, threw a, "Stay here and look after the kids," at me and screamed off in his car.

I found out later he went straight to Carl's house and when my lover answered the door, broke his nose with a single punch while yelling, "Fuck my wife will you?"

Those words stopped Carl's wife calling the police and between her and Dave they extracted the full story as Carl begged them to call him an ambulance. With Carl saying he was punched, but his wife claiming he fell against the wall, the police investigation went nowhere.

When he returned from emergency, the locks were changed at his house and his wife had an online appointment with a divorce lawyer.

How do I know all this? Dave came straight home, told me to pack a bag and leave. With one look at the fire in his eyes and his bruised knuckles, with an inkling how they came to be, I did as requested and fled to a mid-range motel in town. I saw a bandaged Carl at the breakfast bar the next day.

Any hopes Dave would be quiet were dashed in the early afternoon when Carl and I were invited into the COO's office and summarily executed. She didn't quote any morals cause in our contracts just said she didn't want to employ homewrecking, bottom-feeding scumbags like the pair of us. Ouch.

I could see how the immediate future was going to be when I rang all three divorce lawyers in our town and none returned my call. When I went to a diner for dinner the waitress refused to acknowledge my existence. The nail in the coffin, however, was when I met up with Carl and found out he was already being treated like a leper by family, friends, and ex work colleagues alike.

Within two days, spurred by a visit from the motel manager, who claimed his establishment was booked out from that night, yeah right, Carl and I bowed to the inevitable and left town. We didn't want to become social ghosts, like we'd seen Mary Skelton become, just last year when she'd been caught cheating.

We drove for 300km and started a new life together. That didn't last long. I know I may be speaking the bleeding obvious, but when two cheaters shack up together there is no trust. Zip! Diddly! Squat! I'd never realised just how important trust was to a relationship until the evening I had to fight the urge to check his phone when he was in the bathroom.

By the time I finally worked up the courage to ask Dave if I could come back to town to visit the kids one weekend, he and they had replaced me. He was a fine catch and once he was free, the vultures, being all the attractive bachelorettes and widows, made their interest known. By the time I got organised, there was already a dainty set of shoes under Dave's bed, my kids had a stepsister and were already calling another woman 'mum'.

Now, too old to start another family, all I can do is sit and contemplate the lonely life I have to look forward to.

DAVE'S EPILOGUE

I lie here having glanced at the bedside clock, 11.05 p.m. The soft breathing of Ruth, lying next to me reminding me of our sexual marathon of the last two hours. Fuck! Sex with someone new after ten years with the one woman was good. Damned good. We'd done some stuff that was borderline illegal and I'd cum at least three times, Ruth far more.

Yeah, life is good, if a little bizarre. One wife cheated on me but before I could mourn the death of that marriage too much I was being seduced by someone younger, better looking, and sexually way more adventurous, and I have the shrivelled cock and empty balls to prove it.

The surreal last day of my old marriage still confuses the hell out of me. Maybe if I relive it in my head, for the ten thousandth time, it may finally make sense.

How did it go? On the final day of my marriage, Megan came home, walked in the house and without saying a word, just turned and walked away again. I heard her car start up and drive away. I was busy for a few minutes longer and by the time I rang Megan's cell, it was engaged.

With no sign of her, I began the kid's bedtime routine and they were quickly asleep. Not seeing their mother before they turned in, sadly, being a not unusual occurrence.

I went into the kitchen and was just about to ring Megan again when the house phone rang. The display showed an unrecognised cell number. The next few minutes went something like this from memory.

"Hello, David Brown, speaking."

"Um, hello, Dave, it's Carl."

I knew Carl, of course, he'd started working with my wife some time ago. I'd seen him at a couple of work functions and even been invited over to his housewarming. What was his wife's name? Rebeccca? Bec? Something like that. Very good looking, nicely shaped, and a couple of years younger than Megan and I. Carl, on the other hand, I thought was a tosser. Arrogant, full of himself, and he looked down his nose at me. A legend in his own mind. The last person I wanted to talk to after a hard day. That's why my next words probably didn't come out as very friendly.

"Yes, Carl, what can I do for you?"

"What is it going to take?"

I didn't have a clue what he was talking about and said nothing in my confusion, forcing him to continue.

"If my wife finds out I've been having an affair with Megan for the last six months or so she'll cut my balls off and I'll lose my kids. So, I'll be up front, Dave, what is it going to take to keep your mouth shut?"

I don't remember dropping the phone and slumping to the floor as the devastating news that my loving wife had betrayed me in the worst way possible battered at my consciousness. I'd been totally unsuspecting and couldn't believe it. Yet the pleading in Carl's voice was pretty convincing. Then my mind turned to the recently oft pondered problem. Why had my wife seemed to emotionally pull away from me and the kids in the last half year or so? Nothing drastic, just definitely there.

I would later realise that the first stage of grief, denial, lasted less than thirty minutes of floor time. Replaced by anger. A blind rage to mask the pain of my loss. I still had enough control to not take it out on Megan. That way prison lay. Her lover was an entirely different thing though. As soon as I heard Megan return, I drove to the shithead's house and with all the anger I possessed, punched him fair and square. The feel of bone and cartilage breaking under my fist made me smile even now.

Carl's forced confession in his lounge room, dripping blood, was completely unnecessary for my education but necessary for his wife. The release of anger allowed me to return home and calmly tell Megan to fuck off.

As I listened to my bed partner lightly snore, I realised I was no closer to solving the mystery than I was the last hundred times I'd tried to work it out.

Why had Carl sown the seeds of his own marriage's destruction by confessing to me when I was clueless? I couldn't help thinking, again, that Megan's strange behaviour that night, by coming in from work then leaving again without a word, had something to do with it all. Once again I replayed that evening in my head.

I'd cooked dinner, like always. Confirmed Megan would be late so sat and ate with the kids, chatting away as we do. Then started to clear up. Jillian complained that she had a sore spot in her mouth. I grabbed a torch, turned back her bottom lip and saw the ulcer. Going to our first aid cupboard, I'd grabbed the tube of Bonjela and one of those individually wrapped cotton swabs, opened both, smeared one onto the other and used the cream for the purpose it was designed for.

Absolutely nothing to do with the mystery at hand. Bugger, I'm beginning to suspect I'll never know.

Turning on my side, I inserted my arm under the sleeping beauty's head and spooned her, gently kissing the back of her neck. She pressed into me and purred a little.

Fuck the mystery, life is good.

NOW LIGHTEN UP.

You can blame the 26THNC for the following joke.

A fellow and the wife were getting busy one night....

She whispered sexily, "Turn out the light and shove it in my arse."

On hindsight, I probably should have allowed the bulb to cool down first.