Gazumped

The inspiration for this one came when Van1 was reading his old mate Carvohi's, 'Cast Your Bread Upon the Waters'. Van1 developed the initial outline then explained it to CTC. Then, as usually happens when they collaborate, things became a whole lot worse for the cheating wife. Sorry, there is no sex in this one.

Technical disclaimer: Van1 blows shit up for a living, CTC specialises in creating something beautiful from nothing. Neither of us know much about cutting edge medical technology, so if parts of this story seem a little far-fetched, forgive us. It is a story, after all, and not a docu-drama. We hope you enjoy the fictional ride!

It been independently rated at 3/5 pickaxe handles.

CTC Message to Anonymous with first initial 'S' who left a message via the Literotica Contact Portal on Monday 11 ^th , concerning a follow up episode approx. 35K in length to a Consequence story. You didn't provide any contact details so please contact me again with an email address.

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My mind is still split on whether or not I have it in me to inflict the amount of pain I know I'm about to on an innocent party who in no way deserves what is about to go down in the next half-an-hour or so. But I look at the poster-sized photograph, elaborately framed, of me and Dave on our wedding day hanging above the mantlepiece, through eyes that have shed their last tear over the decline of my mostly happy twenty-eight-year marriage. Those tears happened the whole time I debated with myself whether or not to go through with this conversation. The conclusion is yes, but I'm still fighting the urge to flee. Dave is going to be devastated.

John, sitting next to me on the sofa, gives my hand a gentle squeeze, bolstering my courage, and I look sideways at him and smile my thanks. In the fifteen months of our affair, I've steadily fallen in love with this man and I know that every ounce of love I've given him has been stolen directly from Dave. The moment that making love to my husband felt like cheating on John, was the moment preparation for this meeting began.

No, I'm far from looking forward to this meeting, but I am looking forward to the release afterward. I'm going to hurt Dave badly; very badly. It can't be helped. But after it's over I can stop pretending. Pretending I'm as deeply in love with Dave as he obviously is with me. Pretending I'm going out with my girlfriends, on a work trip, clothes shopping, all over the place, when I'm really meeting up with John. Pretending my conscience isn't killing me. It's very stressful and is a big reason for the worry lines I see on my face increasingly every morning. Yes, I'm looking forward to the release.

I glance over to the bookcase and check the baseball bat I secreted there earlier is still in place. Dave's view on fidelity is very well known to me. Since the kids left home he's taken to writing short stories about cheating wives getting their comeuppance. Some of the stories have surprised me in the ferocity of the husband's response. He really made the wives pay dearly for their transgressions. When I questioned him about it he simply said he was letting off steam after hearing the stories some of his colleagues told him where they were right royally shafted by the no-fault family court system.

By nature, my Dave isn't a violent man but faced with the man that is stealing his happiness, his future away from him, he might well make an exception. He is considerably bigger than John, a whole lot fitter and stronger, and much less sensitive. He's quite high up in a Biomedical company, John is an artist. If push comes to punch, I will interpose myself with the weapon as I know that no matter the provocation Dave won't physically harm me. I can hold him at bay so John can escape.

I hear Dave's car in the driveway and my stomach begins to roil, my heart to pound. I swallow. I need to steel myself. Deep breath.

I wonder what he thinks of the strange car in the driveway. John's car. I know Dave used a similar scenario in one of his stories. It was, in fact, the first story of his I ever read. My heart rate picks up another notch. Calm, I must stay calm.

"Honey, I'm home."

Dave walks through the door, looking quizzically at John. I remain seated, I don't want to have to kiss Dave in front of John. Dave's glance in my direction tells me he's noticed my omission.

Dave strides closer, hand outstretched. John shoots to his feet and just can't help the look of apprehension that crosses his face as the size difference between him and Dave becomes apparent. Before I can say anything, Dave is before John, his hand still outstretched.

"Dave's the name."

"John," squeaks his replacement. He looks down at Dave's hand, hesitating. I can see his Adam's apple bobbing as he slowly extends his to grasp Dave's.

The handshake is brief. Dave lets go then discreetly rubs his right hand on the back of his pants. After so many years I know just what that gesture means. John has proffered what Dave would describe as a 'dead fish' handshake; slack and effeminate and, in his words of the past, 'slightly disgusting'.

John falls back onto the couch. After a glance at the two glasses of chardonnay on the coffee table in front of the couch, Dave grabs a beer from the fridge in the kitchen. He sits on the couch opposite us, cracks the can, takes a pull, puts it on the coffee table. The same coffee table John's and my glasses rest on. The three drinks form a triangle. I swallow. My nerves feel as if they will snap from the tension, like a branch pushed beyond its capacity to bend.

I look up to find Dave staring at me questioningly. I can't look him in the eye. My gaze instead flitters lower, to his faded jeans and casual polo top. How long has he been coming home dressed so casually? Where is his work uniform? Have they introduced a 'casual Friday' dress code? I give myself an internal shake. Now is not the moment to ask inane questions about clothing.

No, but it is the moment I've been dreading. This is where I shatter the soul of a man who is an outstanding community member, terrific father and provider, and near perfect husband. The first love of my life, but, unfortunately for him, not the last.

"Um, Dave, we have to talk."

"Yes, I gathered that, Chels."

His expression gives nothing away. It's neutral. Unreadable.

And exactly what I expect.

It's how he rolls in pressure situations. He becomes coldly analytical and is much better at thinking on his feet than I am. That's why I've gone over this conversation in my head a thousand times, anticipating every possible angle and come up with a response, a plan for each.

But, I have to ask myself now, if I'm so damn confident I've covered every base then why am I so nervous I'm sweating? I can feel the trickle between my breasts.

"I just want you to know, Dave, that you've done absolutely nothing wrong."

I can hear the shake in my voice and clear my throat. I still can't look him in the eye.

"In all the years we've been together all my friends have been jealous of our marriage. I know, they know, and you should know, that you've been a wonderful husband."

I laugh, partly to lighten the atmosphere, partly from nerves. It sounds awkward. Forced. Dave doesn't smile in response.

I try to soften the blow I'm about to place. "I'm nervous about having a conversation with some of them, I'll tell you, as I fear some of them may not forgive me for hurting you."

Even as I focus my gaze over his shoulder I peripherally see there is no answering smile or softening of Dave's features. His lips move but he reminds me of a statue.

"Are you going to hurt me, Chelsea?"

The words are simple, yet compelling, and like filament to a magnet, my gaze is drawn to his and I finally look into his eyes. His stare, hard and implacable, like he's studying something on a microscope slide, breaks the spell and I look away, rattled.

"Yes, um, I'm, I'm s-sorry, Dave, I, I have to," I stumble over my carefully prepared words. Another swallow. Another clearing of my throat. "You see, I've fallen out of love with you and in love with John. I... I want to hurt you as little as possible but I need a divorce so John and I can be together."

Pausing at this point now that the words are said, I try to see past his mask to the absolute turmoil that must be ripping this honourable man apart inside. I expect to see... something. A throbbing at his temple, wet eyes, tightly drawn lips, his fist clenching and unclenching. There's nothing.

His reaction, or rather his lack of it, scares me. I can't stop my gaze darting to the baseball bat. The silence between us is excruciating. I can't bear it. I have to fill it. My carefully prepared speech is a thing of the past.

"I didn't want to hurt you until I absolutely had to, I hope you see that, Dave. John and I have been incredibly careful. We didn't want you to find out until it was absolutely necessary. Until now. That meant limiting out time together. My concern for you, for your feelings, really cut into the times John and I've been able to... be together."

"Be together? Fucking, you mean?"

I can't answer. I can't meet his gaze. I have no more lies left in me. I've used them all up. I can't lie to this man, not anymore. I respect him too much, but I have been kind of hoping he wouldn't ask, wouldn't be so blunt. The words out of his mouth make it all seem so tawdry. I know my response, or rather, my lack of response is all the confirmation Dave needs.

There doesn't seem like there's anything left to say, or any point in apologising again. I'm willing to hurt Dave. I know it. He knows it.

The atmosphere in the room is horrible and I want to escape. The tension is nigh on unbearable. My nerves are strung so tight my skin is prickling uncomfortably. Dave may not be screaming in pain on the outside but I know him well enough to know it must be happening on the inside.

I shut up, anxiously wondering which of my imagined responses from him will happen. Why is my stomach churning? Why do I feel so anxious? I know whatever his response, it will be awful. Any or all of them. Fifty shades of awful. Something I need to get through in order to start my life with John.

For what seems like a long time, Dave just stares at me, until, "Okay, Chelsea."

My response is automatic and out before I have a chance to edit it. "Okay what, Dave?"

"You want a divorce so you can marry Whatshisname here. You've got it."

Tone patient. Expression bland. Neutral. I sit back and stare. Too stunned to speak. This certainly isn't one of the anticipated reactions.

Then a whole new emotion sweeps over me. Unexpected. Left field. Like a slap. A dousing in cold water. I feel insulted. No questions. No accusations. No raised voice. No red face. And definitely no tears. Twenty-eight years together and my husband isn't even going to spend five minutes questioning me. Berating me. Pleading with me. Christ, fighting for me.

After months of agonising over continuing my affair with John, and sleepless nights dreading this moment, I've been discarded in under ten minutes, all without any apparent emotion. I need to say something, but I must be careful. How to break through Dave's reserve without losing John. A line. Such a fine line.

"But, Dave, after all our years together are you willing to just walk away?"

"Why not, Chelsea? You have. You've obviously emotionally left me already. What the hell is the point of trying to fight it? What is there to fight for? Why not try to preserve what fond memories we still have by just going our separate ways?"

An answer of sorts. Just not the one I was looking for.

I open my mouth to ask another question but Dave speaks before I can frame the words.

"Now, I imagine you have some papers for me to sign."

I did indeed. A signed and notarised divorce petition, but it's still in John's car. We never expected to get past the yelling and screaming and possible tears and recriminations tonight to get anywhere near Dave actually looking at the papers, let alone signing them. Before I can jump up, John is rising and heading out the door. I watch him. His back is rigid, shoulders stiff. The tension has gotten to him too.

In the very uncomfortable silence that follows his departure, I say, "I'm sorry, Dave. Sorry for hurting you."

Dave rises to his feet and I can't help glancing at the bat.

"No, you're not, Chelsea. If you were really sorry you wouldn't have done it in the first place."

He turns and strides into the kitchen to get himself another beer, effectively ending the conversation.

By the time Dave returns to the lounge, John is back with the manilla envelope, standing awkwardly, holding it at waist height. Dave takes two very quick steps toward him. My heart goes out to John as he steps backward so quickly he trips over his own feet and stumbles, the backs of his knees hitting the edge of the couch, putting him off balance. He lands with a soft thud. That leaves Dave holding the envelope. John glances sideways at me, his face is red, and I see in his eyes that he realises he isn't exactly covering himself in glory during this encounter. I try to tell him with my eyes that I don't care. That I love him.

I turn back to Dave, who is watching me, his expression so impersonal that I can't read his thoughts and I'm still not entirely sure he isn't going to attack John.

"My friend Mary knows we're here, Dave. If she doesn't hear from us by eight I told her to call the police. Anyway, if you want someone to blame, blame me, don't beat on John."

"Oh, I do blame you, Chelsea. You're the one who made me a whole bunch of promises all those years ago. Not John. Rest assured, I don't want him to suffer any more than he's already going to."

John suffer? Why? What?

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Well, he looks to be in his mid-thirties, yet he's tying himself to you."

I stare at him blankly.

Dave gives me a look. I've seen a kinder more patient version of it before. It's when he's telling me something I'm clearly not understanding.

"You. A woman looking down the gun barrel of fifty. You're past being able to give him children so he's going to go childless, a genetic backwater. I can't think of a worse punishment for any man, never knowing the joy of watching your baby's first step, or hearing 'Dadda' for the first time. He'll never know what it's like to teach his own child to catch a ball or ride a bike. He'll never help with homework or teach his child to drive. He'll never be a hero to his daughter or a role model for his son. I don't reckon our kids will ever have much to do with him, not after they find out what the pair of you did."

My blood turns to ice in my veins. I shiver. I've been so engrossed in hiding my affair and worrying about how to end my marriage I haven't really given much thought to how the kids will react. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I'll be lucky if they have anything to do with me from now on, never mind, John.

"You don't have to tell them, Dave."

His only answer is to tilt his head slightly as he looks at me blankly, as if to say, 'Seriously, you want me to lie to them like you lied to me?' I hang my head. Dave isn't finished, though.

"But the best part is that he'll get to marry someone he will never ever fully trust. Someone he knows is capable of hurting him even as she professes her love for him. Someone who is capable of hiding the most abhorrent behaviour with her acting skills. How will he feel the first time you ring him, Chelsea, to say you're working late or going out with the girls or one of the myriad excuses you've used with me to sneak off with him, hmmm?

"And what about you, Chelsea? When your looks start to go in another five or so years and he's still a trim looking forty-year-old. Do you think he'll hesitate before bunking out on you? Think about it. By then he'll have seen all your bad points. How cranky you get one week a month, yes, one week in four, that's 25% of the time, because of PMT. He'll know how you snore like a freight train when you hit deep sleep. By then he'll be sick of saying, 'No dear,' when you ask him if your arse looks fat in jeans. He'll soon learn how little effort you put into cooking a decent meal; how you're addicted to those bloody reality shows; how much you spend on every beauty product promising the fountain of youth. How..., oh fuck it, he'll find that and all the rest out soon enough."

Offended, I leap to my feet, words of retaliation on my tongue. I'm not the only one who snores. At least I can colour co-ordinate. Dave... I open my mouth to list Dave's faults but a gasp from John stops me in my tracks. I look quickly down at him. By his expression, it's obvious some of Dave's points are getting through. I have to get him out of here.

Dave shrugs while I collapse back onto the couch, shocked. Anger, offence, and a deep feeling of hurt war within me. Is this what he really thinks of me? Has thought of me all these years?

I have so much I want to say. After months of doing my utmost to keep my affair secret to protect Dave I now have an overwhelming desire to hurt him, to make him pay for not caring. For discarding me so easily.

But the words won't come. They fail me as I watch Dave as he takes a swig of his beer before tearing open the envelope. I look down at my hands, avoid looking at John and can only hope he's not looking at me either.

"Half the value of the house, huh?" Dave mutters, looking up at me. "Don't reckon so, Chelsea. It was mine before I even met you. Might get away with half the bank account but there may not be as much in there as you think. Half the difference in our retirement accounts at the date of our separation. Yup, probably, but you'll get shit until I retire in seventeen years."

He blessedly falls silent as he reads the rest of the document. I hope John's love for me can overcome the fact we won't have the financial stability we thought we'd have. That I'd told him we'd have. John is living proof of the old joke, 'What's the difference between an artist and a pizza? A pizza can feed a family.'

The silence drags on. It's interminable. Finally, Dave looks up. "All pretty reasonable except the house but I'm sure your lawyer will charge you thousands trying to fight that. Now, where do we go from here?"

"Well, I suppose you get a lawyer and we..."

"No, I mean, what do we do tonight? Right now?"

"Well, I suppose I'll go pack a few things..."

"Uh, that's a no. I'd like you to leave right now. If you come over in two days I'll be away..., no, that won't work, I'll have had the locks changed by then. I know, how about I drop your stuff over to John's place next weekend? If I miss anything you can email me. I'll tell you now, you can have all the pictures off the walls except the ones of the kids, we'll divide those, I want no reminders of you. The one exception is the photo of us on that cruise last year, you can't have that."

I wonder what is so special about that picture that it's the only one including me that Dave wants to keep. It was taken about three months after I'd started my affair with John, when Dave had surprised me with a short notice cruise in the Caribbean. I didn't love John at that stage and still enjoyed sleeping with my husband, so the photo shows a woman smiling after much sex and being spoiled. I have no idea why he wants just that one of us. It's in a chunky, ugly frame that Dave chose and is so unremarkable it's on the wall of the hall just inside the front door.

While I'm musing on that, Dave turns directly to John and addresses him for the first time.