Gone in Minutes Ch. 03

GONE IN MERE MINUTES 3

Written byVandemonium1

Edited by CreativityTakesCourage

Remember, these stories are designed for others to flesh out, preferably inexperienced authors. This one is particularly well suited to an extension. Writing on this site has given me great joy, particularly as it caused me to meet the love of my life, I just want others to experience some of that. If anyone wants to flesh them out with consequences, you have my happy permission. If you're a new writer I will help as much as I have time for.

It's been independently rated at 2.5/5 pickaxe handles.

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My mind has gone through the whole gamut of emotions possible in the last two minutes. From disappointment, to rage, and finally, to determination.

I've suspected something was up with my wife of fourteen years for a couple of weeks now. She's gone from open and honest to secretive and unable to meet my eyes.

I've done all the usual stuff suspicious husbands do - GPS tracker on her phone, ringing her at all times during the workday but nothing stands out as extraordinary. Still the doubts remain.

Rachel doesn't work outside the home and if her car is always where it's supposed to be and she is indeed screwing around on me, then she is either doing it in our house or she's being picked up. Enquiries at work with workmates that have been screwed over by the Family Court made me realise that I'll either have to live with my wife's transgression or become a part time dad. Neither option is acceptable to this little black duck.

Closely observing Rachel for several weeks showed me a pattern. Freshly washed wife and lack of eye contact on Wednesdays and Fridays, except in the week where she had the painters in. Today is Friday and I'm home three hours earlier than normal. I've drifted to a halt in the street two doors up from my house and haven't opened the garage door as I normally do. I silently peer into the garage to check if there is a strange car parked in my spot, there isn't, then quietly open the front door.

I suspected it would be bad but had no idea exactly how bad.

The sounds of grunts, groans, and squeaking bedsprings tells me all I need to know.

Despite all my planning I had no idea how I was going to react at this point. Disappointed is the best way of describing how I feel.

That changes when I peep around the door jamb into the master bedroom just in time see some fucker pull out from doing Rachel from behind and her spinning around to take him into her mouth.

A bit of background at this point. I might get a blowjob from Rachel once or twice a year. Oral sex is pretty much a one-way street in our marriage. As in, I do all the giving, she does all the receiving. So, if I'd ever suggested I stick my cunt-slimed cock in her mouth after sex, well, let's just say, I would have been groping around in the rose bushes out the back looking for my balls.

I start recording the action on my phone, hoping my hand doesn't shake too much because of the rage that has displaced disappointment. One glance shows me there is no chance she isn't anything but a willing participant in the charade I'm witnessing. She's gobbling up that dick like it's the last lollipop left on Earth.

The analytical part of me can see the attraction. I'm your regular guy in his late thirties. Average weight. On the tall side of average height. Average dick. This guy is younger, fitter if his biceps and six-pack are indicators, and better equipped than me. Now there's an understatement. He's a fucking donkey.

Hang on one cotton-picking minute, I recognise him. He's been in the society pages of the local rag occasionally. He's married to the daughter of Andrew Falconi, ostensible legitimate local businessman but pretty much everyone knows he made his fortune in a less legal, Sicilian kind of way. Even wearing $5,000 suits the inner thug shone through. Rumours still abound about the disappearance of several business rivals when he first started amassing his fortune and the hurried relocation to different states of rivals of some of his friends. A plan consolidates in my head and I proof it while the soul destroying sounds from my bedroom only serve to steel my resolve rather than distract me from it.

Back in the lounge, I quickly look up the local business directory and jot down the number for Falconi Imports and Exports. With an internal nod, I quietly make my way back out the front door and walk the fifty metres to the street corner. Turning my phone back on to camera mode, I zoom in on the sign showing our street name before strolling leisurely to our house, making sure to show a good view of the front of my house with the number attached to the fence but excluding my car. I continue walking up the path and through the front door. Stopping the recording, I attach the clip to a text to Falconi, with a few simple words, Take a walk with me.

I stare at the screen, silently counting. One, two, three four, five, until I get to the number fourteen. Fourteen seconds, one for each year of my marriage, then hit send. The second recording, the life-changing one, followed immediately. No pause on that one.

I quietly drive off and head to the kid's school. I occasionally pick them up and take them for a play somewhere before going home for dinner. Tonight, I suspect it will be the playground, dinner at Hungry Jacks, then the longest kid's movie showing this week. Hopefully, they'll be worn out enough to fall asleep in the car.

Who knows what I'll find when I get home.

The End.

Now lighten the fuck up!

Dear Abby,

What can I do about all the sex, nudity, foul language and violence on my VCR?

Dear Abby,

I joined the Navy to see the world. I've seen it. Now how do I get out?

Dear Abby,

I have a man I can't trust. He cheats so much, I'm not even sure the baby I'm carrying is his.

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