Sophie's Dilemmas

"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.