Strange Cur in the Driveway

This is a short story, 2332 words the Literotica counter tells me. I'd like to thank my beta readers for their help and Randi for her editorial work. And, yes, the cur mentioned in this story had a real life counterpart with a similar habit as described. It's a light-hearted story.

I was at work in my office and my left eye started to twitch, my vision in that eye began to be distorted somewhat and tears ran from it and the left side my face began to feel numb and heavy and my secretary Julie said, "Carl! You've asked me in the past to tell you, in case you didn't notice, but I think you're coming down with a migraine."

I thanked her for her observational skills, and said, "Shit! I think you are right, Julie. From how I feel, I reckon I have just under an hour before my vision starts to become compromised, so before I do start to go blind, I'd better drive myself home. Please cancel and reschedule any appointments I have for this afternoon."

She looked at me, shrugged and said: "Your car's safe in our secured parking, so I think that it would be better for you to forget about driving home and just wait for the Uber I'm calling to get you home safely."

I thanked her for her thoughtfulness and waited for the Uber. The weird thing about migraine attacks is that no matter how many times you have them, they usually creep up on you and they can majorly fuck up your thought processes. Normally, I'd never have thought about driving with one eye on the fritz, but as I say, migraines can fuck up your thought processes in a big way.

Also, with migraine attacks sufferers say the first time you get a migraine you're frightened you are going to die. But with every subsequent attack you're frightened that you aren't going to die. Never had a migraine? Then you are truly fortunate.

Once home, I staggered from the Uber toward my home and the Sikh driver had given me his sympathy. His kid sister suffered from migraines and his only caveat on the journey was to say: "If you wanna spew, tell me. I'll stop the car for you."

Fortunately for both of us, I wasn't sick on the journey home.

When I arrived at the house I shared with my wife of 15 years, Felicity, I was surprised to see a strange cur in the driveway. He wasn't a stranger to me, but he was something of a strange dog. He was a thoroughbred Irish Water Spaniel who bore the splendidly Irish name of Patrick O'Shaughnessy. (Just take a few moments to Google Irish Water Spaniel. I'll wait.)

He was owned by our friends and neighbors Roger and Sue Ryan who lived three doors down from us. We'd got to know them when they moved in a couple of years previously.

Patrick had a strange habit. If he could sneak out after them, he would follow Roger, Sue or their two boys to whatever local destination they had walked to. The convenience store, the local branch library, anywhere. All he would do was wait patiently at the door they had entered through until they exited it again.

"Oh!" I thought to myself, "Sue's visiting with Felicity." Then I glanced down the street and noticed that although Roger's car was on their driveway, Sue's car wasn't there. She would be at work. So, why would Patrick be sitting outside our front door on our driveway, waiting patiently?

I approached the house and Patrick acknowledged my presence with a brief wag of his tail as I peeped through the downstairs window. They were not in the living room. I swiftly made my way through the side gate, entering the yard behind the house and they weren't in the kitchen, either.

"Son of a bitch!" I said to myself. Because that only left the upstairs of our three-bedroom house. Why was I suspicious? I honestly didn't know why.

I carefully opened the front door, which made Pattrick beat his tail a little faster, but he still waited patiently.

I took my phone out and walked as quietly as possible up the stairs to the landing. I walked onto the corridor and realized that our bedroom was occupied.

My wife, former wife or slut, as I was now learning to think of her, had insisted on having a tall mirror placed on the wall facing our bedroom door on the top landing so I was able to take some photographs of the two fuckers, (fuckees?) in our marital bed, as they'd partially left the door open.

I also managed to record a blurry video. Yeah, blurry. I was heartbroken, enraged and I was in the middle of starting a migraine attack. So sue me. Actually, my migraine seemed to be in abeyance for the moment for some reason. Is rage and a broken heart a cure for a migraine attack? If so, it's not one I would recommend.

They were chatting post coitally. It was bland, it was depressing, it was disrespectful in its sheer banality.

I learned that whilst Felicity loved me and that Roger loved Sue, they both thought of us as being boring and normal, and that whilst they loved us, their stupid, clueless spouses, and whilst they didn't love each other, they were fond of each other and that they enjoyed their "sexy times" together. That ridiculously pathetic line about "sexy times" came from Felicity.

The more they talked together in ordinary, conversational tones, the more venal and shitty they sounded. I gathered that the affair had been continuing for several months and that they had little respect for us as their spouses.

I couldn't understand why Roger was willing to take the risk. He and Sue had two children. Felicity and I hadn't got around to starting a family yet. I suddenly felt cold. What if the two shits were trying to get Felicity pregnant, dumping Roger's bastard brat on me?

I'd recorded their adulterous, treacherous words and crept back down the stairs. Once I was outside, I found Sue's phone number and called her.

"Sue, hi, it's me, Carl Matthews" she chuckled and said: "I can see that, Carl. Caller ID's a wonderful invention! Anyway, what can I do for you?"

"Your dog is sitting outside our front door, waiting."

All of a sudden her tone of voice altered a little. "Roger's working from home today, so why is Pattrick out and why is he waiting at your door?"

I reached down and absentmindedly ruffled Patrick's head. "It's because he is waiting for Roger to finish fucking Felicity in our bed and to return home."

The reaction from Sue wasn't quite what I'd expected, to be perfectly honest. "That no good son of a bitch! I warned him when I made him sign the postnup agreement that if he cheated on me for a third time that I'd crucify him! Looks like us moving here a couple of years ago at his damned insistence to 'make a fresh star, my love' was just so much horseshit!"

She paused before continuing in a slightly calmer tone of voice "I'm just so sorry that he has suckered Felicity into joining him in his shitty reindeer games. Look, I'll leave work now, I should be back home within ten minutes. Don't do anything 'til I get there, okay? And once again, I'm so very sorry."

She must have broken the driving laws, and perhaps even the laws of physics, because she made the journey back from her office to our homes within six minutes.

When she arrived, she looked determined and kind of manic. I knew Roger would be in for some serious shit. Too fucking bad.

She patted Patrick O'Shaughnessy on his head, looked at me, mouthed "watch this" at me and pushed our front door fully open. She said to Patrick in a very loud, command tone: "Seek him out!"

Patrick gave a 'woof' of joy and bounded away and up the stairs like a canine shite-seeking missile.

There was a period of silence, which was, I realized, when Pattrick was launching himself through the air onto the bed.

There then followed joyful barks from Pattrick and less-than-joyful yells, screams and shrieks from the erstwhile fuckers/fuckees.

They both came down the stairs, naked, followed by a momentarily chastened Pattrick, whose doggy senses knew that something wasn't quite right. Smart dogs, spaniels.

When Roger and Felicity saw us on the path in front of the house, they knew the fucking they'd just had wouldn't compare to the fucking they were going to get, legally speaking.

"You bastard," shouted Sue. "You fucked two of my so-called best friends back home. Against my better judgment I let you sweet talk me into letting you sign a postnup agreement and moving hundreds of miles from home, uprooting our two children. I should have realized a leopard never changes its spots. I'm only sorry that you dragged Carl's slut wife into our shitshow of a damned marriage."

Felicity shook her head and muttered, "I'm no slut." to which "Honey, you are standing naked on your front step with the spunk of a man other than your husband oozing out your snatch, so if the cap fits, wear it, Sue sai in tones of faked sympathy.

"Shit! That reminds me. Since these idiots weren't using protection, we'd better not be catching any STIs from you two! Carl, we need testing. Still, at least since Roger had a vasectomy there's no chance of the slut falling pregnant by him."

I thought I saw a look of regret or something pass over Felicity's face. Had she been planning to try to have Roger's bastard brat foisted on me to raise? The bitch! The absolute, fucking bitch!

Pattrick was taken home and secured in his kennel, the two slimes had dressed, after tending to the accidental scratches inflicted on them by Pattrick's claws. They'd both disappeared. Together? Who gave a fuck? I no longer cared. Seriously. I was done with Felicity and her damn shit.

Sue and I sat in the kitchen of the house I used to share with Felicity, my slut wife, or my soon to be former wife, drinking coffee.

"What are you going to do about Felicity, Carl?"

I shrugged. "At one point I'd have forgiven her, gone into counseling and tried to make a go of it. After all, I love or did love the silly bitch and we've been together as a couple for just over 15 years. But after hearing what you said about you forgiving Roger and him throwing it back in your face and cheating again makes me wonder about the sense of trying for reconciliation? Hope you don't mind me saying that?"

She smiled briefly, and said "Not at all. He had two affairs with supposedly good friends of mine. One of the bitches was my actual bridesmaid, for fuck's sake. We undertook marital counseling, and although I forgave him, I had him sign a totally vicious and watertight post nuptial agreement. Even that wasn't enough to stop him, nor the fact that we have two kids who this is going to devastate. I can't do it again! I just can't!"

Suddenly, she burst into tears and I comforted her and gave her a handful of paper tissues.

"Felicity and I have been together for 15 years, as I said. What about you and Roger?"

"15 for us, too, including our courtship. But if we do divorce the assholes, that's all going to waste?"

I nodded. "Yes, but that's the old sunk cost fallacy, isn't it? The best explanation of the sunk cost fallacy I've ever read is by Scott Adams. It goes like this: 'We've spent millions of dollars developing a water-powered pogo stick. We can't stop investing now or it will all be wasted.'"

Sue laughed and nodded. "Yeah, so let's just move on, huh?"

"Yeah. But it's not going to be that easy, is it?" she said.

"Most things that are worthwhile aren't easy," I replied, shrugging.

Things moved on fairly rapidly. Sue and I had our STI tests, but we were thankfully clear. The two lovers moved into a tiny one-bedroom apartment. Why? Misery loves company, maybe?

Sue and I both filed for divorce against our spouses, and although Roger attempted to have it overturned, the postnup stuck and he fell on his own shaft, so to speak. Sue kept the house, the kids, Patrick O'Shaughnessy and most of their money and assets.

My divorce was a straight 50/50 split, and as we had no prenup, we sold the house and divided our assets. Felicity's lawyer suggested marital counseling, but when my lawyer pointed out that Felicity was actually still living with Roger, her affair partner, the judge literally, not figuratively, laughed in her lawyer's face and told him to "get real, man!"

After the divorces were done and dusted, I moved in with Sue, her children and Patrick O'Shaughnessy. I was, in effect, a lodger/friend with benefits. I got on well with the kids and with Patrick O'Shaughnessy, too.

Would Sue and I marry? Perhaps, but there was no hurry. As for Patrick O'Shaughnessy? His wandering and following days were over. I think he had learned his lesson.

What about the two lovers? Last I heard they'd moved to the other side of the country and Roger couldn't even be bothered to call his two boys, let alone have any of his allocated time with them. Still, that was his loss.

The boys were in counseling and doing reasonably well. The sad thing was they didn't miss their father as much as Sue and I had feared, and we realized that he'd been a shitty husband and only barely adequate as a father, in reality. Which, when I looked back on the situation, didn't surprise me.

When I thought about the idea that Felicity was living with a narcissistic asshole who would almost certainly cheat on her in her turn, I laughed. When my therapist asked me why I was laughing, she gently chided me, but had a small glimmer of a grin forming. I guess she thought it was funny too.