What's the Worst?

This story was co-authored by Vandemonium1 and CreativityTakesCourage. Rather than go through the crap of having it appear in both profiles, we decided to set up a new profile for our joint works.

What you can expect from WHAT'S THE WORST?

It's a longish tale and we don't want to give too much away, but for any swingers, move along, there's nothing to see here. Other than that, we have strived to give the reader a unique discovery method. Our tale is a more descriptive and character driven plot than the average Van1 tale—blame CTC, she dragged me into it kicking and screaming... Whenever I hear her speak; directly, or via her writing, I'm always reminded of my favourite line from the movie 'Blazing Saddles'. "Why, Mr. Lamar, you use your tongue purdier than a $20 whore."

THE PASSENGER IN SEAT 17B

WHERE THE HELL do I know her from?

I wracked my brain, going through all the women I knew. Section by section, I went through them. My neighbourhood. The gym. Friends of family. Work. One by one, I dismissed them. And yet I was one hundred percent sure I'd seen her before. Somehow, I knew her. The knowledge hung tantalisingly out of reach and it annoyed the crap out of me. I hated unsolved mysteries.

I hated them because I knew my brain would keep working to unravel the mystery and I'd do something annoying like wake at three in the morning with the answer.

I watched as she removed her coat and added it to the overhead locker where she'd already stowed her carry-on bag. She glanced in my direction, and though her lips curved in a vague sort of smile, I didn't register any recognition in her gaze. Perhaps I was wrong about knowing her.

But I didn't think so.

I lowered myself into my seat, cursing the faceless admin staff member who'd booked me a centre seat instead of one by the window or aisle. Mystery Lady had encountered no such issues and was seated by the window. For the umpteenth time I studied her profile, trying to tease out of my memory bank the knowledge of where and how I knew her.

I continued to study her through the gap in the seats as she rummaged in her handbag, finally removing her cell, and placing it on the empty seat beside her. She leaned forward, her dark hair falling forward and concealing her face, and carefully shoved her handbag under the seat in front of her.

She straightened, retrieving her phone from the seat beside her. I glanced away, wanting to respect her privacy as she typed in a pin, unlocking it. When I looked again, I smiled—finally I had the answer to my mystery.

Her phone background showed a smiling image of her with none other than Jonathon Carstairs, the head of our engineering department. Thanks to Jonathon I was head of installation. He was the first person to see through my façade of underplaying my intelligence. He was there for me when Sue screwed Carl, her boss, just as I was there for him when his first wife did the dirty on him. He'd told me many times in the years that followed that whenever he had dark thoughts he'd hear my signature line to Sue: '

So why did you fuck him

,' and he'd laugh and instantly feel better.

He'd mentored me and taken me with him on his climb up the corporate ladder. Many a time I'd sat alongside him at his desk, going over a plan, and seen the photo of him with his wife, Priscilla. Priscilla Carstairs. She was a little older now, her hair a little longer, but it was definitely her.

I smiled, feeling satisfied. Mystery solved. I thought about re-introducing myself. We'd met a few times, in the early years when she still attended work Christmas functions, but her lack of recognition earlier told me she didn't remember me. I wasn't surprised—the Priscilla I remembered had always preferred hobnobbing with management rather than the guys at the coal face. Despite her remembered aloofness, had she been seated beside me I would have refreshed her memory, but with her in the row in front of me, I decided against it. Conversation would be too awkward, and, despite the flight not being filled to capacity, a rarity on a Friday to Brisbane, I wasn't going to ask an attendant to be moved.

I opened my book of crosswords, and intending to only give her one final glance, reached toward my shirt pocket for my pen. I stopped mid motion, half rising from my seat, my leap to my feet only halted by the seatbelt.

There. On her screen. In full colour was a photo that was most definitely not Jonathon. For one thing the guy was black. For another he was a damn sight younger than Jonathon. And somehow, I couldn't picture Jonathon taking a selfie with his jeans open at the zip with his other hand gripping one very erect cock.

Words leapt off the screen, searing themselves on my brain.

Hurry up, lover.

To my mind there could only be one interpretation—she was on her way to an assignation. She was just another cheating wife. I felt a wave of sympathy for Jonathon. He didn't deserve this. Not again. If anyone knew what a devoted family man he was, it was me. One look at his office would tell the dumbest stranger he loved his wife, children, and grandkids. Her children. Christ, they weren't even biologically his. Jonathon had adopted them and treated them as his own.

I didn't care what her reasons were. I didn't care if she thought him indifferent, boring, a workaholic, or inconsiderate. There was no excuse. If she was unhappy in her marriage she should have taken steps to fix the problems or leave. She should have finished one thing before she started another.

Old hurt, old rage, old disgust reared their ugly heads, taking me by surprise. Old instincts resurfaced as well, and my hand continued to my pocket, but instead of grabbing my pen, I curled my fingers around my cell.

For the briefest of moments, I hesitated, and let the possibility Jonathon knew and condoned his wife's behaviour to roll around my brain. I shook my head at the thought. Impossible. Jonathon was too much a man to do such a wimpy thing. As if to confirm my conviction, my eyes were drawn to her left hand. I smiled grimly—she'd removed her rings and had even placed a band-aid on her ring finger to hide all evidence she wore any. Perhaps, she thought that was a mark of respect for Jonathon and their marriage. That the removal of her rings somehow made her a better person or less of an adulteress.

Not in my eyes.

Jonathon was a good guy. He deserved better than a cheating slut of a wife. He didn't deserve a foolish one either and that she must be. That, or ignorant. Jonathon would never forgive her if he found out. Not with his history. Not after what his first wife did. Snippets of drunken rants flooded my brain.

I'll kill the bitch and her pissant boyfriend before I let her take my house and move her fucktoy in... The bitch is in for a rude shock if she thinks I'm going to roll over and let her walk away with all our assets—assets, I fucking earned us.

But she did. Thanks to a hairy-armpitted, lesbian judge who assumed all men were arseholes and deserved punishing, she took him to the cleaners and all he'd been left with was the dilapidated cottage his mother had left him. In fact, it was after seeing the way Jonathon got raped in the courts that helped me formulate my plan for seeing Sue didn't do the same to me.

I surreptitiously snapped off a photo of her screen and then zoomed out to get one showing her profile. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with the photos. On the one hand, I wanted to send them through to Jonathon immediately. On the other, I didn't want to be the bearer of such devastating news—his first marriage break-up had nearly destroyed him. It had taken years for him to date, let alone trust a woman again.

I put my phone away—I now had a fellow passenger beside me and I didn't want him alerting Priscilla or one of the flight attendants about my taking photos of Priscilla unawares.

The two-hour flight was torture. Every time I glimpsed Priscilla through the gap, I was filled with loathing and longed to be able to email Jonathon about her betrayal. Was it a betrayal yet? Maybe she was on her way to her first tryst. Her first step out of faithfulness to Jonathon. Or could it be I was witnessing just the latest act in a long running affair? I pondered that and what I could infer from the evidence I had; the photo of his cock; the band-aid on her finger, probably to hide the indentation and shadow cast by her wedding ring. My values interrupted my train of thought. It just didn't matter.

I went so far as to draft an email but whenever I thought of sending it, I saw Jonathon's face in the months following the collapse of his first marriage. I saw his proud smile when he showed me the latest photos of his adopted son and daughter, or their children. I heard his voice when he spoke of how the eldest grandchild called him Grampa for the first time on his last visit. God, he loved his adopted kids. It would kill him to lose them and their children. Did I have the right to do that to him after everything he'd done for me? Did I have the right not to tell him something as pivotal to his happiness as this? And would he lose them at all?

I'd always been a decisive man. I'd proven it beyond the shadow of a doubt in a million work and personal decisions. Why then was I struggling so much with this one? Simple. To prove my loyalty to a man I owed much to, I would destroy a big chunk of his soul. Could I do that? Could I not do that? What would I want Jonathon to do if the tables were reversed? Easy. I would want the problem to go away and never come back again.

Thus, the solution to my dilemma was born. There was, however, a missing piece of the puzzle; did Mrs. Carstairs give a shit about Jonathon or was this an exit affair? If the latter, were her preparations to ambush Jonathon complete? If I warned him now, would he be less raped when it all went down? Christ, he was only a few years away from retirement.

Uneasily, I formulated a plan that would cover every base I thought needed covering. It would minimise my intervention, thus easing my conscience, and, at the same time, protect my friend and mentor from either a straying wife or from being ambushed again. It would also leave the end result somewhat in the lap of the gods and that appealed to my aging, sanguine beliefs.

I would give the bitch a chance to show her true colours and her hand. I would give her a fighting chance to minimise the damage already done. I would give her a chance to go back to being a faithful wife. I would give her a choice which was more than I was guessing she'd given Jonathon. If she proved by her actions that's wasn't what she wanted, then Jonathon would be told.

######

PRISCILLA

I ANGLED MYSELF into the corner, pressing against the small window so I could sneak another look at Paul's photo without risking the guy next to me seeing it. Paul looked good enough to eat. It wasn't that his cock was any bigger than Jonathon's—in fact, Jonathon's probably had more girth—but the duskiness was a novelty after all my years with Jon. Paul's abs, now those were something Jonathon had lost. Not that he wasn't in good shape, but Paul had twenty-five years on him and there was no competing with that.

Paul knew he was good-looking; it was evident in the confidence of his pose. It was sexy and provocative, and I certainly felt provoked. I stared a little longer, giddy at the thought of what I'd be doing with that cock in a few short hours.

Later, sadly, on the flight home, I'd have to delete the image but for now I could enjoy it.

And enjoy it I did. Perhaps a little too much if the need to press my legs together to relieve the throbbing ache at the apex of my thighs was any indication.

My eyes traced the line over his washboard abs and my fingers prickled with the memory of the last time I'd been with him and I'd done just that.

As the plane levelled off, I surreptitiously glanced to the side, confirming the guy in the seat next to me already had his nose in the latest Dan Brown bestseller. Good, I wouldn't need to discourage conversation. I stared at Paul's beautiful cock and abs a moment longer, locking the image in my mind and then switched off my phone.

Smiling, I closed my eyes and let my mind wander back to my last interlude with Paul.

We'd organised to meet in Sydney, at a little B&B overlooking the harbour for our first all-nighter. Sydney was neutral ground where neither of us was likely to bump into anyone we knew. I'd like to say we were romantic and went through the niceties of sightseeing and having lunch or dinner prior to getting naked, but I'd be lying if I did. Driven by lust, we never left the room after checking in.

And that was the difference. The thing that made it so exciting and addictive with Paul. I loved Jonathon, and he me, but after being so long together our lovemaking wasn't lust driven; it was gentle and considerate, every touch a declaration of love. With Paul, my animal instincts were revived. All I wanted to do was rip his clothes off and get his cock into me. There was no love or tenderness, just two people using each other's bodies for sexual pleasure and release.

If I had thought the fact that we had two nights together would mean a slowing of pace or more tenderness, I'd have been disappointed. Paul continued to screw me as if he had a stick of dynamite tied to his arse.

My nipples tingled, remembering how Paul had repeatedly chewed and sucked on them greedily, no loving licks. Same with my pussy; he ate it as if it were his last meal on earth. It wasn't lovemaking; it was greedy hunger. It made me feel young and sexy and desirable.

Paul's stamina was something to behold. I squirmed in my seat as my pussy clenched and throbbed, remembering the relentless pounding it had received. He'd wrung one orgasm after another out of me until I was a limp rag beneath him, begging for mercy. Then, and only then, had he unleashed his own climax, filling me to overflowing.

Rest and a hot shower later, we'd done it again. This time with me bent over the vanity, still wet from the shower. Needless to say, we'd needed another wash.

Lunch had been forgotten, dinner ordered in, and the shower got a good workout, cleaning us up in preparation for another fuck session. In truth, that's all we did all weekend—fucked, sucked, washed, and ate in.

By the time I returned home my pussy was so raw it hurt to pee. But I'd loved it.

Thank god, though, Jonathon had been on a rare trip to site in the Kimberleys and not due home for another five days, giving me time to rest, heal, and tighten.

Jonathon was lovemaking. Paul; raw animal sex. Jonathon left me feeling loved and cherished. Paul; sated and wrung out.

I loved and wanted both.

######

THE PASSENGER IN SEAT 17B

IF IT WEREN'T for my current situation I would have enjoyed a silent chuckle at my fellow travellers. It always amazed me, that in the instant the Fasten Seat Belt sign went off, the way there was a mass leap by all and sundry into the aisle; the mad scramble to retrieve carry-on luggage from the overhead lockers, despite the then lengthy wait to actually exit the aircraft.

Normally, I waited until the plane was almost empty before collecting my own gear, but as my plan required me to keep Priscilla within a relatively short distance ahead, I joined the rest of cattle class in the aisle. By allowing the gentleman who had been seated beside me, and the passengers across the aisle to organise themselves first, I managed to position myself four people behind Priscilla. She'd shown no signs of recognising me earlier, but I didn't want to take any chances on that being a distracted fluke on her behalf.

I maintained my distance as we crossed the aerobridge into the terminal. As I suspected she headed for the baggage claim—women like Priscilla always took luggage.

The carousel was idle, the cargo not yet unloaded. My target scanned all the faces in the hall before turning her gaze toward the exit. She tapped her foot impatiently and looked at her wristwatch. As soon as the first bit of luggage began rolling around, her gaze alternated between the carousel and the exit. When her face lit up like a Christmas tree, and she even took one step toward the doors as she raised her arm to wave, I turned to look in the same direction. I couldn't contain a snort of derision. How cliché—her partner looked considerably younger than I knew Priscilla to be.

I waited as he hastened toward her, hoping their greeting would give me an indication about whether this was a first meeting or one in a long line of meetings.

My stomach dropped. I closed my eyes, allowing a gust of breath to exit noisily. The lovers—and I now knew that is exactly what they were—displayed no signs of shyness, no awkwardness, no fumbling.

For a brief moment I questioned my plan—the bitch was as guilty as hell—but thoughts of Jonathon, now in his sixties, having to survive a second wife betraying his love and trust kept me on course. Decision reaffirmed, I discreetly photographed their passionate embrace.

Sliding my phone into my pocket, I strode toward the pair, and while she was still encased in his arms, their lips locked, I tapped her on the shoulder. I heard the wet slurp of their lips disengaging and shuddered in disgust. Even after the many years since Sue, and the divorces I'd witnessed due to a cheating spouse among colleagues and friends, I still couldn't understand how one partner could so sorely betray someone they had promised to love and cherish. To me it was still the worst kind of betrayal one partner could perpetrate on the other.

"Excuse me," I almost smiled at my banal words. "Mrs. Carstairs, you demonstrated on the plane that you don't remember me, but, unfortunately for you, I do remember you."

Her twirl to face me coincided with a gasp from her companion. "Mrs?"

We both ignored him.

"Who are you?" she demanded, probing my features. Then, as I watched, her eyes half-swivelled toward her beau. Was that worry he'd just learned something she wanted to remain hidden in her eyes? It was only a fraction of a second before her attention returned fully to me.

I could almost hear the cogs of her brain churning through memories, trying to place me. I suppressed a smile when no light of recognition dawned in her gaze. Sadly, for her, she was like so many born to privilege and didn't take notice of those she felt beneath her.

"Who I am is irrelevant. Who you are, on the other hand, is most relevant. Or, should I say, who you are married to is."

"Married? Cilla?" piped in lover-boy. "You said you were divorced and have been for years."

"Paul, honey, please give me a moment. I can explain. I'm separated; have been for a long time. My ex just doesn't want to accept we're over and has stalled the divorce."

I watched as he scanned her face; his uncertainty as clear as a neon sign. I thought about confirming his doubts, but I wanted her choice to be genuine and not decided by lover-boy storming out on her. Anything less would be unfair to Jonathon.

"Please, give me a moment with Mr..."

She paused, waiting for me to provide my name. I merely raised an eyebrow and replied, "Dave."

"Just give me a moment with, aah, Dave, to sort this out and then we can enjoy our weekend as planned."

She was convincing; I'd give her that. Had I not listened to Jonathon talking about their upcoming trip to Perth to visit their son as recently as earlier in the week, I'd have believed her.

Lover-boy nodded reluctantly. I could feel his eyes on my back as Priscilla grabbed my forearm and steered me out of earshot.

"Now, not that it's any business of yours, but as I said, I'm separated. I appreciate your concern for my soon to be ex-husband, but I really must insist you leave me alone and not interfere in things that don't concern you."