chapter 7

Lillian's hand shook slightly as she reached for the button on the remote.

Ten minutes earlier, she'd felt a sudden stab of trepidation when, standing on the stepladder, she'd seen the blinking red light that signified movement in the cabana. It's probably nothing, she told herself. Just Art going into the cabana for some reason. Several days had passed since she had last checked that camera, so it could have been any number of things. But what? She hadn't been in there, and Art always changed in the house. The cabana was for guests.

It was Saturday morning. Art was golfing and Paul was at a game. She'd slept late, emerging from the bedroom sleepily after they had left, dressed only in a light robe and panties. Out of habit, she'd pulled out the camera from between the two books in the living room and checked the lights – nothing.

But the light on the camera in the cabana had been blinking.

She reached for the start button and then stopped. This was it — her Rubicon. She could decline to cross it; destroy the recording; get rid of the cameras...

Not a chance, she decided.

She pressed the start button, her eyes fixed on the video screen. Nothing. She looked at the recorder, puzzled. The man had told her that the blinking light indicated something had been recorded. She pressed stop and then fast forward, thinking there might have been a delay in recording. The digital numbers raced and she stopped. Then she pressed play again.

A choked cry escaped her throat.

Kneeling on the loveseat in the cabana was the lush body of Jennifer Rowland, her thighs parted, her buttocks obscenely thrust upwards to reveal the glistening lips of her open vagina. And behind her was Art, Art, striding toward her, tearing off his clothes. Then he was grasping his erection, directing it to her entrance, thrusting forward...

"Oh my God, no, nooooooo!" she cried, in anguish. But she couldn't escape the reality that leapt to her eyes from the screen – Art and Jennifer were engaged in dissolute, shameless fucking. And she could hear faint noises. She reached blindly down and found the volume control. Suddenly, the sounds of unrestrained lust rang in her ears – his grunts as he thrust into her; her dissolute moans; the sounds of loins slapping against buttocks.

Lillian had seen enough. She tried to wrest her eyes away. But she couldn't. A perverse instinct kept her eyes fixed on the screen. She whimpered as she fixed her gaze on Art's face – it was the look she had seen so many times, of complete absorption in the sexual act. He was as willing a participant as it was possible to be. Her eyes swung to the young girl's face – lids half-closed, mouth open, oblivious of anything other than the hardened shaft driving into her welcoming channel.

Lillian felt a quiver in her lower belly. She knew why Art was so deeply immersed in the act: the young girl's body seemed to have been crafted exactingly for the sole purpose of sex, with sculpted thighs flaring into perfect globes, curvaceous hips tapering into a tiny waist, and sumptuous, coral-tipped breasts bouncing forward in rhythm with Art's strokes. And she knew exactly how that felt — the driving force of Art's rigid phallus inside her like a piston in a cylinder.

Art was beginning to stroke into her faster now, fucking her hard, pulling her back against him with each inward thrust, while the shameless little bitch was tossing her head from side to side, moaning loudly.

Lillian gasped as a spiral of unwanted heat wended its way upward through her loins, into her stomach and chest, hardening the ruby crests of her breasts. A flush spread over her upper body. Then, she realized, to her dismay, that she could feel the familiar beads of arousal gathering between her swelling labia.

She felt a wave of shame. She was watching Art, her man, her lover, having passionate sex with another woman, and it was turning her on! God, I'm no better than they are ... thinking lascivious thoughts, working myself into a frenzy. But she couldn't deny it – she was shockingly aroused by the sheer depravity of the scene she was witnessing.

"No!" she said aloud, tearing her eyes from the screen. But even as the words left her lips, her eyes were moving inexorably back to the screen, staring, glassy-eyed, breath spewing raggedly as she squeezed her thighs together in a futile effort to quell the maddening sensations emanating from her genitals. The camera was mounted above and almost perpendicular to the mating couple and she could clearly see Art's glistening shaft repeatedly appearing and then disappearing into the young girl's ovaled vulva, see her buttocks clenching rhythmically, hiding and then revealing the brown ring of her anus.Lillian's hand shook slightly as she reached for the button on the remote.

Ten minutes earlier, she'd felt a sudden stab of trepidation when, standing on the stepladder, she'd seen the blinking red light that signified movement in the cabana. It's probably nothing, she told herself. Just Art going into the cabana for some reason. Several days had passed since she had last checked that camera, so it could have been any number of things. But what? She hadn't been in there, and Art always changed in the house. The cabana was for guests.

It was Saturday morning. Art was golfing and Paul was at a game. She'd slept late, emerging from the bedroom sleepily after they had left, dressed only in a light robe and panties. Out of habit, she'd pulled out the camera from between the two books in the living room and checked the lights – nothing.

But the light on the camera in the cabana had been blinking.

She reached for the start button and then stopped. This was it — her Rubicon. She could decline to cross it; destroy the recording; get rid of the cameras...

Not a chance, she decided.

She pressed the start button, her eyes fixed on the video screen. Nothing. She looked at the recorder, puzzled. The man had told her that the blinking light indicated something had been recorded. She pressed stop and then fast forward, thinking there might have been a delay in recording. The digital numbers raced and she stopped. Then she pressed play again.

A choked cry escaped her throat.

Kneeling on the loveseat in the cabana was the lush body of Jennifer Rowland, her thighs parted, her buttocks obscenely thrust upwards to reveal the glistening lips of her open vagina. And behind her was Art, Art, striding toward her, tearing off his clothes. Then he was grasping his erection, directing it to her entrance, thrusting forward...

"Oh my God, no, nooooooo!" she cried, in anguish. But she couldn't escape the reality that leapt to her eyes from the screen – Art and Jennifer were engaged in dissolute, shameless fucking. And she could hear faint noises. She reached blindly down and found the volume control. Suddenly, the sounds of unrestrained lust rang in her ears – his grunts as he thrust into her; her dissolute moans; the sounds of loins slapping against buttocks.

Lillian had seen enough. She tried to wrest her eyes away. But she couldn't. A perverse instinct kept her eyes fixed on the screen. She whimpered as she fixed her gaze on Art's face – it was the look she had seen so many times, of complete absorption in the sexual act. He was as willing a participant as it was possible to be. Her eyes swung to the young girl's face – lids half-closed, mouth open, oblivious of anything other than the hardened shaft driving into her welcoming channel.

Lillian felt a quiver in her lower belly. She knew why Art was so deeply immersed in the act: the young girl's body seemed to have been crafted exactingly for the sole purpose of sex, with sculpted thighs flaring into perfect globes, curvaceous hips tapering into a tiny waist, and sumptuous, coral-tipped breasts bouncing forward in rhythm with Art's strokes. And she knew exactly how that felt — the driving force of Art's rigid phallus inside her like a piston in a cylinder.

Art was beginning to stroke into her faster now, fucking her hard, pulling her back against him with each inward thrust, while the shameless little bitch was tossing her head from side to side, moaning loudly.

Lillian gasped as a spiral of unwanted heat wended its way upward through her loins, into her stomach and chest, hardening the ruby crests of her breasts. A flush spread over her upper body. Then, she realized, to her dismay, that she could feel the familiar beads of arousal gathering between her swelling labia.

She felt a wave of shame. She was watching Art, her man, her lover, having passionate sex with another woman, and it was turning her on! God, I'm no better than they are ... thinking lascivious thoughts, working myself into a frenzy. But she couldn't deny it – she was shockingly aroused by the sheer depravity of the scene she was witnessing.

"No!" she said aloud, tearing her eyes from the screen. But even as the words left her lips, her eyes were moving inexorably back to the screen, staring, glassy-eyed, breath spewing raggedly as she squeezed her thighs together in a futile effort to quell the maddening sensations emanating from her genitals. The camera was mounted above and almost perpendicular to the mating couple and she could clearly see Art's glistening shaft repeatedly appearing and then disappearing into the young girl's ovaled vulva, see her buttocks clenching rhythmically, hiding and then revealing the brown ring of her anus.

Lillian felt the fire in her loins desperately seeking fuel, and the small part of her brain still capable of rational thought knew that the dissolute scene was erotically commandeering her, enveloping her in a frenzy of insatiable need.

In one swift motion, she tore open her robe. Beneath it she wore only a thin pair of panty briefs. Her fingers slid under the waistband, passing through the fleece of her golden pubic hair. She gave a ragged moan as her forefinger slid into the moist portal between her legs. Oh, God, the feeling generated by her own fevered hand was so exquisite! Her index finger came in contact with the swelling bud, and she began to gasp with delight as she rolled over it. Her hips and rear end churned on the couch, her eyes never once leaving the screen.

Faster and faster her finger circled and rubbed across her swollen clitoris, blanking out all sanity. Nothing existed for her now except the delirious anticipation of her impending release.

She cried out in shrill announcement of ecstasy as her clitoris began to fire thunderbolts through her body. Her back arched like a bow, her hips lifting off the couch as wave after wave of explosive release swept through her. Her fingers continued their frenzy of self-stimulation, adding their own obscene sounds to the lewd noises from the screen.

Finally, her orgasm began to fade and her hand stilled but did not leave her drenched vulva. She lay back, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, breasts rapidly rising and falling, still hearing the rhythmic slap, slap, slap of betrayal.

She was seized by a feeling of self-loathing almost as acute as the delight of her still-ebbing orgasm. She moaned in despair, sitting up, jamming the off button with her finger. Then she threw herself face down on the couch, crying out her torment, sick with the knowledge of her act of carnal self-abuse only moments after discovering the unassailable proof of Art's infidelity.

Her tears gradually subsided and reason began to assert itself. She knew what she had to do — she had to watch the beginning of the tape to identify the instigator. Was it Art, approaching Jennifer, drawing her into his arms, sliding his hands up over those firm, young breasts, unbuttoning her blouse...

She pressed the rewind button.

And what she saw evoked a blissful sigh of relief. No, Art wasn't the instigator. She saw the seductive little vixen casually removing her bikini top, revealing those ripe melon breasts to his helpless male gaze; sliding off her bikini bottoms to lewdly display her shaven, pink mound and the white globes of her buttocks. She heard Art protest, heard him try to resist, to plead with her to think about Paul. But no mere man could resist temptation under those circumstances. Rage swelled up in her as she heard Jennifer question her love for Art, talk about Lillian leaving him, telling him he wasn't married anymore and could do whatever he wanted!

That fucking little bitch! She was the cause of all of it, the deliberate instigator of everything that followed, overcoming Art's protestations with her brazen displays of her voluptuous, nude body, egging him on, accusing Lillian of not loving him, telling him to let her worry about Paul. That shameless, conniving, manipulative fucking bitch!

But then — as when she'd first been slammed with suspicions of Art's infidelity – Lillian forced herself to calm down and think rationally. Reacting emotionally would accomplish nothing. Her plan regarding the cameras had worked flawlessly: it had yielded proof that Art and Jennifer were having sex. Not suspicion: irrefutable proof.

Now she needed to decide what to do with that proof.