Full Page Spread

"What makes her tick? Get it? Like a bombs inside her."

"I'll pass it on."

"OK. And hey, now that I know what this chick is capable of, please let me know if you ever need more."

"Sure, sure."

I hated the guy. His body seemed unnaturally tone, tan and hairless. He had shoulder length dreadlocks, a big bleached smile, and shallow granular eyes. He just didn't respect anyone or anything, I could tell. I headed for the door as quickly as I could.

"One last thing––I left a real short movie on there for laughs."

Once home I slipped in the disc and picked up where he'd left off. I was terrified to see anymore, but had to. Several more sticks of dynamite were supposedly pulled from her bottom, until a stack of six lay on the ground by her knees. Then her cheeks were pulled dramatically apart, with a timer held between them, suggesting they just extracted it from her ass. Brad's words echoed in my head, "What makes her tick?" The final shot featured both marines leaning their faces against either side of my wife's ass and giving a gloved thumbs-up, the stack of dynamite along with the timer sitting directly underneath. They'd hit pay dirt, and looked quite proud of themselves over a job well done.

I was destroyed, but also hard as hell. There was still the short movie, and impulsively I clicked on it. My hand slipped into my pants as a shaky camera focused on her butt. I highly suspected the movie was filmed without her knowledge. Brad could be heard saying they were going to insert this stick in a little deeper to reinforce the idea it was coming out, not going in. Instead of giving him lip the way I'd imagined, I heard her compliantly agree, but asked them to go slow. The dynamite was then steadily shoved inside. The marine's meaty hand looked as if it exerted strength to move it, until she finally asked him to stop. He did, but Brad complained, saying it was only halfway, and just a little further would make it all the more convincing. At this point I further understood why my wife hated him so, and shared her sentiments entirely. I guess in an attempt to loosen her up the big marine began moving the red stick in and out. He gradually moved it faster and I could hear Beth begin to grunt. Even though her grunts sounded very sexual, I convinced myself otherwise. The marine announced he was making progress, and he had. It only took a minute of fucking it to spike it nine inches deep. She asked for the picture to be taken quickly, and Brad told her she was doing great and looked fantastic. The movie ended there, and left me masturbating fiercely as my heart ripped in two.

"Is it everything you hoped for?"

I almost fell out of my seat at the sound of her voice. I struggled to simultaneously pull up my pants and close the Window's Media Player before she could see. Unfortunately one of the images was open, and I knew her question was in regards to that. I finally found the nerve to face her, but speaking was out of the question.

"Actually I should be relieved," she laughed, walking towards me. "I was only ninety-nine percent sure you'd set this up, so I'm glad to know some old perverts aren't staring at those right now."

I still couldn't speak.

"You haven't answered––are they everything you hoped for?"

I managed a guilty smile.

"The minute Brad told me I'd be tied up so guys could stick things in my hiney, I knew you were behind it. I'm not stupid."

"I know you're not stupid."

"Oh, you can speak now? So then, is it everything you hoped for?"

At this point I wanted to tell her no, I had no intention of them actually penetrating her privates, but then I feared she might slip into a serious funk knowing Brad took advantage of her.

"It's hot enough."

Her eyes narrowed. "So now what?"

I rolled my eyes towards the bedroom, figuring it would be the quickest way out of my predicament.

"I figured as much."

Inside our bedroom I undressed my wife and brought out the belts. Having just been revealed for my part in her humiliation I felt in heinous violation of her trust, but the images it produced left me turned on enough to proceed. I slid the belt along her tummy and she moaned. I then grabbed her face and stared her straight in the eye. She smiled but couldn't take it, turning around and placing her hands behind her back for me to restrain. As I ran the belt around her wrists, I wondered who the fuck this compliant bitch was, because the spitfire I loved had completely withdrawn. This slut wanted my dick and nothing more. This slut gave up her ass for two complete strangers. Maybe I couldn't look her in the eye, but I could fuck her––that much I could certainly do.

I replayed the movie in my mind as I nailed her bent over frame. She just took it as Brad spoke in my skull, complaining until she took it nine inches deep. And then I slammed her faster to a speedy tempo replaying of the marine jamming the stick in and out of her ass. I reached forward and removed the belts from her wrists––there was no need to restrain her. She let a guy shove a stick of dynamite up her ass. She was a slut, so why restrain a willing slut? Gaddammit, how could she let them do that to her!

I was coming apart at the seams. I was a train wreck crashing through her tunnel. Anger weighed heavy on my forehead, love trembled in my hands, and passion pulsed through my cock. It didn't take long for me to climax, and I came so hard and fast I almost fell on top of her.

I scooped her into my arms and crushed her tightly against me. She cooed and curled up along my chest. "I'm numb. I want to stay numb like this forever." She wasn't numb, she was going through hell––I could feel it.

When I was eight my dad cut a branch off our walnut tree and I found a monarch cocoon stuck to the gnarled bark. I thought it was beautiful, until I realized it wasn't empty. The caterpillar spun a cocoon so strong and safe the butterfly inside never escaped it. The same incomprehensible sadness I felt then crept up on me as I held Beth, but I forced it down until she fell asleep in my arms.

I once believed we'd found something totally our own. I once believed our obsessions were compatible and generated an excitement I'd never known existed. I'd believed we had something that we'd never share with another soul. I was wrong, our obsessions were destroyer her.

The next morning before I headed off to work I stood over her prone body. Asleep she appeared her old self. I loved her. I needed her. I couldn't lose her. It seemed almost cruel to mention the million dollars now. I needed to reach her some how, but not that. I shook her until she rolled over and stared up annoyed.

"I promise you, I'm sorry."

She rolled back without responding. I hesitated for several minutes, and then climbed back in bed with her. I kissed her neck until she finally turned to face me again, and then I planted one on her gorgeous lips.

Over the next three days I treated her like a queen, making gentle passionate love to her. The belts stayed in the drawer, just laying with her was erotic enough.

I came home on Thursday to find she'd cooked a meal and set the table. As we ate she announced her decision to quit modeling. Part of me wanted to convince her not to, the part that craved seeing her beautiful body exposed to the world, but I knew her decision was the right one. She was happier than I'd seen in weeks, and her glorious, blue, poet's eyes were emerging day by day.

Then, as luck would have it, I had to do a quick weekend trip to oversee delivery and close payment on a ten-meter Cabin Cruiser in Mexico. Everything was cool between Beth and I, however, so I didn't worry for a second I'd come home to a burning trashcan full of clothes.

I arrived in Puerto Vallarta on Friday night, and tried to get in touch with her after checking into my room, but she never picked up. I tried several more times, and I assumed she'd gone out and couldn't hear her cell, and if that was the case, good for her. Still, I can't say it didn't leave me slightly concerned.

When I failed to reach her all day Saturday and then again on Saturday night, I knew something was wrong. On Sunday morning I popped open a Corona and stared at the row of palms between my hotel and the ocean, and then spit out my first sip when her sister finally answered, and confirmed Beth was there. Relief and beer poured over me, until her sister started to give me hell for the photo shoot I'd set up. My brain dumped all plausible explanations as to why Beth would tell her about that, and none of them made sense, but the shame of it was huge, and I sat in silence as her sister repeated, "How could you? How could you do that to her?" I then repeatedly asked her to put Beth on the phone, raising my voice every time I said it until her sister finally hung up. She altogether stopped answering my calls after that.

I tried to make sense of it, things had been bad, but everything was fine when I left. I never felt like I'd truly paid my dues for setting her up, but it wasn't like Beth to run to her sister.

When I arrived home Monday afternoon I called her sister one last time, and left her a massage that I would be heading to her place in one hour, and would talk to Beth one way or another. She called me back five-minutes later, and this time I immediately apologized and quickly explained I'd fucked up but intended to fix it.

"If that's the case, then why dear god did you have her do it again? Do you have any idea what a complete mess she is right now?"

"Fuck, just please let me speak to her."

"She doesn't want to. And I wouldn't let her even if she did! DO NOT COME OVER HERE!" She hung up before I could get in another word.

I took several deep breaths as our conversation echoed in my brain. She'd asked me why I'd done it again, what did that mean? What had Beth told her? I pulled a beer out of the fridge and held it to my forehead. It struck me then––a sick possibility too fucked up to even think about. I pulled my phone out so fast I dropped it on the floor. My hands were shaking as I picked it up and called back. I left a message about there being a mistake––I just needed to know one thing and to please call me. I then sat motionless at our dining table until I jerked forwards and threw my beer against the wall.

When her sister finally rang, I tried as hard as I could to sound calm. My one question was, "When––when had Beth modeled for this shoot." Her answer was Saturday––the same day I arrived in Mexico, and a dagger plunged into my chest.

"It wasn't me! Tell Beth right now. Tell her it wasn't me."

Beth nosily took hold of the phone, sobbing something awful. "Just leave me alone!"

"Beth, listen, it wasn't me. I didn't set up a second shoot, I swear to-"

It was too late, she'd already hung up while shrieking the most wretched sob I've heard in my miserable, fucked-up life.

Goddammit!

A half-hour later she called back. I never answered. I couldn't bear to hear what happened, and I didn't know where to begin picking up the shattered pieces of our life.

It was dark outside when I finally picked up my phone again and dialed. I didn't expect him to be home, but he answered. He asked what was up, and after pausing I asked if my clients had contacted him for another photo shoot. He answered yes, and I then grumbled how it was funny since they didn't know who the fuck he was.

OK dude, I looked up your client. Those old guys wouldn't ask for the kind of work you wanted, so I looked you up."

"Is that so?"

"I get it, sort of. Bethany's your wife, dude. I ain't judging, I'm just doing what I'm paid to do."

"So who was your client on Saturday?"

"That's not your business, is it? And it doesn't matter, because I pay my models and it's all under contract."

"is it? Is it?"

"Yeah, it is. Look man, I think you got me all wrong. Or do you just want a copy, is that it?"

I still wasn't sure exactly what happened, and that's the only reason I didn't scream into my phone and managed a calm silent response.

"You don't have to say it, I know it's hard. Look, I'll put them up for FTP tomorrow and email you a link and password. Cool?"

"Yeah," I mumbled, not feeling cool about it in the slightest.

"Alright then, fucking enjoy, dude! I know I did!"

I got off the phone and held it in my hand, staring at its dead screen. I don't know why, maybe I hoped Beth would call and tell me it was all a joke. I then picked up the broken beer bottle and washed the shiny brown drips off the wall. I never could dwell on problems I couldn't solve, always turning away to face the ones I could. So even though my marriage teetered on a cliff, I found myself focusing on Brad. My hands closed into a fist. The pictures would never make it to his FTP, that much I could ensure.

It had to be near eleven as I stared up at Brad's small balcony jutting from the second story. I took hold of the iron fence surrounding the lower unit and pulled myself upwards. I wedged my Reebok sideways in between the iron posts and placed my weight on the top cross bar as I grabbed the cement base to his balcony. A dim light became visible from inside his apartment as I steadily raised myself up the metal railing.

I knew it was crazy, but it was beyond me to stop. The clouds parted before me, the world cast a blind eye, and righteous indignation guided me inside.

The kitchen light was on, but no sign of Brad. I headed towards his computer and stopped when I heard him in the bedroom. He had company––extremely fuckable company from the sound of it. I heard the bed thump and Brad shout out, Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah!" Jesus was he giving her some.

I stopped staring at the bedroom door, confident he wouldn't hear me with all that going on, and took a seat behind his desk. His photo directory sat smack dab in the middle of his desk top. The images from the job I'd orchestrated we're labeled with a date, so I found and deleted them quickly. Finding the ones from Saturday, however, meant opening each directory and waiting for the thumbnail images to load. Slowing me down was the fact about fifty folders lived in that single directory.

The noise from the other room increased, with the girl grunting like she had something plugging her mouth. A loud spank followed, and Brad shouted, "Oh that's it, that's the ass I love." Whoever belonged to that ass must have loved him back, because that ass took a devout pounding. It actually got to me, like overhearing a porno and imagining what position could produce such a wet squishy sound. It even caused my dick stiffened up right as a row of thumbs loaded showing Bethany naked from behind.

I knew the photos existed, yet I must've held on to some stupid notion I'd gotten it all wrong––a grave misunderstanding straight out of some romantic sit-com, but there was no denying the truth now, and the evidence hurt. I slowly scrolled down to the next row as it loaded. One of the Marines from the last shoot had returned, but this time he wore painter pants and using a brush painted his palm blue. Another row of thumbs and a blue hand print appeared tucked into the hem of Beth's jeans.

I heard a loud thump from the other room, and the shuffle of feet. I froze, remembering where I was. Brad's voice then asked if she was OK. Apparently he'd accidentally fucked her so hard she fell off the bed. "Sorry, babe," he laughed, "I just couldn't get enough. Your pussy's smoldering! There we go, now we're back in business." The bed then shook and their bodies clapped together once more.

Their activities caused a full on erection even as I confronted the pictures of my wife about to be taken by another man. I needed a heavy dose of reality to get my mind off the slut in the other room, so I scrolled down quickly through the numerous rows of loading thumbs, and double clicked on one at random. The picture viewer popped open and displayed a hi-res image of my wife's thighs. On each was a bright blue hand print as if they'd parted her legs.

My dick stayed hard.

In frustration I closed the picture viewer. I would've smashed the monitor had I not entered illegally.

Without realizing what I was doing, I opened another image, and felt a blow to my stomach as it showed a red print across her ass, slightly spattered and obviously from a spank.

I popped open several more, and several more hand prints in various colors appeared. She had one over her tit with the fingers pinching her nipples. Another showed the fingers along the top of her pubic hair, so the palm had to be resting on her privates. Soon she was covered in them, they'd explored everywhere, and left an artful documentation of their journey. Before I knew it, I'd reached the end, and felt an odd sense of relief. I thought they were going to fuck her––I thought I'd see strange dicks driving into my wife's snatch––but instead I stared at Brad's attempt at near tasteful art. They were almost respectful. I felt my love for Beth return ten-fold. This wasn't nearly as bad as the shoot I'd arranged. I could live with this as long as she could. But that was the thing, she clearly couldn't. And even if she thought it was at my request, I didn't understand why she'd agreed to pose for the pictures knowing she'd leave me for it afterwards.

I quickly went back to a shot where Brad caught her laughing. She bent over slightly as the guy pressed his palms onto her back, making hand prints resembling angle wings. She actually appeared to be having fun––maybe even behaving a little flirty. So could it be Beth got off on all this? Had she agreed to the shoot because she secretly craved the testosterone infused attention her unchaste behavior brought on? And maybe the anger that precipitated our recent sex life didn't come about until later, after her initial excitement died down? But I was gone––her husband wasn't around to give her the one thing that always sorted her out––our little game of bondage. So she instead ran to her sister for support.

Fuck! If that's what happened I knew I could fix our marriage. I could win her back––I had to.

I deleted the last set of images from Brad's computer and pocketed several memory cards sitting on his desk. I seriously doubted he'd backed up his work beyond that.

Then I noticed a flashing icon on the tool shelf. A bright red dot pulsed next to the active folder, and as I moused over it a small movie viewer revealed an armature porno. It then dawned on me it wasn't a movie being played––it was a movie being recorded. Brad and his lady friend in the next room were on camera.

I expanded the window to full screen and watched the two of them going at it like animals. She was blind folded and gagged with thick strips of velvet. They were both sweaty messes, and must have been going at it at it for quite some time. I was fairly certain the girl was unaware every inch of her naked body was being recorded, but what did she expect climbing into bed with a douche like Brad.

He had her on her back, her legs over his arms as he rocked forwards and pushed in. Being able to see them offered an element of romance which sound alone failed to betray. He caressed her stomach and planted kisses along her calf. I had to hand it to him, she was pretty fucking cute, probably a model like Beth, so there must be something to the guy if he can bed and pleasure a smoking hot chick like her.

She grabbed his biceps and pulled, encouraging him to give her more of his dick. Wow, she wasn't just hot, she was also a little slutty.

To think, I came there worried my wife had cheated on me and instead found a front row seat to some other hot chick getting the high hard one. I decided to celebrate by slipping my hand down my pants and stroking my hardon.

Brad let her legs fall to either side, then began squeezing her tits together. They inflated against one another with her nipples going cross-eyed. His lips sealed around one areola and then around the other. He mashed her tits closer together still, darting his tongue left and right, from one supple button to the next. They glowed scarlet red, and he practically devoured her entire right tit into his mouth. His right hand traveled to her pussy, and splayed the lips apart as his dick continued to slide inside. Her fingers tore across his back, and she moaned against her velvet gag. The little slut loved it!