Movie Night Ch. 02

The square cardboard carrier was addressed to me. The address was labeled not hand-written. Inside was a gold DVD whose white sleeve was also labeled. It read:

You need to wach [sic] this

Why did I immediately assume the illiteracy was intentional? A feint? A false trail?

Whatever, still in my work clothes I immediately went upstairs and popped the DVD into the desktop. I turned the audio up but there was no sound. I clicked on the arrow. The video stuttered, then began.

What I at first saw, all too clearly, was a not-quite-steady image of my own queen-sized bed in the upstairs master bedroom. My wife Karla's and my bed, that is. After several seconds none other than Karla entered, stage right. She was naked. She was wearing a shoulder-length blonde wig. She climbed onto the center of the bed and positioned herself on her left side, facing, but not looking at, the camera. Her tits sagged down toward the crisp pink top-sheet.

Immediately following Karla, my daughter—our daughter—Brittany entered the frame. She too was wearing a platinum-blonde wig, though in a shorter style. She too was naked, her body a virtual carbon-copy of her mother's. Only thinner and firmer, her C-cups plump—everything you would expect of a 25-year-old woman half her mother's age. Or maybe I'm describing it backwards. Maybe what I should be saying is how great Karla's body looked for a woman who'd just turned 50. The two could practically pass for sisters!

At any rate Britt was now lying on her right side facing her mother, in intimate quarters. The camera moved in as the two women began to kiss. Tentatively at first. Awkwardly. Painted lip-pecks. It was only when they began kissing—necking—passionately—that the motions, the actions of their joined bodies became fluid, natural, instinctual. Their thickish legs intertwined. Their respective hands began caressing each other's back, and wide ass. They touched, they squeezed. They felt each other's breasts. Their love motions became an entangled symphony of bare white female flesh...

A sudden break. A cut in the video now showed Karla rolling over onto her back while her daughter rotated 180 degrees. She straddled her mother. They assumed the 69 position.

The camera moved in as Britt licked the pinkish-grey vagina through which she'd entered the world 25 years ago. She kissed and licked it and fucked it with her extruded tongue. Meanwhile worming a middle finger up her mother's generous, much-fucked asshole. The camera panned left to right along the double-deck of daughter-mother bodies to Karla who, grasping Brittany's firm buttocks, was plowing her wet vagina with her tongue and mouth and nose. The action was furious—at both ends. And both women had fingers knuckle-deep up the other's ass.

Another cut. Now Britt was sitting on the foreground bottom corner of the bed. Her mother was on her hands and knees. Britt was working a caucasian-colored butt-plug up her mother's ass. The plug was short, but wide. Once in Britt gave the flat base a final push. There was no sound but you could read her lips. "Feel good mommy?"

The video jumped. Yet again. Now it was Brittany on her hands and knees, and Karla was standing at the foot of the bed adjusting a strap-on to her wide hips. The pinkish dildo bobbed as she walked forward on her knees on the bed. The camera closed in as she inserted her "cock" into her daughter's vagina. Then it pulled back as she began fucking her. The view now was of the whole bed. At first Karla held Britt by the hips as she pumped her. But then, probably under the "film-maker's" direction, she reached under and kneaded her daughter's firm, distended tits.

The camera zoomed in on Britt's pleasure-frown. Her open mouth. Her silent orgasm. Oh!

Cut.

Now the two naked women are both sitting toward the foot of the bed. A black double-dildo lies between them. It is huge. Boa constrictor huge. Britt is smiling. Karla's face is hidden from the camera's overview. Mother and daughter once again align their naked bodies so that they face each other. Britt, still smiling, inserts a good six inches of the black dildo up her vagina. Karla, seen from the backside, does likewise. Their hands grip the big black snake-like thing at the center meeting point. Their hips flex. They're both "being fucked" at the same time. Brittany is loving it. She laughs. Karla does too, presumably.

Quick cut. Dildo gone, Karla and Britt are sitting up facing each other on the foot of the bed. They're kissing. At first you don't notice, in the video, that Britt's fingers are in her mother's wet pussy, working it. Close up: Karla's head rolling back, mouth open. She cries out, silently. You read her lips: Thank you, baby. Thank you...

The two women, mother and daughter, sit facing each other on the bed. They kiss. They feel each other up. What passion!

Cut. Karla's wide white ass is now facing the camera. The butt-plug still inside. Her daughter removes it in a single pull. Well, two pulls. Karla wags her beautiful ass for the camera. Her hole is dark, dilated, mysterious. Inviting. Fuck me!

Video ends. The arrow pops up on the screen. Replay?

I stared in open-mouthed disbelief. Surely that was not my wife and daughter. Surely this was a dream. A hoax. Surely Karla and Britt, sensible if horny and promiscuous women, had not performed incestuous sex for some unknown pornographer. Tell me it wasn't true! The arrow loomed. I clicked on it. Who wouldn't?

About a half hour after I finished watching the video a second time, or I should say about a half hour after I guiltily finished masturbating to it, Karla arrived home, bearing several sacks of groceries. I found her standing in the kitchen, back to me, sorting through the mail.

"What's your problem?" she asked without looking.

And just like that she'd put me on the defensive. "What...what do you mean?" I stuttered.

Still showing me her back she offered an extended cheek. "No kissy-kissy hello?"

I stood my ground. "Who shot the video?"

"What video?" she asked, after only the shortest of pauses.

"The one of you and Britt."

"Which video of me and Britt?"

"There's more than one?" I asked in dismay.

"A holiday video, a Christmas video, a video of Britt's fifth birthday party...?" Karla had finally turned and now stood facing me with a hand on her hip. Which for Karla was the equivalent of Clint Eastwood's draw-hand hovering over his holstered six-shooter. "Which video are you referring to? Be specific."

Continuing to stand my ground, sort of, I nevertheless nervously shifted my weight. "The sex video," I said.

Karla turned her back to me again, muttering, "I don't know what you're talking about."

I advanced a step. "The...the mother-daughter lesbian sex video shot upstairs in our bed."

That video.

"You're dreaming," Karla said unconvincingly.

"Someone sent me the tape. The DVD I mean. I have it-"

"It's out on DVD?" Karla asked, whirling. I wasn't sure if she was bummed or thrilled by this news.

"It's a private...not a full-blown...it's just a copy somebody made."

"Oh," Karla pondered. "Who?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

Karla switched strategies. She moved sideways to one of the open grocery sacks. She smiled into it. She smiled at me.

"I brought home your favorite! Fresh chicken breasts for chicken parm and a bottle of-"

"Don't change the subject, Karla." Timidly I'd advanced to the edge of the kitchen. This left me a good six feet away from Karla's three-kilotons-of-TNT temper. "Who sent the video?" I asked.

"How should I know who sent you the video!" Italian leather stamping the tile.

"Who shot it I mean!"

A pause ensued. Karla sighed so dramatically it first lifted then dropped her padded shoulders inside her power suit. The bull-cape red one.

"You remember that little cruise the three of us were going to go on last summer?"

And by "the three of us" my ever-promiscuous wife meant: Karla, Brittany and her lover, or former lover, my old friend Trey. It was going to be a three-day cruise to Cozumel as I recalled.

"Yeah."

"Well, Trey had this bright idea for funding the trip. Paying for the whole thing himself which, for cheapskate Trey, would've been a fucking miracle. Not to say a first. You know how he is, you're lucky if he pays for your movie ticket."

"Who shot the video?" I said impatiently.

"I'm getting to that. Will you let me finish? Fuckface?"

"Can we keep this civil?" my toe tapping the tile, my arms crossing.

"So Trey claimed he'd met this guy on Deanslist-"

"Yeah, I bet Trey's met lots of guys on Deanslist."

"Tell me about it. The little closet faggot..." And here Karla glanced up, at me, and launched that sickly sweet smile of hers as she wormed a knuckle into her rouged right cheek. "He's just like you, dear..."

"The video."

"So this guy..."

"Which guy?"

"The guy Trey met. On Deanslist. Supposedly he was offering like up to fifteen hundred bucks for amateur incest videos. You know, mother-daughter, father-son, uncle-"

"I know what incest is."

Karla gave me that hand-on-her-hip look. "We both know that's true. Talk about hypocrisy here! Your own daughter?"

"At least we didn't video it!"

"Oh and what about that little number you did on yourself? In the shower? With the dildo? That you posted on some gay-boy site?"

"You couldn't see my face,"I protested, weakly.

"No but you could see it was our bathroom. You could see it was our shower. And your skinny white ass! Besides," Karla said, rising from her finger-pointing and thrusting a hand into dyed-black coiffure, "we wore wigs."

"That doesn't mean anything! Anybody who knows either of you would still recognize you! I recognized you!"

"You don't count. You're my husband. And Trey's your daughter."

Time seemed to stand still. Briefly. WHAT?

"Did I just say...?" Karla frowned.

"You did. So Trey shot the video?"

Her frown deepened. "Of course Trey shot it! Who else? Was it wobbly?"

"Hunh?"

"He kept moving all around..."

Karla herself was on the move—toward me.

"So now it's out there for all the world to see..."

Karla shrugged. She was reaching out. "Who knows? Who cares? What if it is? So what? Hey!" she said, moving in closer than she had been in months. Her outstretched hand had reached its target—my crotch, and now she was fondling me and rubbing me. "So tell me," she asked confidentially, her painted lips so close to me I could smell the Newports on her breath. "Did it get you hot? Did it make you horny?"

"The video?"

"Of course the fucking video!"

"Well, yes, sort of..."

Karla had pulled back, a little. Through the zippered front of my slacks she was holding my stubbornly limp penis. "Did you cum just now? Watching it? Is that your problem?"

"My...?"

"Why you're in such a sour mood? You bad little boy. You little pervert. I should've known. Hey! What if there really are people out there who are willing to pay a thousand bucks for this stuff? A thousand, two thousand? We could take that trip to Italy we've been talking about. What do you say? We could make 'em ourselves. Fuck Trey! Britt's game, believe me. Just turn the camera on...Besides," Karla said in close-quarters summation, "you're ten times the photographer Trey is. He may know a lot about pianos but-"

"Darling," I interrupted, trying to dodge her cigarette breath, "don't even go there, OK?"

"I know! You could run an ad on Deanslist. You're good at that. Something-or-other you're looking for guys—people—willing to pay for you know kinds of videos. Amateur. Father-daughter, mother-daughter, father-son...we could pay some college kid. We-"

"Karla, please." Though my hands were on her arms, somewhat restrainingly, she was still managing to knead the front of my pants, fiercely lost in her own little torrent of bad ideas. "This is vice-squad territory."

"Vice-squad, smice-squad," she answered dismissively. Prostitution isn't illegal. Pornography I mean."

"Will you listen to yourself? Please!"

She leaned over and planted a juicy kiss—on my lips. "Think about it," she said. "That's all I'm going to say." Adding, after a second kiss, but with no less enthusiasm for her subject: "So how 'bout I make that chicken parm. You open the bottle of vino I bought. We have a nice dinner, get a little drunk, just like old times...Snuggle up together on the couch afterwards, just like old times, and watch the Oscars."

"The Oscars were last night."

"I know but I recorded it. So I could fast-forward through the commercials."

"But we already know all the results!" I protested. (And by the way her hand was finally having an effect.)

"Don't be such a stick-in-the-mud! I don't care about the results, I just want to see how all the women are dressed...," the word lesbian for some reason ripping across my mind.

Karla planted another unexpected kiss. "What do you say? Dear?"

"Of course. Sweetheart."

My eyes closed. I was leaning forward. I was going to return the kiss. For the first time in months—no, years, I was going to be allowed to passionately kiss my beautiful wife's—

The phone rang. "I'll get it," Karla declared, leaving me blindly kissing kitchen air.

"Hello?...What do you want?...I've heard that before...Fat chance...Fat chance, buddy-boy...Fixing dinner...Your favorite, chicken parm...At the moment, yes...Will you stop it with my daughter?...Brittany thinks you're gay by the way...Yes she does...Then why were you always trying to do her up the ass?...Well, it proves something...We have no secrets you know, she tells me everything...EVERYTHING!...So you said...Like I believe that...When?...OK but you better come begging on your knees...I mean it!...I bet you will...I bet...A half hour then...Bye!"

"Faggot!" Karla declared as she slammed the land-line down. "Guess who that was?"

I'd already gathered up my keys. "I guess you'll want me to make myself scarce, per usual?"

Karla advanced toward me offering false consolation. "I think it would be for the best, don't you? For one thing we don't want a scene. For another I need to sit down with this boy and have a serious heart-to-heart."

And penis-to-vagina, I thought.

"You know, I have to be fair to myself about this," Karla said arrogantly. "It's not every forty-something woman"—Karla was 50—"who has a man ten years her junior"—Trey was twelve years her junior—"for a boyfriend. A woman my age can't just take something like that for granted. And so what if he fucks my daughter on the side from time to time?"

Well, that's settled I thought. Or rationalized. As dismissively as I could muster—though I was the one being unceremoniously dismissed—I said, "See ya."

"Toodles," replied Karla, gayly.

I sat in my stationary car for what must've been five minutes, head spinning, replaying a fantasy. I'm hiding behind the azaleas to the west of the driveway, armed with my vintage .30 carbine. The banana-clip is full. Something like 25 rounds. Ironically, the last time I fired the thing was when Trey and I went upstate to an outdoor range. Karla had lunch waiting for us when we returned, and afterwards she and Trey retired to the master bedroom for a long afternoon of sex. A veritable fuck-fest. That evening Trey joined us for a threesome date at the movies. Or I joined her and Trey I guess you could say. At any rate, it was his hand resting on her bare thigh for the duration of whatever lousy science fiction flick I had to endure. But now I'm waiting for Trey's beloved Toyota FJ Cruiser to pull up into the drive. As he emerges I step forward. I take aim. Trey has time only to raise his hands, hopefully. Fearfully. No words are spoken. I unload in him. The noise is deafening. A bloody Trey slumps to the asphalt. Twentyfive rounds having hit their skinny mark. Just like a black-on-white target. Thanks for the shooting lesson, buddy!

Of course, as a result, I will spend the rest of my life in the penitentiary. But I can't help but think it would be worth it. And every time I get the prison blues I can just close my eyes and relive the sights and sounds and smells of that carbine kicking into my right shoulder as round after round hurtles from the short barrel into—and through—Trey's midsection...

But in the end it was just a cuckold's fantasy. In the end I started the engine and drove away. I had three—four hours or so to kill. Where would I go, what would I do? Dinner somewhere then...

Then it hit me: the movies! The fucking movies! The drive to the nearest cineplex would kill 20 minutes. Then an hour to eat at the adjacent Olive Garden, if I stretched things out. Then a couple hours sitting in the back row of some theater watching god knows what. Who cares? Life was good! If the theater was empty, which it very well might be on a Monday night, I might pull my pants down and spend the two hours playing with myself. Eyes closed, envisioning Trey and Karla going at it again in my bed...

Or better yet, reliving Karla and Britt—mother and daughter—having prolonged and various lesbian sex on the self-same mattress...

Movie night! What a great idea!