“Just what did you mean by that?” Mike Peters turned slowly around and faced his wife. He had already opened the door, intending to stalk out, but now he slammed it shut again, and Sandra recoiled from the look of cold anger he was levelling at her. But she continued to stare back at him, fury flashing in her green eyes. Tossing her sleek, raven-crowned head, she fought the beginnings of fear which were trying to root deep inside her.
“Just what I said!” she retorted bitterly. “You’ve got some plan in mind for that little vixen… I saw the way you were looking at her!”
“For Christ’s sake, Sandy, try and be reasonable!” Mike snapped, resisting the temptation to go over and shake his wife until her teeth chattered. He felt extremely uncomfortable and just a little bit guilty. A guy can’t help looking, he told himself, when a broad as well-built as Eve Slater comes into view, and as the girl was going to be working for him, he had to be friendly to her, hadn’t he?
“Are you sure she’s from the Agricultural College, and not just some little number you’ve…”
“I’m sick and tired of listening to your accusations,” Mike interrupted, “and I haven’t got all day to stand here and argue with you. Miss Slater,” he went on quietly, “is a student from the college, and perfectly qualified for the project. She is majoring in Dairying, and will be with us for three months. Anything else?”
“You can’t tell me she knows anything about farming,” Sandra persisted, feeling her anger and jealousy combine and stick in her craw, choking the hot bitter words out of her. As she continued to rail at her husband, a suffocating feeling of futility and frustration swept over her. I didn’t mean to nag him like this, she told herself hopelessly. I can’t help it… but she’s so young and attractive, and the way he was looking at her…
“I have to go now,” Mike said tonelessly, “it’s almost milking time.”
“That’s right,” Sandra hurled, “go back to your damn cows… and your girlfriend!” Great gulping sobs convulsed her, and tears ran down her face as she stared at the departing figure of her husband. God, why does she have to cry like that? Mike shrugged as he slammed the door behind him. As always, he was moved by the sight and sound of her tears, and felt the guilt inside him strengthening with insidious speed. He would have liked to take her in his arms, caress and soothe her, stroke away her fears, in spite of her nagging and accusations, but somehow, he couldn’t. He knew he was afraid that she’d reject his offering of peace, and felt that he couldn’t stand the humiliation. If she wants to be like that, why should I be the one to give in? he reasoned angrily, as he hurried over to the barn.
***
Sandra crumpled like a rag doll onto the leather couch. Her sobs resounded in the small room, and the fading daylight cloaked everything in the office with ominous ambiguity. She felt small and alone and unprotected and totally incapable of drawing the strings of her life together. The woman who had screamed at and harangued her husband over a trivial incident was not the real Sandra Peters. The real Sandra was a loving, warm woman who stood by and encouraged her husband in all ventures. But who was that whining domineering shrew? I can’t help it! she told herself again, burying her tear-stained face in her hands.
The vitriolic, stinging memory of her discovery of her husband’s infidelity of over a year ago came rushing back with painful clarity – the humiliation, the feeling of complete insecurity, the anguish of it all was as fresh as if it had just happened. Even though they had made up, and she had sworn to forgive and forget, and Mike had tried, and was in fact a model husband since then, she couldn’t purge herself of the bitter memory. She knew that she had taken every opportunity to get back at him, remind him of his indiscretion, to throw it up in his face on occasions when it was most wounding to him. She knew that the misery, the unhappiness of their co-existence, because it couldn’t be called a marriage in the usual sense of the word, was mostly her doing, and yet, nothing would erase the jarring, searing memory of that dreadful time last year. She hadn’t waited to verify her discovery, find out how long his involvement had been going on, or how serious it was. She had confronted him immediately, threatened divorce, court action, instant ignominy, and had relented only after weeks of ceaseless apologies, declarations of future fidelity and sworn avowals of love by her distraught husband. In a way, she had to admit to herself, she had enjoyed his obvious distress at her threat to leave, and had basked in his repeated statements that “he couldn’t live without her.” But the satisfaction she gained from the knowledge that he couldn’t do without her was short-lived, and her ego had suffered too bruising a blow for her to maintain for long her role of sweet, forgiving but slightly-martyred wife. So her veiled recrimination had begun, and had gradually become more open and venomous, culminating in her accusations of today.
But she couldn’t fool herself into thinking which she knew in her heart were unjustified, that her misery and discontent sprang completely from her husband’s behavior. Even in her present misery, she was forced to admit that her unhappiness was accentuated by underlying discontent with her whole life. She had never dreamed when she had got engaged to the up and coming junior executive in the largest New England textile firm, that they would end up in the heart of New Hampshire farmland. She and Mike had such a good time in Boston, their first apartment, actually a tiny terraced house, their fast little sports car, their young, happy-go-lucky friends. She had enjoyed so much being a working girl and wife, and her job as assistant buyer of sportswear for a large department store was flexible enough so that she could take that bit of extra effort which made her dinner parties such a success. All her clothes were of the very latest fashion, and even though she got a discount on them, Mike’s salary and hers combined had been generous enough to allow her to afford the extras, like that pale pink silk full length dress and matching coat which she had got for the opening of the opera season. Everything was going their way, and Sandra actually enjoyed the weekends they spent in the White Mountains, away from everybody, in that fishing cabin Mike rented.
At that time, she thought rural life was romantic – sitting before a roaring fire in the big stone fireplace, lighting the kerosene lamps at night, cooking the fish Mike had caught. After their hectic weekday round of activities, it was great being alone together, and when they got back to Boston, all their friends used to exclaim enviously over their rustic experiences.
It was just after their second wedding anniversary when the blow fell. Mike’s company was moving south, and Mike decided to resign. Sandra was glad about that, shuddering at the thought of moving to a small town in South Carolina, and had naturally assumed that Mike would take up another position with a similar company. But her husband had other ideas. His uncle had willed his rundown old farm in New Hampshire to Mike, and he had always had a stronge urge to try his hand at farming. He had looked upon his company’s removal from Boston as an act of fate, and had felt that he had enough saved to enable them to give farming a try. Dividends would keep them going for a while and the capital would be sunk into the renovation and working of the farm.
Even now, six years later, Sandra still shuddered at the memory of that appalling first year on the farm. The cold draughty house, the constant presence of the builders, with their clouds of cement dust, ceaseless hammering and banging, cooking and washing and existing in the most primitive conditions – Sandra thought that she would never survive. All her clothes got torn and muddy and she had ceased to care about her appearance that first year. But the greatest change had been in Mike. He was obsessed with the farm – every spare minute was spent on it; it occupied his mind completely; nothing seemed to matter to him but the farm. Sandra had nurtured the secret hope that the whole project would collapse and they could go back to the relative civilization of Boston. But nothing seemed to deter Mike – not even the loss of their small herd at the end of the first year through foot and mouth disease. He had become strangely stoical, and shrugged off his loss, and grimly went about restocking his farm with more of the huge, ponderous black and white animals of which Sandra was deathly afraid. Mike used to tease her at first, saying that the languid Friesians wouldn’t touch a fly, but he had gradually become more and more impatient with her when she refused to share his enthusiasm over them. As time went on, she lost her fear of them, and even developed sympathy for them, and she was unable to bear the mournful lowing that rent the air when the tiny furry calves were taken from their mothers so soon after birth.
Resentment had built up in her over the years as Mike became more and more immersed in farm life, and his often stated feeling that he was glad he had made the step from the city irked her considerably. Gradually, their friends from Boston stopped coming to see them, rapidly losing their idealized notions of rural life when they saw the day to day reality, and now Sandra had lost touch with them completely. Her life was empty, pointless, she felt, and her husband’s involvement with the agricultural instructor last year was the last straw for his demoralized wife. Life was no longer worth living, she thought – nothing would ever change; things would go on just as they were, with herself and Mike completely estranged.
She felt like crying again, but no tears would come. In fact, she felt devoid of all emotion, and the emptiness inside her at least eased the pain. Her mind was a blank as she got up from the couch, and wearily stretched herself. She felt old and tired – and beaten. I’m not old – why should I give up living? she asked herself, catching a glimpse of herself in the full length mirror that hung behind the door of the office, which was once a small bedroom. She knew her figure was still good, and she ran her eye critically over her reflection, noting the firm, braless upsweep of her full breasts through the raspberry colored angora dress she was wearing, the womanly curve of her graceful slender hips, the long expanse of her creamy legs. I’m not over the hill yet, she told herself, running a hand through her silky black hair which fell to just below her jawline where it swung into a guiche on either side of her oval face. Luxuriant dark lashes framed her vivid green eyes which even in her weariness sparkled back at her. What’s the use? she mumbled to herself, turning away from her reflection. Who’s going to see me here, vegetating in the wilderness? She conquered the fresh wave of bitterness rising inside her and with a sigh, sat down on Mike’s swivel chair, in front of his untidy, littered desk. It was already the first week of the month, and she hadn’t done the accounts for the previous one. Idly, she swept together the crumpled, disorganized sheaf of papers which was a jumbled mass of invoices, receipts and cancelled checks. Glad of something to take her mind off her troubles, she plunged into the task of sorting everything out and was soon immersed in her work. When she had made everything into three separate piles, she pulled open a drawer in the desk, and began to rummage about, looking for the ledger to make entries for the month. Why the hell doesn’t he keep his desk tidier! she muttered to herself as she eased a long, hardbound book out of the drawer. As she removed it, her eye fell on a bulging manilla envelope which had been wedged between another book and the one she had withdrawn.
“Now what’s this doing here?” she muttered to herself, irked at the disorder in the files she had arranged only recently. Frowning slightly to herself, she fumbled with the envelope and discovered that it was full of photographs.
Puzzled, she eased one out of the envelope.
“Oh my God!” she gasped aloud, unable to contain herself. The blood rushed to her face, crimsoning it a deep red. Tumultuous feelings of horror, disgust, anger manifested themselves in a single sensation of overwhelming nausea. A numbed haze blinded her for an instant, and then she began to stare with bulging, disbelieving eyes at the colored print she was holding in her hand. Every detail was startlingly portrayed and the two figures in the photograph seemed amazingly alive. For a moment, Sandra couldn’t believe that she was seeing right, but there was no doubt about it – it was actually a photograph of a nude man and woman, sprawled out together, the woman’s blonde head dipped between the man’s widespread thighs, his grossly inflated penis clamped tightly between her ovalled red lips. The man’s head was turned away, but there was no mistaking the expression on the rapt woman’s face. She was enjoying taking that man’s hardness in her mouth – her lustful desire was etched clearly on her eager face.
Sandra felt her heart thudding painfully in her ribcage. She had heard, of course, that people did that sort of thing, but had always somehow felt that such an act did not belong in a normal marriage. The lascivious scene seemed to come to pulsating life under her hypnotized stare, and the huge blood-filled penis seemed to throb with lewd tensity as it lay cradled between the full, ripe lips that were clasping it so tenaciously. The woman’s half-closed eyes seemed glazed with passion, and Sandra felt a shudder of unknown sensation ripple through her. She couldn’t seem to draw her eyes away from the obscene photograph. Her fingers seemed to be soldered to the glossy print, and somehow she felt that if she looked away from the perverted sight, she would tear herself away from a tenuous reality which her moribund emotions so badly needed, and go berserk with disgust and horror. How could he keep such filthy, lewd pictures? her mind began to question. Does he look at them often? Where did he get them?
Her curiosity broke the spell the obscene photograph had on her conscientiousness, and hurriedly, she drew out another of the colored prints. Her eyes flew immediately to the scene, and a sudden, strangled moan of horror broke from her lips.
“Oh no! It can’t be!” she groaned as she stared fixedly at the second photograph. This time, the shot was taken from a distance, but near enough to display in detail the pink moist delineations of a widespread vagina, the glistening lips gently swollen around a dark star-shaped opening. A man’s face was juxtaposed over the splayed mouth, the tip of his long tongue poised at the entrance to the delicate roseate furrow. And there was no mistaking that face, so wreathed in anticipatory lust. It was Mike! For a moment, Sandra couldn’t believe that it was actually her husband who was portrayed in that disgusting snapshot, the wavy fair hair, his deep blue eyes, his fleshy sensuous lips. Numbed shock rushed in a roaring torrent to her head, threatening to explode, and she had to hold onto the arm of the swivel chair to steady herself. Mike! How could he do this to another woman? How could he let himself be photographed like that? She wanted to scream, to beat her fists against the wall, to turn back the clock and forget that she had ever seen the lewd pictures. Through the dim of her hurt and disgust, another thought nagged at her brain. This lascivious blonde in the photograpb, who had splayed her legs so unreservedly for her husband, was not the same woman that Mike was having an affair with last year. So there had been others! New thundering anger swelled inside the distraught wife at the thought that she had been deceived, and furiously, she snatched the remaining photographs up and scanned them. Each one, seemingly more lewd than the previous one, leaped up at her horrified eyes as if to taunt her with the spectacle of her husband engaged in all different positions, with different women, and sometimes with more than one!
“That bastard! That dirty bastard!” Sandra gasped, and in a fury of temper, began to splash out at the contents of the desk, scattering papers, letter trays, pens; everything went flying in all directions and fell to create untold chaos on the floor. Her anger unleashed beyond control, she yanked at the file drawers, pulling them completely away from their moorings, and dumped the files she had so carefully put in order, in a dishevelled heap on the floor.
As suddenly as it came, her demonic flash of temper deserted her, and she sank back in hopeless bewilderment on the swivel chair. All around her, the records of the past eight years lay in disarray on the floor, and a dreadful sense of futility convulsed her.
“Oh God,” she sobbed, “what did I do to deserve this?” She buried her face in her hands and her shoulders shook with the racking sobs which enveloped her. How many more were there? she asked herself piteously, torturing herself with images of various women that both she and Mike had known. Had he had an affair with all their friends? she wondered bitterly. In her jealous humiliated anger, new images began to inject themselves into her consciousness – glimpses she had caught of various naked bodies with full voluptuous breasts and creamy sinewy thighs, stretched out in opulent sensuality, seemingly oblivious to the unknown photographers who were busy snapping away as her husband caressed and stroked and kissed those velvety bodies. Her mind seemed unable to banish the lewd images, and fresh ones began to superimpose themselves in her fervid imagination. Mike kissing and slavering an open, exposed vagina, lewdly displayed and eagerly offered to him… Mike sinking his wildly excited penis into a greedy, grasping vaginal orifice, strong supple thighs egging him on… Mike lying back as luscious red lips encircled his bloated penis… The obscene snatches from the vile cache of photographs she had unwittingly uncovered played relentlessly in her mind, mocking her with their leering evidence of her husband’s infidelities.
She felt broken in mind and spirit. The actuality which those photographs seemed to point to was too shocking for her to bear. Under the thin veneer of city sophistication she had acquired, Sandra was still basically a conventional American wife, strict enough in her own way to the code of morality to which her family and all before her had subscribed. She had looked upon marriage as sacred, even in this day and age of quickie divorce and pre-marital and extra-marital sex, and had automatically assumed that any philandering on the part of her husband would stop after marriage. And she was sure it had! That was the hard part. She had been so snug and secure, even in the dark days of their early times on the farm, feeling cocooned in the sanctity of the wedded state, and that accounted for the tremendous shock she experienced when she had discovered her husband’s affair last year. And now! She had uncovered devastating evidence that pointed to a whole series of adulterous infidelities! Involuntarily, she reached for the pile of photographs which had fallen to the ground amid the shambles of the office.
Almost disinterestedly, she scanned them over again. Yes, there was no doubt about it! There were three or four different girls involved in the debacle, and the pictures showed Mike involved with each and every one.
She studied a particularly lurid one, showing him and a tall lithe brunette stretched out, touching at only two places. His mouth was firmly planted in the nest of her dark pubic curls, and her mouth was tightly clasped around the red thick length of his penis. The girl’s eyes were half-closed and her thick luxuriant hair fell in tendrils around her face, giving her an almost angelic look as she exalted in the feel and taste of Sandra’s husband’s penis in her mouth. Sandra continued to stare at the lewd shot. What did it feel like, having a man’s male hardness locked tightly in your mouth? she wondered, amazed at the look of almost reverent ecstasy on the girl’s face. Mike had tried once or twice, she remembered, pushing her head down under the blanket, and she had, of course, refused to do anything like that. She had always thought it perverted, somehow, and yet, this girl seemed to be thoroughly aroused by it. And that blonde in the first picture, she mused in horrified fascination, flicking back to it, seems in ecstasy, too. Her attention was caught by one she hadn’t scrutinized before. It showed a well-built redhead, her breasts full and vibrant, spreadeagled beneath Mike, whose engorged prick was sunk halfway into the soft, hair-fringed tunnel of her vagina. The girl’s legs were wrapped around her husband’s lower back and her spine was arched up off the bed as she strove to open her depths wider and deeper to him. Sandra stared in lewd fascination at the minutely detailed photographs of sexual intercourse. Even her animosity to her husband seemed to retreat as she studied abstractly the obviously impassioned couple. The redhead’s head was thrown back, and her mouth was open. Her hands were dug into his shoulders, and her whole body seemed afire. Mike’s hands were clutching at her firm, upswept breasts, and Sandra could see the reddened tips of her fully turgid nipples slipping out through his flngers. There was a look of pure animal desire on her husband’s face, a look she hadn’t seen in a long, long time! Despite herself, Sandra felt a little tug of jealousy. She remembered how she used to arouse that complete passionate frenzy in her husband, how he used to be almost aflame with desire for her, and her alone, she was sure, and now, this redheaded hussy was the one who was making him act like that . Sudden tears surprised her as they swam in her eyes. It isn’t fair… she murmured to herself. It was so long since she had seen Mike crazed with desire, so long since he had even made love to her… She felt a sudden emptiness inside her, a feeling which she recognized as vague desire. It began to gnaw at her, worming its way insidiously into her depths, gaining a foothold in her numb body. He never tries to kiss me there anymore… the thought leapt into her head. It was years since he had tried to persuade her to allow him to put his head down between her thighs and kiss her pussy, but she had so vehemently and absolutely refused him when he had made the attempt. It can’t be so bad, she muttered to herself, her eyes glued to another shot, this time of Mike with his face buried in the copper fleece of the redhead’s openly throbbing cunt. Sandra could see the moist flanges of the girl’s vagina rimming Mike’s wetly glistening nose and mouth, and her thighs were clamped and straining eagerly around his steaming face. The girl’s eyes were closed and it was obvious that she was in the throes of complete abandon. Then, in spite of the shock and revulsion of seeing her husband locked in lewd, naked embrace with another woman, Sandra felt a tingle beginning between her own legs, a ripple that seemed to grow as her eyes continued to focus on the spectacle of her husband’s grovelling between another woman’s widespread thighs. How did it feel, to have a man’s tongue licking and sucking and blowing his hot, passionate breath into that secret place, have his mouth warm and caressing around your clitoris, feel his kiss on your nakedly exposed pubic mound?
Her feverish mind threw the questions at herself, and suddenly, she felt hot all over, covered with a cloying clamminess that made her feel like tearing her dress from her body. She was dimly aware that she was unconsciously clenching her heated thighs together and imperceptibly grinding her buttocks into the leather of the swivel chair. The tingling in her loins grew and the gnawing inside her burst into a devouring flame and she wondered vaguely what was happening. Her eyes flickered aimlessly to another picture, and a startled gasp eluded her as she stared in disbelief at what she saw. Sandra thought that the photographs she had already examined had prepared her to a point where she was beyond surprise, but she was wrong. She gaped in astonishment at the candid snapshot, unable and unwilling to believe that it was her husband who was actually inserting his huge, lust-hardened penis in the blonde’s tiny puckered anus! But there was no doubt about it – the photograph showed in unerring detail the enormous girth of Mike’s blood-inflated prick encircled by the brown crinkled little rectal mouth, stretched cruelly around the massive circumference. This lasciviously depicted anal entry was too much for Sandra. Revulsion swept through her – disgust at the knowledge that the man she had married could and did indulge in such an animalistic, carnal act, a thing she, a grown woman, had only heard about in whispers. It was too shameful to even think about; it was disgusting! And yet, Sandra noticed in amazement, the blonde didn’t seem to mind it. In fact, she seemed to like it, judging by the lewd look of delight on her passion-contorted face. Oh God, what was going on? Her world seemed to have gone topsy-turvy, and all the opinions she had held on such matters seemed to have been refuted by the pictorial evidence she held in her hand. These girls weren’t being abused, subjected to a man’s whim or desire – they were actually enjoying it! They seemed to love all the obscene things Mike was doing to them… they were revelling in what to her would be the lowest kind of debasement.
Bewilderment crowded in on Sandra, and she felt completely out of control of the situation. Her hands rose slowly to her breasts, and she gasped as she felt the electrifying effect her own touch had on the now sensuously throbbing mounds. But she couldn’t take her hands away – somehow she felt that she had only herself to turn to to help her get over this terrible discovery. She felt strangely illucid, as if her perusal of the lewd pornographic pictures had touched off a streak of insanity in her, and she could no longer control her stampeding libido. Her mind was fermenting with images of the various positions she had seen in the photographs, and lurid thrills were beginning to shoot up and down her body. Involuntarily, she pressed her palms down her sides, along her hips, and then dipped them between her nylon-encased thighs. Immediately, she felt as if her vaginal mound was straining to reach the comfort of her own hands, and she felt a rush of inner moisture proclaim the intensity of the weird sensations. She could feel that the crotch-band of her panties was slightly moistened and her fingers inched forward, like individual bloodhounds on the scent of a relentless target.
Moments of rationality broke intermittently through the clouds of her frenzy, and taunted her with unanswerable questions. What had turned her into a roiling mass of feverish desire? Was it because Mike hadn’t made love to her for so long? Or were the dirty pictures having an illicit prurient effect on her?
Her fingers kneaded at the burning lips of her moistened pussy through the flimsy panties and Sandra winced from the delicious contact. Why should I be denied pleasure? her mind argued dimly. All those girls were enjoying themselves; Mike was pleasing them… it’s not fair that I should be left out…
As though they had received assent, her fingers burrowed hurriedly under the legband of her panties and teased over to the tingling flesh of her swollen pussy lips, and Sandra felt the fleshy folds pulsate under her sensitive fingertips. She sighed from the exquisite sensation, feeling relief flow through her. This is wrong… you shouldn’t do this! Veiled threats echoed through her mind, hidden warnings from schoolgirl-filled corridors… dark messages about evil masturbation…
But Sandra was too intoxicated with the rush of pleasure to pay any heed to her own sombre warnings, and her fingers continued to plunge into the warm deep recesses of her desire-drenched pussy. Nothing mattered to her now – the whys and wherefores were unimportant – all that she was concerned with was quenching the raging fires that had sprung up unattended in her loins, and which required heavenly fuel to feed its lascivious hunger before it allowed itself to be put out.
Suddenly irritated by the impediment of her panties, her hands began to tear impatiently at them, and she raised her hips from the swivel chair, and eased them down over her thighs, leaving them dangling at her knees. But she didn’t care about that – her hands were rolling up her soft angora dress and bunching it about her hips, and she revelled in the freedom of exposing her passion-enflamed loins to the cool evening air which was rushing in from the half-opened office window. Her fingers dug impatiently again at her burning furrow, and convulsively probed at the trembling hole of her clasping cunt.
“Aaaaaahhhhhhhh…” she couldn’t suppress a sigh as her hand cupped onto the now moistly pulsating orifice and she felt the heated walls close in like a vise on her sunken middle finger.
The passion inside her was goaded on to greater fever by the lurid thoughts which had taken possession of her head and would not yield. Obscene thoughts framed by the disgusting photographs she had seen, images of desire and lust instigated by many actions and acted out in many forms. She was almost convinced that a large heated penis was ramming into her eager, open pussy, that she was one of those girls whose head was thrown back in complete abandon, whose mouth was open and from which a stream of sighs was rushing, whose hips were churning under the delicious onslaught of a heavy, passion-bloated cock which was plunging deeper and deeper and harder into her…
Waves of heat were washing over her now as she ground her buttocks down into the leather of the seat and revolved her saturated fingers around inside the velvety interior of her febrile vaginal sheath. A feeling of dizziness was taking control of her, coupled with a wonderful sensation of relief, and now she knew she was cumming, because she felt so good all over, and her hips were jerking uncontrollably, and a mist of hot, feminine orgasmic fluid washed down over her churning fingers, and she felt the office revolve around her and her head was torpedoed by a kaleidoscope of collaged nude figures, male and female, all fucking and sucking and licking in total frenzy, and she was at the center of it all, and she was loving it, every minute of it…
Sandra slunk back against the chair, drained of all energy, curiously devoid of all feeling but a satiated stupor which controlled her and made it impossible for her to do anything, not even pull her dress down over her naked thighs. Her legs were splayed, her panties hanging uselessly at her knees, and in the dim of the mortification which was beginning to manifest itself inside her, she reassured herself icily… “he’ll pay for this… I’ll make him pay for this…”
***
Sam Maguire eased himself down from the ledge under the office window, and with a furtive glance around, slunk off into the foliage that surrounded the Peters’ house. He was still trembling with excitement, and could hardly believe what he had seen. Later, when he got to his quarters, he would go over it all again in his mind, dwelling on every single detail of what he had seen. He couldn’t quite believe that he had been so lucky. He thanked his lucky stars that he had decided to have a peek when he saw the window open in the office, and heard muffled sounds from inside. Of course, it was fairly dim inside, but still, he could see what was going on.
I seen her! I seen her fingerfucking her own pussy! he chuckled to himself, treasuring the memory of the faint glimmer of hair-lined pink he had glimpsed between her open thighs as he eavesdropped on the demented woman. He had seen her flimsy white little panties dangling at her knees, too. Who’d have thought that he, a mere farmhand, would have got a front row seat, and seen with his own eyes the beautiful wife of his boss, playing with herself? All the nights he’d dreamed about the lovely, haughty Mrs. Peters, all the times he’d imagined what she’d be like with her dignity lost and stripped bare-ass naked… now he’d seen her, half-naked anyway. She didn’t see him, didn’t know he’d been watching, but he had been, and God, he wouldn’t have missed it for anything.