Evidence of Betrayal

The following involves marital infidelity. If such storylines offend you, then please skip reading and move on to some other story.

She had never intended to be an unfaithful wife, Kathy Franklin thought to herself as she backed her car out of the dark driveway and began the drive home. The notion had barely crossed her mind during the eleven years that she and Kevin had been married. She had always thought they had one of those perfect marriages. But things changed, everything changed, when she had found the Polaroids.

It's not that she didn't like sex. Far from it. She'd discovered her clitoris at the age of eight, was masturbating daily at 12, and by 15 was allowing almost every boyfriend-of-the-month to unsnap her bra and clumsily paw her breasts. She'd lost her virginity at 17 in the back seat of her boyfriend's mother's red Camaro to the third boy she'd let touch her below the waist, who not coincidentally was the first boy whose fingers were talented enough, or lucky enough, to duplicate the effectiveness of her own.

Once she'd discovered the usefulness of an erect penis, she proceeded in a more or less determined way to discover what the opposite sex had to offer. She had worked her way through a steady progression of boyfriends, some relationships lasting longer than others. If variety was a virtue, then Kathy was blessed. Big, small, and inbetween. Men who were willing to go down on her, others who weren't. Men who prefered her mouth to her pussy. And, for the most part, men who didn't.

She'd fucked in cars, fucked in a boyfriend's house, fucked in her own house when parents and sisters were gone, fucked at parties in out-of-the-way bedrooms. In the beginning, when the boys were inexperienced and altogether too quick on the trigger, she'd slip a familiar hand down to strum her clit and try to sprint to orgasm, shoulder to shoulder with the hyperventilating, sweaty and altogether self-absorbed body above her. But as time went on, the boys turned into men, the rushed and frantic couplings relaxed into unhurried hours, and Kathy had relied more on her lovers' skills and less on her own fingers to find satisfaction.

And now, on this drizzly evening, Kathy slowed at a stoplight and looked at her own tired eyes in the rear view mirror. With a sigh, she rechecked her hastily applied lipstick and wondered why she didn't feel more guilty. When she had met Kevin Franklin, she was 21, in her last year at the University, and was ready to settle down to just one man. If she had bothered to count -- and Kathy wasn't the type to really keep count -- she had been with more than two dozen boys and men since the Camaro. Kevin had been close to her concept of an ideal husband. He was handsome. He was in pre-med. He was kind to her, gracious to her friends, adored by her mother and even welcomed by her father. And he was, to put it mildly, a great screw.

The day they married, Kathy swore to Kevin and to herself that marriage meant monogamy. She had thrown herself at marriage with the same enthusiasm that she had thrown at her previous freewheeling lifestyle. Kevin labored his way through medical school at the University up north, then even more intensely during his internship and residency in Houston, where Kathy discovered she had a talent for selling real estate.

Their first son came along as Kevin finished med school, their daughter appeared two years later in Texas, and finally, when they had relocated to California and to Kevin's new practice in Santa Barbara, their second son and third child was born. Throughout it all, through the lean times when they borrowed money from both sets of parents, through the pregnancies, each more difficult than the prior, through the early years juggling babies and classes and clients and patients, Kathy remained convinced she had made the right decision. She and Kevin were soulmates. Bonded for life. Committed. Monogamous.

Which made it all the more startling to her when she had found the Polaroids. It's not that she was snooping. Kathy had just been taking a few days away from the real estate office to catch up on some Spring cleaning. It was a simple enough thing, going into the big walk-in closet and working her way through the stacks and drawers. There, behind a large, wadded up mass of his sweaters buried at the back of a shelf, she discovered those four squares staring back at her. They were face down, their black backsides taunting her to pick them up and turn them over.

The first picture almost made her faint. Her heart had drummed an erratic tattoo in her chest as she stared at the image of a hairy vulva, gaping open in blatant crimson arousal. It was a fuzzy shot, poorly focused, but it was clear enough to see black pubic hair that was not hers.

Her shaking hands flipped to the second picture. This one was taken from further away. It showed a woman on her back, legs apart, her fingers spreading her labia for the camera. And for the cameraman. Who was this woman? And why did Kevin have these pictures of her? Kathy felt the blood rushing from her head, and she steadied herself with her free hand. There had to be some simple explanation.

The third picture made Kathy's mouth go dry. It was a downward looking shot of a penis -- an erect penis -- inserted halfway into this very same pussy. It was, to Kathy's practiced eye and to her private horror, a most familiar penis. Kevin. It was Kevin fucking this stranger. Only she probably wasn't a stranger to Kevin, Kathy had thought to herself.

The fourth picture was similar to the first one, with that same blackhaired bush and wide-open pussy staring back at her. But this one, Kathy remembered as her fingers choked the life out of the steering wheel, was clearly the last in the chronological sequence. In this picture the labia were yawning even wider at the bottom, no doubt having just recently released their grasp of Kevin's cock. They were glistening. And they were oozing a dribble of white that threaded down toward an equally blackhaired, brown-ringed and puckered anus. Kevin's semen. What Kathy had always thought of as her semen. Having come from what she had always thought of as her penis.

Kathy made the last turn and saw the lights of her house at the end of the cul-de-sac. She felt her ears redden at the memory of those photographs. Her stomach tightened as it had so many times the previous few months. She remembered the initial confrontation that first night when Kevin had gotten home from the office. She remembered his confession of the 18-month affair. Eighteen months! He'd told her it was some pharmaceutical sales rep, just a "meaningless" and "physical" relationship. Kathy shook her head in silence as her car rolled into the driveway. She turned off the headlights and the ignition and just sat there for a moment.

She had told her friends about it, of course, probably more than they really wanted to know. She had cried on their shoulders, listened to their advice. Some counseled divorce, others suggested she simply accept Kevin's apology and put the matter behind her. Neither choice would have been easy, she thought. It was a gut wrenching few months for both of them, a time of bitterness, of stretches of silence punctuated by screaming arguments.

No, Kathy had finally decided, she wasn't going to let an unfaithful husband and some Other Woman turn her life upside down and put her into a rundown house with her three kids and a monthly support check. Kathy unlocked the front door and stepped inside. She turned off the porchlight, gave a brief glance around to check on the state of the darkened living room, then slowly ascended the stairs to their bedroom. No, and she wasn't going to simply forget about the betrayal. If Kevin wanted to play by a different set of rules, then she was going to play by those same rules.

Kathy brushed her teeth and changed into her nightgown. She gave one last look at herself in the mirror. The years and the three kids showed. But she still had her pride. She knew she was still desirable. Kathy turned out the bathroom light and joined her husband in bed, feeling his half-asleep body rouse in her presence. He was naked, as usual, and her gentle touch urged him to hardness while her lips pressed into that sensitive area below his jaw that she knew so well.

And as Kevin rolled on top of her, pulling her nightgown up around her neck, Kathy spread her legs for the second man in as many hours and silently allowed her husband to discover the silky arousal between her still-thickened labia. She urged his probing cockhead inward, wrapping her legs around his thighs and spurring him on with whispers and gentle nibbles and practiced hips. Kathy remembered how her new lover had first entered her with his stubbier, wondrously thicker cock, and how he had gracefully fucked her with smooth, unhurried strokes. She remembered how he had quelled her anxieties about her body, about the softness that came from three children and thirty-eight years. Anxieties about a husband who'd spent eighteen months fucking a woman who was ten years Kathy's junior.

Kevin, heavy and hurried, lay on top of her and worked his erection into that other man's copious seed, thrusting his proud and oblivious flesh into the lubrication of a stranger's semen mixed with his wife's own excitement. He stabbed at her, soon almost frantic in his movements. Their lovemaking had been erratic since The Discovery. He had learned not to question any willingness for sex that Kathy might show him.

Her mind drifted. Kathy remembered how earlier she had clutched her knees alongside her jostling breasts and offered her body to the man perched above her on straightened arms, his heavy-lidded eyes boring into hers as deeply as his steel-hard cock was plunging into her body, its upward curve grazing maddeningly across just the right spot. His bedroom had filled with the liquid sounds and smells of sex, the bed rhythmically creaking beneath them, the old wooden headboard thumping against the wall, her hips moving from side to side to better feel his hardness driving her half crazy with lust.

And when her husband now climaxed, groaning in her ear and twitching inside her creamy grasp, Kathy felt the familiar spreading warmth and remembered how her lover had climaxed, breathless and incoherent, mere seconds after her own had rippled through her own body. In mute tribute Kathy lifted her hips and rubbed against her husband and granted herself one final, small orgasm, holding her breath as her vagina pulsed weakly around the base of his cock.

She clung to her husband much like she had recently clung to that other man in that other bed, that playful man with the hairy back and strong arms and beard coated with her juices, that man whose whole body had shuddered with pleasure when he spurted his warm white offering high up inside her, groaning at each long, delicious ejaculation. He had emptied so much of himself into her that she had felt it oozing out ever since, leaving him with sticky sheets and her with damp panties on her drive home.

And now, as her husband slipped his softening erection from her tender clutches, Kathy thought again of that fourth Polaroid, and this time she allowed herself just the glimmer of a smile.