I labor in a sprawling industrial park laid out in the terra firmed fashion of a suburban college. Abutting this warehouse, the ugliest structure in the lot, is a single-story glass and steel cube dedicated to anti-venom research. There is a cinder block bunker woven into the ground, its exposed wedge is painted yellow and white. Foreign nationals study English and animal husbandry in its cool interior. Another flat warehouse similar to this one but with superior air conditioning and more design flair is a vitamin distribution facility. There is an Afghani dentist out here somewhere; the park is also planted with at least 100 orange and green sugar cube shapes. Protected by chain link fence and a locked gate, people store things under lock and key. Another single-story glass and steel cube looking just like the snake research place except for its opaque mirrored windows trains helicopter mechanics.
Any laboring this time of year, I find myself sweating and straining inside an invisible cloud of hot baking air. Outside, blow flies drone and dance in the shimmering heat. Of course no breeze blows. To complicate matters, this huge warehouse's ventilation is poor. The building is all corrugated tin designed to house merchandise not men. The size of eight or nine football pitches this monolith is a solar oven with air conditioning units pitched on the roof. They wheeze mightily to no avail. "Mates, let's take some steaks up on the roof and cook em," I say. Frank responds, "No, I'd bash together some eggs and a rasher of bacon." Fanning yourself does no good. Those battery powered fans whirling in front of your face are totally useless. Sweat trickles down my love handles, rolls across my chest. I am reminded of where Australia is, how hellishly hot a tropical sun can be at its zenith. I find myself nuzzling a flushed cheek along the damp side of a frozen food locker or I stroll through a chilled chamber where produce and fresh sides of meat are located.
From dusk to dawn; I generally muck about inside the blast oven camouflaged as long haul Lorries and railroad freight cars.
Cryptic messages scribbled all over the interior of the trucks and inside the train cars makes me wonder what may be in store for the human race as it descends into an intellectual wasteland; quickly I empty the trailers of their stores, my tempo is relentlessly staccato to get the damn job done, finish my shift, punch the time clock and promptly leave.
I wish to be home right now fucking my dear faithless Annie, not in this pub with these ruddy, sweating sods. I could stand in the bedroom's shadows, my back braced against the tiny red roses and green leaves printed on the rose hued wallpaper. Or hide behind the pleated pale pink curtains cracked open just enough for me to peer from. Me the noisy Paparazzi meddling my way into Ann's orbit, capturing all her nasty drippings inside my expensive Japanese video recorder, the tape documenting her hedonism, what an easy piece she is, the glistening jazz seeping from her mouth, shining brightly from the wet socket slashed in her loins. My cock jerks, sometimes I find myself trembling, my naked thighs quivering while the trusty camcorder memorializes it all.
In my lens, I catch the man's weak, submissive stare or another man's strong, domineering glare. Shoot close ups of Ann's hand stroking cock, her bedmate forcing her head toward his shaft. She likes it, this being shoved down, forced to suck cock. You see the fire in her eyes, the glistening moisture forming at the edge of her lips. On the mattress amidst riotous sheets, my lady is on top, a lad, a big man with a fat, thick prick sheathed in pussy. My camcorder sees a two backed beast. Sex, pure fucking, friction, motion, I get it all for posterity. She wishes to please and wants pleasure returned in full measure. The bedroom is filled with enough mellow light to capture healthy skin tone, definitions of muscle, Ann's luscious pliant contours; a vase stuffed with anemones sitting on the bureau offers an artistic flourish. My wife and her latest conquest are a tangle of sweating, undulating flesh in the middle of the bed. Oh to capture in my camera the anticipation, the tension, the turmoil roiling about this bedroom. True eroticism found in the emotional resonance, the radiance of heated bodies, the invisible sensations no camcorder sees. Eroticism locked in the dimension of the senses. I love recording Ann's coupling, chronicling all these buffeting bodies bouncing merrily about the bed. In her satiation, by gratifying her lusts, Ann is so good humored. In complying with her wishes I find my own gratification.
After finishing, another man, a pair, possibly a trio visits, fucks her and finish. My trusty camcorder gets it all. One man fucks her; he spills his sperm into all three of her orifices. Three men will assume positions in each hole. The bedroom will be filled with grunts and moans, the protestations of male supremacy. So much time spent on her back.
My not being at home does not stay my little woman from her coupling. Not anymore then you may prevent a pair of dingoes fucking short of killing them. No, she is too addicted to her pleasures. I am accustomed to this proclivity. She stirs me up, tangles me in her tender mercies.
Often I return home in the morning needing a hot shower and a close shave in front of my misted over mirror, the comfy pleasures of my bed. Ann is still going at it with one man or several men. I grab my camcorder; catch the last hurrah of these carnal exchanges before worrying over any morning ablutions.
From the garage where the warm Lancia sits close by Ann's finely appointed Ford Escort, I enter my castle. The morning's sky is a fleshy pink, banded in blue, tangerine, lemon and lime green. Melodious song birds sing in my backyard's trees. A stranger already dressed for the day, sits at the dining room table drinking coffee, eating a scone I purchased at Foodland; Ann is under the table sucking his cock. She may be sitting on the sofa; her legs spread wide, another stranger naked as a jaybird is eating her pussy, digging his mouth into her sodden gash. Ann has this phenomenal ability luring nocturnal denizens into our suburban home, the policeman, the fireman, the EMT, a locksmith, an elfin-faced, asthmatic night porter from the Red Lion Hotel. Ann is democratic. They all seem to find a way to step away from their duties long enough to stop by and fuck Ann. She fucks them all before they leave, fills them with hot coffee; they have filled her with hot sperm. In this exchange of fluids, I find my own relief reflected in their coupling. In the watching there is pure joy too.
Some mornings I drag my ass home from work to find a man wearing my ratty blue terrycloth bathrobe. Standing at the bathroom sink, he is using my razor and shaving cream, looking in the mirror, his chest thrusting out the picture of a satisfied rooster. Ann is down on the tile floor between his hairy legs, her head hidden under the robe sucking his cock for all it is worth. At other times she is still in bed with a man. Bound together, they sleep cheek to cheek, his cock in her slit. Or Ann's sweet little hand is firmly gripping the man's shaft; its bloated eminence ready to get down to business soon as the pair opens their eyes to meet a new day.
Yes, of course, in the early days of our marriage I was insistently conventional and expected a faithful, subservient mate. My name was David and Ann was my wife and the two of us were a couple who slept in the same bed and did what husbands and wives do in their marriage bed.
I have passed from youth into middle age. In this passage from boy to man when Ann's errant behavior became known to me I was hurt and angry. Only after our marriage opened up and Ann admitted to her needs to more men then just I did my voyeur's compulsion, my skill with a camcorder flourish. I also discovered a certain reserve in my sexual nature but as a cuckold I found eroticism in my wife's infidelity, descriptions of her frolicking quite enticing. I still tend to be quite hapless when close to Ann's boudoir clientele. They totally intimidate me. They always go first. I watch. Especially the nappy haired, musky scented black fucking machines my wife dearly craves. She refers to them as her Mandingo men. The United States Navy visits, Ann grabs up a group of lean black swabbies in starched whites, fucks them, and sends them stateside with glorious memories of one insatiable Australian woman. In their dotage they will remember her. They give me blue ball caps with the name of their ship written in yellow script above the bill. I mount each one on a wooden peg in the kitchen. The bush-headed aborigines with their strict social posturing, so many reckless tattoos burnt on their flesh have been known to ridicule me. The Maori far from their homeland squat around my home fires in total reverence to my wife while showing revulsion of me. Polynesians, Moslems from Indonesia and quite naturally a legion of yellow skinned oriental men distributed in this part of the world spurn me too. I am a humorless cuckold, merely the pimp negotiating Ann's fares, doing whatever she needs done, letting her use me up, no longer able to appeal to her desires, to protect her from the hostile take over these dusky men seem so intent on. I take some nastily delightful pictures though, me the ever faithful video diarist.
