It was noon and the sun was streaming in their bedroom window when Lawrence finally wakened her. She complained that her head was aching and she got up to brush her teeth because she had a bad taste in her mouth. Lawrence couldn't tell if she remembered anything from the night before and wasn't about to remind her anyway. He had scooped up her little black dress and put it at the bottom of the dry cleaning bag as soon as she had taken it off last night. There was no underwear to dispose of since she hadn't worn a bra and Randy had pocketed her panties. He had thought all of the obvious evidence was gone when he caught sight of three tell-tale hickies on her ivory flesh. Anger flared in Lawrence's gut. Goddam Randy had to mark her. He had to leave his mark to remind them both.
Elisabeth had stopped in front of the mirror examining the purplish mark on her breast. It could have been a bruise from an accidental bump, but the two low down on her belly were obviously love bites put there to jog her memory of the night before. It was like a dream for Elisabeth, too carnal and wild, yet all too intense to be fantasy. The suck marks on her mound were graphic enough to tell their own story but the smooth lips where someone had shaved off her pubic hair should have left her no doubt that she had been violated.
In the back of her mind Elisabeth could remember being naked with people around her. A sequence thread reminded her of men laughing, touching her intimately and yes ... explosive orgasms. She swallowed hard and her jaw felt stiff. An image of cum filling her mouth and gagging on cock flickered in her thoughts. Instinctively, she ran her fingers over the hickeys on her mound and she felt the tenderness of her lips and clit, the ache from her pubic bone where it had been pummeled relentlessly.
Gingerly, she slid her hand around to the back and felt the soreness in her bum and knew the vague memories of being held by the hips and bred like an animal were all true. There was a row of dime sized discolorations on each hip where strong finger tips had dug in dragging her back onto the pounding cocks.
She looked at Lawrence for reassurance, hoping beyond hope that he didn't know what had happened to her. He'd be so shattered if he knew, so devastated. She spread her fingers modestly over her mound and turned away so he wouldn't see the tell-tale marks. Even that gentle touch from her own hand reawakened a tired and tortured libido. The smooth skin, where the hair had been, felt exotic and forbidden.
She had no recollection of why or how she would have shaved it off or, if it was taken from her. The thought terrified her but it comforted too. Perhaps it hadn't been her fault. She wanted to think that. If someone had.... Oh god! Supposing she had let someone do that to her. She couldn't have ...wouldn't have. The thought brought an image of vulgarity with it; showing herself, lying with the soles of her feet pressed together while rough hands, men's hands, took charge of her private place; her labia being pinched and stretched, tightening the skin to allow the razor to skim off the remaining fuzz. It was too vivid to be false, yet the thoughts would not come into sharper focus beyond a series of vignettes without real substance or connection. She had never felt this way before; deeply shamed but undeniably, wickedly aroused. She felt she must have cheated. The evidence was obvious but the memory was not. She knew it but prayed that her husband did not.
Stepping into the bathroom, the door was scarcely closed when her middle finger parted the puffy lips and sought to recreate the pleasure that had overwhelmed her. She sat on the commode and spread her legs wide watching her fingers slide through the buttery lips. Her clit looked swollen and it felt tender, overworked, yet she couldn't resist tapping it to send little shock waves of sensation through her belly. With its wrinkled hood rolled all the way back the rounded dome of her clit looked like a tiny cock straining for relief. For a moment, she let the hard button ride between her fingers while she imagined men using her touching and sucking, mocking her smuttiness, until an explosive orgasm sent her into spasms of pleasure. The sensation was so intense that she cried out.
Lawrence was knocking on the bathroom door asking if she was okay when the tremors finally left her body. "Yes," she answered feebly, not wanting him to know anything. But he did know. "She's playing with her cunt," he smiled to himself. Too modest to let him watch her masturbate, she'd always refused whenever he'd asked her. Now, the image of her fingering herself, after what had happened the night before, caused a stirring in Lawrence's groin. "The little cunt..." he mused and then bit his lip remembering that was the way Randy had described her. They'd all had her and it was his wife who could not get enough.
The young husband had no idea how to explain what they had put her through. He did worry that there were enough obvious clues for his wife to figure it out and for her to implicate him. At the very least, she must be wondering what happened to her cunt hair. The memory of her lying back, languidly spreading her legs while his three co-workers denuded her private area gave Lawrence a full hard on. "She let them do it," he reasoned. "It was her own fault and her complicity took away any plausible deniability she might have had," he decided, absolving himself of all responsibility. "The video would show that," he assured himself. The memory of how her hips had risen, lifting her sex toward the fingers touching her, willingly urging them to enjoy her, reaffirmed his assessment.
It was right after that Randy had painted her for a third time. The reaction was instant. The men held her hands preventing her from touching herself while she writhed and wept for relief. They made her beg pitifully in words she would never ever use while they laughingly refused her supplications. She had wanted it so badly and they'd made a game of denying her, making her debase herself even further. He knew last night when he watched her that their relationship would never be the same. Now, when he heard her pleasuring herself in the bathroom he was sure of it.
The weekend passed uneventfully with Lawrence busying himself Saturday with outside chores. Elisabeth had decided to go to her mother's to help out over there and ended up staying the night when it became too late to drive home. On Sunday, she came home late in the afternoon and kept to herself, then stayed up to watch the late movie, waiting until she was sure he was asleep before she slid in beside him. She lay awake listening to his breathing, comforted by his closeness but confused by the turmoil that roiled within her. Lewd, disjointed fragments would not knit into coherent thoughts that could explain the tell-tale signs of infidelity that covered her. The raspiness in her throat, the stiffness in her neck and the soreness in her private area were damning enough, but the yellowing hickies on her breasts and mound left little doubt that she had broken the sacred vows she shared with her husband. She wondered whether her lack of recall was her body's defense against having to admit the obvious. She had cheated and she didn't even know why or with who. She wanted to cuddle against Lawrence, open her soul and ask his forgiveness but she feared his disappointment and his rejection. For now she would keep her distance, let her body heal and wait for a better time. With any luck that time would never come and she'd never have to confront her shameful unfaithfulness.
