Chapter 6

As she sipped her wine, Lillian glanced up again at the bookshelf. It was impossible to tell that there was a tiny video camera hidden between two of the books on the top shelf, recording every movement and sound in the room. The one in the cabana was just as well obscured -- between adjacent planter boxes. Lillian had watched several of the recordings made over the past ten days. They were flawless. You could hear every word clearly and see every action, even in relatively low light.

The cameras had been installed by a company referred by the private detective agency she had consulted — the agency in Chicago she had selected after thorough research and based on recommendations regarding its expertise in catching cheating spouses. When she had met the principal, however, she had been told, in effect, that she didn’t need their services. Based on the facts she had related, he advised her that her best option was to have micro cameras installed in any rooms in which she suspected the activity was taking place.

“Take my word for it – if they’ve done it once, they’ll do it again,” he told her, “in the exact same place. I’ve seen it more times than I can remember.” That said, he had also advised her to set up a camera in any other place in the house she thought might be the location of a tryst. He gave her the name of a company that specialized in installation of cameras for that purpose.

“They’re the only one I use – the best,” he assured her, happy to assist the gorgeous blonde whose idiot of a husband was sleeping around when he had her all to himself. It never ceased to amaze him!

She had thanked him profusely and, brushing aside his protestations, gave him a check that far exceeded the fee he had quoted her.

The agency that had installed the cameras lived up to its recommendation, providing valuable advice about where and how many cameras to install.

“We don’t want to put ‘em everywhere,” the man had said. “Only where you really think they’re most likely to do the trick. The more you install, the higher the risk that he’ll stumble on one of them, and then it’s all over.” Sound advice, which she had taken.

Now, as she sat with Art over a glass of wine, she felt the familiar twinges of guilt and conflict over what she had done. It had been only after multiple hours of internal debate, after assiduous research about adultery and its patterns, about adulterers and their psychology. The best course of action, she had concluded, was not to confront with accusations but to rely on facts – only facts – not suspicion or inference. That way, she would be uninfluenced by her feelings about Jennifer. She would see for herself, if it happened again, who was the instigator. She would see the very act; hear the words and sounds; and would know whether Art was the man for her or not.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Art said with a smile.

“Oh, I’m sorry honey, just daydreaming a little. What were you saying about your project?”

She looked at Art with a fond gaze. But behind it was a new reserve. Yes, she still loved him. But she didn’t trust him. She was working three days a week now and Paul was at school every day. Art often worked at home, and Jennifer lived less than a mile away. There was lots of opportunity if they wanted to take advantage of it.

And, by God, she was going to find out if they did.

Art removed his sunglasses as he stepped out of the car. It was the height of summer; warm but not quite hot. A gorgeous day. I may just knock off work early today and sit by the pool, he thought. He had a new book he had been wanting to start. He walked into the kitchen with a smile on his face.

The smile faded as he heard the sound of a splash outside. He hurried to the window and looked out. There, in the pool, he saw the unmistakable form of Jennifer Rowland, her lush rear end visible above the surface of the water as she swam.

What the hell was she doing here?

Angrily, he strode toward the pool.

Jennifer heard the kitchen door slam and turned to see Art’s form approaching. She smiled and swam to the edge of the pool. By the time Art had arrived, she had pulled herself up on the edge and had her arms folded beneath her breasts.

Despite his anger, Art felt a catch in his throat as he approached the buxom girl. He had a fleeting recollection of the feeling of those firm breasts, those hard nipples, against his chest.

He blocked it out.

“Jennifer. What are you doing here?” he said, rudely.

“Oh,” Jennifer said. “You don’t seem very glad to see me.”

“Look, Jennifer, you can’t be here. Not without Paul. We can’t ... that was totally wrong, what we did, and we can never repeat it, do you hear me, never.”

“Oh,” she said. “Is that that how it is? Well, then I’d better dry off and go home.”

She pulled herself out of the pool.

“I’ll just get my towel and clothes.” Giving Art a sideways glance, she walked toward the cabana.

Despite himself, Art felt a pang of regret for his rude behavior. After all, he had been a more than willing participant in what they had done – and she was young, just barely an adult.

“Jennifer,” he called out.

She stopped and turned slowly. As she did, he marveled at the sheer eroticism of her body – the breasts coming into profile view, the large nipples hardened from the cool water, the ripe buttocks barely contained in her tiny bikini bottoms. He felt his penis hardening. Oh, God, he had to get those thoughts out of his head.

“Yes?” she said provocatively. “Change your mind?”

“No, I certainly have not. I just didn’t mean to be so rude, that’s all.”

“I’m a little chilly,” she said. “Can we talk in the cabana while I dry off?”

“Uh, yes, I guess,” Art replied. Before he could change his mind, she was opening the door and stepping in.

Art followed her reluctantly. He stood at the doorway as she walked to the bathroom and grabbed her towel.

“What was it you were going to say?” she asked as she dried her hair.

“I was just going to say that if ... well, you’re welcome to swim,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean you couldn’t, just that you, we...” Art stopped, and gazed wide-eyed.

Jennifer had casually reached back and undone her top. Her breasts tumbled out and settled into their natural, firm thrust, creamy-pale orbs capped with ruby nipples.

“Jennifer, what are you doing – you can’t do that!” he exclaimed.

“Well, you don’t expect me to dry myself with a wet bikini on, do you? Besides, it’s not as if you haven’t seen them before. Remember?” she said coyly, pushing her upper arms together, causing her breasts to swell forward.

Despite himself, Art couldn’t tear his eyes away from her ripe mounds and the hardened nipples. His cock was now fully erect, bulging against the front of his pants.

“No, no Jennifer,” he protested. “This can’t happen again. I’m leaving.” He started turning toward the door.

“But wait, Art, wait, please!” she said.

He stopped.

“Don’t you want to talk about it?”

“What’s there to talk about?” he replied. “It happened once but it will never happen again.”

“Well, I want to talk about it.” Jennifer was now drying her breasts, the towel pushing up the succulent, jiggling forms. “I want to talk about why it can’t happen again,” she said.

“Because I’m already in a relationship. With Lillian. I love Lillian.”

“Lillian!” Jennifer said with a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, she really loved you. That’s why she left you and ran off to New York. Left you and Paul when Paul was just a kid! You know he cried when he first told me about that? And Art, you used to be married to her. Now you’re not. You can do whatever you want!”

Jennifer’s words had a certain perverse, teenage logic to them. It was true – Lillian had done that; and they were no longer married.

“Though I have to admit, she’s pretty hot,” Jennifer said. “She even turns me on!” she added, running her hands up her breasts.

“What?” Art said.

“You know, I saw you guys fucking once.”

“What?! When?” Art said, refusing to believe it.

“One night when we came back early, and there you two were in the living room going at it like a pair of horny teenagers. Pretty funny, huh? The teenagers catch the grown-ups having sex!”

Art just stared at her incredulously, unable to process any of this.

“Anyway,” Jennifer was saying, “you’re lucky, because she looks like an incredible fuck, — that fabulous ass and her big boobs! But that doesn’t mean you can’t fuck me, too.”

Art managed to recover the power of speech.

“But what about Paul? He loves you.”

“You let me worry about Paul,” she said. “He’s a big boy.” Then, she casually slid her bikini bottoms off the rounded swell of her rear end and allowed them to drop to the floor, revealing her shaven pubic mound, with its pink, swollen labia.