Chapter 6

When Mark Jenkins returned to the staff cabin after an extra- long afternoon of hiking around the perimeter of Lake Devonshire with his twelve teenage campers, he was ready to flop into bed and sleep for a day. But this evening was the mid-week campfire out by the water, and he knew that as soon as dusk fell his young charges would be anxiously waiting to be escorted down to the lakeside for the twice-weekly event. The camp-wide get-together would last until well past the normal bedtime hour, and Mark anticipated being up until midnight. Holy Christ, Stu really likes to keep them going, he thought as he turned the handle to the bedroom door.

At first glance, he thought his beautiful young wife was just asleep, and he leaned down to shake her gently by the shoulder. "Natalie, wake up, honey... I'm back..."

But the lovely brunette did not stir.

"Hey, baby, come on now... We've got the campfire tonight," Mark said, a little louder this time. He pushed her over so she was lying on her back, and it was then that he saw the nearly empty wine bottle cradled in her arms like a baby. "Oh, Jesus, Nat!" he exploded, carefully removing the bottle from her grip. "Have you been drinking?"

The question was meaningless, he knew. His wife's face was flushed and her breathing was raspy and uneven. Slowly, her dark brown eyes flickered open and she stared unseeingly into the worried face of her husband. Gradually she was able to focus clearly on him, and her expression became a sardonic, loose smile.

"Well, well, well..." she croaked throatily, "if it isn't my darling hushband! How are you, darling hush-husband?"

"I'm fine," he replied quickly, "but I'd like to know what happened to you... If you were bored in the afternoons, Natalie, you could have taught another class!"

The brunette's features wrinkled in concentration as if she was trying to understand the meaning of her husband's words. Bored... afternoon... teach another class, she repeated mentally in her wine-drugged brain. The phrases seemed to echo meaninglessly in her mind as her lips unconsciously formed them over and over again. But finally she smiled broadly in sudden recognition. "Bored?" she asked, with a husky, cracking laugh. "Me? Why should I be bored?" She paused and regarded her husband inquiringly, a tentative, mocking smile twisting the corners of her mouth. "I've got the most lovely waysh to shpend my afternoons... The most gorge-gorgeous young boys!" When Mark merely sat down on the edge of the bed in curious silence, Natalie was prompted to go on. "Well, my God, Mark... You know you sent them over to fuck me... God... I knew all about it, all the time. And I can tell you, my darling hushband, I sure was hot... God, was I hot, just like Shtuart said... right, Mark? You agree that I'm hot?"

A long, raucous laugh broke from her limply working red lips as she looked at her husband viciously. "I knew, I knew, I knew," she chanted, as if to torture him by letting him see her bawdy drunkenness. "Stuart told me all about it... the pictures... the photography lesson... I'm not shtupid, you know, Mark. I knew about what you were doing..."

The handsome young husband could only stare incredulously at this woman who was supposed to be his wife. From what he could make out of her disjointed sentences and meager explanations, Natalie had apparently learned of his arrangement with Stuart about getting the pictures. But his former college buddy had promised not to let on that the photos were for him... Mark had wanted the pictures as a private experiment in his own therapy, and he hadn't wanted to frighten or annoy Natalie by asking for them outright. Now he stared at the drunken shell of his beautiful wife, and his eyes searched hers for further explanation. "Natalie," he said softly, "talk slowly, honey, and tell me what's bothering you."

"Bothering me?" she repeated derisively. "Nothing's bothering me! I'm having an absolutely great time here at Weatherly-Mucks Camp for Cocks..." She looked expectantly at her husband for his reaction, but his face was calm, immobile. Almost immediately, the young teacher sobered up, struggling to a weak sitting position against the head board of the bed. "I mean... I mean," she said, making a conscious effort to collect her thoughts, "Stuart was taking pictures of me, Mark... bad pictures... naked. I couldn't t-tell you, because... because I was embarrassed. And yesterday -- God forgive me, Mark -- yesterday Stuart took those six boys up there to... to rape me, just so he could take those awful pictures..."