Chapter 5

Cindy lay beneath the comforting warmth of the bedcovers for some time after her husband left for work. She gazed at the square of diffused light which lit the window shade, knowing she should get up and start the housework, but not wanting to.

She just wanted to huddle there and think miserably of her troubles. Again and again she played over the events of the previous evening: the evening with the Taylors where it became all too apparent to Cindy that they knew of the photos she had allowed Howard to take of her that first night--knew and snidely made comments, mortifying her to the quick!

She moaned involuntarily, momentarily reliving that horrible scene with the Taylors. Were Ralph and Norma as hedonistic as they appeared to be? Was their Polaroid being used for the same immoral purposes? It must be so, for hadn't Ralph given Howard those awful pictures and the newspaper--the ones which had so aroused her own cravings that she had played with herself? The sweet, mentally tortured wife rolled her head back and forth on the pillow. Yes, yes, the answers were all yes.

And worse was the way that Ralph, the manager of her husband's job, was now seemingly becoming a manager of his private life as well. His influence seemed to seep more and more into what she and Howard were doing and enjoying, and this was intolerable. Before... before that horrid camera had been given, her husband had been so kind and gentle in his ways of love, had seemed to understand that she wasn't some salacious glutton, but a sensitive, moral wife. But no longer! She seemed to be unable to keep up with his growing needs, to expand into the world of abandoned, licentious sex where nothing mattered except debauched eroticism.

Only the liquor, that never-ending torrent of alcohol which she had drunk last night, had loosened her to the point where she too was aroused by lewd pictures--though, she now decided with a shudder, nowhere near as strongly excited as her husband was by them. And the drinking had also made her able to participate with Howard, to actually be naked and be made love to before the camera!

The pictures... the pictures... everything seemed to center around them. Howard had been more interested in them last night than he had been in making love to his own wife! His constant running back and forth to set the Polaroid, his snappish answers to her pleas for understanding and patience at her ignorance, of his still more angry response when she refused to take his penis in her mouth...

Oh, God! The whole mess was getting completely out of hand! What could she do? How could she once more garner her husband's attention? She dwelled on the subject, lying there in bed, brooding over the loss of his interest in her, over the way he was turned on by the pictures, over the way she was excited by them... She suddenly sat upright, her hand across her mouth.

No! I'm not like that! I don't like seeing others in private displays of sex acts... of seeing myself do them... no, it's my husband who's like that now, thanks to Ralph Taylor... not me! No, not me! Yet the more her conscious mind rejected the idea that she was incited by such photos to almost overwhelming passion, the more her subconsciousness admitted it. Deep, deep down, underneath all the excuses and rationales she could muster, beat the emotional heart of a truly pagan woman of lust.

All it would take to strip the layers away and bare her soul was the right combination... a combination that her husband and Ralph and Norma Taylor were busily working on, and one which fate would soon take a hand in as well.

At the moment, though, Cindy Jamison was in the throes of agony over her inability to please her husband. What could; she do? The pictures... she had the feeling that in them lay the answer.

It was no good, she said to herself with a sigh, and got up. She padded to the kitchen after throwing a robe around her, put on the coffee and then idly ambled into the living room. There, strewn before her morose, anguished eyes, were the evidences of last night's crime. The camera... still where her husband had left it, the scattered pictures of them in living color performing like two animals, the other pictures and the newspaper on the coffee table. Guiltily she scooped up the photos, averting her eyes from them lest they be offended in the light of the sober morning after, and wrapping them in the paper.

The kettle whistled, and she went back to the kitchen with her bundle. She poured herself a cup of hot coffee and sat on a stool beside the counter and glanced unavoidably at the paper. Inside were the pictures... and outside, staring back at her in black and white, were the little ads she and Howard had read to each other last night.

She re-read them, sipping her coffee, and two distinct things happened. One, a growing, almost gnawing tingling started again down between her legs as she cast her thoughts momentarily from her own grief and into the homes of the advertisers. The average Mr.-and-Mrs. Joneses who were posing naked on their beds and rugs, happily cavorting before the film of the camera and anxiously waiting to swap their experiences for others...

Her subconscious was at work again, building the fire of prurient desires faster than her consciousness could bank the flames. She tightened her inner thigh muscles, wishing away the featherlike proddings of her sensual nature... and, of course, was unable to.

The other thing which happened was the sudden emergence of an idea. The images of the advertisers enjoying themselves in this fashion once more reminded her of Howard. Was not her own husband like the ones in the ads? Didn't he receive a special thrill from exhibiting his sexual passion in front of a lens... and seeing the very same of others? Yes!

And in that instant, the perfect answer burst in her mind. The innocent young wife, so less worldly than other supposedly bolder and more swinging people, suddenly considered exchanging photos... of becoming one of the multitude of members of the Polaroid Club!

The thought made her gasp! She couldn't! That would only be going yet deeper into the pit she was now finding herself falling into. But... the situation as it was certainly was unbearable. She had to find a solution... even if it meant lowering herself. She viewed the blatant, shocking step the way a mountain climber might look down into a chasm while dangling at the end of his rope. To her, the exchange of lewd photographs would be like the climber dropping to a ledge where he could find room to breathe and a way back to the top; something he couldn't do while holding onto the rope where he was.

Still, the whole concept boggled her imagination. Trembling, she downed the coffee and then poured herself another cup. Could she? No... no!

But what other alternative was there? This way she would be pleasing her husband, wouldn't she? Yes, and not only would the pictures themselves make him respond, but she could learn from them as well. She knew that she had much to learn about the techniques of sex-play, that she was inexperienced in the arts of loving a man physically; Howard's reactions were proof of that. She could study the positions--as one would a textbook illustration, of course, she hastily told herself and be a better wife for it. The third reason for "taking the plunge" was actually not a conscious thought at all, but perhaps it was the strongest motivation of all. It was the fact, which she would have hotly denied, that she was excited by the pictures as much, even more, than her husband. She wanted to see others making love, and only the ingrained prudery instilled since birth by her narrow-minded parents prevented her from seeing this and recognizing the emotion for what it was.

The more she mulled over the solution, the more firmly convinced she became that it was the best and only way out. Now excited over the idea, she pored over the ads, looking for one which sounded as though written by sensitive, understanding persons who were suitably a long way away. No, no, not that one... nor this one... perhaps... wait, here's one! She read it carefully:

"Good looking man, mid 30's, well endowed, and beautiful wife would like to exchange intimate photos with similar couple. Varied poses, all good and detailed. Discretion assured. Box C123, Chicago, Illinois.

Yes... about the same age and same background, married and everything, Cindy thought. And they'll keep it a secret, and they're all the way in Chicago...

What harm could be done in trying? What could go wrong? Who could get hurt, and it just might be the one thing to wring Howard and myself back together. I've got nothing to lose except a few cents worth of postage!

Now fired with seal to carry out her plan, Cindy rapidly dressed in a bright yellow silk blouse with a blue antique design across the front and a pair of matching stretch pants. She hummed, smiling as she combed her hair and applied the little makeup she used. Then she returned to the kitchen and got the photographs of herself and Howard, took them to where the wrapping paper and twine was kept, and in a few minutes had a wrapped and addressed little package to send to Box C123.

She didn't put on a return address yet... she didn't know what it would be. Although Cindy was pretty sure that the couple at Box C123 would be trustworthy, she wasn't going to take any chances. That would be disastrous! Instead, she got the idea from the box number to get one of her own. There wasn't time to rent one from the paper... so she'd take out a post office box, right at the main station in downtown Morriston. That way there'd be no chance of anybody finding out where she lived.

The main post office was situated on Second and Market Streets, a large graystone mausoleum of a building built back when authority was measured in how thick the walls were and how high the ceilings. Inside were the operating rooms of the post office, as well as rooms for the few state and federal agencies of which Morriston could boast, such as the Marine and Army recruiting offices. The ground floor, though, was all for the post office, one entering a long, ill lit but wide marble corridor through either side of the building. There were windows all along the hall, some for stamps, others for money orders, still others for a combination of things, and most of them closed. In the middle was a large bank of post boxes in three sizes; the small ones running along the top half, then a few rows of medium sized ones, and then a series of large ones at the bottom. Beside the bank was a window which, by its sign, handled parcel post and the post boxes.

Sitting on a worn wooden stool, his arms lazily draped on the marble counter, was the window's clerk, Steve Samuels. He was bored, not feeling well from drinking too much the previous night, and his bad leg, two inches shorter and smaller than normal because of a birth defect, ached. Besides which, he had read all of the comic books and men's magazines that were scattered around the back of the post office, and he had nothing to do until quitting time. He sighed and rubbed the leather shoe, alleviating for the moment the heaviness of his extra thick built-up heel and sole.

When Cindy Jamison hesitantly approached the window, he suddenly perked up, leering over at her and smacking his thick, rubbery lips. Hey boy! was that owe hell of a woman there... He smirked, noting the twin wedding bands on her finger and knowing full well she'd been fucked and fucked and fucked by her husband.

He couldn't keep his beady eyes off her, his brain fermenting with lascivious thoughts. Her slacks were the tightest pair he had ever seen on a woman, highlighting her rich thighs and pert young buttocks as she walked towards him, and for a crazy instant the clerk thought he could make out the narrow line of her cuntal split. Her breasts strained against the thin blouse, moving rhythmically as she came, and again the afflicted postal clerk couldn't help his erotic thoughts. Is she wearing a bra? Is that all her flesh and was that faint ridge the seams of her bra?... or tight, berry nipples, swaying without hindrance? He licked dry lips. That lucky bastard of a husband, sliding into that luscious body every time he wants it... Too bad I ain't fucking it on the side.

Cindy Jamison saw the clerk, felt his burning gaze on her body, almost blushing at the blatant way he all but undressed her. She had lost much of her original courage and conviction by the time she had parked her car nearby, and it was only with the desire to do something to save her marriage, even as drastic as this, which kept her going into the post office and to the window. The blatantly leering clerk was almost the last straw, almost sending her running out of the building and back to her home.

It was terrible the way he kept staring at her, as though she was some sideshow freak. And him, so small, so ugly, so... so creepy! He wore thick glasses with an odd green tint to the lens which magnified his eyes until they looked frogish and bulging. His skin was the color of oatmeal, yet there was a Mongolian cast to his features like the half- caste Indians of the Amazon or the south-of-the-border mulattos of Tampa's Ybor City. His sparse black hair was greased flat to his narrow skull.

"Yes?" the postal clerk said to her, and his voice matched his looks. It was thin, bitter, raspy... and Cindy could only think of the word, dark, to describe its hint of malice.

"I..." she faltered, her throat parched and tight. "I... want to open a post office box."

"What size do you want?" Samuels asked.