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Mickey France

A young wife's revenge


The man parked his weary old Chevrolet out in the street, rather than pull it into the circular driveway where it would have looked ludicrously out of place. The man himself looked out of place… as weary and out-of-date as his automobile. His pleated out-of-fashion trousers were shiny in the seat, the occupational hazard of a patrol car cop or a man who spends long hours seated behind the wheel of his car waiting for something or someone. And that was his profession: A man hired to wait patiently… a man paid to observe and put his observations in printed or photographic form.

He scratched the black-gray stubble of his beard as he pushed the button beside the door. Somewhere deep in the confines of the house, he could hear the chimes. It was an expensive sound… just as the house was expensive… and the woman who lived in the house, and who had hired him.

She opened the door, and once again the man felt his groin tighten in desire for her. She was taller than his five foot nine by at least three inches… “statuesque” that was the only word for her, he thought. Her breasts were like Arkansas cantaloupes, so ripe that a man’s hand wouldn’t begin to cover the mound of flesh; and she had a way of looking at a man that caused his balls to melt and his prick to freeze. It was all he could do to keep from moaning deep in his throat just from the sight of her. For a brief moment he thought he would have liked to have spent hours just watching her, but he knew that would be a painful mistake… even watching her for a minute or two was too much. To look at her was to want to go down on her and fuck hell out of her… and the man knew he had about as much chance of doing that as he had of becoming President of the United States.

“Mister Shelton, Come in please.” she ordered, and the sound of her voice coming from those full, generous lips, sent a tingle rippling along his inner thigh.

“Mrs. Akron,” he acknowledged, feeling at once stupid, ill-kempt and uncivilized.

“We can talk in the library.” she said, and turned away from him to lead the way to the room.

He followed, watching her buttocks move sinuously in the tight hip-huggers. She was all motion, smooth, powerful, welcoming. God, he thought, how beautifully she swings that ass. In his mind he kissed and nibbled like a hungry rabbit at those supple mounds of moving muscle, and could almost feel his pecker slowly slipping between them. That was a mistake; one that if allowed to grow to fruition would not go away for a long time. By a supreme effort, he finally made his errant penis subside.

The woman motioned him to the couch and then eased herself into a large leather chair facing him. As she sat, he noticed the way her slacks tugged in between her legs; her delectable pussy was clearly outlined… the whole wonderful vaginal slit was there, hiding just behind the cloth. To kiss that would be heaven! His dreaming penis stirred restlessly again at the thought, for he knew she wasn’t wearing a damned thing under the slacks.

“Well, Mister Shelton… you heard some news?”

He had an instinctive feeling that his information and the photographs were going to hurt her. For just a moment he deliberated whether he should produce the evidence or not, then he mentally shrugged. Hell, that was why she had hired him in the first place. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and withdrew a thick manila envelope from his coat pocket.

He passed it over and watched her weigh it in her hand. After a moment, her half-frightened eyes looked directly at him, as if seeking reassurance. “Is it bad?”

He swallowed. “I’m afraid so.” Then he added quickly, “You might prefer not to see them… or maybe look at them after I’ve gone.”

“I see. They’re as bad as that?”

He nodded. And they would be bad from her point of view. From a photography standpoint however; they were goddamned good pictures… shot under extremely trying circumstances. His telephoto lens had caught every hair on the Smith girl’s hot, twitching, little pussy… every hair on Mrs. Akron’s husband’s mustache as the banker used his tongue, lips, teeth, and mustache to scour his new secretary’s cunt. Another photo showed the girl with her full ripe lips pooching out as they lovingly clung to the shaft of Mr. Akron’s hardened cock. Still another photograph showed him pounding away at the wildly thrashing figure, with his prick buried deep in her hungrily clasping vagina. For that shot, Shelton had focused on the banker’s rectum; it was one of the best action shots he had ever taken.

Mrs. Akron continued to stare at him as if she were reading his mind. Finally she closed her eyes and took a deep reluctant breath. Then she quickly ran her fingernail under the flap of the envelope and pulled out the five by seven pictures. The one on top showed the couple walking into a motel room. The second showed the nude girl on her knees helping the banker off with his trousers. His erection could clearly be seen in the snapshot. The third was where it really got interesting, and Shelton watched her carefully when she got to it.

Sylvia Akron felt the blood rush to her face when she looked at the third picture. She gasped aloud. There was her husband, Bruce, with an idiotic grin on his face as the girl sucked rapaciously on his penis. Bruce had been after her to do that same thing to him ever since they were married, but she had refused, feeling the act was unsanitary, perverted, and dirty. She knew her hands were trembling, and she wasn’t sure whether the movement came from anger, hurt, or embarrassment.

She looked at the next photograph. There was Bruce, his face buried between the girl’s widespread thighs. And suddenly she was very angry. “That filthy son of a bitch!” she hissed through clenched teeth.

Shelton shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

“Not half as sorry as Mr. Bruce Akron is going to be,” she snapped, her mind wildly searching for an idea… for any way to really make her husband sorry. And abruptly, it came to her.

It was so audacious that she found herself completely frozen for a moment. But the more she thought about it, the more the idea appealed to her. It would be horribly degrading for her, but what did that matter; it was oh so beautiful, an act of revenge! She looked at the private detective opposite her. She would have liked someone better looking… someone younger. But he’d do; he’d have to do! She knew he would go along with it; after all, he had been staring at her in that hungry, rather obvious way men have of looking when they want a woman.

“Mister Shelton, do you have your camera with you?”

Puzzled, he nodded.

Sylvia hesitated, seeking a way of putting it into words. She stood up and deliberately took a deeper than normal breath to make her breasts swell inside the thin blouse. “I want to get revenge on my husband. The only way I can do that is to embarrass him in public. I need photographs for that. For an extra fee, would you take some photographs of me… and you… together, like this?” She tapped the pictures.

Shelton almost fell out of his chair in surprise. He had heard it with his own ears, but he still didn’t believe it… feeling he had misinterpreted her remarks. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said, cautiously.

“Of course you do,” Sylvia snapped. “Can’t you set your camera so it will take an automatic photograph of the two of us together. I mean, you don’t always have to stand behind the camera, do you?”

Shelton blinked. My God, he thought, she’s actually serious. The bitch is serious! Suddenly his throat was dry. Never in his entire life had he encountered anything quite as kooky, but he wasn’t about to permit this bit of luck slip out of his hands.

“Let me get this straight,” he said slowly and with emphasis. “You want me to take a picture of us,” he pointed his finger at her and then at himself, “the two of us doing what the girl… and, ah, your husband… are doing in these photographs.”