Dropping my shopping bags I rushed into the lounge, following the sound. My jaw dropped as I saw, on our inch TV screen, an image of myself, writhing naked on my bed, one of my hands squeezing my breast while the other tangled in the black hair of a shapely naked young woman squatting between my splayed legs, her face buried in my pussy. Unable to drag my eyes from the sight I sank into an armchair. As my video self screamed to orgasm the image froze, and a voice behind me said, "Very good mother. Have you ever considered a career as a porn star?
I felt my cheeks burning with fury and embarrassment. What had happened had been strictly a one-off after a drunken girls' night out a few days ago. It was the only time I'd ever cheated on my husband, and the very first time I'd done anything with another woman. Wendy was a girl from the local hair salon -- I didn't even know her that well!
With the amount of noise we'd made it perhaps wasn't surprising we'd woken Justin; but I couldn't believe the little sod had had the presence of mind to grab his video camera and stick it through the door of my room. As he switched off the tape -- just as I was about to take my turn between Wendy's legs -- I recovered my senses and moved towards the machine. Justin darted in front of me and grabbed the tape, holding it behind his back.
I advanced menacingly towards him, growling, "Very clever smartarse -- you've had your fun, now hand it over. You can have the tape if you want; I've already loaded it onto my computer. I wonder what Dad would make of it? And Wendy's husband? Not to mention the neighbours, and the ladies at the Women's Institute. I knew Justin could be a nasty little devil at times, but I couldn't believe he would be as evil as that.
His father thought of himself as a real 'manly' man: if he thought I'd been sleeping around he'd certainly divorce me; if he knew it was with another woman he'd probably kill me. He's a highly successful, and very wealthy, businessman, who brings all the money into our marriage.
A bleak future flashed before my eyes -- losing my lovely home, my expensive car, my jewellery, my entire social circle How would I support myself, I hadn't gone out to work since I was 19, I wasn't trained to do anything. Why was my own flesh and blood threatening to do this to me? As if reading my thoughts, Justin sat beside me on the sofa and gently took my hands in his, stroking his thumbs across the backs of my hands. I like our body, and I'd like to see more of it.
He wanted me to put on a strip show for him and a couple of friends. I told him he was fucking mad. To my shock he slapped me, quite hard, around the face. He's always had a bit of a cruel streak, and he's inherited his father's view of women as a lower order of humanity, created simply to serve their men.
Looking smug, he said, "I'm not mad, but Dad will be if he sees this. Now just listen to me, you old slag. You do exactly what I say, or this little show of yours gets e-mailed to a list of a dozen or so people I've drawn up. Then it gets posted on the Internet for all the world to see. You're going to dress like the whore you are, then you're going to take your clothes off again, especially for the entertainment of me and my pals. Let's keep it our little secret, we can work something out. I'm only asking you to take your clothes off, just like you do when you go to bed every night -- or when you screw your lesbo girlfriends.
I'll even supply your wardrobe for you. We won't touch, we'll just look. And I promise that once it's over I'll destroy every copy of the recording. Now, Dad will be back from Singapore at the end of the week, so we've got three days.
We'll do it on Thursday night. Why would Justin and his mates even want this? I'm 46 for Christ's sake! Why would they want to see me reveal my sagging tits, my pot belly, my fat arse? Try as I might I couldn't think of any way around it; not one that would allow me to continue to live in the luxury I enjoyed, and wouldn't result in my arrest for murder. The next day, Wednesday, Justin had left the house by the time I got up, and I didn't see him when I returned.
Laid out on my bed, however, was the costume he had chosen for me. A black diaphanous bra that would barely support my hefty knockers, let alone cover them; a miniscule matching pair of black silk panties, held together at the sides by Velcro; and a pair of black fishnet stockings with elasticated tops. That was IT? That was what he expected me to parade around in, in front of him and his little friends, before taking it all off again? I was furious again and I went and hammered on his bedroom door, but there was no sign of him.
In fact he didn't come home all night, so I didn't see him until the afternoon of Thursday, the day he had decided I would give my performance. I was sitting in the kitchen sipping coffee in jeans and a T-shirt when Justin came in. Still livid, I leapt to my feet and slapped him as hard as I could, calling him all the names I could think of. After the initial shock he didn't even flinch. He waited until I had exhausted myself then, smiling, said "Finished? Okay, let's have a costume check. Or would you rather I went and pressed a few buttons on my computer?
The stuff Justin had bought was labelled as the right size, but it wasn't made for someone of my age and the straps of the bra and pants cut deeply into my flesh. I wobbled my way down to the lounge, where Justin walked a slow circle around me, taking in my get-up. You know you've got to make it sexy, don't you? A nice, slow striptease, with the emphasis on tease. For the first time since I had walked into the house to hear that awful tape, I smiled too.
I had a plan, of sorts. The little shit wanted a show? Okay, I'd give him a show. Perhaps I could embarrass him so much in front of his friends that I just might find the sliver of conscience that must exist somewhere inside him. He'd dressed me like a Soho tart, so I decided to look like one. I rarely wear much make-up, but tonight I was going to.
I liberally applied lipstick, eye shadow, mascara, rouge I had to admit I was pleasantly surprised by the result. It made me look a good few years younger, and quite sexy, if distinctly trashy. Then I set about applying gold nail varnish to my finger and toe nails. That took a while as it was something else I hadn't done for years. After that I decided to have a rest, and lay back on the bed for a few minutes.
I think an hour at least must have passed when I was awoken by a loud knock on my bedroom door, and Justin calling in a sing-song voice, "Oh Mummy dearest, we're ready for you. Justin had switched off the main lights and used some anglepoise lamps to create a sort of spotlight effect in the middle of the room.
He and two other year old boys were lounging on the three-piece suite, two of them smoking and each with a can of lager in his hand. I knew both the other two -- one was a scrawny little kid whose name I could never remember; the other was Delvon. Nothing scrawny about him -- over six feet tall, black and muscular with a ruggedly handsome face, the star of the college rugby team.
At a motion from Justin I reluctantly slipped the dressing gown off my shoulders, to a gasp from the little kid. A suspicious thought suddenly entered my head. I didn't believe the little bastard, but I couldn't see his camera in the dim light outside my 'stage'. Justin flicked a switch and a music track started -- Sex Bomb by Tom Jones. Oh God, this was it! I gyrated to the music, closing my eyes to try and forget the circumstances.
I wear my long, blonde hair in a bun, and as I danced I unpinned it and let it fall, whipping my head around to flair out my long locks. To my surprise I felt a tiny kick of excitement at the whoops of approval that brought from my audience. As the first tune finished, another started -- a slow, sexy number with a heavy bass track.
The thought flashed through my mind that my son was actually quite good at staging this sort of thing -- perhaps he had a future in the porn industry! Slowly circling my hips, I reached behind my back to undo my bra -- then I had a better idea. I stalked provocatively towards the kid I couldn't name -- who looked absolutely terrified -- and, standing inches from him, I slipped my arms out of the straps and rolled the cups of the bra off my mountainous boobs.
Then I knelt before the kid, my back to him, and pointed to the clasp of the bra. He fumbled at it so long I thought he would never get it undone, but he finally managed.
A tiny corner of my brain told me I was starting to enjoy this, but I tried to force it out. Next I moved to stand in front of Justin, the little prick. It was his turn. I placed my left foot firmly in his groin, and started to roll down my stocking. From the feel of what was under my foot, he wasn't a 'little' prick at all -- he was quite a big one, just like his father.