When I returned to the bedroom, Betty was still in the same position, her naked body as alluring as ever, yet starkly pale, devoid of the flushed glow and beads of sweat that adorned her when she was with Michael.
The difference was glaring; I hadn’t brought her any pleasure, let alone an orgasm.
Compared to Michael, my own manhood seemed merely a tease through layers, ineffective and insufficient.
Betty, still lying there, eventually removed the pillow from beneath her hips, a gesture that seemed unnecessary as there was hardly any semen leaking from her.
My output couldn’t begin to compare to Michael’s, a fact that gnawed at me, though I hadn’t seen how much Michael could ejaculate now, two years later.
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But even as a younger man, he had outperformed me.
"Shouldn’t you wash up?" I asked, though not out of concern for her cleanliness.
I had an ulterior motive; I wanted to inspect her bag while she was occupied.
Betty’s showers were notoriously long, giving me ample time to snoop.
Her recent initiation of intimacy had left me puzzled, suspecting something I was reluctant to admit or believe.
"No need, taking a shower would just waste your precious resources, let’s just sleep," Betty said with a faint smile, opting to go to bed without even putting on a nightgown.
"Do you really want a child that badly?" I blurted out, unable to contain my curiosity about her persistent desire for a child.
She had never given up on that dream.
"Well... not exactly... I just let nature take its course. I really hope to have a child... but if not, it’s okay... as long as you’re by my side, nothing else matters," Betty replied, a flash of panic crossing her face before she quickly regained composure, her voice trembling slightly as she spoke.
Everything felt off. Too off.
The room darkened as I turned off the light, lying in bed with my mind racing.
Betty and Michael hadn’t used protection, and I hadn’t seen the end of the video, but I could guess the outcome—Michael must have finished inside her.
If I couldn’t find any birth control pills in her bag, then perhaps all would be clear.
After a while, Betty fell asleep.
Her breathing was even and deep; she had been sleeping more soundly than usual, perhaps due to Michael’s attentions.
I quietly got out of bed, glanced at Betty, and took my phone to her bag, making sure to close the bedroom door behind me.
Her bag was on the couch.
I used the small light on my phone to search through it, hoping against hope to find birth control pills.
But there were none.
Instead, I found a key in an inner pocket, not attached to her usual keychain—perhaps it was to a small gate.
I retrieved some plaster from the TV cabinet and quietly pressed the key into it.
As a seasoned journalist, making a copy of a key was no challenge.
I had heard of a colleague who could replicate a key just by looking at it once, provided it wasn’t too complex.
After finishing, I placed the mold back in the bag and restored everything to its original place.
I crept back into the bedroom and carefully searched the closet and other areas, but found nothing.
There were a few bottles of medication in the house, none extra, so I was certain Betty didn’t have any birth control pills on her.
Perhaps, the birth control might be in that small courtyard house...
It was the last possibility, after all, Betty wouldn’t take birth control to school.
The next morning, after a sleepless night, Betty made breakfast and left for work.
My health had improved, and I told her I’d be going to work as usual.
She didn’t object.
With only three days left of my vacation, could I wrap up everything?
Regardless of whether I found all the answers, I set these last three days as my deadline.
After Betty left, I immediately went downstairs, took the mold to a locksmith I knew, and had the key copied in minutes.
Once done, I drove the van towards the small courtyard, arriving there by ten in the morning.
The gate was still tightly closed, suggesting Michael hadn’t come back all night.
After buying some groceries, I settled into the cottage, bracing myself for a long day.
I couldn’t help but think about Betty’s phone call with Michael.
She had promised to "make it up to him" today.
Would Betty really show up?
If I wanted to stop her now, a simple call with an excuse might do it.
But what was the point of stopping her deliberately?
Let nature take its course...
It was still early, and recalling the video I had started last night, I decided to finish watching it.
I might as well brace myself for possibly watching my beloved wife in a live betrayal.
I turned on the computer, took a deep breath, glanced at my phone on the desk—no calls, no interruptions.
I set the video to play slowly: "Slap, slap, slap..." I adjusted the timing and hit play.
The screen was buffering, but the crisp, rapid thumping sounds filled my ears before the image even loaded.
As the video played, the distressing scenes from that afternoon reappeared before my eyes.
Michael was holding Betty’s legs on his shoulders, relentlessly thrusting into her from behind, the sound of their bodies slapping together filled the room.
His thick penis moved in and out of Betty’s pink labia, stirring up a frothy mix of fluids.
Their pubic hair was completely soaked, each thrust stringing together glistening strands, making squelching noises with each contact.
Michael’s hands were on Betty’s breasts, vigorously moving.
"Ah, ah, ah... softer... ah... ah... a bit softer... oh... ah, ah... you’re going too deep... oh..." Betty’s body was like a small boat in a storm, swaying with Michael’s vigorous thrusts.
She moaned and yelled, perhaps overwhelmed by Michael’s roughness, her forehead was sweaty, her bangs sticking to her skin, her face and body flushed—a stark contrast to her paleness the night before.
But Michael seemed deaf to her pleas, not slowing down or easing the depth of his thrusts, instead, he increased his pace and force, knowing well that a woman’s cries often mean she is even more aroused.
At that moment, Betty seemed to forget about time, no longer in a hurry, just letting Michael slow down a bit, consumed by lust, forgetting about time, forgetting to cook dinner for me, forgetting her husband.
Despite being mentally prepared, the pain in my heart was unstoppable.
I didn’t want to torture myself further, so I fast-forwarded the video.
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Michael, realizing he had been excessive today, didn’t adhere to the time Betty had given him, so he seemed to want to make amends, continuing his vigorous movements without wasting a moment.
About half an hour later, as Betty and Michael climaxed together, Michael’s thrusting stopped, his pelvis pressed tightly against Betty’s buttocks, leaving no space, while his large, swollen testicles began to contract violently...