I suppose she was right. I mean, Jerry is maybe five-two, if he's stretching, has lost most of his hair, and only a religiously kept schedule of poorly played racquetball keeps his weight in check. An accountant. They have no kids. Carol is five-ten in her stocking feet, dark haired, dark eyed, a drop dead knockout. She used to be a model. I saw some of her work in a lingerie catalogue. Long legs, huge tits. In heels she towered over him. At his bachelor party, somebody gave him a scuba snorkel for when they danced. God knows she could smother him with those tits.

Actually, I had seen more of those tits than Jerry knew. Once, a few years ago, Debby and I had been over for dinner, and the main bathroom was being rebuilt. If you wanted to piss, you used the bath in the master bedroom. And I needed to piss.

Along several walls of the bedroom were photographs of Carol from her modeling days. All were tastefully and exquisitely done blowups of several of her more risque shots – teddies, gowns, garter sets, and the like. After finishing my business, I had stood there and looked them over. And I noticed an open photo album on a nightstand. Sneaking over, feeling guilty, I had looked at the Polaroids inside. Obviously done by Jerry himself, these pictures showed Carol, still in lingerie, but considerably more exposed. Her gorgeous tits pointed at the lens, and in several shots her pussy was exposed. It was shaved smooth, and had a large dildo inserted.

The sight definitely got me worked up, and I really gave Debby a good fucking that night. Later that summer, we took the kids to Disney World, and rented a video camera. When we came home, before I returned the camera, I rigged a tripod up and we made a dirty movie.