Someone, somewhere, was looking at the pornographic pictures, scrutinizing me, the cucumber up my cunt, the solid cocks spunking over my full breasts, my nipples - but who? I'd find out, no doubt. Tony had phoned several times, asking how I was and what I'd been doing. I'd lied, of course - lied in my bisexual adultery. My work had gone by the way, my brushes standing in their jam jars - neglected, dead flowers. My pallet thirsty for fresh paint, a blank canvas yeaning for oils... To my dismay, I'd heard that David and Lydia had gone away on holiday. Perhaps they were trying to rekindle their love after their infidelity. Infidelity kills love. Sex kills love. Had Lydia told David of her lesbian act, her female to female sixty-nine? No, I doubted it very much. The phone rang as I was about to wander down the lane to the common in search of Geoff for my fix. Was it Lydia? Images of her open cunt swirled in my tormented mind; I couldn't forget the beautiful lesbian coupling. Lifting the receiver, I was sure that it wouldn't be Tony, not at ten in the morning.
