I set up a second monitor in my office at work, one of those flat screen plasma monitors. Whenever a camera was activated in my house, the feed from that camera was displayed in my office. I am one sneaky son of a bitch. And loving it.Now I didn't know that I was going to get anything incriminating. But we have this Big Brother technology. I may as well take advantage of it. I figured at the worst I could watch Lori get undressed. She has a few freckles on her boobs that I never see enough of. They are on the top half, highlighting her cleavage. The rest of her boobs are milk-white. I just love that look.I know I'm acting ambivalently about this whole thing. Somewhere in the back of my mind is my original view of infidelity: that it's no big thing, just some ego massaging that my wife needs. Secondly, we don't have the most passionate of marriages anyway. It's been kind of like a business arrangement. She gets to be married to the money, the cars, the house, the vacations, the social. However, I always declined. You see, I am a "take charge" sort of man. In business and in bed, I tend to call the shots. Something about laying on a massage table with limited vision having a stranger rub from my feet to my neck just seemed to leave me in a vulnerable position. One day, my wife began her plea for a couples massage once more. It was our anniversary, so she was playing that card as well. Every objection I had, she tried to eliminate. "I don't want someone touching my feet or ass," I said. "Just indicate that on the form at the beginning," she replied."I don't want a guy giving me a massage."She promised to reserve us both women."Am I going to be laying there all exposed?" I asked."You can leave your boxers on and you'll still have a towel over you." she promised. Entering into the 5-star day spa seemed to be advertised by my wife as promised. A professional staff escorted us past a fountain into a tranquil room with our wine glasses in hand and a robe covering.
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