contraceptive devices were mouthwash, different-colored toothbrushes, toothpaste, and six Fleet enemas.
I didn’t think anyone who ate bean sprouts would have a problem with constipation. “My goodness,” I said, picking up a premeasured
douche bottle whose flavor was strawberry; not my very favorite.
Cynthia left the bathroom, and I peeked into the shower. That, too, was sort of grungy, and the washcloth was still damp.
Interesting.
I rejoined Cynthia in the bedroom, where she was examining the contents of the night table drawer: K-Y Jelly, mineral oil,
sex manuals, one regular-sized vibrator, batteries included, and one rubber charlie of heroic proportions.
Fixed high up on the false wall that partitioned this bedroom from the basement workshop was a set of leather manacles, and
lying on the floor below was a leather strap, a birch switch, and incongruously, or perhaps not, a long ostrich feather. My
mind involuntarily took off into a flight of fancy that I think brought a red blush to my cheeks. “I wonder,” I mused, “what
those things are for?”
Cynthia made no comment, but seemed transfixed by the manacles.
I pulled back the bed sheets, and the bottom sheet looked a bit lived in. Here was enough pubic hair, body hair, peter tracks,
and undoubtedly other dermatological refuse to keep the lab busy for a week.
I noticed Cynthia staring down at the sheet and wondered what was going through her mind. I resisted the urge to say, “I told
you so,” because, in fact, on one level, I almost hoped we would find nothing, for, as I’ve indicated, I had already developed
a soft spot in my heart for Ann Campbell. And, while I’m not judgmental in regard to sexual behavior, I could imagine that
many people would be. I said, “You know, I’m actually relieved to see she wasn’t the sexless, androgynous poster girl the
Army made her out to be.”
Cynthia glanced at me and sort of nodded.
I said, “A shrink would have a field day with this apparent split personality. But you know, we all lead two or more lives.”
On the other hand, we don’t usually outfit a whole room for our alter ego. I added, “Actually, she was a shrink, wasn’t she?”
And so we moved to the TV, and I popped a random tape into the VCR and turned it on.
The screen brightened, and there was Ann Campbell, dressed in her red-sequined dress, with high heels and jewelry, standing
in this very room. An off-camera tape or disc was playing “The Stripper,” and she began taking it all off. A male voice, presumably
the cameraman, joked, “Do you do this at the general’s dinner parties?”
Ann Campbell smiled and wiggled her hips at the camera. She was down to her panties and a rather nice French bra now, and
was unclasping it when I reached out and shut off the tape, feeling very self-righteous about that.
I examined the other tapes and saw they were all handlabeled, with rather pithy titles like “Fucking with J.,” “Strip search
for B.,” “Gyno Exam—R.,” and “Anal with J.S.”
Cynthia said, “I think we’ve seen enough for now.”
“Almost enough.” I opened the top dresser drawer and discovered a pile of Polaroid photos, and thinking I’d hit pay dirt,
I flipped through them, looking for her friends, but every photo was of only her in various poses ranging from nearly artistic
and erotic to obscene gynecological shots. “Where’re the guys?”
“Behind the camera.”
“There’s got to be…” Then, in another stack of photos, I found a shot of a well-built naked man holding a belt, but wearing
a black leather hood. Then another shot of a guy on top of her, possibly taken with a time delay or by a third person, then
a photo of a naked gent, manacled to the wall, his back to the camera. In fact, all the men—and there were at least twelve
different bodies—were either turned away from the camera or wearing the leather discipline hood. Obviously, these guys
I didn’t think anyone who ate bean sprouts would have a problem with constipation. “My goodness,” I said, picking up a premeasured
douche bottle whose flavor was strawberry; not my very favorite.
Cynthia left the bathroom, and I peeked into the shower. That, too, was sort of grungy, and the washcloth was still damp.
Interesting.
I rejoined Cynthia in the bedroom, where she was examining the contents of the night table drawer: K-Y Jelly, mineral oil,
sex manuals, one regular-sized vibrator, batteries included, and one rubber charlie of heroic proportions.
Fixed high up on the false wall that partitioned this bedroom from the basement workshop was a set of leather manacles, and
lying on the floor below was a leather strap, a birch switch, and incongruously, or perhaps not, a long ostrich feather. My
mind involuntarily took off into a flight of fancy that I think brought a red blush to my cheeks. “I wonder,” I mused, “what
those things are for?”
Cynthia made no comment, but seemed transfixed by the manacles.
I pulled back the bed sheets, and the bottom sheet looked a bit lived in. Here was enough pubic hair, body hair, peter tracks,
and undoubtedly other dermatological refuse to keep the lab busy for a week.
I noticed Cynthia staring down at the sheet and wondered what was going through her mind. I resisted the urge to say, “I told
you so,” because, in fact, on one level, I almost hoped we would find nothing, for, as I’ve indicated, I had already developed
a soft spot in my heart for Ann Campbell. And, while I’m not judgmental in regard to sexual behavior, I could imagine that
many people would be. I said, “You know, I’m actually relieved to see she wasn’t the sexless, androgynous poster girl the
Army made her out to be.”
Cynthia glanced at me and sort of nodded.
I said, “A shrink would have a field day with this apparent split personality. But you know, we all lead two or more lives.”
On the other hand, we don’t usually outfit a whole room for our alter ego. I added, “Actually, she was a shrink, wasn’t she?”
And so we moved to the TV, and I popped a random tape into the VCR and turned it on.
The screen brightened, and there was Ann Campbell, dressed in her red-sequined dress, with high heels and jewelry, standing
in this very room. An off-camera tape or disc was playing “The Stripper,” and she began taking it all off. A male voice, presumably
the cameraman, joked, “Do you do this at the general’s dinner parties?”
Ann Campbell smiled and wiggled her hips at the camera. She was down to her panties and a rather nice French bra now, and
was unclasping it when I reached out and shut off the tape, feeling very self-righteous about that.
I examined the other tapes and saw they were all handlabeled, with rather pithy titles like “Fucking with J.,” “Strip search
for B.,” “Gyno Exam—R.,” and “Anal with J.S.”
Cynthia said, “I think we’ve seen enough for now.”
“Almost enough.” I opened the top dresser drawer and discovered a pile of Polaroid photos, and thinking I’d hit pay dirt,
I flipped through them, looking for her friends, but every photo was of only her in various poses ranging from nearly artistic
and erotic to obscene gynecological shots. “Where’re the guys?”
“Behind the camera.”
“There’s got to be…” Then, in another stack of photos, I found a shot of a well-built naked man holding a belt, but wearing
a black leather hood. Then another shot of a guy on top of her, possibly taken with a time delay or by a third person, then
a photo of a naked gent, manacled to the wall, his back to the camera. In fact, all the men—and there were at least twelve
different bodies—were either turned away from the camera or wearing the leather discipline hood. Obviously, these guys
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