I Found My Wife’s Videos with the Neighbor

Everything is recorded on three different phones. Three angles, three perspectives of the same January afternoon that I wasn’t there to see because they’d called me into work for an emergency and I didn’t get back until night.

I found the videos by accident the following week. Sofía had connected her phone to the television to show me photos from a family gathering, and as I browsed through the folders, an unnamed one appeared, identified only by a date: 14/01. She got up to get water from the kitchen. I clicked.

The first thing I saw was Diego’s pool.

I recognized it immediately: that uneven turquoise mosaic he’d put in two summers earlier, the wooden lounger with the worn linen cushion, the bougainvillea climbing the back wall that borders the dividing fence. A place I knew well. We’d had beers there many times, the four of us, before Diego’s ex left and things got weird between them.

My wife was lying back on that lounger.

She was wearing a bikini I’d never seen before: the top white, in fabric so thin it barely concealed anything, and the bottom black, triangular, snug as can be. Her eyes were closed and she wore the expression of someone who expects nothing but is ready for anything. The sun hit her from the side, casting her long shadow across the stone floor around the pool. It must have been four-thirty, five in the afternoon.

The first video lasted eighteen minutes. I watched it twice before I heard Sofía’s footsteps in the hallway.

I turned off the TV. She came in with both glasses of water. She asked me if something was wrong. I told her no, that I’d gotten distracted checking my phone. She sat down beside me, rested her head on my shoulder, and I looked at her sidelong trying to find on her face any trace of what I had just seen.

There was nothing. Just Sofía, as always.

That night, when she fell asleep, I took my phone and emailed myself the three files. I watched them in the bathroom, brightness low and headphones on, sitting on the edge of the bathtub.

***

In the first video, shot from an improvised tripod with Sofía’s phone propped on the resin table, she’s alone at first. She stretches, yawns, adjusts her bra. There’s a glass of white wine on the floor next to the lounger, almost empty. The day is still: all you can hear is the pool filter and, in the background, some dog barking far away.

Diego appears from the left side of the frame. He’s wearing dark swim trunks and a gray T-shirt, which he takes off as he walks toward her and tosses over the back of a chair. Sofía opens her eyes when she hears him arrive and smiles in a way I recognize: it’s the smile she has when something has already started long before it’s obvious.

“More wine?” he says. You can hear him well because the day is so quiet.

“Later,” she says. “Right now I want something else.”

Diego sits on the edge of the lounger beside her legs. He puts a hand on her ankle and slowly moves it upward: calf, knee, thigh, the inner thigh, stopping just beside the black triangle of the bikini. Sofía doesn’t move. She looks up at him from below, her head on the cushion, her eyes narrowed against the sun.

“How much time do we have?” she asks.

“As much as we need.”

My wife sits up a little. She loops one hand around the back of his neck and pulls him toward her. The kiss they give each other is not tentative, not the first kiss of two people getting to know one another. It has the certainty of something that has happened before, the ease of someone who knows exactly what ground they’re standing on. Diego bites her lower lip and she bites back, and then they kiss with open mouths, tongues sliding in without shame, saliva shining in the sun when they break apart for a breath.

Diego runs a hand over her waist, then over her ribs, then cups one breast over the white fabric and squeezes until the nipple stands hard against the bra. She leans into it, pressing closer to him, arching against his hand. With his other hand Diego unties the knot at her neck. The white triangle falls away. Her breasts are bare, the dark nipples standing up in the warm air and under his mouth, which drops immediately and latches on as if starving.

Sofía lets out a short gasp, startled, and grabs his head with both hands to hold him there. Diego sucks one nipple slowly, pulls it out of his mouth with a wet sound, puts it back in, circles it with his tongue, then bites it lightly, and she lets out a “just like that, just like that” that reaches the microphone perfectly. The camera catches everything: his mouth at work, Sofía’s hand guiding him, her other hand sliding down her own body, slipping beneath the black elastic and staying there, moving only slightly while he devours her tits.

“Take off your swimsuit,” she says in his ear.

Diego stands up. The bulge in the dark trunks is obvious, taut against the fabric. He yanks them down and his cock springs out, hard, thick, pointing straight at Sofía’s face. She sits up in the lounger without saying anything, sits on the edge, and takes him in her hand. She looks at him for a second, as if measuring him, and then opens her mouth.

The camera catches him in profile. Sofía takes him all the way in at once, until she chokes, and stays there with her eyes closed and cheeks hollowed out, sucking him from the inside. Diego throws his head back and lets out a “holy fucking shit” that is the first thing I hear him say all afternoon with a broken voice. She takes him out of her mouth with a strand of saliva hanging from it, runs her tongue over her lips, and licks his balls one by one while holding his cock against her face, knocking it against her cheek.

Then she takes him in again. Now with rhythm, bobbing on him, sucking him with both hands, making sounds in her throat that in the video come through crystal clear. Diego grabs her hair, gathers it at the nape of her neck like a ponytail, and starts moving her head himself, fucking her mouth. Sofía lets him. Her eyes shine with tears but she doesn’t pull away, keeps swallowing, and when Diego finally lets her go, she moves back for a second, breathes, spits once on the head, and goes right back to licking.

The last time Sofía and I kissed like that was how long ago. I don’t remember when.

***

The second video is shot from another angle, closer. Probably Diego’s phone, propped against something on the table. The image is sharper and lets you see Sofía’s face much more clearly.

By this point they’re both lying back on the lounger, Diego beside her. He has one hand inside her bra and she has her head thrown back, breathing through her mouth. The white bra, wet with heat and sweat, is completely sheer: the dark, tense nipples and the breasts rising and falling with her ragged breathing.

Diego’s hand goes down. It travels over Sofía’s stomach, reaches the elastic at the bottom of the bikini, hesitates for a second. She tips her hips forward toward him in response.

Diego puts his hand in.

The camera catches the bulge of his fingers moving beneath the black fabric, searching, finding. Sofía closes her eyes and presses her lips together. Then she opens them abruptly when he slides two fingers in all at once, and exhales slowly, an “ah, fuck” slipping out through clenched teeth. Diego shifts the bikini fabric aside and now you can see everything: my wife’s pussy open to the sun, wet, shining, and his fingers going in and out with a wet sound the microphone picks up perfectly.

“More,” she says.

Diego adds a third. Sofía arches her back and bites the back of her hand so she won’t scream. He works her clit with his thumb while fingering her, methodical, unhurried, with the concentration of someone who already knows what that woman likes. She grips the edge of the lounger with her free hand until her knuckles go white.

“There,” she says at some point. Just one word. He doesn’t look at her because he’s watching what he’s doing, but he doesn’t change the rhythm.

“Like that. There. Don’t stop.”

Diego lowers his head. He runs his tongue over her navel, her hip, her groin, and then settles between her legs and buries his face there. The lounger creaks. Sofía grabs his head with both hands and squeezes his hair, pressing him tighter against her. The camera catches her face from above: eyes closed, mouth parted, and Diego’s fingers still inside, moving with the rhythm of his tongue.

Sofía comes with her eyes shut tight, her back slightly arched, a sound slipping from between her teeth like something she couldn’t hold back. Her thighs tighten around his head, her belly trembles in waves, and she lets out a “I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I’m cumming” three times in a row, each time softer, until she goes still for a moment, tense, and then lets all the air out at once and laughs under her breath, that laugh of relief I know so well and hadn’t heard from her in a long time.

Diego lifts his face. His mouth and chin are shining. He kisses her shoulder, then her mouth, and she kisses him back with tongue, tasting herself on him, unbothered by her own flavor. He says something in her ear. She shakes her head, smiling, as if to say it’s still not enough.

“Now I want you to fuck me,” she says clearly enough to hear.

***

The third video is the longest. Twenty-seven minutes.

By then they’re both on the ground, on the towels they spread out in front of the lounger. The light has changed: it’s more orange, lower, it’s six-thirty or seven. The wine is finished. The bougainvillea in the background casts a long shadow that covers them almost completely in some shots.

Sofía is on all fours at first. The bikini has been tossed aside, crumpled into a black-and-white ball. Diego is behind her, kneeling, holding her by the base and sliding the tip along her slit slowly, up and down, teasing her, not putting it in yet. She pushes her ass back, impatient, and he laughs softly.

“Ask me.”

“Put it in.”

“Not like that.”

“Please. Put it in, Diego, please, fuck me already.”

He shoves it in. Sofía lets out a long, guttural moan and lowers her head until her forehead rests on the towel. Diego stays still for a second, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust, and then starts moving. At first slowly, going in and out at a crawl so she feels him all the way each time, and then faster, gripping her hips with both hands, yanking her against him with every thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin comes through the microphone perfectly. Sofía’s ass trembles with every hit.

“Harder,” she tells him, turning her head to one side. “Fuck me harder.”

Diego smacks her ass. Hard. The red mark appears at once. Sofía lets out a short, disbelieving laugh and says, “Again,” and he does it, and she laughs again and pushes her ass back against him asking for more. She grabs his hair, pulls his head back, and there, arched, with his hair taut and her mouth open, the first orgasm catches her a little by surprise. She laughs afterward with that nervous laugh she has when something overwhelms her, and says, “Wait, wait,” but Diego doesn’t wait, keeps fucking her all the same while she writhes underneath him.

Then he turns her over. He lays her on her back on the towels and lifts both legs, resting them on his shoulders. He goes in again, and from that angle you can see everything: his cock coming out shining and sinking back in, Sofía’s pussy taking him all the way, her hand slipping between their bodies to touch her clit while he fucks her.

“Look at me,” Diego says.

She opens her eyes.

There was something about that exchange of looks that I found harder to watch than anything else. More than the hands, more than the bodies, more than another guy’s cock going in and out of my wife’s body. That sustained look, unhurried, between two people who truly see each other while one is inside the other.

Sofía moves her lips. You can’t hear it, but it’s clear enough to read: harder. Diego understands. The rhythm changes. He grabs her wrists and pins them to the towel above her head, and like that, immobilized, he starts fucking her for real, with his whole hip, with all his strength, until the lounger behind them creaks and the towels shift. Sofía’s second orgasm is longer and built up, she actively chases it by tilting her hips a certain way, closing her legs around his back, and when it comes she closes her eyes hard and doesn’t open them for almost a minute, mouth open but making no sound, trembling all over beneath him.

Diego pulls out. He lifts her. He sits her on top of him, straddling him, and like that, face to face, Sofía takes him in herself again, lowering slowly all the way down. She starts riding him. She braces both hands on his shoulders and goes up and down, searching for the angle, adjusting, until she finds one that makes her moan differently, sharper, deeper. Diego sucks her tits while she moves, bites her nipples, grips her ass with both hands and helps her move on top.

The third orgasm makes her clutch Diego’s shoulders with both hands, whisper something in his ear, and then stay completely still, suspended somewhere I can’t reach. All you can see is her back trembling and hear a long moan, muffled against his neck, while her pussy clenches around him inside and Diego holds her, still, letting her finish.

“Come inside me,” she says when she can speak again.

Diego grabs her by the waist and moves her himself, up and down, faster and faster, until her whole body goes tight and he lets out a hoarse groan, driving himself in all the way. Sofía stays on top, feeling him, eyes closed and a barely drawn smile on her face. She keeps him inside her for a long while before getting off.

They both stay like that, not moving, while the light keeps changing and the bougainvillea’s shadow covers them almost entirely. When she finally pulls away, you can see the white trail running down the inside of her thigh. She doesn’t wipe it off. She lies down on her back beside him, panting, and laughs again with that laugh I haven’t heard from her in so long.

***

There’s a moment at the end of the second video that I didn’t notice the first time.

Sofía is sitting on the edge of the lounger, getting herself together. She adjusts her bikini, runs her fingers through her wet hair. Diego is standing beside her, one hand on her shoulder. They’re both looking at the phone propped on the table.

Sofía stretches out her arm, reaches for it, picks it up. She watches the video they’ve just recorded. She smiles.

“Came out well,” she says. And saves it.

She doesn’t delete it. She saves it.

Since then I think about that often. Whether it was carelessness or whether it was on purpose. Whether somewhere she won’t fully admit to herself, she wanted me to find it.

I haven’t asked her. I still haven’t asked her anything.

What I do know is that since that night I sleep differently, and that every time Diego appears in the neighboring yard watering his plants like nothing’s happened, I watch him from the window and remember exactly the face my wife makes when he comes inside her.

I don’t know if what I feel then is what I ought to feel.

I don’t know if I should have turned off the television that night instead of watching to the end.

And I also don’t know why, knowing everything I know now, I still haven’t deleted those three files from my email.