My Wife and the Investor’s Final Clause

The hangover from the night before was the least of my problems. When I opened my eyes, the dirty morning light filtered through the blinds, and Camila slept beside me, her naked back turned toward me. That same back I had seen arched over the suite’s armchair while Nakamura penetrated her for the first time. I closed my eyes, and the images returned, vivid and humiliating.

I had come without touching myself, leaning against the wall, watching them like an idiot. I had sold my wife for a contract and then masturbated to the scene. Ambition had blinded me for months. Rodrigo, the intermediary, had presented it as a simple demonstration of trust. A gesture. A Japanese courtesy. And Camila, my wife, had accepted with a silence that now frightened me more than the night itself.

She moved, stretched like a cat, and got up without looking at me. She went into the bathroom with a calmness I no longer recognized. I followed her with my eyes: the slight sway of her hips, a purplish bruise on her inner thigh. Jealousy rose through my chest like bile.

The message arrived at eleven thirty, directly on my phone, from a private number.

“Mr. Vargas. Nakamura speaking. The prospecting exceeded my expectations. I wish to proceed with the full investment. Tonight, ten p.m., Riviera Hotel, penthouse. My chauffeur will pick up your wife. I ask you to accompany her and wait in the adjoining bedroom. You will find a screen switched on. Consider it part of the business transparency.”

I read the message six times. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a summons. Nakamura didn’t just want Camila again: he wanted me there too, sitting in front of a screen, watching him do whatever he pleased with my wife. Accomplice and witness. And deep in my stomach, the arousal began to creep back, the same arousal that had made me ejaculate against the wall the night before.

“Bad news?” Camila asked from the kitchen doorway. She had a cup of coffee in her hand and was looking at me with clear eyes.

I handed her the phone. She read it slowly, without changing expression.

“It seems Mr. Nakamura was sincere,” she said, handing the device back to me. “Are you going to confirm? Or are you going to say no, after last night?”

The question was a trap. Saying no meant admitting that I had sold my wife. Saying yes meant sinking one step deeper. I typed the only word I could type: “Confirmed.” Nakamura replied with a thumbs-up.

***

At half past nine, the black car arrived. Camila wore what they had sent that afternoon in a discreet box: a red silk outfit that barely covered her thighs, black fishnet stockings, stiletto heels. Nothing businesslike. This time the uniform was different, and it spoke for itself. I sat beside her in silence, watching the city pass beyond the window.

Nakamura received us at the suite door wearing a dark kimono. He indicated the guest room with a measured gesture.

“Mr. Vargas, this way. You’ll find whiskey and a screen switched on. Camila and I have to finalize the last details.”

She looked at me for a second. There was neither reproach nor fear in her eyes. Only a new calm, almost professional. Then she followed Nakamura into the master bedroom, and the door closed with a sharp click.

The guest room was narrow and expensive. On the wall opposite, a fifty-inch screen divided into four panels showed the master bedroom in high definition from different angles: the king-size bed, the bar, the window with the city lit up below. I poured myself a double whiskey and sat down.

Nakamura was already untying his kimono. Beneath it was the lean, taut body of a man who took care of himself. His cock was hard, purplish red, not long but very thick, with prominent blue veins and a broad, rounded head, shiny like a mushroom. His balls hung heavily in his loose scrotum, swaying as he walked toward Camila.

He lowered the red robe from her shoulders. The silk outfit clung to her breasts, round and firm, their dark nipples already hard and noticeably swollen. Nakamura crouched and sucked one of them whole, biting the tip. Camila arched her back and let out a short, high moan, a sound I had never drawn from her in fourteen years of marriage.

The Japanese man’s free hand slid down her flat belly to her mound, covered by a neat triangle of dark brown hair. He parted her outer lips with two fingers, slowly, like someone opening a ripe fruit. Camila’s pussy was already glistening, slightly open, her small pink inner lips wrinkled and trembling. A tiny cinnamon-colored mole marked the upper fold. Nakamura licked it with the tip of his tongue, and she shuddered all over.

“Exquisite,” he murmured, looking straight at the camera. “Every detail.”

He pushed a finger into her pussy, withdrew it glistening, and used the moisture to brush against her ass. A closed, darker ring, tight. Camila held her breath.

“So tight,” Nakamura said. “A place no one has claimed yet.”

He didn’t enter. He simply left his finger resting there, a promise, and gently pushed her toward the bed. Camila fell onto her back, and he positioned himself between her legs. She opened them without protest. The fishnets marked her thighs, and her heels dangled from the tips of her feet like fallen weapons.

Nakamura didn’t penetrate her all at once. He pressed the thick head of his cock against my wife’s pink lips and ran it up and down, sliding through the wetness. The sound it made—a filthy, wet sloshing—came clearly through the microphones.

“Ready to receive the full investment?” he asked, looking at the camera. Looking at me.

Camila nodded with her mouth open, voiceless. Nakamura pushed. It was a slow, millimeter-by-millimeter entry, the broad head forcing a path against my wife’s tightness. In close-up, I watched the tip disappear, then the veined shaft follow centimeter by centimeter until it sank inside completely. Camila let out a hoarse, animal cry and gripped the sheets with both hands.

He began fucking her with long, deep thrusts, putting his full weight behind them. From the ceiling camera, I could see Nakamura’s heavy balls striking Camila’s perineum with every thrust—a wet, rhythmic slap, slap, slap—and her hips moving with him, seeking the impact.

“Yes… like that… I love feeling them hitting me…” my wife panted in a voice I didn’t know.

Nakamura lifted her legs and rested them on his shoulders, folding her almost in half. From that angle, his cock went deeper, and Camila’s belly bulged with every thrust. Her breasts bounced wildly. The wetness between them was audible, a constant smacking sound that spoke of surrender.

“You’re… the best investment of my life,” Nakamura growled between kisses, losing his composure for the first time.

Camila didn’t answer with words. She dug her nails into his back and came with a long, trembling cry, her pussy visibly contracting around the dark cock. Nakamura endured two, three more thrusts, then sank to the hilt with a hoarse groan. I saw the spasms in his back through the rear camera. When he pulled out, the camera showed my wife’s swollen lips for an instant, glazed and trembling.

***

I thought it was over. It wasn’t.

Camila moved across the bed with a new energy, as though the orgasm had charged her instead of leaving her limp. She slid between Nakamura’s legs and took his cock in both hands. She licked the red head, gathering what remained of both of them. Then she opened her mouth and slowly swallowed it, without hurry, until her nose touched the Japanese man’s pubic hair. A spasm shook her neck, and she swallowed that too, eyes closed. I squeezed the whiskey glass until it creaked.

She sucked each of his balls completely before letting him go. Nakamura tangled his fingers in her hair and growled something in Japanese. His cock, which had begun to soften, rose hard and threatening again within minutes, the veins standing out once more.

“Sugoi,” he murmured. “Amazing.”

Then his tone changed. He laid her on her back and began sucking her neck. These weren’t kisses: they were long, sustained pulls that left red ovals on my wife’s milky skin. A hickey beneath her ear. Another between her breasts. Another on the lower curve of each breast. Camila moaned with every mark, not from pain but from a different kind of pleasure, the pleasure of being marked as property. Nakamura moved down her belly and inner thighs, leaving a fresh bruise at every stop.

Then he made her turn over. Face down, ass raised. He sucked her back, her shoulder blades, her waist. And when he reached her buttocks, he bit her. Camila screamed.

“Ow! That hurts there…”

Nakamura bit her again, more gently. Camila’s panting changed. The third bite, on the other cheek, drew a gush of wetness from her that the cameras captured with surgical cruelty.

“You see?” Nakamura whispered, his mouth pressed to her skin. “Your body speaks a language your mind still doesn’t understand.”

He knelt and spread her buttocks with both hands. Camila’s ass appeared in close-up on the screen: a tight, untouched ring. Nakamura massaged her asshole with his thumb in slow circles. She released a new sigh of surprise, a low moan she had never made before.

“Has anyone entered here?” he asked, and the cameras drove the question straight at me.

Camila buried her face in the pillow.

“Diego tried once,” she said, and hearing my name in her mouth at that moment split my chest in two. “He was rough, clumsy, and hurt me. I forbade him. Since then, my ass has been untouched.”

Nakamura smiled as though he had received a gift. He coated his thumb with his own pre-cum and pressed it against her ring. Only the tip entered. Camila exhaled a slow, guttural sound.

“It doesn’t hurt,” she whispered, surprised. “The opposite…”

He withdrew his finger. He positioned himself behind her and pressed the thick head of his cock against my wife’s asshole. He didn’t push. For long minutes, he simply rubbed it there in wet circles, tracing her ring with the tip until Camila began moving backward, offering herself.

“Please, Nakamura-san… put it in me… even just a little…”

I closed my eyes for a second. When I opened them, the broad head was already forcing its way in. One centimeter. Another. My wife’s ass stretched around the dark cock, yielding. Camila moaned for a long time, without breaking, accepting.

“More?” Nakamura asked.

“Yes… a little more…”

With half the shaft inside, he stopped. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but they weren’t tears of pain; they were tears of something new, a pleasure too large for her body to contain. She began to move, first shallowly, over those few centimeters; then deeper, until the Japanese man’s pelvis was pressed against Camila’s buttocks.

“It’s… inside,” she whispered to herself. “My God, I have the whole thing in my ass.”

Nakamura began fucking her in earnest. Long thrusts, withdrawing almost completely, the cock shining, then sinking back into her tight asshole. Camila put one hand between her legs and began rubbing her clitoris desperately, searching for the point the straight thrusts couldn’t give her.

“Yes! There! Right there!” she howled, beside herself.

She came in a chain, one orgasm after another, her ass contracting around Nakamura’s cock and drawing increasingly animalistic grunts from him. The cock moving in and out of her stretched, glistening anus, my wife’s eyes rolled back, her hand frantic on her clitoris: the screen showed everything with cruel clarity.

Nakamura sank into her one last time, all the way to the hilt, and came inside her with a long growl. He remained there, still, breathing. When he pulled out, a white thread hung between Camila’s buttocks.

***

The guest-room door opened an hour later. Nakamura was dressed in his kimono again. Camila followed him, wrapped in the red robe, her lips swollen, her hair tousled, her eyes shining with a new, satisfied light that did not look at me.

“The investment is complete, Vargas,” Nakamura said, cold and professional again. “The funds will be transferred tomorrow. Camila was formidable. I hope our business continues to be so fruitful.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a declaration. There would be more nights like this. It was part of the deal I myself had signed.

On the drive back, Camila rested her head against the glass and watched the last lights of the city before dawn. For the first time in hours, she spoke.

“Did you see everything, Diego?”

I didn’t answer her. There was no way to answer. She wasn’t expecting an answer; she was merely stating a fact, as cold as the car window.

The screen in the guest room was already off. The image of my wife enjoying herself, however, remained lit behind my eyes, and something told me it would stay lit for a long time.

To be continued.