The Locker Room Cameras No One Was Supposed to See

My name is Verónica, I’m twenty-eight, and I’m not what people would call a stunning woman. I’m the kind who fades into the background: ordinary brown hair, average height, a face that doesn’t turn heads at a bar, but doesn’t scare anyone off either. It never bothered me much until I married Sebastián and started wondering whether it didn’t bother him anymore either.

Sebastián works as a mechanic on cargo ships. Months at sea, weeks in ports I wouldn’t know how to find on a map, and then a return of four or five days before the cycle starts again. When we got married, I thought I understood that. That love would be enough to fill those gaps. Four years later I understood that love is very good at a lot of things, but it doesn’t fill an empty bed, it doesn’t erase the three-a.m. paranoia, and it doesn’t stop your cunt from stinging when you’ve gone months without a cock inside you.

It’s not that I don’t trust him. Or maybe I do distrust him, but I try not to obsess over it. Sebastián says nothing’s wrong, that he loves me, that when he comes back I’m the first thing on his mind. And when he does come back, I really am: the first two days we don’t leave the bed, he fucks me like he wants to make up for every lost week, he leaves my cunt raw and my thighs slick with cum. The problem is the rest of the time.

That’s why the gym. That’s why I paid three months in advance at that small place that had opened two blocks from home, with decent equipment and few members. I didn’t look for a personal trainer or sign up for group classes. I wanted to move, to sweat, to shut my head off, and also to shut off the urge that woke me at four in the morning with my hand between my legs. And it works halfway: a tired body sleeps better than a restless one, but desire doesn’t go away with burpees.

I always went at six in the morning. At that hour the place was almost empty: a regular or two who also didn’t talk much, and me. I wore tight clothes because at that hour there was no one to look and because they were comfortable, not because I wanted attention. I put my headphones in the moment I walked through the door. No one bothered me for the first three months.

What I didn’t know was that the manager had been watching me for weeks.

His name was Rodrigo. He was the trainer and also the owner of the place, something I found out later. He must have been in his mid-thirties, tall, with the kind of body built over years without overdoing it: defined without being grotesque, broad shoulders, big hands. He wasn’t the classic gym show-off. I rarely saw him looking at himself in the mirrors.

The first time he came up to me was on a Wednesday. I was finishing on the treadmill when he stopped beside me, unhurried.

—You’ve been coming for months and never talk to anyone —he said, as if it were a weather report.

I took out one earbud.

—I come here to train, not to socialize.

He didn’t take offense. He only nodded slowly.

—I know. That’s why I hadn’t bothered you before. But I keep seeing you do the same routine. If you want, I can put together something new for you. No extra charge, it’s part of the service.

There was a strange moment in that conversation. He asked me who had taught me the exercises I was doing, and I opened my mouth to say “my husband” and stopped. I said “a friend who knows about that stuff.” I don’t know exactly why I did it. At the time I preferred not to analyze it.

—The friend can’t know whether you’re doing it right if he isn’t here —Rodrigo said—. Come by the office when you’re done and we’ll see what can be improved.

I said yes almost without thinking.

***

The office was a small room at the end of the hall, behind the locker rooms. A desk, two chairs, a cabinet with file folders, and a computer turned on with several windows open. The entrance, the machines, the reception... and at least three angles that didn’t belong to any of those areas.

It took me two seconds to understand what I was seeing. The women’s locker rooms. Three different cameras, with carefully chosen angles: one aimed at the showers, another at the benches where you change, another at the mirror in the back. That bastard was watching us all naked and probably recording it.

I said nothing. I quickly shifted my eyes elsewhere before he crossed to his chair. I sat down. We talked about routines, cardio, goals. He spoke while looking at me and I answered thinking about those screens, thinking he had seen my tits, my ass, my shaved cunt, the way I sometimes lingered running my hand over my pubis under the shower because I’d gone weeks without getting fucked.

I should leave. I should tell him I know.

I did neither. And I noticed, with a shame that was half anger and half something else, that my panties were getting wet while I sat there.

When I got up to leave, he said we’d start the next day. I nodded. Out on the street, walking home with the sun barely rising, I realized my heart was racing and my cunt was throbbing under my leggings. Not exactly from fear. Or not only from that.

Sebastián had been at sea for almost four months. We texted every other day, called on weekends. The last time we talked by video I noticed he was distracted, with the background of a room I didn’t recognize. He told me they were in a new port. I didn’t ask any more.

I decided I’d let things run their course.

***

The following week something changed at the gym. Rodrigo was there when I arrived, although he hadn’t always been there at that hour before. He explained the exercises by coming closer than necessary, put his hand on my back to correct my posture, brushed my shoulder when he passed, and once, while I was doing squats, he put his hand on my hip right against the fold of my ass and left it there longer than he should have. It was so gradual it could almost have been accidental.

I let him. More than that: I started making it easy for him. I wore the tightest workout clothes I had, with no panties underneath, so the shape of my cunt lips showed through the fabric. I bent over a little more than necessary to pick weights up off the floor, legs apart, knowing that from behind the leggings would ride between my cheeks. I looked at him when I finished a set, only for a second, but it was enough for him to see. One morning, while I was deadlifting, I saw the bulge in his shorts. I didn’t look away.

We didn’t say anything direct all week. There was no need.

On Thursday of the following week I arrived earlier than usual. It was almost five-thirty and the place was still dark when Rodrigo opened the front door. He looked at me, let me in, and I heard the click of the key turning behind me.

I kept walking toward the locker rooms as if I hadn’t noticed.

I changed slowly, without rushing. I took off my street clothes while looking at the camera in the corner without letting it show, knowing he was watching every inch of skin that appeared. I tied my hair in front of the mirror, set my sneakers on the wooden bench. I put on my black leggings with nothing underneath, and a sports top that pushed my tits up but left almost all of my cleavage on display. When I heard the locker room door open and his footsteps on the cold tiles, I didn’t turn around.

—I knew you’d be early today —he said from the entrance.

I kept looking at the mirror.

—I knew it too.

He came up behind me. His hands went to my hips first of all, and I felt the heat of his body pressed against mine before he even touched me fully. His cock, already rock hard, dug into the small of my back through the fabric of my shorts. He turned me with a firm movement, without brutality, and gently shoved me against the cold metal of the lockers.

There was nothing under the leggings. Rodrigo found that out in seconds, with a hand that slid slowly down the elastic waistband, and what he found there changed his breathing. He slipped two fingers between the lips of my cunt, moved them slowly, pulled them out drenched, and ran them over my nipples above my top.

—You’ve been like this for weeks —he said, not as a question.

—Yes. Soaking wet. Since I saw the cameras.

He laughed softly against my neck. He tore my top off in one yank, leaving my tits bare, and went straight down to one nipple, biting just enough to make me arch. With his other hand he kept working my clit in slow circles, two fingers inside to the knuckles, curling inward and finding that spot I hadn’t even remembered I had. I bit my lip to keep from moaning too loudly and it wasn’t enough: a long gasp escaped me when he found the spot and started hammering it with his fingertip.

—Put your hands on the locker —he said, and I obeyed without thinking.

He dropped to his knees in front of me, yanked my leggings down to my knees, and spread my cunt with his thumbs before burying his tongue in it. He wasn’t gentle. It was one long lick from the entrance to the clit, then he sucked, mouth open, swallowing everything, his tongue wedged between my lips, his nose pressed to my mound. I grabbed his head with both hands and rode his face shamelessly, moving my hips against his mouth until I felt the first orgasm of the day coming on, dry and quick, folding my knees and making me moan out loud against the lockers.

He stood up with his chin gleaming and turned me around.

***

What followed was direct. No long preamble or unnecessary conversation. He turned me around, my hands on the lockers, ass high, and pulled his cock out of his pants. I felt it thick against my cheeks before I felt it at my opening. He rubbed it there first, soaking it well in my juices, and then slid in all at once, to the hilt, without warning. The sound that came out of my throat was involuntary and I covered it with my own hand, but he didn’t stop. He grabbed my hips with both hands, fingers digging into the flesh, and started fucking me with long thrusts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in until his balls knocked against my clit.

—Look how you’d been hiding it —I heard him say between harsh breaths—. All that wasted cunt while your husband’s ten thousand kilometers away.

—Shut up and keep going —I shot back, and he let out a short laugh and picked up the pace.

He kept a steady rhythm, relentless, making it hard to think about anything else. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed off the tiles, mixed with the wet splash of my drenched cunt and my own muffled moans. He reached around from the front to grab a tit, squeezing it hard, pinching my nipple between thumb and forefinger, and with his other hand he found my clit again. He started rubbing it at the same time he was thrusting into me, and in less than a minute I was coming again, clenching around his cock in long spasms that drew a groan out of him too.

I’d forgotten what that felt like. Not sex in general, but that specific sensation of something taking you over completely, of it hurting just enough to make you want more, that cock forcing your walls open every time it drives all the way in. Sebastián and I had good sex on the days we crossed paths, but we’d gone months without crossing paths and my cunt remembered all the hunger it had stored up.

We stayed like that for several minutes, in silence except for the sounds we couldn’t help: the dull slap of his hips against my ass, my broken breathing, the occasional escaped moan, a whispered “whore” from him near my ear. Then he took my hand, with his cock still hard and shining with me, and led me toward the showers in the back.

Under the hot water everything slowed down. I took off my top and stood completely naked under the spray. He undressed without hurry, as if we had all the time in the world even though the place opened in less than an hour. I saw his cock exposed for the first time, thick and curving upward, the head red, a strand of my juices still hanging from it. My mouth literally watered.

Rodrigo had a long scar on his left side, the kind that looks old. I stared at it for a moment while the water fell over both of us, and something about that detail —the imperfection in someone who looked so controlled— finished wiping out any doubt I might have had left.

I got down on my knees on the wet tiles. He said nothing, just held my hair with one hand, carefully. I took him into my mouth slowly, finding the rhythm on my own. First the tip, sucking the head with tight lips, tongue circling the glans until I heard him suck in a sharp breath. Then deeper, taking him almost all the way, until the tip hit the back of my throat and I had to pull back so I wouldn’t choke. I took him all out, licked him from the balls up, spit on the tip and took him back in. It had been a long time since I’d done it like that, longer than I cared to admit, and I was surprised by how good that moment felt: me setting the pace, him still, gasping, with his fingers tangled in my wet hair.

—Like that, don’t stop —he murmured, and I started sucking him faster, sealing my lips around the shaft, moving my head up and down, letting a thread of saliva run down my chin and onto my tits.

Until he couldn’t stay still anymore. He lifted me, pressed me against the tiled wall —a sharp contrast with the hot water still falling— and picked up where we’d left off. He lifted one leg and put it on his shoulder, then shoved himself all the way back inside me in one thrust. This time more slowly, with a different kind of intent, rolling his hips in circles, making me feel his cock against every part of the walls of my cunt. That rhythm was almost worse, in the sense that it made it impossible to hide anything: every time he reached the bottom I let out a new moan, lower, and he answered with a deeper thrust.

—Tell me you’ve wanted this for months —he said, his mouth against my ear.

—I have for months —I gasped back—. Fuck me harder.

And he fucked me harder. He slid his hands down to my ass, squeezed it, spread my cheeks, and started pumping me with all the strength of his hips. The water ran over our faces, got in my eyes, my mouth open against his shoulder. I felt the third orgasm rising from inside me, a slow one that started in my belly and climbed to my chest, and I bit his shoulder when it burst. My whole cunt clenched around him and he couldn’t take it anymore: I felt his cock swell, he growled something against my neck, and asked me to get back on my knees.

I did. I knelt down, closed my eyes, and opened my mouth. He came in spurts, long ones, over my tongue and face, the thick semen mixing with the water still falling. When he finished, he bent down, took my chin, and kissed me with the taste still inside me.

We finished with the water no longer quite so hot, both of us leaning against the wall, breathing.

I stood for a moment under the spray watching the water run toward the drain, carrying off what was left on me. I thought of Sebastián. I didn’t feel exactly what I was supposed to feel: it wasn’t guilt, or at least not mainly that. It was something more like clarity. Like when you’ve gone too long without sleep and finally lie down.

I dressed slowly. When I came out of the locker room the place was still empty, but the front door was already unlocked. Rodrigo appeared at reception looking like he’d had a good rest.

—Tomorrow? —he asked.

I stopped in the doorway.

—Today’s cardio was very demanding. I’m going to need at least one recovery day.

He laughed, barely, without showing his teeth.

Out on the street, with the sun already up and the city awake, I still had the pulse racing through me and felt my cunt swollen under the leggings. I walked home at a brisk pace thinking that at noon I had a call with Sebastián. I was going to smile, I was going to ask how he was, I was going to say I missed him.

All of that was true. But it wasn’t the whole truth anymore.

This was only the beginning of what happened that summer. Rodrigo and I never put a name to what we did. There was no need. The keys turned in the lock at five-thirty, the place was always empty at that hour, and the women’s locker room had three cameras we both knew existed.

Neither of us ever mentioned them again.