I Imagine Another Man When I Make Love to My Wife

Am I fucked in the head?

That’s the only thing I can think while I’m on top of Mariana, sinking into her with the slow rhythm she likes so much. Her body is hot beneath mine, there’s a thin layer of sweat between our chests, her nipples brush my skin every time she draws in a deep breath. She digs her nails into my back, not hard, just enough to remind me she’s there, that she’s real, that she’s mine.

That should be enough. I’ve been with her for twelve years. I know her. I know the exact curve of her hip, the precise place where she likes to be bitten, the second when that barely audible moan slips out of her, the one only the person inside her can hear. That should be enough for any man.

And yet, my head wanders again.

It always starts the same way. A stray image, almost innocent, slipping in between two thrusts. Another guy. Taller than me. Broader. Stronger. Bigger cock. He grips her by the waist like he knows her body by heart and slides into her without asking permission. And she—my wife, my daughter’s mother, the woman who chose me years ago—moans with that broken voice she almost never gives me. She moans like this is finally the cock she’s been waiting for.

—Slower… —she whispers in my ear, because she’s close.

I obey. I slow down. But in my head the other man speeds up. He pins her wrists to the mattress and drives into her hard, and she answers with her hips, lifting to meet him, calling him on. My dick swells just from imagining it. Mariana feels it and opens her eyes, surprised, and smiles as if she knows what’s going through my head, even though she has no idea.

***

This didn’t start overnight.

It began with stupid little things. Likes on her social media photos. An innocent comment from a coworker. That night at the bar on the corner, when a stranger walked up and, staring right at her, told her she was the prettiest woman he’d seen all month. I was standing right there. He knew it. He didn’t care. And instead of bothering me, I got hard under the table.

Then came her company’s year-end dinner. She came back at two in the morning, hair disheveled, lipstick smeared, breath smelling of wine. She told me she’d stayed chatting with a client. I didn’t believe her. Or rather, I didn’t want to believe her. That night I took her into the shower, hiked up her dress, and fucked her against the tiles as if someone else had touched her first, as if I were the second one, the one picking up the leftovers. She came twice. I came with a shout.

I wanted to know whether it was jealousy or something darker. I made a fake profile on a couple of dating apps, using three old photos of hers I hadn’t posted anywhere. Messages started coming in right away. Most were tame, almost dumb: “hi beautiful,” “what a lovely smile,” “I’d love to meet you.” Some got bolder, with lines that were meant to sound daring but were predictable. I replied pretending to be her, and after two weeks I got bored. It wasn’t her answering. It wasn’t real. It was me writing to myself in the third person.

I shut the profiles down. I thought it would pass.

It didn’t.

***

What finally twisted me up was something else.

One night, unable to sleep, I took a picture of Mariana while she was resting. She was on her back, the sheet tangled at her waist, her tits out, nipples raised by the cold air-conditioning. I took three photos in a row and crawled back beside her with my heart pounding a mile a minute. I stared at them all night.

The next day, in the office bathroom, I opened an anonymous account. I uploaded two. The caption was simple: “My wife asleep, what would you do to her?” I expected no one to answer. Five minutes later, notifications started popping up one after another.

“Those are perfect tits, I’d suck them till they were purple.”

“I’d fuck her slow so I wouldn’t wake her and leave her a surprise inside.”

“Keep them coming, bro, we want to see her ass.”

“That innocent face is deceptive, she probably loves being shut up with a cock.”

“If you live nearby, send me the location and I swear I’ll take good care of her.”

I read every comment slowly, as if they were coins. I got hard on the office toilet and didn’t dare do anything there. I got home, locked myself in the bathroom, and came in two minutes, staring at the messages again and again, repeating them under my breath like a mantra.

From that day on I started looking for new angles. I photographed her while she slept. I photographed her coming out of the shower without her noticing. I photographed her in the kitchen, backlit, when her nightgown went sheer. I uploaded them to different groups, always without a fixed pattern, so there’d be no trail. And I read. I read everything the others wrote. Some came right out and offered themselves. “I’m downtown, six-two, I can swing by your place any Friday.” “Send me the location and I’ll fill her up.”

Every offer made my dick hard as a rock. I imagined those guys knocking on my door, coming into my room, taking my side of the bed. I imagined Mariana opening her eyes and smiling instead of screaming.

***

Now, while I keep fucking her in silence, another scene builds itself in my head.

She’s on her back, just like now. But I’m not the one covering her. It’s one of the men who wrote in the group yesterday. A big guy, broad-backed, straddling her stomach. Mariana grabs his tits with both hands, presses them together, and wraps her hands around his thick cock in the middle. She starts slow, letting him see the head emerge between her soft skin. She looks him in the eye with a mischievous smile I never managed to pull out of her.

—Like this, baby… —she says, and the “baby” comes out naturally, as if she’d rehearsed it.

The other man breathes deep, growls something unintelligible, moves his hips to find the rhythm of my wife’s hands. He says things to her. “Nice tits, baby,” “don’t stop, keep going.” Mariana pushes harder, rubs her nipples against the shaft, speeds up. He can’t take it anymore. He throws his head back and empties himself over her in long spurts, paints her neck, her cleavage, her lower lip. Mariana laughs softly, satisfied, and runs a finger over her cheek to bring some of it to her mouth.

I slam back into reality. Mariana arches her back and comes, clenching around me with her legs. I empty myself inside her with a force that leaves me shaking, while in my head the other man keeps finishing between her tits.

Later, when she curls against my chest and falls asleep, I spend a full hour with my eyes open. I look at her profile lit by the streetlight and ask myself, once again, what the fuck is wrong with me.

***

A couple months ago, after a bottle of wine, I got bold enough to test the waters. I told her I had a fantasy and needed to tell her about it. She sat up on the couch, amused.

—Go on, tell me.

—Imagining you with another guy. While I watch.

The smile vanished from her face. It took her a couple seconds to answer.

—No, baby. Not that.

—It was just a fantasy…

—It’s fine that it’s a fantasy, but don’t tell me like that. I don’t find it funny. I don’t want you to see me as something that gets shared.

She kissed my forehead, changed the subject, and went to get another glass. We never talked about it again. I never pushed it. Lesson learned: with her, that wasn’t the way.

But inside my head the fantasy never died out. On the contrary. It got sharper, more detailed, more mine. Like a secret room I entered every night after she fell asleep.

***

Cuckold porn stopped doing it for me. Everything looked fake. Actresses faking orgasms, guys with rented cocks for the camera, husbands watching with that awkward expression. None of it was enough. I wanted something real. I wanted to hear my wife moaning for real. I wanted to see how she moved when she was really horny. I wanted to hear her real breathing… while imagining that some other man was causing it.

That’s why I started recording.

At first it was audio. I left my phone charging on the nightstand, right by the pillow, with the recorder open. Mariana didn’t notice. And after fucking, I’d go down to the study, put on my headphones, and listen to her. They were short recordings, fifteen or twenty minutes. You heard everything. Every kiss. Every nervous laugh. Every whispered “come here.” Every moan that escaped her when I was inside her. Her breathing speeding up. The exact moment her voice would crack.

The first time I jerked off to one of those recordings, I came in less than a minute. But in my head it wasn’t me inside her. It was a stranger, growling rougher than me, pounding her harder, pulling moans out of her that never rise that high when it’s me.

After a few weeks, the audio still wasn’t enough. I wanted to see her. I wanted to put images to the sound. I wanted to be a voyeur in my own bedroom.

***

I bought three tiny cameras. I ordered them from a website that advertises them as security cameras for vacation homes. Night vision. No visible lights. I hid them patiently: one up high, in the crack of the ceiling sconce. Another facing forward, inside the dresser frame, aimed straight at the bed. The third behind a picture, low down, calibrated to catch her when she rides me.

I check them every time she goes out shopping or falls asleep early.

The ceiling camera is brutal when I go down on her. You can see her whole body arching, heels digging into the sheets, hands pulling my hair. You hear her say “don’t stop” with a voice that gets rougher and rougher. While I watch, I jack off imagining it isn’t me down there. That it’s some other guy licking her, someone with a longer tongue, someone she gives herself to in a way she holds back with me.

The front camera catches her on all fours. That’s where I lose myself. Her tits hang and bounce with every thrust, her ass high, the curve of her waist lit by the lamp. In the background it’s me fucking her, but I don’t look at myself. I erase my face with my imagination and put the other man’s there. The one who growls hoarse. The one who breathes like he’s running out of air. The one who makes her beg louder.

The camera behind the picture is my favorite. It’s closest to the mattress. It records her from behind when she sits on top of me and starts moving slowly, rotating her hips. You can see her perfect back, the mole under her shoulder blade, her hair falling over her shoulders. In those videos I almost convince myself I’m looking through a hole in the wall. That I’m in the next room. That the person under her isn’t my body, but anyone else’s.

Most of the time something goes wrong. The bed shifts and the framing goes off. The sound gets swallowed by the fan noise. The light changes and everything blows out. It drives me fucking crazy. I want to capture every detail: how her nipples swell, how wet she gets, the exact moment the first “ah” slips out. But when a video turns out right… it’s gold.

***

I have an entire folder. Four hundred files. I named it something harmless so nobody would suspect anything if they caught my phone in my hand.

I know what would happen if I posted them in the groups. I know the dynamic. In five minutes the comments would flood the screen.

“Now that’s a woman who really moans.”

“Look at how she moves, she’s not acting.”

“I’ll give her what she needs, send me the location.”

“Bro, I’ll take care of her for a weekend and give her back twice as horny.”

And behind the comments, the private offers. Guys sending their addresses. Guys with cock shots ready to go. Guys offering themselves like bulls, with pedigrees, with previous experience, with guaranteed discretion.

I haven’t uploaded anything yet. Every time I’m about to, I stop. Because I know that once I do, there’s no going back. Mariana will never find out there was a group with her body in it. But the videos will be out there, circulating, multiplying. And what today is just a fantasy inside my head will start pushing to get out.

Sometimes I sit there with my finger over the upload button, listening to the air conditioner and Mariana’s breathing in the next room. And I wonder how long it’ll be before one day imagining isn’t enough anymore. Before one day I like the first serious message from a bull and send him, without a tremor, the address of my own house.

Today wasn’t that day.

But tomorrow, I don’t know.