I Turned On the Camera and Stopped Being Her Husband

The counter hit one hundred views just as Marcos’s phone vibrated for the first time. He was in the reprographics room in the basement, surrounded by rolled-up plans and gray filing cabinets, with his laptop on top of a box of A3 paper. The screen cast blue light over his face as he watched the number climb. One hundred. One hundred and twelve. One hundred and forty-three.

The channel was called “Premium Architect.” Ricardo, the studio director, had christened it that, with the mix of arrogance and practicality that marked everything he did. It had been live for four hours. It already had paying subscribers.

Marcos had been the one who recorded the first video. His hands had held the camera. His fingers had pressed the record button in the hotel suite bedroom, on a Tuesday night, while his wife let Ricardo fuck her from behind on top of the table where, ten minutes earlier, he had signed the exclusivity contract. Ricardo’s cock went in and out of Laura’s cunt in a slow, almost bureaucratic rhythm, and she signed with her right hand while holding onto the edge with her left, biting her lip so she wouldn’t moan too loudly. Marcos had filmed all of that. Every thrust. Laura’s ass moving back to take the whole cock. The shaky signature at the end of the last page, just as Ricardo came inside her and she collapsed onto the paper, gasping, semen dripping down the insides of her thighs.

The phone vibrated again. It was a WhatsApp group of university classmates: the ones from the class of ’96, the ones who still met for dinner once a year and always said they should do it more often.

—Hey, isn’t the woman in the video Soto sent us your wife? Tell me that’s not true, man. They’re giving it to her in all three holes.

He didn’t answer. He locked the phone and left it face down on a floor plan. Upstairs, Laura was in a meeting with Mr. Sung and his legal advisory team. Or that’s what she had told him that morning when they left the house together.

Always a meeting. Always something perfectly reasonable.

He closed the laptop. The counter had stopped updating for a few minutes. When he opened it again ten minutes later, it showed two hundred and eighty-four views. Someone was sharing the link.

Marcos didn’t go upstairs. He stayed in the basement until the ceiling fluorescent began to flicker and the numbers kept climbing.

***

At noon, Ricardo called the whole team into the boardroom to celebrate the contract signing. He had ordered catering from outside: cured meats, Manchego cheese, trays of sushi nobody was fully sold on. The sparkling wine arrived before the plates did.

Laura presided at the end of the table opposite the presentation screen. She wore a gray dress with a V-neck that exposed the edge of her collarbone, and her belly — unmistakably six months along now — was framed by the fabric with a symmetry several of those present stared at for far too long. Her hair was loose, something she only did when she knew she was going to be photographed.

—To the best asset this studio has! —Ricardo exclaimed, raising his glass toward her.

The two dozen-odd employees applauded. Some toasted standing up. The design team — Soto, Miriam, the intern with the same name as Marcos — came up to Laura in small groups to congratulate her, touch her belly, take a photo with her. She smiled every time someone approached. It was a wide, toothy smile, the one Marcos remembered from when they met in Seville nearly seven years ago.

He was at the back of the room, beside the window that looked onto the inner courtyard. Ricardo had asked him to record the celebration on his phone for the studio’s social media. “You know how to do this stuff, Marcos. You’re better at it than anyone else on the team.”

He framed his wife through the screen. Through that rectangle of glass, Laura was at once crisp and distant. He wondered how many of the people smiling in that room had already seen the videos. How many had seen Laura with one cock in her mouth and another in her cunt at the same time. How many had been jerking off that same morning in the office bathroom thinking about her.

—Record when Mr. Sung shakes my hand —she said, coming closer for a moment without looking at him—. That’s what the diamond level people are going to ask for most. The important client recognizing the work. You know how this works.

Marcos nodded. He hit record.

Mr. Sung approached Laura with the formal courtesy of an executive who had traveled too much. He held out his hand. She took it with both hands and bowed slightly, and Marcos’s camera captured the moment from the angle he knew would look best: the profile of her belly, the neckline, the professional smile that was not the smile she kept for others.

—Well done —Ricardo whispered as he passed by him, giving his shoulder a brief pat—. This afternoon there’s a session on the terrace with communications. I need you there too, with the camera.

—All right —Marcos replied.

He kept filming. Laura raised her glass to the room. The room applauded again.

***

What had begun two months earlier was hard to explain with words that made any sense. Ricardo had presented it as a couple’s proposal, using that reasoned, calm voice he reserved for management meetings. “A way to recover the connection you’ve lost. To make her feel desired. And you know her best, Marcos. That’s what gives all this value.”

Marcos didn’t remember ever explicitly saying yes. He remembered listening. He remembered Laura attending that conversation without speaking, her hands on the living room table and her eyes fixed on the window. He remembered that same night Ricardo staying for dinner, and after dinner no one suggesting he leave.

He also remembered what came after dinner. He remembered Ricardo unbuckling his belt in the living room of his own house while Laura watched him from the sofa with that animal stillness of females who have already decided. He remembered Ricardo’s cock coming out of his pants, thick and curved and already half hard, and Laura kneeling in front of him without anyone having told her to do it. He remembered the wet sound as his wife took that entire cock down her throat, until tears sprang to her eyes and saliva hung from her chin, and how Ricardo gripped the back of her neck and shoved deeper while saying, “That’s it, pretty girl, all the way down, you know how to do it.” He remembered sitting in the armchair opposite, hands on his thighs, not moving. Not saying anything. Watching Ricardo come in Laura’s mouth and watching her swallow it all, then opening her empty mouth upward, smiling, so Ricardo would praise her.

The camera appeared a week later. A compact but good model, with optical stabilization and more than enough memory card. Ricardo left it on the coffee table as if it were a birthday present.

—For you —he had said—. Because you’re the one who knows how to see her.

The one who knows how to see her. That’s who you are now. The one who sees and records and keeps and uploads.

That first night, hands slightly trembling and the camera in front of his face, Marcos had framed the sofa where Ricardo and Laura were starting to undress. He filmed Ricardo tearing her panties off in one pull. He filmed him spreading her legs and licking her cunt slowly, with his whole tongue, while Laura clutched the back of the sofa and gasped in a language Marcos had never heard her use. He filmed Ricardo lifting her up to straddle him and her letting herself be impaled by that cock she had sucked the week before, moving her hips up and down, her breasts falling in front of his face. He filmed the sound of thighs slapping together. He filmed Ricardo’s hand squeezing her ass, parting her cheeks, sliding a finger into her asshole while he kept fucking her from the front. He filmed Laura screaming — really screaming, not faking — and coming twice in a row without Ricardo ever stopping beneath her. He filmed the final cumshot: Ricardo pulled out of her cunt at the last second and shot his entire load onto her belly, her tits, her chin. And she ran her fingers over her skin and took the semen into her mouth as if it were something that belonged to her.

When Laura turned toward the camera for a second — only a second — with the cum still gleaming on her lips, and said nothing, Marcos understood that the agreement had been sealed without anyone ever signing it.

From then on, the channel grew. Subscribers asked for more. And more meant new settings, new men, situations Ricardo managed with the same efficiency with which he closed the studio’s contracts.

Marcos learned to keep his hand steady. He learned to anticipate movements, to change angles without losing focus, to know when to move in and when to pull back. He learned that natural afternoon light worked better than artificial lights for long scenes, and that close-ups of hands generated more interaction in the comments than wide shots. He learned that tight shots of his wife’s cunt being penetrated, with the lips stretched around an unfamiliar cock, were what brought in the most subscriptions. He was good at this. Maybe too good.

Laura thanked him in her own way.

—No one lights things like you —she would say, sometimes, when it was all over, with her mouth still swollen from sucking so much. And that was the only thing she ever said to him.

***

When he got home at quarter past eight that evening, the living room had been transformed. They had moved the coffee table. Three portable ring lights formed a triangle on the rug, with the cables bundled along the wall. Someone had set them up before he arrived.

The three men were waiting, seated: one on the sofa, two in the dining chairs someone had brought in there. Expensive clothes. Wineglasses in hand. They were talking quietly with the easy familiarity of people who have been somewhere for a while and have already grown used to the space.

Marcos didn’t know them. He had never seen their faces before that night.

When they saw him come in, all three nodded with impersonal courtesy and went back to their conversation. The one on the sofa —the oldest, gray at the temples, with a watch worth more than Marcos’s car— checked the time.

Laura came out of the bedroom.

She wore a burgundy satin robe that opened over her belly. She had nothing on underneath. She crossed the living room slowly, unhurriedly, and came up to Marcos. She placed a hand on his chest, right over the sternum. A gentle pressure that kept him exactly where he was.

—You’re late —she said. It wasn’t a reproach. It was a statement of fact.

—There was traffic on the freeway —he replied.

—These gentlemen have been waiting forty minutes with hard cocks, Marcos. They came from far away. —She adjusted his shirt collar with two fingers, slowly, without looking him in the eyes—. Get the camera. The battery’s charged. I already left everything ready.

He went to the bedroom. The camera was on the tripod, aimed at the living room. The memory card was formatted. The battery was at one hundred percent. On the dresser there was an opened tube of lubricant and a folded towel.

I already left everything ready. Of course you did.

When he came back, the three men had stood up. The gray-templed one gave him a brief nod: the neutral gesture of someone who recognizes a technician on a set and knows what his function is.

Marcos placed the tripod by the wall. Adjusted the height. Framed the shot.

Laura knelt on the rug, at the center of the triangle of light. The robe was still over her shoulders, open. She looked up at the camera for a second, only a second, and Marcos saw in her face something he had stopped looking for a long time ago: not love, not triumph exactly, but something barer than either of those things. A decision taken to its ultimate consequences.

The three men approached slowly. She let the robe fall.

Marcos pressed the record button.

***

The first to move was the gray-templed one. He dropped his pants without ceremony. His cock was already hard, thick, veins standing out. Laura looked up at it from below with her mouth slightly open and waited for him to grab her hair from behind, in an improvised bun, and bring the tip to her lips.

—Open —the man said.

She opened. The cock went in slowly until the tip touched the back of her throat and Laura gagged for a second, coughing, eyes watering. He didn’t let her go. He shoved again, deeper, and she let him do it with her jaw slack, trained. Marcos captured that close-up —his wife’s mouth stretched around an unfamiliar cock, saliva hanging from her chin and dripping onto her tits— and then widened the frame so the pregnant belly could be seen kneeling between the man’s legs.

The second, a blond guy in his forties with a broad back, got behind her. He knelt too. He spread her cheeks with both hands and slid his tongue between them, licking her ass and cunt in one long pass. Laura moaned around the cock in her mouth, a muffled, guttural moan, and the blond man spat between her legs and drove two fingers into her cunt at once. He pulled them out gleaming, dripping wet. He shoved them into her mouth herself, alongside the first man’s cock.

—Suck —he told her—. Suck your own.

She sucked.

Marcos turned the tripod ten centimeters to catch the angle better. He switched to a medium shot. He knew that moment —Laura with one man’s cock in her mouth and another man’s soaked fingers between her lips— was the kind of image that would be shared in paid groups until dawn.

The third, the youngest, was waiting with his cock in his hand, stroking it slowly, watching. When the blond man stepped aside, he took his place. He lifted Laura’s hips and put her on all fours without removing the first man’s cock from her mouth. He showed his cock to the lens —an almost professional gesture, as if he knew who he was doing it for— and shoved it into Laura’s cunt in one thrust.

She screamed with her mouth full. The gray-templed man held her by the bun and kept fucking her throat at the same rhythm the young man fucked her cunt from behind. The two men synchronized without speaking, thrusting from both ends, and Laura was trapped in the middle, moving forward and back by the force of the two cocks, her tits hanging and her erect nipples brushing the rug with every thrust.

—Look at the camera, pretty girl —the young man said, without stopping—. Let it show how much of a slut you are.

She lifted her eyes toward the lens. Marcos zoomed in. His wife’s eyes, black and wide, mascara smeared, staring straight at him through the glass while two men fucked her from both ends. She didn’t blink.

The blond man didn’t wait his turn. He slicked his fingers with the lubricant he had left ready on the side table, ran them over Laura’s asshole, opened her with two fingers first and then three. She shuddered, but didn’t pull away. When the blond man shoved his cock into her ass —slowly, pushing in short bursts until he sank it all the way— Laura let out a long, sharp moan that broke in the middle.

—She’s fully occupied now —the blond man said, smiling toward the camera—. All three holes. Like in the catalog.

The young one, still fucking her cunt from the front now, laughed too. All three laughed. Laura didn’t. Laura had too much cock in her mouth to laugh.

It lasted almost two hours. Marcos followed everything through the viewfinder, changing angles when necessary, moving in when the frame called for it. He was precise. He was efficient. He had learned to be.

The three men took turns with silent coordination, as if they had agreed on an order before arriving. They switched holes every few minutes: the one in her cunt moved to her ass, the one in her ass to her mouth, the one in her mouth to her cunt. Sometimes two of them went into the same hole at once. At one point, the gray-templed man and the young one managed to get both cocks into her cunt together, and Laura screamed a word that wasn’t a word, just a sound, and Marcos knew from the trembling in her thighs that she had just come again.

Laura took them all with the same availability, her eyes closed or open depending on the moment, and her belly was always visible in the frame, prominent and impossible to ignore. It was the detail that generated the most views according to the channel metrics, which Marcos checked every night before closing the laptop.

At one point, the gray-templed man turned toward him without stopping his motion inside her.

—Get this shot right. It’s the one they’re going to share the most.

Marcos captured the shot: the man pulling her hair back, arching her spine, his cock buried to the base in her ass and his free hand stroking her pregnant belly as if it were his.

The end came by tacit agreement. The three stood in a semicircle around Laura, who knelt in the center with her hands on her thighs and her mouth open upward. The three men stroked themselves in front of her face. Marcos zoomed in on the open mouth, the belly, the swollen breasts pointing upward.

The first to come was the young one. He shot his load onto her face, into her eye, onto her cheek. Laura didn’t close her mouth. The blond man was second: he filled her tongue and part of her neck. The gray-templed man waited, gripping the base of his cock, until he was sure the other two had finished, and then emptied his entire load into her mouth and waited. He waited until she closed her lips and swallowed. And when she opened her mouth again, empty, he ran his thumb along the corner to catch a drop escaping and pushed it back inside.

—Good girl —he said.

What Marcos felt from behind the tripod didn’t have a clean name. He had tried to put one on it several times, in the basement, with only the laptop and the numbers climbing. He hadn’t found one that fit. It was easier to keep filming.

When it was over, the three men dressed with the same calm they had arrived with. One left a sealed envelope on the hall table. Another asked where the bathroom was. The third shook Marcos’s hand before leaving, firmly, looking him in the eyes as if they had just closed a deal.

—Good work —he said. And he meant it.

The door closed. The living room fell silent.

Laura picked up the robe from the floor. She put it on without fastening it, semen still drying on the skin of her chest and belly. Marcos took apart the tripod, wound up the cable of the nearest ring light, and leaned it against the wall. It was ten twenty at night and there was a follow-up meeting at the studio tomorrow at nine.

—Are you hungry? —she asked from the kitchen.

—A little.

—There’s leftover soup from last night.

Marcos left the camera on the bedroom dresser. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at his hands. The same hands that had held the tripod for two hours. The same hands that tomorrow would open the laptop in the studio basement to watch the numbers rise.

The baby has to be born under the best possible conditions. That’s what she says. That’s what you repeat to yourself every night when you switch off the light.

From the kitchen came the sound of gas igniting. The familiar, exact sound of an ordinary night.

Marcos stood up. He went to dinner.