Voyeur

When she called me to the front, I thought she would merely point out muscles; I never imagined I’d end up naked, wet, and spread open before the other three.

At twenty-three, I still didn’t know how to touch myself. One summer night, a noise in the hallway and an ajar door taught me everything at once.

My wife was only supposed to let herself be watched, but when she saw him touching himself in the armchair, she whispered that we shouldn’t leave him out.

When she said she wanted to play with four men in the street, none of us imagined how far that night would go.

I thought I’d only be watching them sleep, but that woman had such control over him that I ended up glued to the screen all night.

I opened the door without panties, let him watch me all night, and ended up so wet I could barely hide it.

When she took off her bikini in front of strangers, I knew watching the sea wouldn’t be enough for me.

We had spent years teasing him from the sand, but that afternoon my wife spread her legs wider, and I knew he wouldn’t be staying just to watch.

First there were his eyes from the building across the street; then, his bulge rubbing against me as we danced in my living room.

I watched her cross the park with feigned calm, knowing every step was designed to make someone fix their eyes on her.

First they filmed me masturbating; then my mother discovered that the sin in that house wasn’t desire, but who pretended not to have it.

When he answered the video call from his office, I was already naked in the hotel—and had another man waiting off-camera.

I lowered the controller and held my breath: on the other side of the wall, her moans were rising, and my hand was already inside my pants.

I accepted his dinner invitation out of necessity, but when he parked in the darkness, I knew he didn’t want to touch me—he wanted to watch me lose my inhibitions.

From the shadows of the patio, I watched them kiss in the car, and when he opened his pants, I couldn’t stop touching myself.

I heard the moans as I passed through the hall. The door was ajar, and I couldn’t look away. Nor could I stay still.

My husband came home from the bar with a strange smile, a number in his pocket, and a dirty idea that left me soaked before he touched me.

I put on the dress he chose, and when I felt the stares fixed on my ass, I understood why my husband was turned on by exhibiting me.

When she lifted her skirt on the highway and let the truckers watch, I knew this trip would be anything but innocent.

The elevator stopped between floors, and the silence filled with filthy confessions, heated glances, and arousal no one wanted to stop.