I Recognized My Wife’s Niece on a Webcam

I tell it as if it had happened to me because, in a way, that’s how I feel about it. A friend confessed this story to me months ago and I still don’t know whether he made it up or whether he dumped it on me just to unburden himself. It doesn’t matter: I’ll speak in the first person and let each person decide for themselves.

My marriage to Cecilia had lasted barely five years, but by then it had already fallen into that kind of permanent winter where you don’t even bother to turn on the heat. She threw herself body and soul into an auditing firm in central Valencia, left at seven in the morning and came back after ten at night. By the time she sat down on the sofa, her eyelids were closing on their own. The bed was where we survived exhaustion, not where we found each other.

I was forty-one when I married her. I came from a long divorce and clung to Cecilia the way you cling to the first handhold when you’re falling off a cliff. Courthouse ceremony, four witnesses, a discreet meal. Her family lives in Santander and she said the trip wasn’t worth it. Mine is small. Everything fit with the idea of not drawing attention.

The sex, when there was any, lasted about as long as it takes water to boil. Cecilia would climb on top with her nightgown still on, move for two minutes until I came inside her with a muted grunt, wipe the semen with a tissue, and turn over to sleep. Not a wet kiss, not a hand on the cock, not a blowjob in five years. Neat even when fucking. I drifted, almost by inertia, into that corner of the internet many of us visit and few admit: live cam sites, erotic chats, tips for girls who spread their legs for an anonymous audience. I paid without remorse. At least there someone looked me in the eyes while she shoved two fingers into her cunt, even if they were hired eyes.

One October afternoon, Cecilia told me her cousin’s niece would be living with us for six months. A young girl, she said, very diligent, coming to do a master’s degree at the university. Cecilia called her niece even though the relation was more tangled, but that was her: she saved words as if she had to pay for them.

—Her name’s Daniela. She’s arriving Thursday. She won’t be any trouble.

I nodded without thinking much about it. The guest room had been empty since the move.

***

On Thursday I opened the door and understood the universe has a sense of humor. The girl who crossed the threshold with two suitcases and a polite smile was the same one I’d been watching undress on my screen for months. I had the slightest doubt. I knew the mole on her right shoulder, the exact curve of her hip, the dark areolae of her small, firm tits, the patch of trimmed brown hair she left over her cunt, that way of tossing her hair back with two fingers before she sucked her middle finger and brought it down to her clit. Twenty-three years old. Brown hair to her collarbone. A mouth that knew how to smile without opening fully and that I had seen take a pink dildo to the base more than one night.

—Nice to meet you. Daniela —she said, and held out her hand.

I kissed her on both cheeks as the script dictated. She smelled like vanilla. No way, no way, no way.

Cecilia led her to her room. I stayed in the living room with my cock half-hard against my zipper, trying to sort out what I was feeling. Shame, an excitement that made me even more ashamed, and a filthy thrill that ran up my spine like an electric current. I’d been tipping that girl since spring and now I was going to have breakfast with her every morning.

That night, while Cecilia snored softly beside me, I opened the laptop with the sound on minimum and looked for Daniela on the site. She wasn’t connected. Not the next day either, nor the next. I thought maybe she’d stopped broadcasting after changing cities. Three weeks later, while Cecilia worked late and Daniela had locked herself in her room to study, I saw her appear online again. My heart lurched and my dick went hard in a second.

I opened the private chat. Paid for entry. She smiled at the camera with that practical, almost professional smile and said what she always said.

—Hi, handsome. Long time no see. Did you miss me?

I told her yes. I left her a generous tip and she, grateful, started unbuttoning her shirt slowly. She did it with a calculated technique I knew by heart: first one button, then she licked her finger and ran it over her right nipple until it stood hard, and only then did she pull off her bra. It seemed incredible to me that, on the other side of the hallway, that same mouth had just asked Cecilia for some toast at breakfast.

—Tell me about yourself —I said, my heart beating two hundred times a minute and my cock in my hand.

She, as on other occasions, recited the cover story. That she lived in Seville, that her name was Carla, that she studied nursing. Every word a lie, and I accepted them with the customer’s complicity. She was five meters from me and inventing an entire life to protect herself. I understood her perfectly. She spread her panties to the side, licked two fingers, and slipped them into her cunt slowly, never taking her eyes off the camera. I came into a handkerchief before she finished settling into the chair.

***

For a month I kept entering her private shows. I paid more than was reasonable. She went to the gym at seven, had breakfast with Cecilia at eight, left for the university at nine, and two nights a week she logged onto the site after midnight from her room. I locked myself in the office under the excuse of an urgent project. My wife never even asked.

Seeing her like that, knowing we slept under the same roof, multiplied the turn-on until it became unbearable. I talked to her in chat with the voice of a stranger, and at breakfast I pretended I had barely slept because “the German client” demanded more deliveries. Daniela smiled at me with the innocence of someone who knows nothing, while I remembered how, barely five hours earlier, she’d been spreading her legs in front of the webcam and making herself come with a blue vibrator, biting her lip so she wouldn’t scream.

One November night, Cecilia fell asleep at ten with a headache. I poured myself a whiskey, went into the office, and found her already broadcasting. She was wearing a black bra I’d seen hanging on the clothesline that very morning.

—Hello, beautiful.

—My favorite client —she replied.

We talked for a while about the storm and the routine. And then, I don’t know what force pushed me, I wrote what I’d been biting back for weeks.

—Daniela, I know your real name. I know where you live. I know what master’s program you’re doing. Today you were wearing ripped jeans on your left knee and a gray sweatshirt.

The silence on the other end was so long I feared she’d disconnect. Her expression changed. The professional smile vanished from her face and she went very still, as if calculating whether to jump out the window or call the police. She swallowed.

—Who are you?

—Someone who’s closer than you think.

I imagined the consequences. That she’d tell Cecilia, describe me as a dirty old man spying on her inside her own house, that my marriage would explode not from boredom but from scandal. I was willing to accept any outcome. Adrenaline had clouded my judgment.

—Leave the chat —she wrote.

I closed the laptop. I stayed in the darkness of the office, listening to my own breathing. Then I heard her door open. Bare feet on the hallway. The office handle turning.

Daniela came in in her bra and panties, arms crossed over her chest, eyes glassy but steady.

—It’s you —she murmured—. It’s you, fuck.

—It’s me. I’m sorry.

She closed the door behind her with surgical care. She sat on the edge of the desk, a meter from me. I didn’t dare move. I thought she was going to slap me. I thought she was going to scream. Instead, she let out a nervous laugh, contained, almost silent.

—How long have you been watching me?

—Since March.

—Fuck.

We talked until three in the morning in whispers. She told me why she broadcast: an unaffordable tuition payment, a family without resources, the silent promise never to tell anyone. I told her about my life. The marriage burning out. The feeling of losing years without touching anyone. When she got up to go to her room, she squeezed my shoulder for a second and disappeared down the hallway.

***

From that night on we were accomplices in something. At breakfast we traded looks Cecilia couldn’t read. In chat, she knew it was me and I knew she knew. I left absurd tips. In return, she made gestures only I understood: touching the mole on her shoulder, biting her lip in a particular way, calling me “her favorite client” with a wink aimed at the camera that was really meant for the next room.

What I didn’t confess at first was that I watched her and jerked off. I’d been doing it for weeks, coming into handkerchiefs I then hid in the drawer until I could throw them away without Cecilia seeing. One Sunday afternoon, with Cecilia at a wedding in Galicia and Daniela studying in her room, she logged on at seven. I entered the private show.

—I’m jerking off while I watch you —I wrote—. I’ve been coming while I watch you for months.

She froze for two seconds. Then she cut the transmission.

I heard her door. I heard my own heartbeat. The office handle gave way a second time.

Daniela came in without a shirt, wearing cotton shorts, her nipples standing out against her bare skin. She didn’t say anything at first. She came close until she was standing in front of me, parted her legs a little, and held my gaze.

—Take it out. Do it in front of me. Here. I want to see it.

I unfastened my pants with clumsy fingers and pulled out my cock, already hard and leaking. I started to masturbate slowly, gripping it at the base, while she watched me fixedly without blinking, her hands braced on the desk at her hips. She didn’t touch herself. She didn’t touch me. She only watched with an animal concentration that was undoing me inside. I quickened the pace, foreskin up and down, my thumb sliding over the wet head.

—Faster —she whispered—. I want to see you come.

I obeyed. I jerked myself with my whole hand until a hoarse moan slipped out of me and I came in gouts onto the carpet, long white ropes spilling over my knuckles. She swallowed as she watched each spasm, gooseflesh rising on her arms. She leaned down, kissed the corner of my mouth with parted lips, licked a single drop of semen off my thumb, and left without a word.

We repeated the ritual three more afternoons. The second time she opened her shorts and stood there with her hand between her legs, touching her cunt in front of me without ever taking her eyes off how I was jerking off, and we came almost at the same time without touching even once. The third she sat facing me with her panties pulled aside and made herself come with two fingers until the leather seat was sticky.

The fourth time we couldn’t hold out. I shoved her against the office wall and kissed her on the mouth for the first time, my tongue deep inside, biting her lower lip. I ripped her T-shirt over her head and sucked her small tits until her nipples were swollen and purple. She unbuckled my belt with the calm of someone who has done that before for a camera, but this time there was no camera, this time there was skin and breath and a moan that wasn’t performed.

She knelt on the carpet without being asked. She pulled my underwear down to my knees and stared at my cock for a second, with that same concentrated expression from the afternoons before, before taking it by the base and putting the whole thing in her mouth. She sucked it hungrily, sliding her tongue beneath the head, hollowing her cheeks, swallowing me deep into her throat and pulling me out with a thread of saliva hanging from her lip. She took it out for a moment to spit on it and put it back in, and she sucked me like that, dirty and noisy, with wet eyes locked on mine.

—Wait —I told her—, or I’m going to come.

I hauled her up off the floor, ripped off her shorts and panties in one yank, and laid her on the carpet. I spread her legs and dove mouth-first onto her cunt. She was soaked. I licked her from bottom to top, long and flat, then with the tip of my tongue curled around her clit, sucking it between my lips while I slid two fingers into her and hunted for that hard spot inside. She writhed, covering her mouth with both hands so she wouldn’t scream, squeezing my head with her thighs, rocking her hips against my face.

—Fuck me —she gasped—, fuck me now, fuck.

I got on top. I grabbed one leg below the knee, opened her up wide, and drove my cock into her in one thrust. She arched her back and gave a stifled moan into the crook of my neck. I started fucking her slowly at first, feeling how her cunt clenched around me, then harder, deeper, with the carpet scraping her back on every blow. The wet slaps of my balls against her ass could be heard in the silence of the office.

—Like that, like that, don’t stop —she begged in my ear—, harder.

I put her on all fours on the carpet, grabbed her hair with one hand and her hip with the other, and shoved it into her from behind again. I drove my cock to the root, watching her pink cunt open around my cock, watching her juices run down the inside of her thigh. She buried her face in her arm to muffle her moans. I gave her ass a light slap and she pushed back, asking for more.

—I’m going to come —she whispered—, I’m going to come, don’t pull out.

She came with a shudder that shook her whole body, squeezing my dick from the inside with hot spasms. I held out for a couple more thrusts and then pulled out in time, turned her face-up, and came all over her belly and tits, long thick ropes that splattered as far as her collarbone. She ran two fingers through the semen, brought them to her mouth, and smiled at me with her chin shining.

It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t elegant either. It was what we had been promising each other for months without knowing it.

***

It didn’t stay at one afternoon. Every night Cecilia went to bed early, Daniela crossed the hallway barefoot and with no panties under her nightgown. She sucked my cock on her knees on the office rug, with the door barely ajar, listening in case my wife got up to go to the bathroom. I fucked her from behind, bent over the desk, covering her mouth with my hand so her moans wouldn’t carry down the hallway. Every time my wife went off to a conference, we fucked in our own bed without rushing: she rode me moving her hips in circles until she came twice in a row, then lay face down and I shoved it into her again in the mattress where Cecilia slept every night. We found ourselves talking about the future as if it were possible. It was, but neither of us dared say it out loud.

When the end of the master’s program was approaching and she had to go back to Santander, I blurted out the proposal in the kitchen while she was chopping peppers.

—Forget that. Come with me. Not to Santander, not here. Anywhere you want. But don’t leave me now.

I expected her to refuse. I expected the “you’re crazy” from someone who regains their senses when reality comes too close. Instead, she set the knife down on the cutting board, wiped her hands on the apron, and kissed me.

—Okay. But do it right. Talk to her first.

Daniela went back to Santander. I held out three more months with Cecilia until we signed the papers. There was no scandal: my wife seemed almost relieved to be able to close a chapter that exhausted her too. The divorce was as civilized as our wedding.

***

Daniela moved into my apartment six weeks later. She told her family she’d found a job and then, little by little, that she’d found a partner. I asked for one more thing, almost ashamed to ask it.

—Keep broadcasting. If you want.

She smiled with that smile of complicity she now reserved only for me.

—I was going to ask you for that.

She still goes online three nights a week. Sometimes I sit behind the camera wearing a mask, and we broadcast together. The viewers can’t see my face, but they know she’s mine. I grab her by the hair while I shove my cock into her mouth on camera, I put her on all fours and fuck her while she talks to them and asks for tips with her voice broken by my thrusts, I come inside her cunt in front of thousands of strangers who pay to watch it. Afterward, when we turn off the camera, she wipes the semen away with the back of her hand and goes back to bed with me. Knowing she’s desired still excites me the way it did that first month.

Now we have a two-year-old girl with her brown eyes and my crooked smile. Daniela works from home. I work at the office. When I come back, she still has her hair tied up the way she does when she broadcasts, and sometimes it only takes a little —a hand on her ass, a tug of her hair— for the office to start feeling like the place where it all began.

My ex-wife found out through other people and told half the family. We didn’t care either. The only looks that matter to me now are hers, the camera’s, and our daughter’s when she falls asleep in my arms.