I Spied on My Husband Through the Camera and Couldn't Stop

My name is Carolina, I’m thirty-two years old, and I’ve been married to Andrés for ten years. He’s a year older than I am, works out at the gym three times a week, and still has the body that made me say yes the first night I met him. If someone had told me six months ago that I would end up like this—sitting in front of a screen with two fingers buried in my pussy while I watched him fuck another woman—I would have laughed in contempt. And yet here I am, telling it.

The suspicions started with his new assistant. Renata, twenty-four, hired in March to handle the administration of the auto shop. I had only seen her in pictures: big tits that showed through any blouse, a narrow waist, and a lifted ass that seemed immune to the laws of gravity. Whenever Andrés mentioned her name, he said it in a tone he didn’t use for anyone else on the team.

That Thursday afternoon I was supposed to stay late at the consulting firm. There had been a meeting with an important client from Querétaro, but at the last minute they postponed it without warning. I got out three hours earlier than expected. I didn’t text Andrés. I thought it would be fun to surprise him with dinner ready.

I parked in front of the garage, not inside it. I don’t know why. Something about the silence of the house made me think I shouldn’t announce my arrival. I got out of the car, closed the door gently, and went in through the service entrance. The house smelled of a perfume that wasn’t mine.

“Andrés?” I called, but my voice came out weak, as if I myself were trying not to be heard.

I climbed two steps, and then I heard them. Moans. Hers, clear and high-pitched, without the slightest attempt at discretion. Then his voice, lower, saying something to her that I couldn’t make out. They were coming from the bedroom. Our bedroom.

I stood frozen in the middle of the staircase, one hand on the banister and my heart pounding against my ribs. My first thought was to go upstairs and throw the door open. My second was to run. And the third—the one that won—was remembering the app.

***

We had installed security cameras a year earlier, after an attempted robbery in the neighborhood. Three on the ground floor, one in the upstairs hallway, and one in the master bedroom. That last one had been his idea, not mine. He said it was because of the jewelry we kept in the safe. I had forgotten it existed.

I took out my phone and opened the app with clumsy fingers. It took several attempts to get the password right. When I finally got in, I found the bedroom camera and tapped the icon. The image took a few seconds to load. When it did, I held my breath.

Renata was naked on top of him, straddling him. I saw clearly how my husband’s cock went in and out of her pussy, how her pink lips opened and closed around his dick, how every downward movement swallowed him all the way to the base. Andrés’s hands gripped her hips with a possessiveness I remembered from the early years, when he still squeezed mine. She moved rhythmically, throwing her head back and letting her brown hair fall down her back while her tits bounced in time. The sheet lay to one side, crumpled. The pillows were on the floor.

I thought I was going to cry. I didn’t.

What I felt—and I still have trouble admitting it—was something else. A heat that rose from my belly, a stupid contraction between my legs, a curiosity I shouldn’t have allowed myself. I sat down on the step slowly, without making a sound. I turned up the phone’s volume to the lowest audible level.

“That’s it, that’s it, Daddy,” she said. “Harder. Break this pussy.”

He didn’t answer with words. He only breathed heavily, his teeth clenched, and thrust upward from beneath her, making her buttocks smack against his thighs with a wet, dry, obscene slap. He looked at her with the same intensity he had once given me. Renata leaned forward, ran her tongue along his neck, took one nipple into her mouth, and I pressed my thigh against the step. A current shot through me. I pushed it away. It came back.

I tiptoed down the stairs and entered the study at the back, the only room with a lock. I closed the door without letting the latch make a sound. I connected the phone to the monitor with the cable Andrés always left on the desk. The image projected large, too large. I could see the moles on her lower back. I could see the vein in his neck. I could see my husband’s thick, veiny cock, slick as it came out of the other woman’s pussy, soaked with her juices.

And then, while he lifted her into the air and pressed her against the wall without pulling out, I lowered my skirt to my ankles.

***

It wasn’t a conscious decision. It was a movement. My left hand searched for the button of my pants, while my right hand was already beneath the lace of my underwear. I was wet. Very wet. Wetter than I had been in months. My fingers slid effortlessly between my lips, found my swollen, throbbing clitoris, and began rubbing it in slow circles as I clenched my teeth to keep from moaning.

On the screen, Andrés held her with one arm beneath her thigh while, with the other hand, he spread her ass wider and thrust upward, each blow burying him inside her. Her head was pressed against the plaster, and she moaned with her mouth open, unfiltered, letting strings of saliva fall onto her chest. The walls of our house are thin, but there were no neighbors around at that hour. No one was going to hear Renata except me.

“Put it all the way in, Daddy, right to the back,” she begged him. “Open me, open me.”

“You’ve got all of it, slut,” he answered, and slapped her ass, leaving the red print of his hand on her skin. “Take it.”

I had never heard him talk like that. Never with me. And yet the scene, instead of disgusting me, made me pump faster. I slid in two fingers, then three, feeling my pussy contract around my own hand. My thumb kept working my clitoris.

The strangest thing was that I didn’t hate her. I didn’t hate him, either. I felt something closer to fascination, as if I were watching a film someone had made with exactly what turned me on in mind. Her submission, his power, the audacity of doing it in our bed. Above all, that. In our bed.

He lowered her, put her on her knees on the rug, and brought his dripping cock to her mouth. Renata grabbed it with both hands, looked at it as if she were looking at something edible, and took it all the way into her throat. I saw the bulge in her neck. I saw the string of saliva that ran down her chin to her tits. She sucked hungrily, drawing him out shiny to the tip and swallowing him again in one thrust, her eyes watery and fixed on his.

“That’s it, suck me like that,” Andrés growled, gripping her hair with both hands and beginning to fuck her mouth. “Open up, open your throat for me.”

I masturbated slowly at first, matching Andrés’s rhythm. When he sped up his thrusts against her face, I sped up my fingers inside me. When he stopped to look at her with his cock buried to the base, I stopped and focused on his face. It was like having sex with him through the camera, without his knowing it. An intimacy that belonged only to me.

At one point Renata pulled away, her mouth half open and a string of drool hanging from her lips. She licked his balls, one by one, while jerking his cock with her hand. Then she stood up, pushed him in the chest with both hands until she knocked him back onto the bed, and climbed on top of him again, this time facing away so he could stare at her ass. She guided him inside with her hand and began bouncing. Andrés’s cock disappeared and reappeared between her buttocks with a wet noise, and from beneath her he spread her cheeks with both hands to get a better look.

“Look how it goes in,” he told her, his voice hoarse. “Look how you swallow my cock.”

Renata leaned forward, placed her hands on his knees, and sped up, rocking her ass back and impaling herself on his full length. That was when a short stream spilled onto the floor, leaving a dark stain on the hardwood. It surprised me. I didn’t know women could do that. I had never done it.

“You’re crazy,” Andrés said with a laugh that was almost pride, running his hand down her wet back.

“You drive me crazy, Daddy. Look what you do to me.”

He climbed on top of her again. He turned her over and put her in the spooning position in the middle of the bed. That was our position. The one we used on tired nights, when neither of us had the strength for anything more. Seeing him there, embracing her from behind as if she were me, fucking her with one arm beneath her neck and the other hand squeezing one of her tits, hurt me the most. And at the same time, it turned me on the most.

He penetrated her with long thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and then driving back in to the hilt, while sharp little “ah, ah, ahs” escaped Renata with every stroke. He bit her shoulder, licked her neck, and twisted her nipple between his fingers. He ran his free hand over her belly and down to her clitoris, rubbing it with two fingers while he kept fucking her.

He wasn’t wearing a condom. I noticed immediately, because he always uses one with me. “I don’t want us to finish too soon,” he tells me. A lie, I thought then. He does want to. Just not with me. He wanted to empty himself inside that slut, wanted to fill her pussy with his milk, and that thought—that idea—clenched my belly in a new way.

He sped up. The bed began to squeak. Renata bit our pillow and screamed muffledly into the case. Andrés held her tightly against his chest, dug his fingers into her hip, and released a low, restrained growl that faded in his throat. I knew it. It was the growl he made when he came. He had spilled inside her without holding back, and I watched his ass tense as his final thrust drove his cock all the way in.

“Mmm, Daddy,” she said thickly when he finally stopped. “You came so much. I can feel it dripping inside me.”

“With you, I can’t help it. It just comes out.”

“Do you like it more than with your wife?”

There was a silence. I stopped moving.

“In this, yes.”

***

In this, yes.

Three words. I repeated them three times, four times. I expected them to destroy me. They didn’t destroy me. They made me come. The fingers inside my pussy sped up on their own, my thumb pressed harder against my clitoris, and suddenly the whole study blurred and I had an orgasm so deep that I bit the back of my hand to keep from screaming, and even so a long moan escaped me and echoed off the walls. I felt the spasms squeeze my fingers, my hand becoming completely soaked, as did the seat beneath me. My legs were trembling.

It took me almost a minute to breathe normally. The screen was still projecting. Andrés had pulled out slowly, and I watched a thick thread of semen run from Renata’s pussy to her anus and then onto the sheet. She reached down, gathered it with two fingers, and sucked them while looking into his eyes. Then she spread her legs again, her ankles against the headboard, and asked him for more. He, faithful to his masculine pride, was already half-hard again. He pushed back inside her, slowly this time, burying himself in his own cum, and began fucking her calmly, rubbing her clitoris with his thumb as he penetrated her. She had an orgasm that arched her entire body over the mattress, her legs trembling and her heels digging into his back.

I didn’t want any more, but I kept watching. I put my hand between my legs again, more slowly, almost as if I were caressing a wound. The hours slipped away like that. At one point he pulled out, climbed on top of her, pressed his cock between her breasts, and began moving there, gripping her tits with both hands and squeezing them around his cock to make a sheath of flesh. The tip appeared and disappeared near her mouth. Renata stuck out her tongue, waiting, while her hands touched his balls and fondled them. It didn’t take long. When he came, he painted her entire face and part of her hair with thick white spurts. One crossed her eye. Another hung from her chin. She ran her tongue over her lips and put her cum-covered thumb in her mouth.

They lay still for a moment, panting. They talked about something I couldn’t hear clearly anymore because the camera’s audio was mediocre. Then they went into the bathroom. I turned off the monitor, picked my clothes up off the floor, and dressed in silence, my legs still weak and my pussy throbbing. I left the study. I left the house. I went out to the car.

I stayed in the garage for fifteen minutes, holding my breath. Then I started the car, drove around the block, came back and parked again—this time in front of the entrance—and opened the front door, making noise with my keys.

“I’m home!”

Andrés came down the stairs in a robe, his hair still wet. He smiled the way he always did, his eyes a little red from the exhaustion of pretending.

“I thought you’d be home later.”

“The meeting was canceled,” I replied, and threw my arms around him. I smelled his neck. I smelled her. I smelled sex freshly washed beneath the soap.

I suggested sex. I told him I was horny, that I was wet, that I wanted him to fuck me right there against the banister. He gently pushed me away, pretended to be sorry, and said he was exhausted from the day. “Tomorrow, love,” he promised. I smiled at him and said it was fine.

I went to shower. While the water ran, I found brown hairs stuck to the soap. Brown, not black like mine. I rinsed them off one by one and watched them go down the drain. Then I leaned against the tiles, spread my legs beneath the hot stream, and slid my fingers inside again, thinking about his face as he emptied himself inside her. I came for the second time that afternoon, silently, biting my lip so he wouldn’t hear me on the other side of the door.

***

That was six months ago.

Since then, I’ve been lying. I tell him I have meetings when I don’t. I tell him I’m going to dinner with my sister, that I’m taking yoga classes, that I’m going to the movies with a friend. And I come home early, quietly, sit in the study, and turn on the camera. I have a drawer full of toys I bought online just for those afternoons: a silicone vibrator, another with a clitoral suction function, and a thick dildo resembling his cock. I use them all in turn, depending on what they’re doing on the screen.

Renata practically lives here now. Sometimes they bring wine. Other times she stays all afternoon and disappears only minutes before I pretend to arrive. Once I saw her cleaning the kitchen in my apron, naked, with his cum still dripping down her thigh. It almost made me laugh.

I’ve learned things. That my husband has an endurance he never used with me, that he can come two or even three times in one afternoon. That he likes biting the inside of her thigh until he leaves marks. That he loves fucking her ass, something he never asked of me: he prepares it with saliva and two fingers, opens it slowly, and when Renata finally takes him, she lets out a guttural howl that instantly hardens my nipples. That when he whispers in her ear, she laughs. That he laughs with her in a way I didn’t remember.

And I’ve learned things about myself, too. I’ve stopped asking him to wear a condom. I’ve hinted at fantasies that used to embarrass me and that I now mention without blinking: that he fuck me from behind, that he come in my mouth, that he call me a slut in my ear. One night he did to me what he had done to Renata—standing against the wall, holding me beneath the thigh, driving into me to the hilt with hard thrusts that shook my whole body—and while he did it, I thought about her, about the way her knee bent, about how she moaned with her mouth open, about how his semen dripped between her legs afterward. I asked him to come inside me. I asked him not to stop. I came harder than ever, screaming in his face, and he, without knowing it, came perhaps thinking of her, while I came absolutely thinking of both of them.

Sometimes, watching them through the camera, I wonder whether Renata knows that I know. She has a smile that she sometimes directs at the ceiling, right where the lens’s eye is, as if she knew where it was pointing. Once, straddling him, she put two fingers in her mouth, sucked them, and then slowly pointed toward the camera, my husband’s cock still buried in her pussy. Other times I think it’s just the angle.

What I know for certain is that I’m not going to throw him out. And he obviously isn’t going to give her up. All three of us live in this house, even though she doesn’t sleep here.

A week ago, for the first time, I thought about cheating on him too. Not out of revenge, but curiosity. If he enjoys spreading another woman’s legs so much, there must be something I’m not seeing from this side of the screen. Maybe I need to feel it—a different cock, a different mouth sucking my nipples, different hands squeezing my ass. Maybe I need him to see me, for him to open his own app one day and find me riding another man, a stranger’s cock sliding in and out of my pussy, looking at him through the lens with the same smile Renata gives the ceiling.

I still don’t know whether I’m going to do it. But the idea won’t let me go.