I Spied on My Wife and Her Lover Through the Cameras

Marco. That’s my name. Thirty-eight years old, accountant for a logistics company, average build, and a few extra kilos that never really bothered me all that much. I’ve got light eyes, greenish, the ones my wife once told me were the first thing that caught her when we met at a mutual friend’s wedding almost ten years ago.

Natalia is forty-six, eight years older than me. Short, brown hair falling to her shoulders, the kind of slimness you have to earn at her age through sustained effort. For three years she’s been doing yoga four times a week, and the results are obvious to anyone who looks at her: her posture, the shape of her arms, the round, firm ass that stands out under any pair of pants, the small, perky tits that still defy gravity. When we walk into a place together, people notice her first. It’s always been that way, but now more than ever.

For two years we had what I’d call, with all the clumsiness the term deserves, a marital plateau. Nothing broken, nothing declared, but sex had stopped being spontaneous and become something that happened with the predictability of an errand. One fuck every ten or fifteen days, always in the same position, her on top of me for five or six minutes, my quick release, and then sleep. She said I was too absent because of work trips. I said she was exaggerating. We were both half right.

It was in that context that Diego’s name came up again.

Diego was Natalia’s ex. Five years together before she and I met. I had always known he existed: a name mentioned in some early conversation months, without many details. Until one night, with some wine in us, Natalia told me Diego had sent her a follow request on Instagram. She said she hadn’t accepted it, that her account was private, that I shouldn’t worry.

I believed her. Or I wanted to, which isn’t the same thing.

Diego worked as a security guard for a private company. Dark-skinned, full beard, the type of man who looks built to play the role of someone who doesn’t behave himself. Natalia had once told me he was possessive, controlling, that he made her feel trapped. She never really explained, though, why she’d put up with him for so long. Over the months I came to understand it had been for the dick. You can put up with five years for a dick that splits you in two, not for anything else.

***

One Tuesday night, while we were asleep, Natalia’s phone vibrated several times on the nightstand. She didn’t wake up. I was in that in-between state between sleep and waking where sounds arrive before thought. I sat up in bed, picked up the phone carefully. The screen lit up.

A message from a contact saved as “D”: “I can’t stop thinking about Thursday. How badly I want to see you.”

The screen went dark. The room fell back into darkness.

I sat on the edge of the bed. On Thursday I had a flight to Monterrey. Two days of meetings with an important client. It was a trip Natalia knew well; we’d rearranged several plans around those dates.

I went to the kitchen without turning on any lights, sat down in a chair, and stayed still for a long while. I did an honest inventory of my emotions.

It wasn’t rage. It was something else. Something hot and diffuse that I couldn’t name that night, but that was building up in my crotch. My dick was hard beneath my pajama pants and I didn’t understand why.

***

On Wednesday, while Natalia was at work, I took her phone. I’d known her password for years from seeing her enter it so many times. The messages with “D” started three weeks earlier. At first they were phrases that could pass for innocent if you didn’t read them in sequence. But there was a structure beneath it all: “same place as always,” “Thursday works perfectly,” “does your husband leave early or late?”

Then came the old messages, the ones she hadn’t properly deleted. Photos Diego had sent her from the start of their exchange. In one of them you could see his dick, thick, dark-skinned, veins standing out, resting on his flat stomach. It had to be a good twenty centimeters and was almost as wide as my wrist. An obscene dick, the kind you see in porn and think has to be edited.

Natalia had replied to him: “I miss that cock inside me. I get myself wet just looking at it.”

I put the phone back where it was with trembling hands.

That night I looked up Diego’s profile on Instagram. It didn’t take long. Profile photo: leaning against a car hood, arms crossed, staring at the camera with that expression of someone who knows the effect he has. Dark-skinned. Full beard. Mid-thirties, I guessed. Younger than I expected. Thick arms, black shirt stretched tight across a gym-built chest.

Natalia had told me that kind of man had never appealed to her.

Of course not, I thought. And that dick she happened to miss.

What I felt at that moment wasn’t what a man should feel when he confirms his wife is cheating on him. It was something more complicated. It was the image of Natalia, her yoga body I knew by heart, kneeling in front of that dark dick, mouth open, tongue out waiting. It was the image of my wife with her legs spread and those twenty centimeters of cock sinking all the way into her pussy while I was signing invoices a thousand kilometers away.

And that image didn’t make me angry.

It made me hot. My dick got rock hard and I pulled it out right there, in front of the screen with Diego’s photo. I came in three strokes, biting my lip so I wouldn’t shout, imagining Natalia getting fucked by him. The semen splattered my fingers, my pants, the rug. I didn’t clean myself up right away. I stayed seated with my dick still hard in my hand, thinking about what had just happened.

***

On Thursday I left home at six-thirty. Natalia got up to make me coffee, helped me with my luggage, kissed me on the cheek at the airport door. Everything normal. Perfectly normal, except I knew what she didn’t know I knew. And except she was wearing a black thong under her skirt, one I hadn’t bought her, one that showed between her ass cheeks when she bent down to grab something from the back seat.

I watched her car drive away down the arrivals lane. I wondered if I was really going to get on the plane.

I got on.

During the flight I held my phone in my hand, staring at nothing, not reading. Natalia’s last connection time showed forty-two minutes after she’d dropped me off at the airport. Enough time to go back home. Enough time to get in the shower, shave her pussy, put perfume between her tits and in the crease of her ass. Enough time for Diego to arrive and find her already ready, already wet, already with her heart pounding in anticipation.

Diego in our house. Diego with his dick inside my wife. Diego splitting her pussy open in the same bed where I fuck her quickly and badly every fifteen days.

I closed my eyes. My face was burning. I had a brutal erection pressed against my zipper, so obvious I had to put my folded jacket over my lap so the flight attendant wouldn’t see it when she came by with the cart. My dick pulsed in time with my heartbeat. It had nothing to do with love or anger and everything to do with an image I couldn’t control: Natalia moaning under another man, eyes rolling back, mouth open, saying those things she’d never said to me.

The meeting in Monterrey went better than expected. I was more focused than usual, more direct in negotiations. Adrenaline does that.

That afternoon, Natalia texted me: “Everything okay with the client? I fell asleep for a bit when I got home, I was so tired. Sending you a kiss.”

Asleep, I thought. With another man’s load inside her. With her legs still trembling.

We had cameras installed at the front of the house the year before, after there’d been a robbery in the building next door. Two discreet cameras Natalia knew about in the abstract and that no one had mentioned for months. That night, in the hotel room, I opened the app on my laptop.

The recording had enough resolution. A man arriving at my front door at a quarter past ten in the morning. Tall, dark-skinned, identical to the Instagram photo. Natalia opening the door from the threshold in a short dark robe I hadn’t seen before, and underneath it you could tell she wasn’t wearing anything. No bra, no panties. Nipples pressed against the dark fabric, bare legs exposed halfway up her thighs. They didn’t greet each other like two people seeing one another after a long time. Diego slid his hand inside the robe right there at the threshold, squeezed one tit, and she laughed before pulling him by the collar of his shirt inside.

Diego left three hours later. With a wrinkled shirt and a smile that stayed on his face all the way to the car.

I kept staring at the image frozen on the screen. The hotel room ceiling. The image again. I pulled down my pajama pants, grabbed my dick, and worked it slowly, imagining what had happened in those three hours inside my house. Her kneeling, sucking him to the base, her chin covered in spit. Him on his back on the couch, Natalia riding him, her tits bouncing against his face. The two of them on all fours against my bed’s headboard, her biting the pillow while he gave it to her hard.

I came in streams over the hotel sheets. A long, filthy orgasm that left me empty. I closed the laptop, showered in cold water, got into bed.

I didn’t sleep well. But it wasn’t distress that kept me awake.

***

I came back Friday night. Natalia had made dinner, there was an open bottle of wine, and she was wearing her hair loose. She looked calm. Brighter than she had in weeks. Recently fucked, I thought. Recently split in half and already wanting more.

Now I know where that comes from.

We ate. We talked about the trip, the client, meaningless things. When we were done, I took her hand without saying anything and led her to the bedroom.

I undressed her slowly, something I hadn’t done in years. I pulled the dress over her head and bit one nipple while her arms were still tangled in the fabric. She let out a moan that wasn’t her usual one, sharper, more surprised. I pushed her onto the bed, spread her legs, and buried my mouth in her pussy. She was shaved, smooth, shiny. She hadn’t been like that last Sunday. Someone else had seen her like that before I had.

I sucked her clit hungrily, with a hunger I hadn’t had in years, while thinking about Diego doing the same three days earlier in that same bed. I slid two fingers inside her and curved them, looking for the spot I knew would move her. Natalia arched, grabbed the sheets, started moaning in a way I hadn’t heard from her in years with me.

—Marco —she said, and in the way she said my name there was something that sounded like comparison.

I flipped her over. I put her on all fours and stayed there staring at her raised ass, her pussy open, shining with my spit and her own wetness. I wondered how Diego had taken her. If he’d slapped her ass. If he’d spat in her pussy before sliding into her. I wondered, and then I did it myself. I spat on her. I landed a sharp slap that left my handprint on her white skin.

—Ow —she said, surprised. Not angry. Surprised and turned on.

I drove my dick into her in one thrust, all the way to the base, and she let out a hoarse cry. I grabbed her hair, wrapped it around my fist, pulled her back. I started fucking her hard, with all the rage and all the heat and all the humiliation I’d been carrying inside since Tuesday converted into hip-shocks against her ass. The sound of flesh slapping flesh filled the bedroom. She moaned louder and louder, pushed her ass back to meet me, squeezed her pussy around my dick like she wanted to milk me dry.

—Like this —I said into her ear, leaning over her back—. This is how you like it, right?

—Yes —she answered, barely breathing—. Like this, harder.

Harder than the accountant, I thought. The way he does it.

I pulled out, flipped her again, spread her legs until it almost hurt her, and shoved it back in while looking her in the eyes. She grabbed my neck, dug her nails into my back, wrapped her legs around my waist. She had never been this wet. She had never been this open. I wondered if Diego had left her like that, ready for whoever came after.

I sucked her tits while I hammered into her. I bit her neck. I ran my thumb across her mouth and she sucked it like it was a cock, tongue coiling around it, eyes closed. She came first, with a long shudder that shook her whole body, clenching around me in spasms that nearly made me finish. I held back. She owed me. I kept fucking her while she came, stretching her orgasm out, forcing another one. And when I finally let go, I filled her with a load that didn’t feel like mine, long, in spurts, while biting her shoulder so I wouldn’t shout.

I collapsed on top of her. Both of us panting. Both of us soaked. The smell of semen and sweat and cunt filling the room.

It was the best sex we’d had in two years. Long, without the haste that settles between two people who’ve been together long enough. She fell asleep with her head on my chest, breathing peacefully, my semen leaking down the inside of her thigh onto the sheet.

I stayed staring at the ceiling, wondering what kind of man I was.

The answer wasn’t reassuring. But I didn’t regret it either.

***

The following week, while Natalia was at work, I went to an electronics store downtown. I bought three small cameras of the kind that don’t look like what they are: one built into a wall charger, another hidden inside a smoke detector casing, the third almost invisible if you know where to place it.

It took me a couple of hours to install them. One in the living room, angled toward the sofa and the front door. One in the bedroom, behind the bookshelf, with a direct angle to the bed, the pillows, the exact place where I was going to see my wife with her legs in the air taking another man’s dick. One in the hallway. I checked the angles in the app, adjusted what needed adjusting, and when Natalia came home that afternoon, nothing was out of place.

The messages between them grew more frequent. She no longer deleted them with so much care. One afternoon, when I got home earlier than expected, her phone was on the counter and I caught part of the conversation. Diego was sending her pictures of his hard dick, she was answering with pictures of her tits and her pussy open with two fingers inside, and at some point in the exchange I appeared to be mentioned. He called me “the accountant.” No name. With that neutrality that’s more effective than any direct insult.

“As long as the accountant is traveling,” I read in one fragment. And in another: “when does the accountant leave this week?” And in another one, a line that seared itself into me: “your cock ruined me, I can’t handle the accountant’s anymore, it feels small next to yours.”

I should confront her, I thought. I should put the phone on the table right now.

I didn’t. I went to the bathroom, pulled it out, and came into the sink thinking about that line. It feels small next to yours.

***

My next trip was in two weeks. Four nights away, this time in Mexico City. Natalia wrote the dates on the kitchen calendar, as she always does. I suppose Diego knew the itinerary the next day.

One night, while she slept pressed against my back with that familiarity that comes from years shared, I stayed awake thinking about what I had prepared. The cameras in place. The recordings waiting for me when I came back. Four full nights of material. Diego fucking my wife on the couch, in the bed, in the hallway if they felt like it. Me watching it all from a hotel a thousand kilometers away, with my dick in my hand, coming right along with her.

And the sex between us when I got back, recovering that current that had gone missing for two years.

I could stop it tomorrow, I thought. I could tell her at breakfast and this would end right here.

But I didn’t want it to end. That was the only thing I didn’t dare say out loud to myself.

The trip was in two weeks. The cameras were installed. Diego already knew the dates.

And I, without saying a single word, with a hard dick under the sheets, was counting the days.