I Spied on My Wife with the Painter from the Office

The hum of the air conditioner kept the room at a sterile twenty-two degrees, but Mateo felt a bead of cold sweat running down his spine. Around him, the clicking of his coworkers’ keyboards and the distant clatter of the printer made up the soundtrack of any Tuesday afternoon. No one suspected that, in the lower-right corner of his screen, hidden behind a half-filled spreadsheet, a domestic scene charged with electricity was unfolding.

Twelve kilometers away, the slanted light came in through the wide windows of the living room in his house. Sofía was standing in the middle of the room. Mateo adjusted the video window’s contrast. The camera, a black sphere the size of a walnut concealed among the books on the shelf, offered a sharp panorama.

She knew exactly where the lens was. She didn’t look straight at it, but Mateo knew that tiny curl at the corner of her mouth: it was her mischievous smile, the sign that the game had already begun.

She was wearing a white cotton T-shirt, one of those that seem harmless until the light hits them at the right angle. It was two sizes too big, falling with the liquid flow of cheap fabric well ironed. Mateo knew, because they had talked about it in whispers the night before, that there was nothing underneath to hold her breasts in place. The lack of a bra turned every step into a little dance of friction and gravity. Sofía’s nipples were large, dark, a deep brownish pink, and with every movement they pressed against the cotton like two hard peaks begging for a mouth. Mateo knew them by heart: he knew how they would get hard just from breathing on them, he knew what they tasted like when he sucked them after a shower, he knew how far he could stretch them with his teeth before she dug her nails into the back of his neck.

The painter appeared on the screen. A young man, broad-shouldered and plaster-stained, carefully dragging an aluminum ladder so as not to scratch the parquet. He looked to be in his early thirties, his hair cut close, his forearms corded with veins from years of hauling buckets. Mateo noticed, with a stab of jealousy in the pit of his stomach, the man’s big hands, the thick, callused fingers. For one second he imagined those hands spreading Sofía’s ass open, and he had to clench his teeth.

Mateo leaned toward the screen. His mouth was dry and his cock was starting to press against his fly.

“Would you mind if I move the sofa a little, ma’am?” The voice came through the ambient microphone with a slight metallic delay.

“No, of course. Make yourself comfortable,” Sofía replied. Her voice sounded velvety, with that slow cadence she reserved for the minutes before intimacy, the same one she used to tell Mateo, in the darkness of the bedroom, “put it all the way in.”

She moved closer to the window, pretending to be interested in the curtains but calculating the backlight with the precision of someone who had rehearsed it. The three o’clock sun hit her full in the back. On the monitor, the white T-shirt suddenly went sheer: not a cotton haze but an obscene X-ray. Mateo could see the dark shape of her waist, the curve of her hips and, above all, her two round, firm breasts floating beneath the fabric like ripe fruit. The areolas showed through clearly, two dark circles the size of coins, and in the center of each one the tight, erect nipples, pointing upward at an insolent angle. The clothes had disappeared. Sofía was, in fact, topless for the painter.

Mateo watched the painter, up on the second rung with the putty knife in his hand, freeze. It was a fraction of a second in which the tool hung suspended in the air. The man swallowed; the movement of his Adam’s apple was visible even at the camera’s resolution. In his jeans, the bulge shifted. Mateo saw it clearly: the guy’s cock pushing against the blue fabric, responding on its own to the spectacle his wife was putting on for him. And instead of anger, he felt a lash of pride so intense it nearly tore an audible groan from him.

Sofía turned slowly. She was wearing a short skirt of light fabric and, underneath, Mateo knew there existed only the barest expression of lace: a crimson string thong he himself had given her two birthdays ago. A strip of thread disappearing between her ass cheeks and a tiny lace triangle in front, barely enough to cover her shaved cunt lips. Nothing else.

“It’s very hot today, isn’t it?” she said, fanning herself with her hand. The gesture, apparently innocent, shifted the neckline of the T-shirt to one side and exposed her golden shoulder, the start of her left breast and, for an instant, the whole nipple, dark and stiff, peeking out from the wide neck opening. The painter saw it. Sofía knew he saw it. And she kept fanning herself, with the nipple out for half a second longer than necessary.

Mateo felt a strange pressure in the center of his sternum, a mixture of primitive jealousy and ravenous arousal. He was the keeper of the secret. The invisible director of a forbidden play. Watching another man struggle to keep his composure in front of his wife’s shameless beauty gave him an intoxicating sense of power. His cock had gotten so hard that the seam of his pants dug a line into his glans. He discreetly lowered one hand and adjusted himself against his thigh. He felt the warm dampness of pre-cum staining his underwear.

She’s playing for me. Only for me. And that poor bastard is going to go home with a hard cock and pound it thinking about her. And she’s going to be mine tonight.

“Y-yeah… yeah, it’s a heavy day,” the painter stammered, forcing his gaze back to the wall with almost painful effort. He focused on a crack in the plaster as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world, but the crack wasn’t going to save him.

Sofía walked toward the kitchen, leaving the frame. Mateo quickly switched to the hallway camera with a nervous click of the mouse. He saw her open the fridge. She didn’t bend her knees like any reasonable person would. She leaned forward with her legs straight, stretching her neck to look for a bottle on the bottom shelf. Heels pressed together, ass pushed out, the skirt rising like a curtain over the stage of her thighs.

The skirt rose dangerously. And kept rising.

Mateo clenched his teeth so he wouldn’t make a sound. The screen first showed a strip of thigh, then the full curve of the right buttock, then the left, and finally the whole thong: the crimson thread buried between her cheeks and the little triangle in front, the lace making the bulge of her cunt lips visible through it. And something more. Mateo leaned so close to the screen his nose almost touched the glass: there was a dark stain in the center of the lace. Dampness that was spreading. Sofía had gotten herself wet with her own game. She was so turned on by being watched by two men at once that her cunt was dripping enough to soak through the fabric.

In the office, unable to help himself, he loosened his tie. His breathing had grown thick. He imagined the exact scent of the house at that hour: the acrid smell of fresh paint, the dust from the work, and above all Sofía’s floral perfume, that night-blooming jasmine she always put behind her ears and in the hollow behind her knees. And beneath the jasmine, the other smell he knew so well: the hot, musky odor of her wet cunt, a smell that must now be soaking the lace and reaching the painter every time she moved.

His hand trembled over the mouse. He lowered the other to his lap, passed it over the hard bulge that had formed in his pants, and squeezed once, twice, in a brief furtive motion that sent a shiver from the nape of his neck to his ass. He couldn’t masturbate there, not in his chair, not in front of twelve coworkers. But his cock was begging for war with fists.

***

Sofía came back into the living room carrying two glasses of ice water. The painter was still up on the ladder. She stepped to the foot of the aluminum structure and held one of the glasses up toward him with her arm extended.

“Here. You must be dying of thirst.”

The painter had to look down. The perspective was merciless. From his height, the looseness of the T-shirt must have offered a dizzying view: an abyss of bare skin without barriers, the two soft breasts hanging free beneath the white fabric, swaying slightly with her breathing, nipples pointing downward, hardened by the cool air from the ice-cold glass. The man took the glass with a trembling hand, and his fingers brushed hers by accident. Mateo saw clearly how the painter’s cock, inside his jeans, jerked once, twice, looking for room, marking the outline of the glans against the fabric like a caged animal.

“Thank you,” he said, in a voice so rough it sounded like someone else’s.

Sofía didn’t move away. She stayed at the foot of the ladder, drinking her own water with studied calm. A drop escaped her lips and ran down her chin, down her neck, and disappeared into the valley between her breasts, under the white fabric. Mateo watched the painter’s eyes follow the path of that drop with a hunger he no longer even tried to hide. He saw the man lick his lips without realizing it, as if he wanted to lick the skin where the drop had vanished, suck the sweat from the cleft between her tits, put his tongue between those two breasts and live there forever.

Sofía held out one second longer than necessary. Then, without raising her voice or changing posture, she lifted her eyes and fixed them directly on the camera in the bookshelf. Mateo felt a shiver as if she had looked him in the eyes in person. She bit her lower lip, held his gaze, and with the smallest movement adjusted her skirt for no reason at all, knowing he was on the other side, devouring every pixel. A second later, still looking at the lens, she brought her hand to her chest and pinched her right nipple through the fabric. Very fast. Almost imperceptible. A wink just for him.

The work phone vibrated on the desk and broke his trance. It was a message from her. Just two words.

“Are you watching?”

Mateo typed with clumsy fingers. His pulse was throbbing in his temples, his throat, his hard cock pressed against his fly.

“I can’t stop. Don’t stop. My cock is like stone.”

The reply came instantly.

“I know, love. I’m dripping too. My thong is soaked from thinking he’s watching me and you’re watching him watching me. When you get home, I’m going to suck your cock before I even say hello.”

Mateo felt his blood pounding in his ears. He got up from his chair with a sharp motion, grabbed the phone and the laptop, and announced under his breath that he was going to the third-floor bathroom, the one almost nobody used. His coworker didn’t even look up.

He locked himself in the last stall. He set the laptop on the paper dispenser, opened the camera window, dropped his fly, and pulled out his cock, swollen and red, the tip already pearled with pre-cum. On screen, Sofía was lazily stretching, arching her back like a cat in the sun. The T-shirt rode up, lifting away from her hip and showing two fingers’ worth of skin above her navel, the fine line of blond hair running down toward her lower belly. Mateo wrapped his hand around his cock and started stroking slowly, with his palm dry, biting the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t make a sound. He licked his palm, put it back on, and now, with saliva as lube, began to masturbate in earnest, the foreskin sliding up and down over the glans at a rhythm that made his thighs creak.

***

What happened next wasn’t in the script, not even in the unspoken script the two of them shared. Sofía took a cloth from the sideboard, soaked it under the tap, and went back into the living room with it in her hand. Without asking permission, she climbed onto the first rung of the ladder, right beneath the painter.

“You’ve got a drip here, on the side,” she said, pointing to a paint stain that had fallen onto the baseboard. “Let me.”

The man shifted aside, stiff as a board. To help her reach the stain, he had to press his back against the upper rungs. The maneuver left Sofía with her body between his legs, bent over toward the baseboard, the cloth in her hand. From the camera, Mateo saw his wife’s straight back, the perfect arch of her raised ass and, above all, the painter’s stricken face staring fixedly at a point on the opposite wall as if he were praying. The fly of the guy’s jeans, just a few centimeters from Sofía’s shoulder, was no longer hiding anything: a vertical bulge, defined, with the outline of the glans marked against the denim. Sofía had to see it. She had to be smelling it. She had to know that if she turned her face ten centimeters to the left she’d brush it with her cheek.

Sofía was in no hurry. She scrubbed the baseboard with slow, circular motions. Each time her arm tensed, her T-shirt rode up a little more over her back, and her skirt a little more in back. The crimson thong became fully exposed: the thread buried between her cheeks, the skin of her ass bronzed by the summer sun, and the little triangle in front now visible from an impossible angle, pressed against the mound of her pubis, with the wet stain already the size of a two-euro coin and her swollen cunt lips showing through the lace.

“Sorry,” she said at last, without the slightest trace of apology. “I just can’t stand things left half done.”

In the third-floor bathroom, Mateo was slapping himself against his pelvic floor. His hand went back and forth on his cock in a brutal rhythm, his palm now wet with his own fluid. The image of his wife’s soaked thong a handspan from the painter’s swollen fly had him on the edge. He bit the knuckle of his thumb so he wouldn’t groan. The orgasm surged up the base of his cock with a ferocious pull, pooled at the tip for one endless second, and when it finally exploded it came in three thick, hot bursts that splattered the inside of the cubicle’s metal door. Mateo slumped against the wall, his cock dripping in his hand, his breathing ragged, smiling like an idiot.

Sofía climbed down from the rung, handed the cloth to the man, and returned to her spot in the center of the living room. The painter took three seconds to remember how to hold a putty knife. It took much longer for his bulge to go down.

Mateo wiped himself with paper, pulled up his fly, washed his hands, and splashed water on his face. When he went back to the office he was walking a little loose in the legs and with a new calm in his chest. He sat down and restored the window. Sofía was still there, barefoot, moving around the living room and pretending to choose a book from the shelf that was exactly next to the camera. She came so close to the lens that for an instant Mateo saw nothing but a wall of white cotton, the soft beat of her breathing through the fabric, the outline of a nipple hardened by the cool air from the newly opened fridge, so close to the lens that the blue veins under the skin of her breast could be seen.

And then she moved away again.

***

The painter finished the first coat around five. He climbed down the ladder, gathered the plastic from the floor, put away the rollers, and said goodbye, saying he’d be back the next day for the second coat. Sofía walked him to the door. The last thing Mateo saw before she left the frame was the man’s hand hesitating a second too long as he shook hers, his fingers closing slowly, almost asking permission not to let go.

Then, silence.

Mateo stared at the empty living room on the screen for a full minute. The sun had shifted lower and was now painting the parquet a long orange. He felt a strange tiredness, the kind that comes after a scare, and at the same time a new clarity, as if someone had cleaned the world’s windows.

His phone vibrated one last time.

“Tomorrow he stays until seven. I’ll tell you at night, in bed, with details. And tonight, when you get home, I want your cock hard at the door. You’re going to put it in me exactly as you have it now, no shower, nothing, and you’re going to fuck me to the hilt while I tell you how it showed against his jeans. After that you’re going to put me on all fours and fill my ass with cum. Okay?”

Mateo turned off the monitor, closed the browser tab, and looked at the clock. He still had a good two hours before he could get out of there. Two hours during which he would have to hide the obvious, answer absurd emails about budgets, and pretend the day had been like any other.

Like any other.

He smiled at the keyboard. In the end, the wall was not going to be the only thing that ended up heating up in that house. And he, ten meters from the photocopier, was the only one who knew it.