My Husband Asked Me for Five Photos of Other Men

Camila and Hernán had been married for eleven years and still slept tangled together the way they had when they were dating. Routine hadn’t dulled anything because, from their very first month together, they had agreed to something unusual: to tell each other everything that crossed their minds, with no filters and no shame. That night, though, Hernán took nearly an hour to get started.

—I’ve been turning something over in my head for months —he said at last, speaking into the dark—. I don’t know how you’re going to take it.

Camila rested her cheek against his chest and waited. His heartbeat was faster than usual.

—The idea of other men looking at you turns me on —he went on, almost in a whisper—. Wanting you. Knowing you’re mine and they have no idea what they’re missing.

She stayed quiet for a moment, not because she was uncomfortable, but because she hadn’t expected that. She knew him better than anyone, and yet the confession had caught her off guard. Her skin prickled beneath the sheet.

—And what would you like me to do? —she asked at last, with a half-smile he couldn’t see.

Hernán drew a deep breath. It was exactly the question he had been waiting for.

—I’m proposing a game. One week. You have to get photos of five men. Risqué photos, but asked for while you’re playing around. They mustn’t know it’s a challenge. I want them to want you without knowing why.

—And the fifth?

—We’ll think about the fifth together when we get there.

Camila agreed before she had time to think twice. Her pulse was hammering in her neck and, without meaning to, she felt her underwear growing wet.

***

The next morning she chose her clothes with a care she hadn’t given them in years. A cream-colored silk blouse, a little more fitted than what she usually wore to work. A straight skirt to mid-knee, just enough. Perfume behind her ears and on her wrists. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror and held her own gaze until she smiled.

She knew the game wasn’t about asking for photos. It was something else. It was moving through the day as if she knew something everyone else didn’t. It was leaning a millimeter farther over the table, holding eye contact a second longer, letting out a laugh that ended in a question. Hernán hadn’t asked her to be unfaithful. He had asked her to lean over the edge without falling.

The first opportunity came at noon. She was having lunch with Federico, a colleague from the finance department, at a café near the office. They talked about stupid things until she casually dropped a story about a friend who had installed a dating app.

—What surprised me most —she said, stirring her coffee— was what men dare to send.

Federico raised his eyebrows and laughed.

—And what did you see?

—Nothing —she replied, keeping her eyes on his a little too long—. But it’s hard for me to imagine. Is it really that common?

Federico pulled out his phone before thinking twice. They spent ten minutes scrolling through screenshots he had saved of jokes with friends. Camila kept one on her phone before leaving the café. Her excuse was that it was hilarious. The first photo slipped into her private folder without effort. As she stood up, she caught sight of Federico’s tight bulge against his trousers. She looked a second too long and said nothing.

***

The second was even easier. That same afternoon she ran into Daniel, a college friend she saw every so often. They had a beer at a bar they’d been going to for years. Camila told, laughing, about a recent bachelorette party where the challenge had been to ask the grooms for creative photos to send to the future bride.

—I can’t believe they did that —Daniel was laughing, already two beers in.

—What surprised me most was how many things people keep on their phones.

He thought for a second, then opened his gallery and showed her something old, from a bachelor party where he had been the groom. A joke, he said, but the image had been archived for years. Camila laughed, asked him to send it so she could show it to a friend who didn’t believe it, and Daniel sent it to her by message without blinking.

***

The third was the neighbor across the street. They crossed paths in the elevator a couple of times during the week. Sebastián was in his early forties, lived alone, and went to the gym with obsessive discipline. Camila knew his routine because she saw him leave at six-thirty in the morning with a huge bag slung over his shoulder.

One afternoon they ran into each other in the building laundry room and she stayed longer than necessary, folding clothes that were already folded.

—Do you always train at the same time? —she asked him.

—Before I start the day. If not, it doesn’t work for me.

—My sister told me the other day that guys at the gym take photos in front of the mirror to post on social media. I didn’t believe her.

Sebastián looked at her with one eyebrow raised. He was wearing an old T-shirt, still damp with sweat from training.

—You didn’t believe her?

—To me it was a myth —Camila said with a small smile.

—I’ll send you one and you’ll stop believing in myths.

Ten minutes later the photo arrived on her phone. Sebastián, shirtless, in front of the bathroom mirror, with that half-smile of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. Camila saved it and sent him a surprised emoji, thinking the game was becoming too easy. In the photo, the bulge in his shorts outlined a long cock resting against his thigh, and Camila realized Sebastián knew perfectly well what he was showing.

***

The fourth was the riskiest and, for that very reason, the one that lit her skin on fire the most.

It happened at a dinner at some friends of Hernán’s. After the third bottle of wine, someone brought up WhatsApp groups and what circulated in them. Camila, sitting on the sofa with her legs crossed and a nearly empty glass, mentioned in passing that some girlfriends of hers were doing a dare kind of challenge, “whoever completes it sends a photo.”

—Really? —asked Tomás, one of Hernán’s oldest friends, sitting across from her.

—A silly thing. But they can’t put together even one.

Tomás laughed. Hernán was in the kitchen, listening to everything. Camila could feel his gaze from the other side of the dining room, burning.

—And if I help you? —Tomás said, half-joking, half not.

—Maybe I’ll take you up on that.

Twenty minutes later, in the bathroom of the house, the fourth message arrived. Camila opened it with her heart pounding and let out a nervous laugh when she saw the image: Tomás had a hard cock in his hand, thick, slightly curved upward, the tip shining from how much he’d been stroking it. He was masturbating right there while Hernán poured his wife another glass in the dining room. Camila closed the message without replying and leaned against the sink. Between her legs she was soaked. When she returned to the dining room, Hernán held her gaze over the rim of his glass. That night, in the car, he drove with one hand on her thigh, very high, almost over her underwear, and hardly spoke at all.

***

The fifth he didn’t ask for over the phone. He asked for it in bed, after midnight, with the hoarse voice of a man who had spent the entire day waiting.

—The last one isn’t just yours —he told her—. I want to be there too. Not in the photo. But I want to know what happened. I want you with another man, naked, and I want the camera to catch it.

Camila felt the air leave her chest. Up to that moment it had been a game of brushes, hints, lines that could be crossed and then stepped back from. This was something else.

—Are you sure?

—I’m sure I trust you. As for the rest, no.

And even so she wanted to do it.

She looked at him for a long moment. Then she leaned in, gave him a slow kiss on the mouth, and got out of bed.

—I’ll bring you the photo.

***

The cove lay beneath the cliff where they had built the house four summers earlier. It was a stretch of coast you couldn’t reach unless you knew it, a crack between rocks with white sand and a sea that was almost always calm. They used to go down there for breakfast on Sundays. That night, Camila descended the stone steps with her heart pounding in her throat and a folded towel under her arm.

The last ray of sunlight was still hitting a narrow strip of sand. And there, right in that strip, a man was lying on his back, completely naked, one arm crossed over his eyes.

She stood there for three seconds looking at him from the entrance. Then she walked toward him.

The man sat up when he heard her approach. He must have been in his early forties, his hair still wet from his last dive, his skin darkened by summer. He didn’t try to cover himself. He just looked at her, saying nothing, waiting for her to speak first.

—Hi —Camila said, stopping about a meter away from him.

—Hi.

—I wanted to ask you for a weird favor.

He raised an amused eyebrow, not moving. Camila dropped the towel on the sand and pulled her dress over her head. She folded it carefully, as if it were any ordinary morning, and left it beside her. She was left naked, in front of him, with the last light striking her shoulders. Her nipples tightened with the breeze, and she noticed the man’s gaze going down from her face to her chest, from her chest to her shaved cunt, and slowly back up again.

—I have to take a photo —she went on—. With someone. It’s a game between my husband and me.

—Your husband has good taste in games.

Camila laughed. The laugh came easier than she had expected.

She sat down in the sand next to him, phone camera in hand. The man’s body responded on its own to the closeness: a slow erection, unhurried, as if he knew he had time. His cock straightened against his stomach, thick, with the glans shining and a vein marked underneath, and Camila kept her eyes there longer than she had planned.

—That wasn’t part of the plan —she said, glancing between his legs with a half-smile.

—I don’t believe you.

She leaned toward him. Camila’s head rested on the stranger’s shoulder, his arm brushing her waist. She pressed the shutter. The photo came out perfect: two naked bodies in the last light of the day, nothing vulgar, just the truth of what was happening there.

—One more —the man said.

And then he moved closer, took her hand, and placed it on him, slowly, without pressure. Camila closed her fingers around the stranger’s hard cock and felt it pulse against her palm, hot, thicker than she had guessed from the outside. She could have pulled her hand away. She didn’t. She held the phone with her other hand, framed the shot, and snapped it. The image froze: her holding a stranger’s dick, looking at the camera, no smile, completely in command of the moment.

What happened after that hadn’t been planned. She set the phone on the towel and never picked it up again. Camila’s hand began to move on its own, first a brush, then a long stroke from base to glans, measuring the weight, feeling the skin slide under her fingers. She ran her thumb over the tip and found a thick drop spilling from the slit. She used it to lubricate the first real movement, a closed fist going all the way up and down, squeezing just enough.

—Motherfucker —Camila muttered, more in surprise than as an insult—. How big you are.

He let out a broken laugh and ran a hand over the back of her neck. He didn’t push her. He just rested it there, giving her permission.

Camila leaned in and licked the tip with a flat tongue, slowly. The taste hit her mouth all at once: salty, masculine, skin and sea. She licked again, this time from the base, a long firm stroke, and felt the man arch his back against the sand. Then she parted her lips and took it all into her mouth, as far as she could. She had to help herself with the hand closed around the base, because the stranger’s cock was thick and wouldn’t fit all at once. She sucked it slowly at first, lips tight around the shaft, moving her head up and down with a soft rhythm. Then harder, letting the tip knock against her palate, hearing him let out a low, shut-in groan, as if he were embarrassed to moan with her.

—Suck my cock —the man told her, hoarse, almost voiceless—. Suck it like it’s his.

Camila lifted her eyes without taking it out of her mouth. She pulled off slowly, a strand of saliva hanging from her lips to the glans, and took him back to the base. Now she looked at him while she sucked him, and he held her gaze with an intensity that ran down her spine. With her other hand, she reached between her legs and realized her cunt was soaked, her lips swollen, burning. She ran two fingers over her clit and a moan slipped out of her, muffled against the stranger’s cock.

She pulled back for a second, panting, her mouth still open and shining.

—I’m so wet —she whispered, more to herself than to him.

—Come here.

The man grabbed her by the waist and lifted her astride him. Camila ended up sitting on top of him, the stranger’s hard cock rubbing against her open cunt from the outside, slipping between her lips without going in. She braced one hand on his chest to steady herself and with the other grabbed his cock and ran it through her wet slit, back and forth, coating it with her own juices. The tip kept catching on her swollen clit and Camila bit her lip to keep from moaning too loudly. The man grabbed her tits with both hands, pinched her nipples between thumb and forefinger, and she let out a gasp that echoed through the empty cove.

—No —Camila said suddenly, and pushed his hand away from her hip when she felt him trying to drive upward—. Not inside. That’s the only thing I don’t want.

—Whatever you want.

She got off the man’s body and knelt beside him, her hand closing around his cock again. She started to jerk him off seriously, her wrist firm, sliding the foreskin up and down with a tight, regular rhythm, while with her other hand she kept touching herself. The man threw his head back against the sand, and his hand went to the back of her neck again, not to push, but to hold on to something. Camila felt him harden even more between her fingers, his cock already vibrating, nearly there.

—Come on my chest —she told him, hoarse, never stopping her hand—. Come on my tits.

The man let out a short, thick groan, and a hot burst jumped onto Camila’s chest. She didn’t stop moving her hand until the last convulsion, feeling the stranger’s cock throb between her fingers, feeling the semen run between her nipples and down to her stomach, dense, warm. When he was done, she took a deep breath, and realized she had two fingers in her cunt without having thought about it.

—Not small —she told him in his ear, copying the joke she had kept to herself at the beginning and never gotten around to saying.

He laughed softly, still with his eyes closed.

Camila stood up, fixed her hair, wiped herself only lightly with the towel —just her stomach, not her chest— and got dressed. The dress clung to her skin, still damp. She didn’t tell him her name. He didn’t ask for it either. She climbed the cliff steps barefoot, sandals in hand, feeling the night was too big for her and that she was still dripping between her legs.

***

Hernán was waiting for her in the living room. He hadn’t turned on the lights. Only the table lamp, lit from below, carved out his jaw.

She handed him the phone without saying anything and sat down in front of him, still wearing the dress but nothing underneath.

Hernán looked at the first photo. The second. The third. The fourth. He moved to the last one and stayed there longer. Camila could see, without looking at his trousers, what was happening on the other side.

—Show me the others too —he said.

She showed him the four photos from the week, one after another, and watched his face as he went through them. What she saw wasn’t jealousy. It was something else, deeper inside: an old desire, awakened, almost childish.

Camila stood up, let the dress fall to the floor, and sat on the sofa in front of him, open. Hernán swallowed. On her chest he could still see the mark left by the other man’s semen, poorly dried, shining under the lamp. She hadn’t cleaned herself off all the way on purpose.

—He came on me here —she told him, running two fingers over her right nipple, tracing the dry line—. I sucked him first. I took him all the way in. Then I jerked him off until he came.

Hernán was breathing through his mouth, saying nothing. He took off his belt with one hand without taking his eyes off her, and unzipped his pants. His cock sprang out rock hard, the tip already wet with pre-cum. He closed his hand around it and started to jerk himself off slowly, watching her.

—Keep going —he told her, voice tight.

Camila opened her legs wider, planted her feet on the edge of the sofa, and ran two fingers over her cunt. She was soaked again, still, or again. She showed him the glistening fingers before sliding them inside, first one, then two, searching for that spot he knew by heart. With her other hand she found her clit and began circling it in small tight motions, biting her lip.

—Tomás texted me at two in the morning —she said between breaths—. The photo he sent me had his cock hard in his hand. He was jerking off when he took it. Thinking about me while you slept beside me.

Hernán was stroking himself faster now, his hand firm around his own cock.

—Sebastián —she went on, moving her fingers faster inside her cunt—. Sebastián would have fucked me in the laundry room if I’d asked him to. I saw it on his face. I’m sure he pulled it out and came thinking about me that same afternoon.

—Keep going.

—Federico got hard when I talked to him about the photos. In the café. You could see it under the table. I saw it and said nothing. I could have taken him to the bathroom, Hernán. I could have unzipped him under the table and sucked him right there.

Hernán let out a shut-in groan.

—And the guy on the beach —Camila said, arching against her own hand—. The one on the beach was bigger than yours. And I took him all in my mouth. I filled the tip with saliva and took him to the back of my throat. He tasted like the sea. He sat on me with his cock out and ran it over my wet cunt, back and forth. If I’d told him yes, he would’ve put it all the way in me in the sand.

—Holy fuck.

—Say it.

—My fucking wife.

Camila moaned at that, long and filthy, and felt everything in her cunt clench around her fingers. She pulled her soaked fingers out and ran them over her lips, then over her nipples, mixing her own juices with what was left of the other man. Hernán stood up from the sofa across from her. His hard cock pointed straight at her, thicker than usual, veins standing out, the tip shining.

He knelt between her legs and buried his tongue in her cunt without ceremony, seeking out her clit with the tip and flattening it with his tongue. Camila closed her thighs around his head and let out a muffled cry. Hernán sucked hungrily, as if he wanted to erase any trace of the day from her mouth, from her scent. He slid two fingers inside her and curled the fingertips upward, searching for that spot inside, and Camila came on his face in less than a minute, trembling, grabbing his hair with both hands, pressing his head against her cunt until the last contraction.

When she opened her eyes, Hernán was standing in front of her, his cock pressed to her mouth, his hand closed around the base. Camila parted her lips and he slid in. He pushed to the back of her throat, and she let him, purring around his cock the way she hadn’t in years, her mouth still tasting of her own cunt. Hernán fucked his wife’s mouth with his hand on her neck, without brutality but without hesitation, until he felt the first tremors at the base and pulled out. He grabbed his cock with his hand and finished over her. Thick ropes, one, two, three, onto the same chest, onto the same nipple where the other man’s mark had been left.

This was exactly what he had imagined, and she knew it.

Camila closed her eyes. She felt the two spurts mingling on her skin like one, one semen over the other, and everything that had been the game, the whole week, the five photos, ended there, in that exact overlap.

Later, much later, when Hernán ran his hand across her forehead to brush back her hair, Camila opened her eyes.

—I don’t think we could handle another week like that —she told him.

—I didn’t say anything about another week.

—No, but you were thinking it.

Hernán laughed softly and hugged her. They stayed like that, speaking no more, until sleep overcame them on the sofa.