Voyeur

I crept barefoot down the hallway while he slept, determined to give my husband the cuckolding he wanted so badly—but on my terms: he’d never know he already had it.

We’d been married twelve years, and I’d never seen her so fully in command of herself as that afternoon, standing in the water and letting strange men look at her.

The theater was almost empty when she chose the seat one place away. She wasn’t watching the screen—she was watching me, and wanted me to notice.

I boarded the last car expecting a quiet trip. I never imagined the woman in the green dress would invite me to watch what her partner was about to do to her.

I told her she set the limit. What I didn’t expect was how much I would enjoy standing aside and watching others discover her.

The first time it was just a reflection in the glass: a still silhouette on the other side of the courtyard, watching her eat breakfast in her robe. She didn’t pull the curtain. She didn’t close it either.

When I pulled her thong down to put cream on her, I noticed the couple next to us had stopped pretending. And then I understood that watching was part of the game too.

I opened the door with my headphones on, suspecting nothing. When I looked into the living room, he wasn’t alone, and I had the cold blood to keep watching.

She had been beside me, watching as I lost myself in the painting. When she finally spoke, I knew we both wanted exactly the same thing.

She stood there among the trees, red with embarrassment, her hands clasped behind her back. “Just let me watch,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen a man do it.”

I’d spent the whole day not feeling like doing anything. Until, when I switched on the boiler, I saw the woman in the building across from mine walking nearly naked through her kitchen, oblivious to my gaze.

I could have held it, but I didn’t want to. I got out, left the door ajar, and waited for the headlights to find me squatting by the road.

She went up on the stage fully dressed while the others were already nearly naked, and I knew that night she was going to lose all her shame in front of everyone.

My window was open and my hand was where it shouldn't have been when I heard her voice ten feet away. When I opened my eyes, she was already watching me.

It began in front of a webcam, in the dark and safe. But that afternoon, at the reservoir beach, there was no screen—only my body, the sun, and men who couldn’t look away.

I stepped into the center of the circle thinking I had the situation under control. I had no idea my shorts would slowly ride up until they left me nearly exposed in front of everyone.

I sat in the dim light, determined not to touch anyone and only to watch. But my fingers had other plans as I watched her give herself to two men a meter from me.

When I started teasing Diego inside the tent, Camila had her eyes closed. But her hand was already moving under the sleeping bag, and I knew she wasn’t asleep at all.

She lifted her dress, looked at me with a smile, and started touching herself for the trucker driving alongside us. It was only the beginning of a trip I would never forget.

A hundred and fifty meters from my parasol, she was stroking him without hiding it. I knew I’d return through the dunes so I wouldn’t miss what came next.