What My Husband Filmed While They Watched Me

It was a Saturday in May, and the Atlántida mall had that white light that pours in through the skylights and flattens the shadows on the second floor. The corridors smelled of new-store perfume, food-court coffee, that warm mixture that only exists in malls in the middle of the afternoon.

For anyone else, we were just another couple pushing bags. For us it was something else. For months, we had turned our outings there into an unwritten script, a choreography where he watched and I provoked, and where the risk of being caught was the fuel we would later ignite at home.

—Ready? —Tomás asked me, closing my hand in his.

—Always.

—Remember the only rule.

—You watch. I provoke. Nobody crosses the line.

He smiled in that slow way he saved for these Saturdays, a smile closer to a hunter’s than a husband’s.

The dress was new, burgundy, fitted to the hips and short enough to make decency start arguing with itself. I had nothing on underneath. That was the other rule, the implied one: we went out without panties or we didn’t go out. The air conditioning on the ground floor raised goosebumps on my skin the moment we crossed the automatic doors and made my nipples hard under the thin fabric, and I knew without looking that he had noticed.

—Your tits are showing —he said in my ear, brushing my back with his open palm until he rested it for a second at the base of my ass—. And everything’s visible underneath. Just the way I like it.

—Then let them look —I answered in the most innocent voice in my repertoire.

We stopped in front of the window of a lingerie boutique. He took out his phone and started filming as if he were recording the façade, but the lens sought the reflection of my body in the glass and of the men passing behind us, measuring me with their eyes.

—Show them what they think they shouldn’t see —he whispered.

We went in. The sales clerk greeted us from afar without much interest. I bent over a low table to touch a black lace set, and the dress rode up just enough for the lower curve of my ass to barely show, with my cunt already getting wet from knowing I was being watched. A gray-bearded man, pretending to examine a bra two meters away, froze with his hand in the air. He couldn’t help looking. He didn’t want to help looking. He saw the naked skin between my thighs, saw the shadow of neatly trimmed hair, saw what no wife had shown him in years.

I felt the heat rising inside me, that dampness gathering between my thighs without permission and beginning to run down the inside of my legs. Tomás had positioned himself at the perfect angle, his phone propped against a column as if checking a message, filming the gray-bearded man, filming me, filming the exact moment a stranger’s desire crossed with mine.

—Try something on —he said out loud, just loud enough for the man to hear—. I’ll pick it for you.

He handed me a translucent red set, scalloped-lace, almost no fabric at all. I went into the fitting room and he came in with me, closed the curtain, and leaned against the wall without touching me. The mirrors on three sides multiplied my body until it became unreal.

—Slowly —he asked.

I slid the dress down from my shoulders, from my waist, until it fell silently onto the tiles. My nipples had gone hard as pebbles before the air even brushed them, dark and upright on the heavy tits he knew by heart. Between my legs, the inside of my thighs gleamed with a wet strip that ran two fingers below my cunt. Tomás saw it and said nothing. He turned on the phone camera and filmed me standing naked there, spinning slowly so the lens could capture everything from my perky ass to my breasts, passing over the neat triangular patch of trimmed hair over my soaked cunt.

—Put two fingers in —he said softly—. Fill yourself up. Then give them to me.

I obeyed. I lowered my hand, parted my lips with my index and middle finger, and pushed the two of them into my hot cunt up to the knuckles. They came out wet, shining, with thin strands hanging from them. He took my wrist, brought my fingers to his mouth, and sucked them one by one, staring straight at me, tasting me as if he were measuring the level of desire with his tongue.

—You’re cooking yourself —he murmured—. Now put on the lingerie.

I put on the set with the slowness he had taught me to have when he was watching, sliding the lace up my legs, adjusting the thong between my ass cheeks until I felt the seam sink into the groove of my ass, and the cups until my breasts settled into place, begging to be looked at, the nipples peeking through the sheer weave.

—Open the curtain a little —he said—. Just a finger’s width.

I did. The hallway light slipped in as a thin strip and my figure was cut in half, red lace and skin, and the silhouette of someone outside stopped a few meters from the fitting room and stopped pretending to look for a size. It was a young employee in a dark uniform, no more than twenty-five. He swallowed. I saw it in the mirror’s reflection and I also saw the bulge pressing against his dark pants, saw how my husband saw it through the camera and filmed the boy’s swollen cock pointing at me without permission.

Let him look all he wants. Tonight the bed is his.

—Let him imagine how they’d fuck you —Tomás murmured against my nape, pressing his hard cock against my ass over his pants from behind—. But the line is me. The only one who’s going to fuck you tonight is me.

He squeezed one breast through the lace, pinched my nipple between thumb and forefinger until a low moan broke out of me, and ran two fingers over the red, translucent triangle that barely covered my cunt. The fabric was already darkened by wetness.

—You’re going to walk around like this all afternoon —he said—. And you’re not coming until I say so.

We left the fitting room with the set on underneath the dress. We paid without speaking. The young employee followed us to the register with his eyes, and I let my hips move a little more than necessary as I walked away, feeling the soaked thong rubbing my clit with every step.

***

On the first floor we passed the food court. Four men at a round table stopped chewing when they saw me go by. One leaned toward the man beside him and said something in a low voice; I saw that conspiratorial smile form, the kind someone wears when they’ve just shared a comment they wouldn’t say in front of their wife. That silent, restrained attention lit something old inside me. It wasn’t ego. It was a specific, ancient power, measured only in diverted breaths and pants suddenly tightening under the table.

—Go up the escalator —Tomás said from behind me—. I’ll stay two steps below.

I went up. I arched my back just a little, heels on the moving step, and let the hem move of its own accord. I felt his gaze, the camera low, filming my ass naked under the dress, the red lace thong sunk between my cheeks, and I also felt the looks from below, from a group of boys near the fountain who nudged one another and laughed.

—Still —Tomás said in a deep voice—. Let them admire what only I get.

I stepped off the escalator with my legs trembling slightly, not from fear, but from that anticipation that gets mistaken for cold.

—Talk to that man —he said, nodding toward a tall man sitting on a bench in front of the bookstore. He wore a gray jacket and was looking at his phone, but his attention had landed on me the moment I crossed the corridor.

—What do I say to him?

—Anything. Use the voice you use when you know perfectly well the fire you’re setting.

I crossed the six meters with that walk he called the Saturday walk. I leaned just enough in front of the man in the gray jacket, pretending to look for a store on my screen, letting him see my cleavage down to the roots of my nipples beneath the red lace.

—Excuse me, do you know if there’s a pharmacy around here?

He looked up. His eyes made the whole trip—face, cleavage, hands—before he could speak, and I noticed him swallow, noticed his lower lip grow wet.

—Uh… I think there’s one past the central square, by the parking lot side.

—Thanks —I said, holding his gaze a second longer than necessary—. You’re a sweetheart.

I smiled and walked away. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to. I knew he was filming from an angle in which the gray jacket followed my walk as if pulled by an invisible thread.

I went back to Tomás. He grabbed my waist with one hand and slid the other beneath the hem for a second, just enough to sink two fingers between my thighs and confirm what I already knew. He pulled them out shining and passed them over my lips before putting them between his own.

—You’re soaked. Dripping.

—I’m all yours.

—Both things —he corrected me.

***

The next level was an arcade. Pink and blue neon lights, pinball machines, a couple of pool tables in the back. Few adults, lots of noisy teenagers, and an empty table offered us the perfect excuse.

I took the cue and leaned over the green felt. The dress rode up exactly as it needed to, and I knew from behind that my red thong was sunk between my ass cheeks and the edge of my cunt was showing between my thighs. Tomás positioned himself behind me, three steps away, his phone raised as if photographing the ceiling décor.

—Hit it hard —he asked.

I struck. The sharp sound of the balls colliding drew the attention of a group of three boys who were pretending not to look. One of them worked up the nerve, clearly emboldened by the other two, and came over with that smile of someone who had already tried the trick before.

—Want help with the next shot? —he asked.

I turned just enough for the neckline to open and for him to get a view of my tits packed into the red lace. He had to be twenty-two, twenty-three. Clean, perfumed, with freshly cut hair.

—Do you really think you’ve got anything to teach me my husband hasn’t already taught me?

He laughed, embarrassed, without backing off.

—Let’s find out.

He took position behind the cue, his chest against my back, his hands over mine. I didn’t move. Neither did he, for too long. I felt the unmistakable pressure of a hard cock against the cheek of my ass, the texture of denim and the bulge pressing into me, heard his breath catch. With all the calm in the world I pushed my ass back a little so he’d realize I felt it too, and he let out a tiny muffled sound that nearly ruined his composure. Tomás watched from two meters away, a mix of calm and predator behind the phone, filming the boy’s marked cock pressed against his wife’s ass.

—He already knows how to do it —Tomás said suddenly, in a cordial, disconcerting tone—. But go ahead, look all you want. I’ll allow it. Later you’ll go to the bathroom and jerk off thinking about her.

The boy went back to his table with his face flushed, adjusting his pants, and his friends asking for details. I straightened up, handed the cue to Tomás, and held his gaze.

—You’re a degenerate —I whispered.

—I’m your degenerate.

***

The last stop was the movie theater. An action film at an odd hour, almost empty auditorium, back row. As soon as the lights went out, his hand rose up my thigh and stayed there, patient, waiting for the movie to start blasting so it would cover our sounds.

—Open your legs —he asked when the first chase began.

I opened them. The dress wrinkled on its own, offering everything to the cold air of the theater. With two fingers he shoved my soaked lace thong aside and dragged it against my groin, leaving my cunt fully exposed. Three seats ahead, in the middle row, a man alone shifted in his seat. He turned his head once. Then again. He saw it. He saw the white stretch of my thigh, saw my husband’s hand buried between my legs, saw the fingers parting my cunt lips.

—He’s watching —I whispered, my mouth at his ear.

—I know. Let him rot. You focus here.

Tomás slid one finger into me, then two, slow, calibrating the rhythm to the sound effects. He curved them upward, searching for the spot he knew by heart, and with his thumb he rubbed my swollen clit in short circles. I pressed my lips together so the moan wouldn’t escape, and with his other hand he forced them apart, making me keep my mouth slightly open.

—Take it out —he ordered in my ear—. With your left hand. Without anyone noticing.

I lowered my hand to the bulge in his pants and fumbled open the zipper with fingers clumsy from pleasure. I pulled out his hard cock, thick and hot, and wrapped my fist around it. The tip was wet with pre-cum. I started jerking him off with short strokes, hiding my arm against his body, while he kept fingering me.

—Harder —he asked—. The hand and the voice. Let him hear you once.

I let out a low, controlled sound, a muffled moan that reached the middle row. The man visibly leaned, pretending to settle himself. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him lower the zipper and shove his hand into his pants, with no pretense left at all, wanking himself while looking at me. My husband saw it too, and instead of stopping he sped up.

—He’s jerking off thinking you’re his —he told me in a thick voice, his fingers going in and out of me with a wet sound the soundtrack covered—. Let him finish, let him get swallowed by the seat. I’m the one putting the cream inside you, you hear me?

—Yes —I panted, squeezing his cock in my fist—. All the way inside.

—Suck me a little. Let him know what his hand is aiming at.

I leaned just a little over his lap, hidden by the front seatback, and took the tip of his cock in my mouth. I sucked him hungrily, tasting the salty pre-cum, running my tongue over the head, taking him halfway in and letting the saliva run down his shaft to the hand with which he was still fucking me with his fingers. I squeezed his balls with my free hand.

—Good girl —he murmured, squeezing my neck without forcing it—. Look at the guy over there. Suck me while you look at him.

I lifted my eyes without stopping sucking him. The man in the middle row had half turned back, furiously jerking off, and he saw me with my mouth full of my husband’s cock. He closed his eyes and arched his back; I caught the muffled grunt of the man finishing into the seat, against himself, while I swallowed around Tomás’s cock.

—That’s it —Tomás said—. He’s finished already. That one’s all yours this afternoon. Now come here.

He sat me back down in the seat, spread my legs wide open, and slid his fingers into me again, three this time, all the way in, while with his thumb he crushed my clit mercilessly. The screen filled with explosions and my husband took advantage of the roar to speed up the rhythm, his fingers curving right at the point where I lost track of my body. I felt my stomach tightening, my legs trembling, the whole theater shrinking to the wet sound of his hand going in and out of my cunt.

—Come in my hand —he ordered in my ear—. Now. No noise.

I came biting my lip until it hurt, my feet planted on the floor, my hips lifting a couple of centimeters off the seat, my cunt clenching around his fingers in long waves that left me breathless. I felt it dripping between my ass cheeks and onto the seat, felt his hand soak through completely. He didn’t let go until my breathing returned to a tolerable rhythm. He pulled his fingers out with a sticky sound and passed them over my lips so I’d clean them with my tongue.

—Good girl —he whispered—. You came good and hard. And now home.

—And you?

—I’m coming inside you tonight. Five times if needed. Save it for me.

I tucked his cock away in his pants, pulled the zipper up with a quick kiss over the fabric, adjusted my thong over my swollen, throbbing cunt. We left before the movie ended. The man in the middle row didn’t look at us when we passed by. He didn’t need to. He had his left hand hidden under the jacket folded over his lap, and in the air hung the unmistakable smell of fresh semen.

***

In the underground parking garage, before putting the key in the car door, Tomás pressed me against the still-warm metal of the hood. He didn’t kiss me. He looked at me for a long time and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear as if we were coming back from a family dinner. Then he lowered his hand and ran two fingers over the dress, right above my cunt, pressing just enough for me to feel the red lace fabric sink into my lips.

—Tonight we’ll watch the videos —he promised—. One glance at a time. Nice and easy. And I’ll fuck you while we watch them.

—One at a time.

—And next Saturday we’ll go back.

I nodded. We got into the car. Before starting it, he left his left hand between my thighs, doing nothing, just resting it on the wet fabric of the thong, like a mark. The seat belt crossed my chest and didn’t bother me.

The mall emptied out behind us, the skylights already dark, the storefronts shut down. On my husband’s phone, filed away in a folder with no name, the whole afternoon remained: every stare, every blink, every diverted breath, every concealed bulge, every hidden wank from every man who that Saturday had believed he had a secret.

None of them had had a secret.

They had all been part of ours.