What My Students Saw on the Security Screen

Hello, readers. I know a lot of confessions are told in four lines, but this one needs context to be properly understood, because it was no coincidence. It was a perfect succession of details that came together like a Swiss watch to expose me in the most humiliating possible way.

I’m twenty-seven and I teach architecture at a private university. I live with Mateo, another professor in the same department. We’ve been together for four years, no marriage involved, but with a shared apartment, two dogs, and the same obsession with order. I’m one meter sixty, very fair-skinned, with freckles on my cheeks, light brown hair and green eyes. Pink nipples and pussy, small but perky tits, with the tips always hard. More than once I’ve been told I look like the actress from a pretty famous teenage romantic comedy.

I’m obsessive about cleanliness. Mateo is obsessive about security. Those two fixations are the silent stars of what I’m going to tell you.

Our house has two floors. On the ground floor there’s an office Mateo uses to meet with students, a living room with a big sofa, and, right above the console, a screen that’s always on showing the images from the four security cameras. The screen is deliberately in plain sight: since a lot of students come through the house during project season, Mateo prefers anyone who enters to see right away that everything is recorded. Visible deterrence, he calls it.

The cameras are where they’re supposed to be. One in the garage. Another in the office. A third in the ground-floor hallway. And the fourth upstairs, screwed into the corner where the stairs end and the upper hallway begins. That last one was his idea. I told him it was too much, that inside the house it wasn’t necessary. He insisted. We argued about it several times. Now you’ll understand why I keep bringing it up.

By the day of the incident, everything had already been set in motion. We’d been in final-exam season for almost two weeks and the tension at home was unbearable. Mateo was sleeping four hours a night, I was sleeping five. That morning, over some stupid thing we already don’t even remember, we argued in the kitchen before heading off to campus. One of those fights where nobody shouts, but the air could be cut with a knife. We drove separately and didn’t speak to each other all day.

What he didn’t tell me, and what we had already agreed on for that week, was that a large group of students would be coming by the house to deliver their models. They were third-year students, my own students in the Composition course. Mateo taught them Structures. Because we were angry, neither of us said a word to coordinate anything.

I got home before he did. They’d forecast thirty-eight degrees and the street was melting. I went upstairs to the bedroom, threw my bag on the floor, tore off the clothes stuck to my body and stayed in a thong. A black string thong, one of those that wedges between the ass cheeks and leaves the whole ass out in the open, with a ridiculous little triangle barely covering the slit of my pussy. Nothing else, not even a bra. The air conditioning upstairs was off and I opened the windows to let air through.

***

On delivery days the students know they can come in without ringing the bell. There’s a little sign on the door and everyone respects it. They arrive, leave the projects on the table by the entrance, sit on the living room sofa and wait. No noise, no speakerphone calls, no wandering around the house. Mateo is very strict about that and it works for the kids.

I had no idea there was a delivery that day. I turned on my portable speaker, put on a Brazilian funk playlist at medium volume, and started cleaning the upper floor as if the house belonged to me and no one else. I went with the mop from the bedroom to the studio, from the studio to the hallway, from the hallway to the bathroom. With my tits swinging bare with every step, sweat running down my sternum and disappearing into the string of my thong, and my ass barely covered by that black cord sinking deeper and deeper between my cheeks as I moved. I sang under my breath and swayed my hips to the beat of each chorus, bending over exaggeratedly to wipe the baseboards, spreading my legs to reach the corners. The thong string stuck to my sweat-wet pussy, outlining my lips in front and vanishing completely between my ass cheeks in back.

Meanwhile, downstairs, without my knowing it, they started coming in.

Later I would count the recordings, and there were more than fifteen people. Five girls and ten boys. The upstairs hallway camera —the one I didn’t want installed— was streaming in real time to the living room screen. Every pass I made with the mop, every time I bent to pick something up off the floor and my ass opened wide, every time I stretched my arms up to reach the top of the doorframe and my tits pulled tight upward, all of it appeared on the big screen for anyone with their neck tilted fifteen degrees from the sofa.

The most absurd thing is that for a long while nothing happened. The first ones who arrived left their models and went away. One of my female students, as we’d later see, looked at the screen, opened her eyes wide, nudged her friend, both covered their mouths and left in a hurry. The five girls left, and with them three of the boys. Decent people, eight out of fifteen. But seven remained.

And the seven stayed.

***

What I did next was the worst. Or the best, depending on how you look at it. After forty minutes cleaning, sweaty and exhausted, I decided to take a long shower. The bathroom in our bedroom had been unusable for weeks because of some waterproofing work: there was a lot of damp and the ceiling had filled with mold. We were using the hallway bathroom, the one right across from the stairs, the one the upstairs camera faces almost head-on.

That bathroom has tempered-glass shower doors. I myself had applied, a week earlier, an anti-limescale, anti-fog treatment; the glass had turned so clear it looked like air. And to make matters worse, I’d gotten into the habit of leaving the bathroom door open while I showered, so as not to repeat the damp problem from the other bathroom. Cross-breeze, I said. Ventilation, I said. Being in full view of the camera, I didn’t say, because it never even crossed my mind.

Before getting into the shower I slid my thong down with both hands, bending at the waist to pull it down to my ankles. The camera, as we later confirmed, caught me from behind at that exact moment: my ass stuck out, my cheeks parting, my shaved pussy peeking out between my thighs. I kicked the thong into a corner and stepped under the stream.

The warm water ran down my back and I started to unwind. I soaped myself up twice. I ran my foam-covered hands over my tits, squeezing them, pinching my nipples with thumb and forefinger until they turned hard as rocks. I shaved my legs, my armpits, then spread my legs wide and shaved my pussy with two gentle passes, leaving it smooth and bare. I massaged my scalp calmly. And when I was already relaxed, with my head against the tiles and my eyes closed, one hand went on its own. First to one nipple, pulling it upward until I felt the sting go straight through to my belly. Then to the other, twisting it with the same force. Then down below.

I opened my pussy lips with two fingers of my left hand and with the pad of my right I started searching for my clit. It was already swollen, throbbing, protruding from its hood. I began rubbing it in slow circles, leaning back against the wall, my legs slightly apart and the hot water pouring over the nape of my neck. A low, animal moan slipped out of me and bounced off the tiles.

I slid two fingers down and shoved them in all at once, knuckles deep. I was so wet inside that the sucking sound was louder than the water. I started fucking myself with my fingers, in and out with a rhythm, curling them forward to touch that rough spot that makes me see stars. With my thumb I kept working my clit. With my other hand I was squeezing one tit and pinching the nipple.

I spent twenty-five long minutes in that shower. More than half of them touching myself. I added a third finger when two no longer felt like enough. I was spearing myself, my wrist burning, my feet slipping on the tiles, my mouth open against the steam. I was thinking about Mateo, about his hard cock, thinking about how he would have shoved it into me from behind against the glass, thinking about how absurd it was to be angry with him when my pussy was like that, dripping through my fingers, screaming for cock. I lifted one leg, propped it on the shower ledge to open myself wider and sink my fingers in deeper, and when I came I bit my lip so I wouldn’t scream. My pussy walls clenched around my own fingers in waves, and I felt a hot trickle run down the inside of my thigh, mixing with the water.

When I finished, my knees were shaking and I had to brace myself against the shower screen with both hands, breathing like a bitch. I stayed there a long minute, with my tits pressed against the glass, my forehead resting there, and my fingers still inside me feeling the last spasms. I breathed deep, smiled to myself, and wrapped my hair in a towel.

Only my hair. Nothing else.

***

I went downstairs barefoot, hair a mess under the towel, my pussy still throbbing between my thighs and my tits red from squeezing them so much. I wanted a glass of cold water before getting dressed. I was thinking about making dinner, making peace with Mateo, anything but looking toward the sofa.

I was on the next-to-last step when I saw them.

Seven heads turned toward me. Fourteen eyes wide as saucers. Seven phones held up, all with the camera pointed, some toward the living room screen and at least three directly at me, at my bare tits, at my freshly shaved and still swollen pussy, at the trickle of moisture running down my inner thigh that wasn’t just water. I recognized every one of them: two from the first row in my lecture, three from the third, two boys who always sat in the back. I’ll never forget their faces. And I noticed, with a shiver that ran through my belly, the pronounced bulges under the pants of more than one of them. They had hard cocks. You could tell from a distance.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cover myself. I didn’t say a word. I froze for a second and a half, turned around and ran back upstairs, losing the towel on the second step. I’m sure that in that second and a half they saw everything: my tits bouncing as I turned, the full view of my naked ass as I went back up, the slit of my pussy between my parted cheeks with each stride. I locked myself in the bedroom with my pulse pounding in my temples, grabbed my phone and texted Mateo in all caps: “GET EVERYONE OUT OF THE HOUSE NOW. URGENT.”

***

He took fifteen minutes to get home. Fifteen minutes in which I sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in a sweatshirt and long pants, shaking as if I had a fever. I heard him send them away downstairs in a sharp voice I didn’t know. Then he came up.

“What happened?” he asked from the doorway.

I told him through tears and, above all, through accusations. I shouted at him about the camera he had insisted on putting upstairs. I shouted at him for not telling me about the students. I shouted at him about the glass bathroom doors he’d convinced me to buy two years earlier. I shouted at him for everything he was partly guilty of, and for everything he wasn’t guilty of at all too. He let me talk and, when I was done, he held me without saying a word.

Then we went downstairs together to check the recordings. It was worse than the moment on the stairs. The upstairs camera had captured everything, for more than an hour: me cleaning with the black thong wedged between my ass cheeks, me undressing from behind with my ass aimed at the lens, me in the shower with three fingers buried in my pussy and my mouth open. The downstairs hallway camera had recorded the seven boys passing a phone from hand to hand, laughing softly, covering their mouths, and two of them with a hand shoved over the front of their pants, openly rubbing their cocks with no attempt to hide it. One of them, the tallest, at one point stood up, climbed five steps, pulled out his phone and filmed the end of my session through the bathroom’s transparent glass: my whole orgasm, my leg raised, my fingers going in and out, my mouth against the glass. He went up and down without me noticing a thing.

That night we didn’t eat. That night we didn’t sleep.

The next day I didn’t go to the university. I sent the dean an email with the word “resignation” and nothing else. When the dean called me, I told him on the phone that I couldn’t give explanations and that I wouldn’t be back. I never returned. Mateo held out until the end of the semester because he had signed contracts, but he resigned too. He said he could feel the looks in the hallways, the whispers in the faculty lounge, the silences that fell when he walked in. They were probably real. They were probably imagined. It didn’t matter.

We never reported the boys. We thought about it, a lot, but in the end we decided that any report would make the videos spread more, not less. Today, two years later, I still dream about that staircase, about the next-to-last step, about those fourteen dilated pupils, about those seven swollen bulges under their pants. Sometimes I wake up sweating. Sometimes I wake up with my hand between my legs and my fingers soaked, finishing myself off in my sleep, imagining what would have happened if instead of running upstairs I’d taken that last step down, knelt in front of the sofa and pulled out the seven cocks one by one. And that last part, readers, I still haven’t told Mateo.