Hello everyone. It’s me again, my husband. My wife and I are 34 and have been married for five years. I will describe her — she will be the center of attention today.
My wife is a girl with a chiseled figure, a narrow waist and wide hips, which she herself is a little shy of, and I’m crazy about them. The breasts are of the second size, very responsive to caresses, with dark halos and nipples that harden literally from a draft. Shoulder—length bob hair, dark, thick. And her eyes are big, brown, which turn almost black when aroused and squint a little when she bites her lip. I noticed this detail every time she immersed herself in her “role.”
Our experience with third parties has expanded over the past year. After the sauna, there were more meetings, and each one added something new to our piggy bank of scenarios. My wife got a taste of the role of a “whore on a leash,” but it’s still important to her that everything happens under my control. It makes her feel protected and even more depraved—her words, not mine. I enjoy being a director and a spectator at the same time, especially when I manage to create a situation where everything looks spontaneous, but in fact every detail is thought out in advance.I left my wife alone with a neighbor and turned on the camera. From the collection How my wife was fucked photos
That’s how it happened this time.
Six months ago, a new tenant moved into the neighboring cottage. A single man in his forties introduced himself as Alexei. Tall, fit, with the hands of a man who knows how to work with them — he built a house on his own, apparently. We sometimes crossed paths at the gate, greeted each other, and a couple of times he helped us with something with the car, then he gave us a ladder. His wife noticed him right away, no matter what. And when we discussed our fantasies before sex once again, she blushed and confessed that she sometimes imagined it when I fucked her from behind. Especially after the incident when he came to us without warning to return the instrument and found her in short shorts and a tight T-shirt without a bra. She later said that he kept his gaze on her breasts for exactly a second longer than was appropriate. And that second turned her on more than she expected.
The idea took shape quickly. A minor breakdown in the house, asking a neighbor to come in to help while I was “urgently called to work.” In fact, I wasn’t going anywhere — I was in the house, in my office on the second floor, from where I could see and hear everything that was happening through a hidden camera in the living room and bedroom. We discussed the script in a day, literally in a second. My wife had to play a double game: for the neighbor, she was a suddenly emboldened housewife, for me, she was an obedient whore who knew that her every step was being evaluated.
It was Friday night. I had previously disconnected a couple of plastic pipes under the bathroom sink, drained the water into a bucket, and photographed the “accident” on my phone. I sent a message to my wife: “It’s done. Wait for the go-ahead.” I went up to the office myself, turned on the camera, checked the sound — the speakers were transmitting the slightest rustle. On the monitor, the living room was viewed from the front door to the stairs to the second floor, the bedroom — from the threshold to the bed. The picture was clear, the lights dimmed, just the way we liked it.
Meanwhile, the wife changed her clothes. She knew the task: to look casual at home, but in such a way that Alexei’s mouth went dry. No stockings with a belt or collars—that would be too obvious. Instead, she wore short denim shorts that barely covered her buttocks, and a white T—shirt a size too small, without a bra. She had her hair in a bun. No makeup, except lip gloss, the one with the slight puffiness effect. She was supposed to look like she was caught off guard. That was the charm of it.
An hour before the appointed time, I wrote to Alexey: “Listen, neighbor, help me out. The pipe under the sink was blown off, the water on the floor was ankle deep, and I was urgently called to work. My wife is alone, afraid that she will flood the entire first floor. You’re the one with the tools, can you take a look? I’ll be so grateful. I’ll charge you the whiskey.”
He replied almost immediately, “No problem. I’ll be back in an hour. Let the water be turned off for now, the valve is under the sink.”
I handed it to my wife and added, “He’ll be here in an hour. Do you remember what to do? »
“I remember,” came her reply, followed by an emoji with horns.
I spent an hour setting up the recording and going over the script in my head. I was shaking with impatience. Everything should have gone according to plan, but it was the slight element of uncertainty — how Alexey would behave, how far he would decide to go on his own, without my direct orders —that accelerated the blood the most.
At eight o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang. I saw on the monitor how my wife, after waiting exactly five seconds — we rehearsed this to create the illusion that she was in another room — went to the door and opened it.
Alexey stood on the threshold with a small suitcase for tools. He was wearing dark jeans and a plain gray T-shirt that hugged his shoulders and chest quite tightly. He had obviously just taken a shower—his hair was damp. When he saw his wife, he smiled slightly from the corner of his mouth, and his gaze made the same involuntary movement: eyes — lips — chest — and eyes again. Faster than he probably noticed. But I noticed. And my wife noticed.
— Hi, Marin. My husband wrote, is there a flood here? – he asked.
—Hi,” she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, lowering her gaze and immediately lifting it back up, right into his eyes. — Yes, you can imagine. I’ve already turned off the water, but it’s still scary. He said you’re a jack of all trades. Come in.
She stepped aside to let him enter the house. When he passed her in the narrow hallway, their shoulders almost touched. She closed the door and looked directly at the camera above the bookcase for a second. A short, almost imperceptible glance. But he was meant for me. She knew I was watching. And she started playing.
“Show me where your trouble is,— Alexey said, putting the suitcase on the floor at the entrance to the bathroom.
“In the bathroom on the first floor, let’s go,” she led the way, and I knew she was doing it on purpose. The shorts were short enough to show the bottom crease of the buttocks when walking, and loose enough for Alexei’s imagination to complete the rest.
In the bathroom, he leaned under the sink, shone a flashlight, and clicked his tongue.
— Well, there’s work for twenty minutes. The pipe was torn off its fastener, and the gasket needs to be changed. I’m lucky that I have a suitable one with me. Don’t worry, we’ll do it.
His wife was standing in the bathroom doorway, leaning her shoulder against the doorjamb. She watched him bend over and the way his T-shirt stretched across his back.
“Maybe tea or something stronger?” “What is it?” she asked.
“I won’t refuse whiskey, since your husband promised me,” Alexey grinned without turning around. “In the meantime, you can just keep me company so I don’t get bored here alone.”
His wife froze for a moment, then slowly smiled. She didn’t expect him to start first. But it was even better. She went into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the Jacuzzi, about a meter and a half away from him. So that when he turned his head to the left, his gaze rested exactly on her bare knees.
They were chatting about something minor-repairs, neighbors, a garbage collection schedule. But the tension between them was growing by the minute. Alexey increasingly looked up from the pipe not at Marina herself, but at her reflection in the mirrored tile in front of him. And she deliberately crossed one leg over the other and then slowly swapped their places. This short movement was enough for him to freeze for a second with a wrench in his hand.
“It’s done,— he finally said, getting up and wiping his hands on a rag. — Turn on the water, check it.
The wife went to the sink and bent down to turn on the valve. At the same time, she bent in the back a little more than necessary, and the T-shirt stretched over her chest, outlining the absence of a bra. Alexey was standing behind her, literally half a meter away. I saw his gaze drop below her back, to her shorts, and then back up.
The water made a noise, splashed out of the faucet, flowing down the drain. There was no leak.
“You’re a wizard,” she said, turning around. Their faces were close. Very close. “Come on, I’ll pour you a whiskey.” You deserve it.
In the living room, she poured two fingers for him and herself, and they clinked glasses. The conversation became more relaxed, with pauses during which they just looked at each other. His wife was sitting in an armchair opposite the sofa where Alexey was sitting. She crossed her legs again, this time more slowly, and kept her hand on her hip.
— Listen, will your husband mind if I drink whiskey with you while he’s away? Alexey asked. It was a test question, and I knew it right away. He was probing the boundaries.
“My husband trusts me,” she replied calmly. — And he said himself that he wants me to feel myself… free. Especially with those to whom he is grateful.
She pronounced the last word with a slight emphasis, looking straight into Alexey’s eyes over the rim of the glass. Then she got up, put the glass on the coffee table and, walking around him, sat down on the sofa next to him. Not close, but enough so that the sofa cushion bent under her weight and their hips were separated by no more than ten centimeters.
“I want to thank you personally,” she said, and her voice dropped a tone. “Do you mind?”
He didn’t respond with words. Instead, he turned his body slightly towards her and placed his palm on the back of the sofa right behind her shoulders. It was an invitation. And she accepted it.
She put her hand on his thigh. Just above the knee. And she began to slowly lead him up until her fingertips touched the fly of his jeans, under which the hardness was already discernible.
“You’re hot,” he breathed, and his free hand went to the back of her head, squeezing her hair a little.
At that moment, she took another look at the camera — this time longer, with a barely noticeable smile, parting her lips. She knew what I was seeing. And I knew what was about to start.
His fingers gripped the back of her head a little tighter, and she leaned forward. Their lips met. It was not a gentle kiss, but at once greedy, hungry, with a tongue, with a slight bite of her lower lip. His wife moaned into his mouth, and her palm, resting on his fly, moved up and down, tracing the length of his penis through his jeans. Alexei exhaled noisily through his nose and pulled her back by her hair, pulling her away from his lips.