The View from the Other Room

The camera was smaller than my thumb, its lens no wider than a shirt button, but it streamed in 4K and could pick up a whisper from across the room. I pressed the magnetic disc against the metal picture-frame that curved along the top of our bedroom mirror, angled it until the foot of the bed filled my phone screen, and hit record. A green pinhole winked at me. One word pulsed beneath the feed: LIVE.

I should have felt guilt. Instead I felt the same metallic jolt I get when the plane wheels leave the runway—stomach dipping, cock thickening, every nerve ending suddenly awake. The lie was already in motion. My suitcase waited by the door, boarding pass folded in my jacket pocket for a flight I would never board. Instead I would wheel it three blocks, check into the tenth-floor room I had booked under a fake name, open the laptop, and watch my wife fuck my best friend.

Claire knew only half the plan. She thought I was flying to Seattle for two nights, that I had asked Jason to “drop by and keep her company,” nothing more. She thought the tiny green light was for us—my kink, her reluctant gift. “One night,” she’d bargained, cheeks flushed the same shade as the lingerie I’d bought her. “And only if I feel comfortable.” I’d kissed the hollow of her throat and promised, swearing the camera was just for distance, for us, so I could still feel included. Technically that was true. I hadn’t actually promised she would know the exact moment I tuned in.

The fantasy hadn’t arrived fully formed. It began as a flicker years ago, watching Claire dance at a wedding with Jason, his hand on the small of her back, her laugh tilted up toward him. A pang, sharp and hot, that I’d mistaken for jealousy until I replayed it alone later and felt my body respond. It grew in whispers: What if? It solidified into a confession one rainy Sunday, tangled in bed after making love. I’d told her it wasn’t about replacing me, but about amplifying her. Seeing her as the ultimate object of desire, proof of my taste, my possession made more potent by being witnessed and coveted. She’d called it depraved. She’d cried. Then, months later, she’d asked, over a tense dinner, if I was serious. Her agreement, when it finally came, was a fragile, negotiated treaty. “For you,” she’d said, her voice small. “Because you’ve given me everything. But it’s a gift, not a conversion. Don’t expect me to like it.” The reluctance was part of the gift’s value; her doing it despite her reservations was the ultimate submission to my desire.

Now I watched her on the small screen, moving through our bedroom in a white robe, hair twisted up, skin still damp from the shower. She kept glancing at the mirror—at the camera—biting her lip as if it could bite back. My pulse hammered against my collar. I whispered, “Almost,” and the word fogged the phone’s glass.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang.

Claire startled, clutching the robe at her sternum. She looked straight into the lens one last time, then padded out of frame. I closed the apartment door behind me thirty seconds later, suitcase rolling over the hallway carpet like a distant drum. By the time I reached the street I was hard enough to ache, the night air doing nothing to cool my skin.

The hotel across the street was one of those anonymous glass towers that reflect whatever city they’re planted in. Inside smelled of citrus disinfectant and burnt espresso, the lobby a cavern of cold marble and hushed elevator chimes. I took the elevator alone, slid the key card, and entered a room that was the negative image of our warm, book-cluttered apartment. Here, everything was beige and gray, sanitized and scentless except for the faint chlorine tang of the air conditioner. I drew the blackout curtain just far enough to see the illuminated windows of our building. Our unit was on the eighth floor, corner, bedroom window angled toward me like an open eye. I set the laptop on the generic desk, opened the encrypted stream, full-screened it, and waited, the sterile silence of the hotel room amplifying the roar of my own blood.

Claire’s voice crackled through the tiny speaker: “…thought we’d open the wine first.”

Jason laughed, low, familiar. “Whatever makes you relax, babe.”

Babe. I exhaled through my teeth. They moved into frame, Claire leading him by the hand, both carrying glasses of red that caught the lamplight like liquid garnets. She had swapped the robe for the midnight-blue slip I’d laid on the bed—silk cut high on her thighs, thin straps skimming her collarbones. Jason wore the outfit I’d suggested: dark jeans, white shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, leather watch he knew Claire liked. He looked like the better version of me—same height, same gym membership, but single, uncomplicated, free. Yet as he set his glass down, I saw a hesitation in his posture, a stiffness in his shoulders I hadn’t anticipated.

I should have felt jealousy. Instead I felt the drugging rush of orchestration, of strings pulling exactly as I’d imagined. I eased the zipper down, let my cock strain against cotton, and did not touch. Not yet.

On screen they sat on the edge of the bed, knees touching. Claire tucked hair behind her ear—tell-tale nerves—then took a long swallow of wine. Jason’s thumb brushed a droplet from her lower lip. The silence stretched until I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears.

“I still can’t believe he asked for this,” Jason said.

“He didn’t ask,” Claire corrected quietly. “He begged.”

Heat flared up my spine. My wife’s mouth shaped the word begged like she’d tasted it.

Jason set both glasses on the nightstand. “And what do you want?”

She looked at the camera—at me. “I want to feel watched.”

The admission cracked something open in my chest. I leaned closer to the screen, elbows on the desk, breathing through parted lips.

But Jason didn’t move immediately. He looked at her, then at the mirror himself, his expression unreadable for a moment. “He’s my best friend,” he said, voice lower. “This feels… I don’t know. Like crossing a line and being invited to cross it at the same time.”

Claire reached out, her fingers brushing his wrist. “He trusts you. More than anyone. That’s the point.”

“I know.” Jason ran a hand through his hair, the gesture so familiar it ached. “It’s just… weirdly honorable, in a fucked-up way. To be chosen for this.” He gave a short, self-conscious laugh. “Sorry. Overthinking. He’d tell me to shut up and kiss you.”

Her smile was faint, understanding. “He would.”

That moment of vulnerability, his admission of the weight he felt, added a layer of profound complexity I hadn’t foreseen. It wasn’t just a fuck for him. It was a duty, a privilege, a strange testament to our friendship. It made the act feel heavier, more significant.

Then he threaded his fingers into her hair, tilted her head back. “Then let him watch.”

He kissed her. Soft at first, testing, the way you taste soup before adding salt. Claire’s hands fluttered to his chest, palms flattening over the cotton. When his tongue slipped between her lips her fingers curled, nails scraping. The silk strap slipped off one shoulder. Jason followed it with his mouth, kissing along the exposed edge of her collarbone until she sighed—a small, broken sound I recognized from a thousand nights beside her.

I freed myself, wrapping my fist loosely, mirroring his rhythm as he lowered her to the mattress. The silk rode up, exposing the lace tops of her hold-ups, the tiny bow I’d clipped to the front clasp of her bra. Jason traced it with a fingertip. “Pretty,” he murmured. “But in the way.”

Claire arched so he could reach the clasp. The bra sprang open, breasts spilling, nipples already tight. I knew how they darkened when she was aroused, how the left one angled slightly outward, how she gasped when you caught it between teeth exactly—there. Jason learned fast. She gasped for him, for me, for the lens that stored every pixel for later replay.

He bent to suckle. Claire’s head fell back, eyes slitted, looking straight into the mirror. Straight at me. I squeezed the base of my cock to keep from spurting uselessly onto hotel carpet.

“Tell me what you want,” Jason said against her skin.

She bit her lip, glanced again at the camera. “Touch me.”

“Where?”

A pause. The game: she had to say it. My kink wasn’t just watching; it was hearing my elegant, professorial wife reduce herself to filthy specificity.

“Between my legs,” she whispered.

Jason’s hand slid up her thigh, taking the slip with it. He cupped her over the soaked lace panties, one finger gliding along the seam. “Here?”

“Under,” she breathed.

He hooked the fabric aside, and I saw her—glistening, swollen, opening for him like a morning glory at dawn. One long finger eased inside. The small speaker caught the wet sound, amplified it. My hips jerked involuntarily, cock sliding through pre-come across my palm.

Claire moaned, thighs spreading wider. Jason added a second finger, curling, the heel of his hand grinding slow circles over her clit. She rocked into him, hands fisting the duvet. I timed my strokes to the motion, pressure light, teasing, the way she liked before the main event.

Jason looked up at the camera, grinned quick and wicked—our silent high-five from high school translated into adult depravity. Then he knelt between her legs, peeled the panties down, draped them over his shoulder like a trophy. He kissed the inside of her knee, her mid-thigh, the crease where hip became belly. Each kiss drew a whimper. By the time his tongue replaced his fingers she was chanting his name in a whisper that broke on every third letter.

I sped up, grip tightening, but the angle wasn’t right; I wanted to last. I let go, swore under my breath, wiped my hand on the towel I’d laid out like a good Boy Scout planning his own unraveling.

Claire’s first orgasm was a quiet detonation—back bowing, heels drumming, breath held as if sound itself might shatter the moment. Jason kept licking through it, gentle now, drawing out aftershocks until she pushed at his forehead.

“Inside,” she begged. “Please.”

He stood, unbuttoned the shirt one-handed. I saw the definition I’d spotted at pool parties, the V she’d once teased him about while we drank beers in our kitchen. Now she got to taste it. She rose to elbows, mouthed along his abs, tugged his belt open. The zipper descended. She freed him—thick, curved slightly left, darker than mine, a bead of moisture at the tip. Without looking away from the camera she licked it, slow, catlike.

I growled, hips lifting off the chair. My cock slapped my belly, slick and angry. I fisted it again, harder.

Jason threaded fingers into her hair, guided her down. The angle showed her cheeks hollowing, the obscene stretch of her lips, the line of saliva that bridged mouth to shaft when she pulled back. She took him deeper than she’d ever managed with me—practice, or performance, or maybe the simple thrill of an audience. I should have felt inadequate; instead I felt proud, possessive, as if her skill were my gift to him.

After a minute he eased her off, kissed her swollen mouth. “On your hands and knees,” he said.

She turned, facing the mirror now—facing me. Her eyes locked on the camera as Jason positioned himself behind. He rubbed the head through her folds, teasing, coating himself in her. Each pass drew a whimper. She tried to push back; he held her hips still.

“Ask,” he reminded.

“Fuck me,” she said, voice ragged. “Let him watch you fuck me.”

Jason slid in, one inch at a time, until his hips met her ass. They both groaned. For a moment nobody moved—like the pause between lightning and thunder—then he drew back and thrust, hard. The bedframe squeaked. Claire’s breasts swung, nipples brushing the duvet. Her eyes stayed on the lens, on me.

I pumped in earnest now, pre-come lubricating each stroke, balls drawing tight. The desk rocked; I didn’t care. On screen Jason found a rhythm, hands gripping her waist, skin slapping skin. Claire reached under herself, fingers circling her clit.

“Tell me,” Jason gritted. “Tell me who you belong to tonight.”

“I’m his,” she gasped. “But I’m yours right now.”

The words detonated behind my ribs. I squeezed the base again, staving off eruption. Not yet. I wanted the whole show.

Jason varied angle, depth, speed—every trick we’d bragged about over beers now weaponized against my wife’s self-control. Sweat shone on her back, hair clinging in damp curls. She came again, louder this time, a cry that peaked into a squeal. Jason didn’t stop, riding her through it until her arms collapsed. He followed her down, chest to her back, still thrusting shallowly.

He kissed her shoulder. “Condom off?” he asked.

We’d arranged this part. Claire nodded. “He wants to see it.”

Jason withdrew, rolled the latex down, tied it, tossed it aside. He knelt over her, jerking himself fast. “Where?”

“Tits,” she said, reclaiming agency even in surrender. “Mark me.”

Three strokes later he groaned, stripes of white painting her breasts, throat, even a dab on her chin. She shuddered, rubbed it into her skin like expensive lotion, gaze never leaving the camera.

That did it. I stood, cock aimed at the towel, and came so hard my vision tunneled. Rope after rope, each pulse syncing with Jason’s last tremor on screen. I bit my lip to silence myself, tasting copper. It wasn't just a physical release; it was the culmination of a years-long fantasy, the validation of a desire I'd feared was a flaw. Watching her be so thoroughly claimed, so beautifully debased, and knowing it was for me, at my direction, felt like a power so immense it bordered on religious. In that shuddering, spent moment, I didn't just own the scene; I owned her transformation from reluctant participant to eager performer. She had done this for me, and in doing so, had given me a version of herself I could have never accessed alone.

For a minute the room was only breathing—mine, hers, Jason’s overlapping through the speaker. Then Claire smiled, lazy, sated. She crooked a finger at the camera. “Come home soon,” she whispered.

I slumped into the chair, limbs watery, heart hammering like I’d sprinted ten flights. On screen they curled together, sharing lazy kisses, fingertips tracing patterns in cooling spend. The intimacy of the aftermath was its own kind of show. Jason said something too low for the mic to catch, and Claire laughed, a soft, throaty sound of pure contentment. She nestled against him, and he wrapped an arm around her, his hand stroking her hair with a tenderness that made my throat tighten. It wasn’t possessiveness I felt, but a deep, gratifying satisfaction. He was taking care of what was mine, honoring the gift. After a few minutes, he shifted, kissing her forehead. “I should let you get cleaned up before he gets back,” he murmured.

“Stay for a minute,” Claire said, her voice drowsy. “It’s okay.”

They lay in silence for a while longer, the camera capturing the slow rise and fall of their chests, the way her hand rested on his sternum. This was the part I hadn't fully imagined—the quiet after the storm, the shared vulnerability. It deepened everything. Finally, with a sigh, Jason sat up. “Water?” he asked.

“Please.”

He padded out of frame, returning with two glasses. They drank, talked in hushed tones I couldn’t decipher, the normalcy of it somehow more erotic than what had preceded it. This was the smooth transition, the gentle comedown. When Jason eventually stood and began gathering his clothes, there was no awkwardness, only a sense of completed ritual.

I left the stream running while I showered, the hot water sluicing away the tension but not the humming aftermath in my veins. I dressed slowly, packed the laptop with deliberate care. By the time I wheeled my empty suitcase back across the street, the night had deepened. Our apartment windows glowed warmly.

They were dressed too, empty wine glasses in the sink, Claire wrapped in her robe again. She opened the door before I knocked.

Jason stood at the kitchen island, sipping water. He lifted his chin. “Good trip?”

“Productive,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended.

Claire stepped into my arms, robe parting just enough for me to smell sex and sweat and spent perfume. She kissed the corner of my mouth, taste of wine and unfamiliar salt. “We missed you,” she murmured, and the ‘we’ was deliberate, a shared secret.

I met Jason’s eyes over her head. “Looks like you managed.”

He set his glass down, his expression serious for a beat before relaxing into his familiar grin. “Anytime you need another business trip, you know where I live.” He paused, then added, quieter, “It was… an experience. She’s incredible. You’re a lucky man.” The acknowledgment wasn’t boastful; it was respectful, almost reverent. It sealed the night, transforming it from a transaction into a shared, profound secret between brothers.

Claire’s fingernails grazed the back of my neck—promise, warning, invitation. My cock stirred again, unbelievable but undeniable. I laughed, breath shaking.

“Give me twenty-four hours to recover,” I said.

Jason nodded, clapped me on the shoulder as he passed. “Call me tomorrow. We should grab a beer.” The normalcy of the statement was its own kind of genius. Then he was gone with a two-finger salute.

I locked the door, turned to find Claire already shedding the robe, letting it pool at her feet. In the soft hallway light, I could see the faint marks on her breasts and throat, the satisfied looseness in her limbs. But her eyes were clear, sharp, and fixed on me.

“Round two is mine alone,” she said, backing toward the bedroom. “But the camera stays. I want to watch you watch me remember it.”

I followed, pulse already syncing to a new, deeper rhythm. The green light on the picture frame winked like a star that had seen every secret and, instead of judging, had decided to bear witness to the beginning of something new. The screen on my phone, still propped on the dresser, showed our empty bed waiting. But this time, I would be in the frame with her, both of us performing for the memory of what had just happened, and for the promise of what was yet to come.