I moved cautiously, each step slow and deliberate, but the old stairs still creaked beneath my weight; sharp, familiar betrayals that, on any other day, would’ve given me away instantly. But not today. Denise’s howls poured through the hallway, louder than the floor beneath me, louder than my presence. She wouldn’t hear me. Tommy wouldn’t either. I reached the top of the stairs, the bedroom door just ahead, cracked open with a thin strip of light spilling into the hall. I stopped. One final moment to turn back. To vanish. To live with the knowledge, but without the image. Pretend the camera had exaggerated it. Pretend it hadn’t been real. But I didn’t move away. I kept walking, toward the door, toward the truth.

I stood frozen at the door, stomach knotted, Denise’s screams now louder than ever, each one escalating with every step I’d taken up the stairs, dragging me deeper into something I couldn’t unsee, couldn’t undo. What started as moans had become something else entirely: raw, frantic cries that shook through the walls like a warning I’d already ignored. My chest felt crushed, breath shallow, every muscle caught between bracing and giving out. I hadn’t walked up here. I’d been taken. Carried forward by something beyond logic; some fucked-up combination of heartbreak, hunger, and the sick need to know. I took another step. The floor creaked beneath me, but the sound vanished into the chaos just on the other side of the door.

The door was cracked just a few inches; likely pushed closed by Tommy out of habit, not caution. There’d been no reason to hide when he walked into our bedroom. I leaned in slowly, pressing my forehead to the cheap, six-panel hollow-core door from Home Depot, the only thing separating me from everything I’d flown home to confront. And even through that narrow gap, the smell hit me. Not perfume. Nothing soft. Just her. The flat, chemical tang of sunblock from hours under the sun, the dry trace of sweat and grass clinging to her golf clothes, and beneath it all, the thick, lingering scent of sex.

Through the crack, the room opened in pieces. They were spooned on their sides, stretched out on top of a towel across the bed. Denise faced the door, faced me. Her glasses were still on, perfectly in place, as if nothing could shake them loose. Her mouth hung open, lips parted in a soft, dazed slackness, like her body had forgotten how to close them. Her hair was a disheveled mess, flattened in spots, kicked out in others, molded by the hat she’d worn all day and everything that followed. A thin sheen of sweat coated her skin, catching the light, making her look flushed and glowing, used in a way I had never seen.

The screams I’d heard ringing through the house had reached their peak. Now I could see them. The tremble in her lips. The slight pinch in her brow. The way her expression stuttered with every thrust behind her. The camera hadn’t shown this part, not her face, the audio, the unraveling, or the vacant surrender. This was the part that had been hidden. Now it was right in front of me, visible in every twitch and slack-jawed gasp.

Tommy was behind her, his left hand holding her leg up at the thigh, his forearm running along the sharp tan line left behind by her golf skirt, a clean divide between sun-darkened bronze and pale, untouched skin. His right arm was wrapped beneath her, gripping her breast through the damp red fabric of her golf shirt. It was still on, clinging to her body, bunched up at her ribs, the collar slightly twisted. She hadn’t even bothered to remove it; more likely, he had asked her to leave it on. The shirt had ridden up just enough to expose the flat plane of her stomach, her abs tensing with every slow, punishing thrust. She was bare from the waist down, her black skirt and beige granny panties discarded in a loose pile at the foot of the bed, next to Tommy’s clothes.

Naturally, my eyes were drawn to where their bodies met, drawn to the place where something obscene was happening in real time, over and over. His full length, every impossible inch of it, moved in a smooth, devastating rhythm as it disappeared into her, again and again. It was almost hypnotic, like watching a magic trick I couldn’t explain. Eleven inches, vanishing inside her small, tight frame like her body had been hollowed out just to take him. It didn’t seem possible. I kept watching, trying to understand how she could handle that depth, that stretch, that force. But her body didn’t resist. It adjusted.

I saw his bony arm flex as she instinctively tried to lower her leg with each brutal thrust, not out of defiance, but from some deep, automatic reaction to the impact. He held her there, firm and unshaken, keeping her wide and steady, making sure she took every inch. And beneath him, swinging with every stroke, were his balls: massive, low-hanging, and perfectly proportioned to the sheer scale of him. Shaved smooth, just as tanned as the rest of his body, they slapped into the wild patch between her thighs with wet, rhythmic force. The same ones he used to joke about in the group chat, sending casual photos mid-game like it was nothing. Now they were crashing into Denise, over and over, like this had always been the end of the joke, and I was only just now getting it.

The contrast between the Tommy in our group chat last night and the man I was watching through the crack in the door was almost too much to process. Just hours ago, he was throwing a fit about the Vikings kicker, ranting like some pissed-off frat bro whose fifty-dollar parlay had gone sideways. "Goddamn chip shot!" he’d texted, his immaturity always just beneath the surface, followed by a flood of emojis, like anyone gave a shit. Loud. Smug. Juvenile. A version of Tommy Denise would have openly loathed under normal circumstances. She would’ve rolled her eyes, made a comment under her breath, and moved on without a second thought.

And now, barely twenty hours later, I was watching the other version of him. The real one. Not the guy spewing fantasy takes and tired memes, but the one doing exactly what he was built for. The one who didn’t need to speak to dominate. He was in his element now. Silent. Focused. Fucking my wife’s brains out.

I suddenly had a front-row seat to what the women from our old college apartment must have endured. Back then, I heard it all through the walls: muffled cries, steady thuds, the occasional sharp slap followed by laughter that never sounded nervous, only spent. I used to roll my eyes, shove in earbuds, and write it off as exaggerated. Just another overhyped college hookup. But watching Denise now, being pulled apart by the same man I used to split rent with, I knew better.

Each brutal thrust chipped away at something deeper than pride. It wasn’t just about Denise anymore. Not just the betrayal. Every time Tommy sank into her, he wasn’t just fucking my wife, he was erasing me. Erasing the idea that I’d ever mattered in that part of her life. I didn’t feel like a man. Not anymore. Any other man would’ve kicked the door in, ripped him off her, and made sure he was eating his dinner through a straw for the next year. But I didn’t. I just stood there. Watching. Watching the alternate reality my own wife had been living, one where she was wrecked, satisfied, and totally consumed by someone else. And enjoying every second of it, no matter how hard I tried to pretend otherwise.

If I left her, what then? I’d carry this with me into every room, every date, every bed. Every woman after would feel like a test I was destined to fail. Even if things got serious, I’d always wonder, had they once had their own Tommy? Someone they couldn’t forget, couldn’t stop comparing every man after to? Someone who stretched them open and ruined them for anything less? I’d see it in their eyes, whether they said it or not. That flicker of something missing. That quiet disappointment. It wasn’t just the fear that I didn’t measure up. It was the deeper truth gnawing at me now, maybe I never would. Not for anyone. Not with this memory burned into me, playing on an endless loop I’d never be able to silence.

I had already accepted what I didn’t want to say out loud; I was too much of a pussy to stop what was happening. That much had become clear. But as I stood there frozen at the door, something shifted. The shock had worn off just enough to let logic crawl back in. This wouldn’t go on forever. I wasn’t going to stand there for hours, pressed to the doorframe, breathing shallow and sweating like a coward. I wasn’t going to sneak out, check into some local hotel, and spend the next two nights pretending I was still in Atlanta just to keep Denise from realizing I’d come home early. That fantasy, the one where I stayed hidden, silently stewing, was starting to fall apart.

Eventually, and probably soon, Denise would cum. Tommy would finish. The room would fall quiet, just like it had the night before, her body limp and wrecked across the towel, his clothes already halfway back on before his cock even softened. He’d be gone five minutes later, slipping out like nothing happened, walking four doors down without a trace. If I stayed where I was, that wouldn’t happen. He’d run right into me the moment he opened the bedroom door. His shock alone would be enough to alert Denise, and within seconds, the whole thing would detonate.

That’s when it hit me; I hadn’t thought any of this through. Not the next five minutes. Not what I’d say. Not what I’d do. I was so locked in on seeing it, on catching them in the act and proving it was real, that I never paused to think about what came after. What I’d do when the room went quiet. When Tommy zipped up and left without a word. When Denise reached for her phone like it was just another Tuesday.

The future hit me all at once. Panic. Regret. Humiliation. A wave of it, crashing hard enough to make me consider turning around and sneaking out of the house altogether. Back through the garage, back into my car, gone before either of them ever knew I’d been there. But just as fast as the impulse came, it vanished, drowned out by the unmistakable sound of Denise, her voice rising, breath catching, each sound sharper than the last. She was close. About to come.

Then I saw it: that look on her face. The almost-worried, dazed expression, like her body was racing ahead of her mind. A perfect mix of fear and inevitability. I’d seen it before. In the VRBO, strapped into that chair, just seconds before her pussy gushed around the thickest dildo we had ever used. The biggest orgasm I’d ever seen her have. She had that same look now, and I had no choice but to watch.

Her voice turned to filth, raw and frantic, spilling out in a tone I had never heard from her, not even close. It wasn’t moaning. It wasn’t pleasure softened by restraint. It was guttural, broken, stripped of any civility, the sound of a woman unraveling completely. Words blurred into breath, breath into raw sound, until all that came from her mouth was need. There was no shame in it. No filter. Just pure, feral release pouring out of her as Tommy drove into her without pause.

“Holy fuck, here it comes,” she gasped, her voice cracking, deep and hoarse like she was calling her own orgasm before it hit. It didn’t sound like a plea, it sounded like a warning. Her body went stiff against him, legs twitching, breath catching hard in her throat. Tommy didn’t ease up. His pace stayed ruthless, each thrust slamming into her with the same brutal control, like her orgasm was just part of the process.

Then came the sound, that same guttural grunt I’d heard once before in Ponte Vedra, in that chair, when her body lost all control and the orgasm took her over completely. I knew it instantly. It was the sound of something releasing inside her. Her abs tensed, her mouth dropped open in a silent jolt, and she came hard on his cock, clenching around him in sharp, pulsing waves that shook her from the inside out.

She screamed through it, barely coherent. “Oh my God, Tommy—fuck! Fuck, I’m coming! I’m fucking coming!” Her voice cracked, throat raw, each word spilling out in broken rhythm as her body thrashed beneath him. Her face was twisted in overwhelming pleasure; lips quivering, jaw unhinged, eyes rolling back in a slow, uncontrolled sweep, the effect magnified by her glasses catching the bedroom light. It looked involuntary, electric, like her nervous system had lost all control. And in that moment, as her cry ripped through the room, I knew with sick certainty: every orgasm she ever claimed to have with me had either been fake… or nothing compared to this.

He let go of her breast, slid his arm out from beneath her, and propped himself up on one elbow; calm, deliberate, completely in control. For the first time since I stepped into this, his face came into view. And it was everything I expected. Arrogant. Composed. That smug, detached look he wore like second skin. His jaw was tight, lips parted just enough for steady breaths, eyes low and heavy-lidded, not with focus, but with ease. Like this took nothing from him. Like he was just finishing what he’d started.

And what made it worse was the disconnect between his face and what his body was doing. His expression barely changed, calm and almost indifferent, while his hips drove into her with a speed and precision that didn’t seem human. It was mechanical, like something programmed, each thrust landing with exact force and timing. His lower half moved as if controlled by a machine built for one thing. There was no pause, no adjustment, no break in rhythm. Just relentless, calculated motion.

He wasn’t present with her. He wasn’t reacting to the way her body twitched beneath him or the far-off look still frozen on her face. He was just doing what he needed to do to reach his own climax, with no regard for the coma of ecstasy Denise was still trapped in. Her body had already served its purpose.

Before I could fully process what I was seeing, before Denise had even come down from the orgasm still rippling through her, Tommy backed off, unspooning her in one fluid motion, pulling out slowly, his cock slipping free with a slick, deliberate drag, like it had been molded to her. All eleven inches of him glistened, coated in everything she had just given up. Denise didn’t speak. Didn’t react. She simply rolled onto her back like it was muscle memory, like her body already knew what came next.

She raised her arms above her head, hands moving without thought, blindly finding my pillow. She dragged it down, lifted her head, and tucked it beneath her neck, propping herself up at a slight angle; forty-five degrees, her body bare, positioned, waiting. There was no pause. No hesitation. Just the smooth, automatic rhythm of something fully rehearsed. No words were spoken. None were needed. In that moment, I knew exactly what was coming next.

Tommy was already moving, already climbing over her, settling into place just as he had the night before, and likely hundreds of times before that. There was no hesitation, no fumbling. He straddled her with practiced ease, lowering himself onto her midsection like her body had been built to hold him there. His bare ass pressed against the sweat-slick skin of her stomach, the red golf shirt she’d never bothered to take off bunched high on her chest, clinging to her in damp folds.

Last night, the camera angle had left the ending to assumption. I’d seen their bodies from behind, his motion, her stillness, the unmistakable rhythm that told me exactly how it was ending, but not the act itself. It was just out of view, blocked by the tangle of limbs and a poor angle. No sound. No faces. No final image. Just silence and implication.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the view through the crack in the door gave me everything. Clear. Close. Unforgiving.

Straddling her with his knees planted on either side of her ribs, Tommy gripped the base of his cock with one hand and stroked himself in slow, concentrated motions. Each pass traveled the full length, confident and controlled, the cadence of a man who knew exactly what his body needed. He was slick with her, coated in the aftermath of everything she’d just given him, and the sound of it filled the room. Wet. Sticky. Obscene. Every stroke was amplified by the slickness she left behind. He was using her as lube. Her body, her fluids, everything she had poured out for him was now fueling the next finish, turning against me all over again.

Denise stared up at him with a worshipping look, eyes wide, lips parted, her breath catching between each word. “Give me that liquid gold!” she shouted, voice thick with lust, soaked in urgency. There was no shame in it. No hesitation. Just raw, unfiltered hunger; the kind of reverence I’d never once seen from her, not in all our years together. The kind that said she’d do anything for it.

It hit harder than it should have. This was the same woman who, during the rare moments of intimacy in our marriage, had been visibly repulsed by the thought of semen, pulling away, turning her head, wiping it off like it offended her. And now she was begging for it. Demanding it. Treating it like something sacred, something she needed.

There was nobody to impress. Not me, hidden just feet away. Not even Tommy, who after eleven years of doing this, fucking her, using her, still had her pleading like it was new. Her appetite for him hadn’t faded. If anything, it had only grown sharper. This wasn’t about performance. It wasn’t for his ego. It was instinct. Submission without pride. Desire without restraint. And now, happening for the second night in a row, it was clear this wasn’t rare. This was routine. After more than a decade, she still wanted every drop of him like she’d never had it before, like a thank you, like a reward she owed him, something she gave back every time she’d had the privilege of experiencing him.

Then I saw it: that subtle shift in his body, the tilt of his head, the slight slack in his jaw, his chest pulling in one long, steady breath. His narrow, bird chest lifted, ribs visible beneath the skin, his upper body marked with tan lines from the wife beater he wore like a uniform. That universal, unmistakable signal every man gives in the final second before release. The moment everything coils tight just before it breaks. I recognized it immediately. The same posture I’d seen from behind on the camera feed the night before. The same silent cue that had confirmed what I already knew, he was about to come.

Denise stuck her tongue out at the exact moment Tommy shifted forward, their timing practiced, seamless. His seated position over her chest wasn’t improvised; it was deliberate, perfected. With one slow, controlled motion, he guided the swollen, glistening head of his cock into her mouth, the tip pushing past her lips like a feeding tube locking into place. She struggled to take it, jaw stretched, lips tight around him, her hands bracing his thighs as he fed it to her inch by inch.

Then came the grunt.

That loud, obnoxious, almost theatrical sound I’d heard a hundred times back in college. The one he used with every girl he ever finished inside. Not because he couldn’t help it, but because he wanted people to hear. Wanted the world to know that his cock: his oversized, overused cock, was in the middle of erupting. It was primal. Arrogant. A declaration.

His whole body tightened. Legs locked, stomach clenched, face twisted in that sharp, unmistakable contortion of release. The moment it hit, Denise's head jolted slightly back into the pillow, her lips never breaking contact as a visible lump formed in her throat, the first rope of Tommy already sliding down toward her stomach. Another followed. Then another. His massive balls rested heavily on the crumpled fabric of her red golf shirt, the same one she’d worn all day, now serving as little more than padding beneath him as he emptied himself into her like she was made for it. My wife. His personal cum dumpster.

He kept stroking, slower now, his fist gliding up the slick length with concentrated pressure, milking out every last drop. Denise lay still beneath him, throat working in quiet rhythm, swallowing everything he gave her without a flinch. No hesitation. No mess. Until the very end.

With one final stroke, he pulled out of her mouth, the head slipping free with a slick, audible pop. She stayed right where she was, lips still parted, chest rising beneath him. He flicked his wrist casually, as if sealing the moment, and a final thick glob of cum flew forward, landing squarely on the lens of her glasses. Denise blinked through it, unfazed, then let out a breathless laugh. Tommy chuckled above her, that same smug, satisfied sound I’d heard so many times before. It wasn’t surprise. It was routine. A shared joke between two people who had done this more times than I could count.

Tommy remained mounted on her, his weight settled across her stomach, both of them catching their breath in the thick quiet that followed. Denise stared up at him through her glasses, one lens marked with a single, viscous glob of what she’d just begged for, his so-called “liquid gold”, sitting there like a fly on a windshield, untouched. Her mouth was still slightly open, her expression soft, almost dreamy. There was no tension in her face, no flicker of guilt. Just calm satisfaction, like everything had gone exactly as it was supposed to.

And then I realized—my time had run out.

The orgasmic cries that had shielded the sounds of my presence were gone. The house was still. Every stair behind me now sounded louder in my mind, every creak a threat. If I moved, even a step, they’d hear. One shift of weight, and this wasn’t voyeurism anymore, it was confrontation. Denise would look up. Tommy would turn. And whatever space had existed between me and this reality would be shattered.

What had started as a choice - to sneak in, to watch, to leave unnoticed, was no longer mine to make. That window had closed the second her moans faded into silence. Now, I was trapped. One wrong step and the creak of the stairs would give me away. There was no slipping out. No quietly pretending I was never there. The moment was coming, fast and inevitable. I wasn’t a distant observer anymore. I was in the house. In the story. And the next few minutes would decide exactly how it ended.