He left his wife alone with a neighbor and turned on the camera.

Hello everyone. It's me again, the husband. My wife and I are both 34, and we've been married for five years. I'll describe her—she'll be the center of attention today. My wife is a woman with a chiseled figure, a narrow waist, and slightly wide hips, which she's a little self-conscious about, but which I'm absolutely in love with. Her breasts are a B-cup, very responsive to caresses, with dark areolas and nipples that literally harden in a draft. Her hair is a shoulder-length bob, dark and thick. And her eyes are large, brown, which turn almost black when she's aroused, and they squint slightly when she bites her lip. I noticed this detail every time she immersed herself in her "role." Our experience with third partners has expanded over the past year. After the sauna, there were more encounters, and each one added something new to our repertoire of scenarios. My wife has developed a taste for the role of "slut on a leash," but it's still important to her that everything happens under my control. It makes her feel protected and therefore even more depraved—her words, not mine. I enjoy being both director and spectator, especially when I manage to create a situation where everything appears spontaneous, but in fact, every detail is planned in advance. That's what happened this time too. Six months ago, a new tenant moved into the neighboring cottage. A single man in his forties, he introduced himself as Alexey. Tall, fit, with the hands of a man who knows how to use them—he'd built the house himself, apparently. We'd occasionally cross paths at the gate, say hello, and a couple of times he'd helped us out—either fixing something with the car or lending us a ladder. My wife noticed him right away, of course. And when we were discussing our pre-sex fantasies one time, she flushed and admitted that she sometimes imagined him fucking her from behind. Especially after the time he dropped by unannounced to return some tools and caught her in short shorts and a tight T-shirt, braless. She later told me he'd lingered his gaze on her breasts for exactly a second longer than was appropriate. And that second turned her on more than she'd expected. The idea took shape quickly. A minor breakdown in the house, a request to a neighbor to come over and help while I was "urgently called to work." In reality, I wasn't even there—I was in the house, in my second-floor office, where I could see and hear everything going on through a hidden camera in the living room and bedroom. We discussed the scenario the day before, literally down to the second. My wife would have to play a double game: to the neighbor, a suddenly emboldened housewife; to me, a submissive slut, knowing her every move was being judged. It was Friday evening. I'd already disconnected a couple of plastic pipes under the bathroom sink, drained the water into a bucket, and snapped a photo of the "accident" on my phone. I texted my wife: "Done. Wait for the go-ahead." I went up to the office, turned on the camera, and checked the sound—the speakers picked up the slightest sound. The monitor showed the living room from the front door to the stairs to the second floor, and the bedroom from the threshold to the bed. The picture was clear, the lighting dim—just the way we liked it. Meanwhile, his wife changed. She knew the goal: to look casual and homey, but in a way that would leave Alexey's mouth dry. No stockings, suspenders, or chokers—that would be too revealing. Instead, she wore short denim shorts that barely covered her buttocks, a white T-shirt a size too small, and no bra. She pulled her hair back into a bun. No makeup except for lip gloss—the one with a slightly plumping effect. She had to look as if she'd been caught off guard. That was the whole charm. An hour before the appointed time, I texted Alexey: "Listen, neighbor, help me out. A pipe under our sink burst, there's ankle-deep water on the floor, and I've been rushed off to work. My wife's alone and she's worried the whole first floor will flood. You're on first-name terms with tools, right? Could you take a look? I'd be incredibly grateful. I owe you some whiskey." He replied almost immediately: "No problem. I'll be back in an hour. Let him turn off the water for now; the valve is under the sink." I relayed this 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 running the script through my head. I was trembling with anticipation. Everything had to go 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 got my blood pumping. At exactly eight o'clock in the evening, the doorbell rang. I watched on the monitor as my wife, after waiting exactly five seconds—we'd rehearsed this to create the illusion that she was in another room—walked up to the door and opened it. Alexey stood in the doorway with a small tool case. He was wearing dark jeans and a simple gray T-shirt that fit fairly tightly around his shoulders and chest. He'd clearly just showered—his hair was damp. Seeing his wife, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and his gaze made that involuntary movement: eyes—lips—chest—and eyes again. It happened faster than he probably noticed. But I noticed. And my wife noticed. "Hi, Marin. Your husband wrote, 'Is there a flood here?'" he asked. "Hi," she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking down and then back up, right into his eyes. "Yeah, can you believe it? I already turned off the water, but I'm still scared. He said you're a jack of all trades. Come in." She stepped aside, letting him into the house. As he passed her in the narrow hallway, their shoulders almost touched. She closed the door and looked for a second straight into the camera above the bookcase. A brief, almost imperceptible glance. But it was meant for me. She knew I was watching. And she began to play. “Show me where your problem is,” Alexey said, putting the suitcase on the floor at the entrance to the bathroom. "In the bathroom downstairs, let's go," she said, leading the way, and I knew she was doing it on purpose. Her shorts were short enough that the crease of her buttocks was visible when she walked, and loose enough that Alexey's imagination filled in the rest. In the bathroom, he leaned under the sink, shone a flashlight, and clicked his tongue. "Well, it'll only take twenty minutes. The pipe came loose from its mounting, the gasket needs replacing. Luckily, I have a suitable one with me. Don't worry, we'll fix it." His wife stood in the bathroom doorway, leaning her shoulder against the frame. She watched him bend over and the T-shirt stretch over his back. "Perhaps some tea or something stronger?" she asked. "I wouldn't refuse a whiskey, since your husband promised me one," Alexey chuckled, 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 hadn't expected him to go first. But that was even better. She walked into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the jacuzzi, about a meter and a half away from him. When he turned his head to the left, his gaze fell directly on her bare knees. They chatted about insignificant matters—renovations, neighbors, the garbage collection schedule. But the tension between them grew with each passing minute. Alexey increasingly looked up from the pipe, not at Marina herself, but at her reflection in the mirrored tile in front of him. She deliberately crossed one leg over the other and then slowly switched them. This brief movement was enough to make him pause for a second, wrench in hand. "It's ready," he said finally, standing up and wiping his hands on a rag. "Turn on the water and check." My wife walked over to the sink and leaned over to turn the faucet. She arched her back a little more than necessary, and her T-shirt stretched across her chest, revealing her lack of a bra. Alexey stood 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, and flowed into 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 him and herself two-finger glasses, and they clinked them. The conversation became more relaxed, with pauses during which they simply looked at each other. His wife sat in a chair across from Alexey on the sofa. She crossed her legs again, more slowly this time, and lingered with her hand on her thigh. "Listen, would your husband mind if I drank whiskey with you while he's gone?" Alexey asked. It was a test question, I knew it right away. He was testing the waters. "My husband trusts me," she answered calmly. "And he himself said that he wants me to feel... free. Especially with those to whom he is grateful." She spoke the last word with a slight emphasis, looking Alexey straight in the eye over the glass. Then she stood up, placed the glass on the coffee table, and, walking around it, sat down on the sofa next to him. Not very close, but close enough that the sofa cushion sagged under her weight, leaving their hips no more than ten centimeters apart. “I want to thank you personally,” she said, her voice dropping a tone. “Do you mind?” He didn't respond with words. Instead, he turned his body slightly toward her and placed his palm on the back of the sofa just behind her shoulders. It was an invitation. And she accepted. She placed her hand on his thigh, just above his knee. And began to slowly move it upward until her fingertips touched the fly of his jeans, where a hardness could already be discerned. “You’re a hottie,” he breathed out, his free hand landing on the back of her head, lightly squeezing her hair. At that moment, she glanced at the camera again—longer this time, with a barely perceptible smile, her lips parted. She knew what I was seeing. And I knew what was about to happen. His fingers gripped the back of her head a little tighter, and she leaned forward. Their lips met. It wasn't a gentle kiss, but a greedy, hungry one, with tongue and a light bite of her lower lip. His wife moaned into his mouth, and her hand, resting on his fly, moved up and down, tracing the length of his cock through his jeans. Alexei exhaled loudly through his nose and tugged her hair back, tearing her away from his lips. "Hush, girl. You'll have time," he said with a grin, and his voice took on that very proprietary tone we'd been hoping for. "Since you've decided to thank me, let's not make a fuss. I like to inspect the gift first." He rose from the sofa, took her hand, and pulled her up. She stood opposite him, rocking slightly on her heels, and looked at him askance. He was almost a head taller than her, and she had to lift her chin to meet his gaze. "Take off your shirt. Slowly," he said. My wife exhaled and complied. She grabbed the bottom of her T-shirt and pulled it up. First, her flat stomach revealed itself, along with a neat navel piercing—a small silver teardrop that Alexey, judging by his dilated pupils, hadn't expected to see. Then her breasts appeared. Without a bra, they looked exactly as we'd envisioned: the nipples were already erect, standing out like dark circles against her pale skin. The T-shirt fell to the floor. My wife was left in just short shorts, shifting from one foot to the other. "Beautiful," Alexey commented, and without asking permission, he ran his thumb over her left nipple. It instantly wrinkled and became even harder. "I've long wanted to see what you're hiding under your modest sundresses. And what you're hiding, Marina, is quite something." "Thank you," she replied barely audibly, lowering her eyes. She was now entering the role of an obedient girl, at the mercy of her guest. I knew this stage of hers: the slight embarrassment before she completely melts into the process. “Take off your shorts too,” he commanded. She unbuttoned her button, pulled the zipper down, and, with a slight sway of her hips, pulled her shorts down to her ankles. She stepped over them, revealing tiny black panties that, at the back, showed only a thin strip between her buttocks. Alexey circled her, stopped behind her, and placed his palms on her thighs. He ran them up to her waist, then down, squeezing her buttocks and spreading them slightly, appreciating the view. "Panties off too," he said in her ear, pressing his chest against her back. She felt his erection pressing into the small of her back. "I want to see everything." She pulled down her panties and stood completely naked in the middle of the living room. Alexey walked around her again and stood face to face. "Now get on your knees, Marin. Let's see how well you can say thank you with your mouth." She lowered herself. Her knees touched the carpet, and she began undoing his belt, then the button, then the zipper. His jeans fell to the floor, followed by his boxers. His penis came free and dangled right in front of her face. I assessed its size through the camera: it was longer than mine, about 17-18 centimeters, and quite thick, with a distinct head already wet at the tip. She paused for a moment, simply examining it, and then looked straight into the camera—one last time before completely immersing herself in the process. That look contained everything: gratitude to me for this game, a promise to give it her all, and wild excitement. She took it in her hand. She ran her tongue over the head, licking up a drop of precum, and wrapped her lips around it. Her head began to move back and forth, slowly at first, getting used to the thickness, then with increasing confidence. Alexey stood with his legs slightly apart, looking down at her. His hand came back to the back of her head, but this time not to guide her, but simply to feel the rhythm. “Yeah, that’s it. Good girl,” he whispered. “Deeper. You can go deeper.” She took him all the way in and froze for a second, then pulled back up, gasping for air, and immediately sank her mouth back down. Saliva ran down her chin and dripped onto her breasts. She was completely lost in time: sometimes sucking gently, playing with her tongue along his frenulum, sometimes taking him aggressively and deeply, sometimes moving lower and taking his balls into her mouth, sucking them one by one and making Alexei suck loudly through his teeth. She knelt for about ten minutes, and during that time, Alexey came close to cumming twice. Once, he even clenched his fist and threw his head back, trying to put off the moment. But he didn't want to stop. "Get up," he said finally, helping her up. "Now I want to see what's behind you. Turn around and bend over." She turned her back to him and leaned forward, resting her palms on the edge of the sofa. Her buttocks spread, revealing both openings: a wet pussy and a neat, tight ass. Alexey ran his finger over her crotch, collecting the moisture, and brought it to her lips. She obediently licked it. "Good girl," he praised. "Now tell me where you want me to fuck you." “Everywhere,” she replied without turning around. “Fuck me everywhere. I want you to use me however you want. My husband gave me permission.” She said that last phrase with particular gusto, and I knew she'd added it especially for me. Alexey merely chuckled and, wasting no time, positioned the head of his cock at her entrance and thrust inside. She gasped and arched her back even further, accepting him completely. He began to move—at first measuredly, with long pulls almost all the way in and sharp thrusts back in, and then faster and faster, pounding into her so hard that the sound of their bodies slapping echoed throughout the living room. "Yes, yes, yes..." she whispered, burying her face in the sofa cushion. "Fuck me... harder..." Alexey grabbed her hips and changed the angle, causing her to cry out. He fucked her pussy for another five minutes, then stopped, breathing heavily. "Now in the ass," he said. "Got any lube?" “In the bedroom, in the nightstand,” she whispered. - Go get it. She straightened up, paused for a second, catching her balance, and went into the bedroom. A minute later, she returned with a bottle of lube in her hand. Alexey took it, squeezed it onto his fingers, and began lubricating her anus, slowly inserting one finger, then two, warming her up and preparing her. She moaned and bit her lip. When he deemed her ready, he positioned her doggy style again, this time facing the stairs leading to the second floor. She knew I was somewhere up there, and this spurred her on even more. He entered her ass slowly, giving her time to adjust. She moaned louder than before and arched her back. Then he began moving, and within a minute he was fucking her hard, holding bukvoeb.run by the waist and impaling her on his cock all the way to the base. “Yes, fuck my ass... I’m a whore... I’m a dirty whore...” she whispered, her words interspersed with the rhythmic slaps of his hips against her buttocks. Alexey couldn't hold back anymore. He picked up the pace, and I could see from his face that he was on the edge. A few more thrusts, and he pulled out abruptly, grabbed her by the shoulder, and turned her to face him. "On your knees. Open your mouth," he ordered. She instantly lowered herself and opened her mouth, sticking out her tongue. He ran his hand down his shaft twice—and then shot onto her tongue, her lips, her chin. Thick white sperm spread across her face. A second stream hit her cheek and trickled down onto her chest. A third—on her lips. She sat there with her eyes closed, taking it all in, and then, as she'd taught me, she wrapped her lips around his head and sucked off the rest, licking up every drop. "Fuck," was all Alexey could breathe out, looking at her. "You're incredible." She smiled without opening her eyes, and then slowly rose up, collecting the sperm from her cheek with her fingers and sending it into her mouth. “I’m not finished yet,” she said. “My husband asked me to come up to him after you. He’s waiting.” Alexey chuckled and shook his head. — Tell him I owe him some whiskey too. For such a gift. My wife turned around and, still naked, with traces of sperm on her face and chest, began to climb the stairs to my office. I heard her footsteps on the steps and saw her getting closer and closer to me. My cock was so hard it felt like it was about to explode. She opened the office door and walked in. Her lips were swollen, her chin glistened with saliva mixed with semen, her nipples hard and dark, and between her legs a wet mess from someone else's cock. She approached me, sitting in the chair in front of the monitors, and leaned toward my face. "Your slut is back," she whispered, and I kissed her lips, licking up the rest of my neighbor's cum. "Do you want to taste how dirty I am inside?" I didn't answer with words. I stood up, turned her towards the table, and bent her face down onto the keyboard. She was still leaking precum from behind. I entered her in one motion and began to fuck. It was a vicious cycle of lust, control, and love. Just the way we loved.