I caught my wife cheating on camera and i couldn't stop jerking pff to it

The little black lens, no bigger than a button, stared back at me from the corner of our bedroom. My bedroom. Our bed. I felt a cold knot of shame tighten in my gut, but I pushed it down. I needed this. I needed to know. For weeks, something had been off with Sarah. Late nights at work that didn’t add up. Showers taken the second she walked in the door, washing away a day I hadn’t been a part of. Her answers to my questions were breezy, dismissive things that evaporated in the air between us. Just for peace of mind, I told myself, securing the camera. Just to quiet the nagging voice.

For two days, nothing. Just the mundane rhythm of our lives played back in grainy, silent footage. Her sleeping form, her routine of dropping clothes into the hamper, the blue glow of her phone on her face. I started to feel like a fool, a paranoid husband inventing drama. I almost took the damn thing down.

Then came tonight.

I got home first, the empty house echoing. I poured a whiskey I didn’t taste and sat at my desk, pulling up the feed. Fast-forward through the emptiness, through Sarah coming home alone, through her scrolling on her phone in bed. My heart was a dull, heavy thing. See? Nothing. I was about to close the laptop when the time stamp ticked past midnight. The bedroom door opened.

It wasn’t just Sarah.

A man followed her in. He was taller than me, broader in the shoulders. He moved with an easy confidence, like he belonged there. Like I didn’t. My hand froze on the mouse. The whiskey in my stomach turned to acid.

They were laughing, his hand on the small of her back, guiding her. She tilted her head up, and he kissed her. Not a peck. A deep, hungry kiss that spoke of familiarity and raw want. My wife kissed him back, her hands tangling in his hair. A sound escaped me, a choked-off gasp. This wasn’t a drunken mistake. This was a ritual.

He pushed her, and she fell back onto our bed with a soft, yielding bounce. She didn’t protest. She arched her back, a silent invitation. My blood ran cold, then instantly, traitorously, hot. I was paralyzed, my eyes glued to the screen, a spectator in my own catastrophe.

His hands were on her clothes, peeling them away with a practiced efficiency that made me sick. And she helped him. She helped him. Soon she was naked, sprawled across our dark sheets, the curves of her body illuminated by the faint light from the en suite. He stripped, and my breath hitched. He was already hard, his erection standing thick and heavy against his stomach. A primal part of my brain, one I didn’t recognize, noted his size with a shocking, detestable thrill.

He didn’t tease. He didn’t ask. He climbed over her, his body covering hers, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, locking him in place. I saw her lips form a word. “Please.”

He entered her in one smooth, devastating thrust. Sarah’s back bowed off the bed, her mouth falling open in a silent cry I could almost hear through the silent video. That’s my wife. The thought was a distant scream. That’s my wife moaning for another man.

And God, did she moan. As he began to move, a deep, rhythmic pounding that made the bed frame tremble, her sounds filtered through the tiny camera’s microphone. They were sounds I hadn’t heard in years. Uninhibited, raw, guttural. Sounds of pure, unadulterated pleasure. The knot in my gut dissolved, replaced by a searing heat that flooded my veins. My chest was tight, but my cock was harder than it had been in a decade.

I looked down. My hand was inside my sweatpants, my fingers wrapped around my own aching length. I hadn’t even consciously told it to move. It was as if my body had bypassed my shattered mind entirely. I was stroking myself, my pace slow at first, then quickening, matching the relentless cadence of the stranger fucking my wife.

I should be breaking down the door. I should be calling a lawyer. I should be screaming. But all I could do was watch and touch myself, a vile participant in their betrayal. The sight of him, his powerful hips driving into her, the way her breasts shook with each impact, the look of utter ecstasy on her face—it wasn’t horrifying. It was the most erotic thing I had ever seen.

“Fuck yes. Right there. Don’t stop,” her voice, a husky whisper from the speakers, coiled around me. I stroked faster, my breath coming in ragged pants. I was close. So was she. Her heels dug into his back, pulling him deeper. Her hands clawed at the sheets. Her climax built, a visible tremor that started in hercore and radiated outwards until her entire body was shaking.

When she came, it was with a raw, screaming cry that seemed to tear through the very fabric of the room. Her eyes squeezed shut, her head thrashing side to side on the pillow. The sight, the sound, it was my undoing. My own orgasm ripped through me, a silent, violent convulsion. My cum shot over my fingers, hot and shameful, as I watched another man spend himself inside my wife.

I slumped in my chair, trembling, spent. On the screen, they collapsed into a heap, a tangle of slick limbs. He kissed her shoulder. She nuzzled into his neck. They looked… happy. Content. Like a real couple in the afterglow. He left a while later, slipping out into the pre-dawn dark. Sarah simply rolled over, pulled the covers up, and fell asleep.

I sat there for an hour, maybe more. The cum dried on my hand, a cold, sticky reminder of what I’d done. What I’d felt. The anger finally began to prickle at the edges of my numbness, but it was weak, distant. It was drowned out by something else, something darker and far more compelling. A hungry, insatiable curiosity. A need to see it again.

The next day, I didn’t say a word. I drank coffee. I asked about her day. I was the perfect, clueless husband. But the moment she left, I was back at the desk. My hand snaked back into my pants. I found the file. I hit play.

And as the stranger on the screen pushed into her again, I started to stroke. Slower this time. Savoring it.