I Know

My hands shook as I held the phone. The screen was misty and faint - at first I thought I had dialed down on the brightness, then I realized tears were clouding my vision. I looked up again at the world around me: a nondescript little café, selling homemade cinnamon rolls over the counter that were my husband's favorite. He always said the taste reminded him of faraway home. Home was China, strangely enough, but there you had it: as it turned out his grandmother sold cinnamon rolls in a shop somewhere back in the heart of the mainland.

I continued watching the video. The video was of a room, a hotel room maybe, but certainly a bedroom. The lower half of the video was covered in white pristine bedsheets, slightly crumpled. There were pillows, which in any other time and condition would make the bed very welcome indeed. There was a screen - a huge television. The walls were gray, drab, plain, but what held my interest was not architecture.

There on the screen, my husband of six years, was planking above a man, fucking a man who was definitely not me. My husband, my dear beloved, my partner of six long-suffering years, years of lean and doubt and failure among others, was giving his undeniably large cock into someone else. I watched as his hips hit a strident tattoo into the ass of the unknown man, whose face was in those initial minutes of the clip was out of view of the camera. Shit. My man really got some moves on him, no wonder he scored that ass.

Despite myself I could feel blood began to rush into my cock. The warmth engorged in my flowering erection. I looked up around, fortunately the café was nigh deserted except for me and a few other patrons. My left hand crawled down into my crotch and rubbed on my bulge, while my right hand held the phone steady. The man my husband was fucking was getting really loud, moaning like the end of the world, and I adjusted the volume of the video on my earbuds. I looked around again, making sure the moans and the grunts were not heard by anyone else.

As I tinkered with the clip a memory came unbidden of the first time my husband and I fucked. It was after our third date at this very café, where we bought homemade cinnamon rolls and drank coffee instead of beer like the poors we were. I had just graduated and was working my ass off copy writing for a medium-sized company, while he was working as a chef - of all places, in a French establishment. We were young, we were poor but we were deliriously happy and we had each other, and the moment when his coffee-warm cock first slid into my hole that night was one I would remember for the rest of my days.

I watched the clip further. My husband leant up and moved a tissue box. I looked again, he really was a lean fuck machine. He looked a few times into the camera, his black hair waving in his movements. He looked drunk, the way he always did when his cock was inside a tight hole, which by default was mine for the last six years. There was an orange-yellow bottle lying uncapped beside the pair, which I recognized to be his favorite self-warming lube. Behind them the TV screen flashed a few times, then switched off definitely.

The man being fucked by my husband barely could hold it by the way he was moaning and clutching at the bedspread. I looked at the man closely, to see if I could recognize his face, which remained covered by the pillow. No matter. He was probably a colleague, a gym buddy, a fellow chef from his snazzy French bistro he was so proud of. I realized my cock was getting harder in my crotch as I listened to the guy groaning in ecstasy, as I was sure what felt like with my husband's cock deep infringing his ass.

Then suddenly my husband paused, looked at the camera intently as if realizing for the first time his dastardly deed was being recorded for posterity. I fought the urge to point a finger at him, at the recording of him, as if he could see my finger pointing at him. After a slight pause my husband continued on, hips pistoning like some efficient German engine. The moans continued on, and my husband called out some words in his mother tongue - I could not hear the words clearly, and anyway my grasp of his language was minimal at best - and let out some hip-busting thrusts. One, two, three. I almost gasped as I realized my husband was cumming inside someone else, his cock spurting life-giving semen inside a stranger. My husband leant down close to the man, but they did not kiss. That was a relief at least, further evidence of intimacy would probably kill me.

I sighed, wiped off my tears and shut down the video. I had watched enough. The business was done, he had orgasmed inside someone else, when he had promised his body, his cock and his cum for me alone. My cock was hard, was still surprisingly hard. I would have to wait a few minutes for it to go down before making myself presentable. Then I would go back home, make dinner, and wait for my husband to come back home to me. And then I would ask him to fuck me with that treacherous cock, and make me come hands-free again and again and again into tomorrow, before whispering those two words in his ear as he drifted into post-orgasmic sleep: "I know."