Chapter 5 — My First Intimate Night with My Wife - 1 (5)

But...

wasn't my daughter supposed to be sleeping right behind us?

There she was, wide awake, her big eyes blinking rapidly as she silently watched us.

She looked like she had a million questions bubbling inside.

Thankfully, my cock was still buried deep inside my wife's body, so the girl couldn't see exactly what we'd been doing. And since we always covered ourselves from waist to knees with a thin sheet during sex—out of habit—she might have overheard our moans and dirty talk, but at least she hadn't seen the actual penetration. That small mercy kept us from completely losing our minds.

The child didn't ask us anything detailed about what happened that night. Whether that was lucky or tragic, I still don't know.

After that incident, we made a strict rule: never have sex while our daughter was sleeping beside us.

Instead, we moved our trysts to a friend's house.

This friend was someone incredibly close—what you'd call a "balls-deep" buddy. We grew up in the same neighborhood, started first grade together, shared everything. We even talked about—and did—our first masturbation sessions together. We compared sizes, bet on who could shoot farther, who had more cum. That kind of thing.

He got married three years after I did, but they didn't have kids yet. He married Miss Lim (?), the office beauty known for her pride and icy demeanor. Long story short, he took her to a late-night bar after a company dinner, got her thoroughly drunk, then "helped" her back to her place—only to end up sleeping with her there. They hit it off and eventually tied the knot.

Funny how, just like me, my friend also ended up winning his wife through a drunken conquest. Guess great minds think alike.

Anyway, he told me he wanted to enjoy married life freely before having children, so we felt no guilt asking to use his home. We explained our situation—needing privacy for sex without waking the kid—and he generously agreed. From then on, his bedroom became our secret sanctuary.

Fucking in his room somehow made us even more aroused. There was something intensely thrilling about imagining my friend doing the same thing with his wife on that very bed—the heat, the sweat, the sounds. It stirred something primal in me.

My wife noticed the change immediately. After we started using his place, I came at her harder, longer, with a wild energy I hadn't shown in years. She welcomed it with open legs and louder moans.

At times, I didn't even see my wife anymore—I saw his wife. And every time that thought flickered in my mind, a strange competitive fire ignited. I wanted to outdo him. To make her scream louder than she ever had for him. I thrust harder, deeper, pouring all my strength into each movement.

And she matched me—her soaked pussy grinding against my cock, the slick, wet sounds echoing shamelessly across the room.

No need to hold back here. No fear of being heard.

"Ahh… h-huff… huff…"

"Ooh… honey… harder… please…"

"Got it."

Slap. Slap. Squish. Slick.

"Ahh… yes… yes!"

"Huff… huff… I'm coming!"

"Me too… honey… I'm—!"

"Ahhhhhh….........."

Twitch. Twitch.

Even after climax, our bodies jerked involuntarily, clinging to the last pulses of pleasure.

For two months, we met there once a week—or more. Each time, our daughter stayed over with the couple, blissfully unaware of what we were really doing in their bedroom.

Then one day, by chance, I turned on the TV in my friend's bedroom.

It was a massive wall-mounted screen—exactly the kind that makes anyone want to switch it on the moment they see it.

Until then, we'd been too nervous to touch anything. Guilt-stricken guests, we'd finish fast, clean up quickly, and leave. But after repeated visits, we grew comfortable. The room no longer felt foreign. And that TV… it started calling to me.

What would it feel like, I wondered, to fuck while watching something on that huge screen?

My wife and I exchanged a look—no words needed. Right after a fierce round of sex, both of us still naked and glistening, I reached over and pressed the power button.

The screen lit up.

And we froze.

On the TV, a couple was on display.

A man stood near the camera, his limp cock hanging down. A woman lay on a bed in front of him, legs spread wide, wiping thick streams of cum dripping from between her thighs with toilet paper.

It was us.

Us—on screen.

In full view.

Our breath stopped. Our hearts pounded like trapped animals.

We hadn't just been fucking in our friend's bedroom.

We'd been performing.

Someone had filmed us.

Every thrust. Every cry. Every filthy, private second.

And now it was playing back—like a goddamn porn channel.