Mark’s world narrowed to the glow of the monitors. Three screens pulsed with live feeds, silent streams of the empty spaces in his own house. Bedroom cam one, wide angle, catching the meticulously made king-size bed, the dark wood nightstands. Bedroom cam two, tight zoom, aimed precisely where he knew Sarah liked to kneel on the edge, her hands flat on the mattress. Living room cam, positioned high in a corner, disguised as a smoke detector, covering the plush sofa and the thick rug where things sometimes started.
His fingers, long and steady, tapped commands onto the keyboard. He adjusted the brightness on feed two, compensating for the late afternoon sun slanting through the blinds. Perfection was the goal. Not just clear footage, but perfect footage. Every detail captured, stored, owned. The obsession wasn’t just seeing Sarah fuck other men. It was the capturing. The archiving. The endless ability to relive, frame by frame, every slick thrust, every choked moan, every hot pulse of cum filling her.
He leaned back, the worn leather of his office chair groaning softly. The air in his small, dedicated room hummed with the low thrum of electronics. Server racks blinked steady green lights along one wall, terabytes of storage dedicated to his singular passion project: Sarah. His wife. His hotwife. His perfect, recordable subject.
A sound from the hallway – the soft click of heels on hardwood. Mark’s attention snapped to the bedroom monitor. There she was. Sarah.
His cock gave a hard twitch against the inside of his jeans. He watched, unblinking, as she moved into the frame of camera one. She was wearing the dress. The short, black one. Tight enough to sculpt the unbelievable curve of her ass, the swell of her hips. Low-cut enough to show the upper slopes of her full breasts. He’d picked it out. Of course, he had. He knew how it looked on camera.
She walked towards the ensuite bathroom, momentarily out of shot. Mark’s eyes stayed glued to the screen, ant
