Check on Paige

After finishing up in the shower, you and Lauren head back into the master bedroom to get dressed. You pull on a pair of dark jeans and a soft flannel shirt that hugs your broad shoulders, while Lauren slides into a pair of comfortable leggings and a loose sweater. The relaxed, post-sex vibe between you is sweet, but the electric current of what you just did still thrums beneath the surface.

“I’m going to head down to the kitchen and clean up the lunch dishes,” Lauren says, leaning up to press a soft kiss to your jaw. Her cheeks still carry a faint, pretty pink glow. “Why don’t you go check on Paige and see how the editing is coming along?”

“Sounds like a plan, honey,” you rumble, giving her hip a playful squeeze before she heads down the stairs.

You turn and walk down the quiet hallway toward the guest room. As your boots pad softly across the hardwood floor, approaching the guest room door, a faint, rhythmic sound catches your attention.

“Mmm... ahhh...”

You stop a few feet away. Your first instinct is that she’s simply working through the audio tracks, adjusting the volume on the explicit noises you and Lauren were making. You step closer, leaning your shoulder casually against the doorframe to listen.

But as you focus, the cadence strikes you as completely wrong. The pitch is higher, more frantic, and significantly louder than your wife’s soft, breathless whimpers.

Then, the audio from the laptop speakers cuts through clearly, a sharp, unmistakable gasp from Lauren as you had thrust deep into her on the digital track. But immediately overlapping Lauren’s digital voice is a raw, real-time gasp from inside the room.

“Oh God, yes... fuck... Mark...”

Your blood instantly turns to liquid fire. It isn’t just the video playing. Paige is actively masturbating to the footage of you fucking your wife.

You press your ear a fraction closer to the wood, your grip tightening against the doorframe. Through the thin barrier, the unmistakable, frantic friction of skin against skin carries out into the hall, the wet, messy rhythm of a girl completely lost in her own desire. The hyper-vigilant, quiet assistant has completely unraveled, driven to the absolute edge by the raw, hyper-masculine energy she had been **** to watch through her lens.

“Fuck, he’s so big... Lauren, you lucky bitch... ah!” Paige whimpers inside, the mattress creaking ever so slightly as she shifts her weight.

You stand alone in the hallway, a wicked, dominant grin spreading across your face. The exhibitionist thrill from earlier surges right back into your gut, heavier and darker this time. She isn’t just a detached filmmaker anymore; your intimacy has completely shattered her boundaries, and you are holding all the cards.