I get to travel a lot for work. I love it, seeing new places all round the world. I was lucky that the Firm trusted me to represent them at conferences and seminars; presenting, or just soaking up information and relaying it back. It meant I got to visit places I'd never be able to see on my own salary, and it provided great first-hand experiences and settings for my erotic short stories.
I'd arrived late at the hotel after a particularly gruelling travel schedule. Having to change planes en route really took it out of me. So, I checked into the swanky European hotel, and fell onto the bed. I'd managed to draft a few more chapters of the magnus opus on the plane; grateful for the business class seat so nobody was looking over my shoulder, reading my smut, like they did on my usual train commute. Now, I was exhausted; but as per usual, I couldn't sleep.
I rang home to my gorgeous wife. The one thing I hated about the travel was being apart from her. Fresh faced, a butter-wouldn't-melt smile, a good girl. In public, at least. In private, she was an insatiable horny devil, my match in every way. Parting was hard, but not as hard as I'd be on my return - and the intensity of the making up made the absence, the abstinence, worthwhile. Valuable as I was to the Firm, there was no way they'd fly her out with me. Besides, I'd get nothing done, being with her in a hotel room for a week.
Just thinking about it made me horny again - a perennial problem with being a porn writer. I'd started hoping that channelling those thoughts into my narratives would occasionally free up some brain space for other things; but it seemed my well was bottomless. The more you work a muscle, the stronger it gets. The wife and I had tried cybersex and phone sex on previous trips, but it had always felt so awkward. Talking wasn't really our thing, in the bedroom. Our mouths would be too busy occupied doing other things.
Horny and alone, I did what men the world over do. Turned to the internet. I had a separate Twitter account for my nom-de-plume, and I was following a whole array of authors, of erotica and other genres, and through them had grown to know a network of interesting characters. Many of whom were sex-positive, confident women who weren't shy with their smartphone cameras or their opinions. I lied to myself that it was research. The reality was that I was a dirty old man, and the interactions got me off.
I had hours of stuff to catch up on, having been in the air all day. I scrolled down my timeline; an endless stream of soft - and some not-so-soft - porn photos followed by comments from thirsty reply-boys and supportive cybersisters. Many of the names I recognised; some felt closer to me than friends I had in real life. Some had directly inspired characters in my stories; others had answered questions about activities - sexual and not - that I'd never experienced. I loved the supportive community.
But I wasn't in the mood to engage in conversation. My eyes were drawn to the sexy GIFs, to the teaser video clips. I lay naked on the bed, phone in one hand and cock in the other, indulging myself.
A photo scrolled up that made me stop. I recognised the handle as a woman (or I'd presumed it was a woman, on the internet you never really knew) that had commented on mutual follower's content before. I'd seen her share memes and stuff, but never studied her timeline. The photo had been liked and retweeted by several people I was following, and it was easy to see why. A headless selfie, taken from above, of a thin busty woman in cream lingerie, a delicate silver necklace disappearing into her proud cleavage. Flat toned stomach led down to tiny lace knickers, a hand idly resting against the top of her thigh, brushing her satin-covered pussy. She knelt on a soft duvet, with a hideous patterned carpet just visible.
We have that duvet cover too, I realised. It had been on our bed when I left this morning. Then I looked closer; there was no mistaking that awful carpet, the one my wife had insisted upon for our bedroom. Only then, in context, did I recognise the body. Shame on me. A body I'd held, caressed, made love to every inch of, for so long.
Fuck, did my wife look hot!
Can't wait for hubby to get home from his trip
, the caption read. My breath caught.
I looked underneath the tweet. Hundreds of retweets, thousands of likes. Thousands! Men, all round the world, looking at boudoir photos of my horny angel, probably hundreds of them right now stroking themselves off, imagining they were with her.
Just like I was.
Was I outraged? Jealous? Angry? Hell no, it was the hottest thing. She'd even said it was for me in the caption, although I knew her well enough to know how much she would be getting off on the attention. She didn't know about my secret life as an author of erotica; I couldn't begrudge her her own internet alter ego. If anything, I felt proud.
What did I do?
I followed her, of course. Like tens of thousands of others, I followed her, and read my way through my naughty wife's timeline.
///
"Mine," I growled, as I fucked her harder than I had in years, pounding through her into the mattress below. Her head thrashed, hands clawing and tearing at the soaking sheets, as my relentless thrusting brought her over and over. I vented a week's frustrations and arousal into her, culminating in an earth-shattering climax that left me in tatters. Our welcome-home sex was usually intense, but this had been on another level.
She'd been waiting in the bedroom when I got home, adorned in that bridal lingerie from that first picture I'd seen. She hadn't been able to wait for me, I realised - I saw her favourite vibrator discarded on the floor at the end of the bed, the knickers had been hastily dragged on, and I could smell her in the air. I had to reclaim her, right there and then. Luckily, she'd had the sense to call me to bed; if she'd met me at the front door, wanton and so decorated, then at least one of us would have been scraped raw on the hessian flooring inside the porch.
"Wow. Miss me?" she asked.
Should I tell her I knew? I didn't know how she'd react. More to the point, I liked keeping secret that I knew her secret. Maybe I could have more fun with it that way. "I just really needed you this time."
"I don't mind you going away so much, if you come back to me so needy," she blushed. I watched her, pretending to be coy; but I now knew how she loved the idea of hundreds of online voyeurs poring over her body.
I could hardly blame her, since I found the idea so hot myself.
"Well, about that. I've got to go away again in a couple of weeks. Just a couple of days, over at the LA office."
Her face fell. Was she really sad, or was that part of the act - she'd have time to indulge her dirty little habit. Which planted an idea in my mind. "Maybe you could go shopping - get yourself something sexy to greet me home in?" That made her eyes light up.
///
After landing at LAX, I flicked my phone back out of airplane mode. Sure enough, the notification flashed up. She'd already tweeted her followers. Making sure I couldn't be overseen, I fired up the app.
She was in some high-end lingerie store; good girl! She'd posted a few pictures - a lace bodice, a matching bra and panties set, a silk teddy, and full dirty-bitch red and black set with stockings and suspender belt. The caption underneath read:
gone shopping, want to treat hubby when he comes home. which one do you think?
...and they were voting! There was a whole thread of replies, her followers arguing over which she'd look sexier in! My mouth actually went dry. Some took the trouble to ask the kind of thing I liked, but most clearly just wanted her in whatever they preferred. Except for those calling for nudes, but those she ignored. Parts of the thread spun off into girl-talk with her core followers, exploits with current and ex-boyfriends, fetishes... I was going to have to save this for the hotel, so I could, um, appreciate it properly.
From the privacy of my room, I followed the conversation in the manner it deserved - naked, with a whisky from the minibar on the desk and my throbbing cock in one hand.
Another post from her:
what do you think?
She lay on her side on our bed, in the bottle-green bra and panties set, setting off her red hair and freckled chest. I loved her in green; my little wood nymph. And she knew it. Her areolae were clearly visible through the thin lace; her breasts full and straining at the material. One hand was in shot, long nails painted black, tucked into the tiny waistband of the knickers at her hip, as if ready to pull them down. The other hand, naturally, was taking the selfie. If you can call it a selfie with the face out of shot, of course.
What did I think? I thought it was the single hottest thing I'd seen on the 'net, and I'd been to some proper dodgy sites in my time. It wasn't so much the picture, it was the thought of what hundreds of men were doing right now, looking at my wife. And of her, touching herself, thinking of them doing it. And me, getting off on that thought. It cycled round in my mind, building and building, until I lost my load and nearly drowned my phone in sticky white semen.
///
So it continued for a few months. I'd take a trip, she'd buy a new outfit - not always lingerie; sometimes it was a revealing or risqué dress or top, which she'd wear to dinner the evening I came home. But always there were the photos, the threads about her looks. The horny reply-guys saying what they wanted to do to her; how they'd plaster her face and tits with their cum, take her arse roughly, have her screaming their name and her leaving me for them. Some of it she laughed off, most of it she ignored. Some of it was downright disturbing, and I found myself reporting some of the posts. But mostly it was positive - fellow exhibitionists proud of her, sex-positive women praising her for her poses and her attitude, guys grateful for the wank-bank material. And as her follower count grew, so did the calls for her to take it to the next level.
The clamour to see her naked grew. I baulked a little at that, it felt like it was crossing a line from being a tease into being... What? A sex worker? A stripper? Did that bother me? I thought back, to years ago when we'd visited the odd strip club together. She seemed supportive of the idea then, but hadn't shown an interest in taking part. God knows she had the figure for it, could have made a lot of money. But it hadn't appealed. Perhaps because, in our small town, she'd be too easily recognised on the street. On the internet, not such a problem, especially if she continued keeping her face covered.
