Dear Anna Pt. 01

This is a work of fiction. It contains humiliation, elements of cheating and voyeurism.

Pornography addiction is real. Though it is used here as a narrative element, it is not meant to make light of what can be a serious issue.

All characters in this story are of legal age.

Dear Anna,

I wanted to avoid such a clichéd opening to my letter but I'm finding it hard to think of anything else that sums up my situation so succinctly. So here it is, and I give this warning to my fellow readers in a desperate hope that it will give at least one of them pause: Be careful what you wish for.

It's trite to say, I know, and I wouldn't have listened either. Now I know better, Dear Anna, and despite learning my lesson I'm still being punished. This isn't a plea for help or advice, but rather a cautionary tale for those who finally catch up to the fantasies they pursue. My apologies, Dear Anna, vague warnings and allusions to obscure misery don't make for an interesting read, so let me start at the beginning.

My name is Sean, and I'm thirty five years old. I live in a small town outside a bigger city that I wont name for obvious reasons, and I work in security. Specifically, I sell Security cameras and I work mainly from home. I make enough that my wife, Ellen, also thirty five, doesn't need to and is free to pursue what she likes to call her, "art photography" and I like to call, "a glass of wine before lunch." I don't begrudge Ellen her wine, her cigarettes or her chocolate, because I also have a vice: pornography.

I'm not sure I would have categorized my use of porn as an addiction until the pandemic hit. Before Covid I would say I watched porn maybe two or three times a week. Ellen and I hadn't had much of an active sex life since she had quit her job three or so years ago and I was using porn to make the sting of that lack of intimacy a little less painful.

Let me be clear, Anna, the low libido partner wasn't me. I was, and still am, very attracted to my wife. I've kept myself in shape throughout my thirties and I've still got the body that drew Ellen to me in the first place. I wake up every morning with an erection hard enough to cut diamond and I never passed up an opportunity to get Ellen in the sack.

Ellen, however, has gained some weight since she stopped working. She blamed "getting old" and I blamed, "wine and chocolate" but the result was the same: no sex. She claimed her libido lowered as she aged but I was convinced it was the weight gain. To be clear, Dear Anna, we're not talking about hundreds of pounds here, Ellen's just a little chubbier than she used to be.

Frankly, it made me even more attracted to her. Her breasts are fuller and her already ample bottom even more shapely. I don't care about a bit of sag and all I can say is the bigger the bum the better. I was salivating just watching her walk up the stairs. Ellen, however, didn't see things the same way I did. The revealing clothes and swimsuits vanished along with the sex, replaced with baggy shirts and sweatpants. Any attempt to initiate was met with a polite, but firm, refusal.

Then the pandemic hit and my life was turned upside down. My business took a downturn and I was forced to let my single employee go. Suddenly I couldn't work purely from home anymore and I had to head into the store to do the jobs I once paid someone else to do for me. At first the change of pace was a breath of fresh air but as the months passed I found myself bored beyond belief. Shipments were few and far between, and customers even rarer, so I found myself twiddling my thumbs for the majority of my work day.

That's when I began to be consumed. I told myself it was trashy as all hell to watch porn at work but as the days turned into weeks and the weeks to months I needed something to occupy my mind. I was the boss, after all, couldn't I just do what I wanted? I quickly found myself watching hours of porn every day, flicking from one scene to another as rapidly as a couch potato changes channels.

I became obsessed with porn stars, making it my mission to track down every single scene they'd starred in once I'd got even mildly aroused from their work. My tastes changed too, Dear Anna, and I found myself sliding deeper and deeper into hardcore pornography. For as long as I can remember I've always been a vanilla guy, but as I descended into my addiction only the harder stuff would get me off: cum shots, gang bangs, face fucking and anal quickly replaced missionary and blowjob in my search bar.

Something else was happening too. Instead of imaging myself in the scene, I became more and more aroused by the thought of simply watching them unfold. No longer was I the performing stud, but merely the voyeur. My attempts at home to get Ellen into bed began to fall off and I started hiding myself away in the bathroom to masturbate to my phone. If Ellen noticed she didn't say, and I was too engrossed with my harem of digital girlfriends to care.

This, Dear Anna, is how it continued until Ellen caught me.

I'm not sure when she started to notice my withdrawal, but notice it she did. As she told me later, a suspicion grew in her mind that I was having an affair. I suppose in a way I was. By that point I had my cock in my hand practically all day at work, working myself into a porn-fueled frenzy. I'd sit, pants around my ankles, at my desk, stroking myself to completion between emails and not even stopping for the occasionally unavoidable phone call.

I was obsessed. I imagined myself as a leering ghost, invisible to the performers as they fucked and fucked, entwined in a thousand different positions and depravities. I began to imagine dating my stars, being the doting boyfriend who drove them to their shoots and told them afterwards, over dinner, how great they looked in their scenes. My office shared a wall with the unit next door so I had made a habit of wearing my earphones while I enjoyed my films and it was in this ever-so-compromising position that Ellen came upon me, unseen and unheard, from behind.

To say that it was a shit-show would be an understatement. Before I knew what was happening Ellen had ripped off my earphones hard enough to make my head ring and pull them out from the computer.

"Sean," she screamed, her face as red as a tomato, "what the hell is going on? Is this what you're doing all day?"

All I could do was stare at her, my throbbing cock still at full attention in my hand, and stutter, "Ellen...ba...babe, what are you d...doing here?"

Needless to say, there was a lot of shouting, screaming and tears that day. Ellen, it emerged, had been convinced I was fucking my old employee and she had been ready to catch me in the act. Once the reality of the situation became clear Ellen stopped yelling, but the tears continued.

"How can you," Ellen had gestured, "prefer this...this filth...over your own wife?"

In the shock of being caught I had neglected to turn off what I had been watching and our violent argument had been punctuated with the moans of the performers. It was, Dear Anna, a bad scene to have been caught watching. There was Emily Rose, my then favourite, sandwiched between two burly hunks and moaning like some cheap whore as they sawed in and out of her tight, pink holes.

I'm sure, Dear Anna, that it was the kind of porn I was watching that had so incensed my wife. She was as vanilla as I had been before the pandemic, and the sight of a woman having a thick and throbbing cock balls deep in her backside surely must have almost given my wife a heart attack.

I felt compelled to, as they say, spill the beans, and over the course of an hour-long conversation I came clean to my wife and begged for her forgiveness.

"Of course I'm still attracted to you," I cried, "it's just..it's just because I was so bored, honey. Those girls are whores, baby, I don't feel anything for them...I..I love you."

Ellen was clearly disgusted with me but my platitudes had a calming effect and we eventually managed to make the long drive home without any further tears. I can't tell you, Dear Anna, how devastated I was to have my secret shame revealed. I had, through my disgusting urges, alienated the woman I loved and outed myself as some sick pervert.

We talked about the decline of intimacy in our relationship and I learned a few things about my wife that day. Ellen's low libido was, as I had suspected, affected by her weight gain, but it was also a casualty of the pandemic. I discovered that my wife thrived on male attention, and not just mine alone! Since developing her voluptuous body as a young woman, Ellen had become used to being checked out and ogled on a daily basis. I am, Dear Anna, able to confirm this fact as I had noticed it myself when I was out with her. Men have a thing for 38 DD breasts and big, jiggly bums and I can't blame them.

When we were just dating I had been a jealous man, but over the years of our marriage that emotion had cooled and I had accepted it as a part of our relationship. I suppose I had quite simply forgotten; but Ellen hadn't. The pandemic had put an end to the attention Ellen received and she began to wilt from lack of recognition. It stung that her husband's lust hadn't been enough for her, but as she appeared willing to move past my indiscretions I managed to swallow up any further comment.

The next few days were rocky. I didn't dare go back to the scene of the crime and was forced to work from home. I reached out reluctantly to my old employee, the very women my wife had been so sure I was fucking, and managed to rehire her to take over the running of any in-store business. The financial discomfort it gave me was overshadowed by the fear of reigniting Ellen's wrath so I once again swallowed my misgivings.

I returned to my relationship with gusto and tried to woo my wife again, luckily aided by a brief lowering of Covid restrictions. I swore off porn entirely and stamped down on even the slightest desire to watch it. I bought Ellen flowers, I complimented her profusely, I whisked her out to expensive dinners and took as much of an interest in her photography as I was able to.

Despite all this, we had yet to have sex again and even though I had succeeded in bringing back a smile to Ellen's face I was eager to demonstrate that I was still attracted to her. As Valentine's Day approached I planned an elaborate date, one that would prove beyond a doubt that there was room for only one woman in my life.

The dinner went swimmingly. Ellen looked more beautiful than ever before and had, for once, swapped her sweatpants and t-shirts for a sleek, black dress. It was the most revealing clothing I had seen her wear in years and everything was on display. A plunging neckline revealed jiggling breasts hardly held in place and when she walked her curvy hips and cheeks bounced with every step.

All throughout our meal I had been barely able to keep my eyes off her voluptuous body and I was clearly not the only one. Men sitting at other tables peered slyly at her out of the corners of their eyes and their wives stared daggers at her behind her back. It's shameful to admit but the attention she was receiving was exciting. This woman, that all the other men wanted, was mine and mine alone. Ellen clearly relished the attention. Her cheeks burned red the entire dinner and she even engaged in a little light footsie under the table.

It was then, as we enjoyed a post-dinner glass of wine in our living room, that disaster struck. I had been nursing an erection all evening at the prospect of making love to my wife for the first time in years. Ellen put down her wine glass and embraced me. I remember my hands felt electric as they caressed her back and I worked my way down to her generous cheeks.

My wife's tongue darted to and fro in my mouth and I explored hers with equal enthusiasm as we sank down into the couch. The sensation was incredible. The feel of Ellen's dress was silky smooth against my hands and the warmth of her heaving chest pressed against mine nearly overpowered me.

Something else was happening though, Dear Anna, and it wasn't as pleasurable.

Despite Ellen's burning embrace, the feel of her hard nipples pushed against my chest and my hands working their way up her dress, my eager erection was failing. Like a flag being pulled down a pole, my once hard cock was shrinking by the second. It didn't take long for my wife to notice.

"Sean...," she had said, breathless with passion, "what's wrong, baby? Am I sitting on you funny or...something?"

I remember being struck by how terrible it all was, almost tragic. There I was, about to fuck my hot, panting wife and I wasn't measuring up to the task. It was clear that all that I'd been working towards was going right down the drain.

What the hell was wrong with me? I could see the arousal in Ellen's eyes slowly die as it became apparent what was happening. As the fires of passion dimmed, the fires of anger blazed.

"Ellen," I managed to croak out, almost paralyzed with shame, "it's just the booze, honey, I swear. I drank too much, just....just give me a second and I'll be good to go!"

The tears on Ellen's faced had began to roll then, tears of anger and shame.

"You fucking bastard," she had screamed, "it's not the booze, you idiot, it's that shit you've been watching! You can't even fuck your own wife! I'm sorry I'm not a porn star, Sean, I'm sorry I can't get you hard anymore you pathetic little fuck!"

With that she had leapt off of me as quick as I had ever seen her move, her full breasts bouncing in her fury, and fled. I was left alone, Dear Anna, in a dark living room, with my pants undone and my tiny, shriveled cock as bloodless as a corpse.

If I had thought that being caught watching porn was explosive, the next week proved me very wrong. I couldn't go to my office to work since my employee, Alyssa, was there and I couldn't risk the potential for further accusations. Ellen wasn't talking to me. She shut herself away in her garden-suit studio and I was left to pace the house in fits of anxiety. Any attempt on my end to get her to open up and talk in person were met with slammed doors and stony faces.

I was miserable, and in my misery I turned once again to porn. I couldn't help it, Dear Anna, I needed something to take my mind off what was happening. I know I was weak, but I took solace in my weakness and the brief and furtive pleasures it brought. I locked myself in my home office and watched porn for hours at a time and allowed myself to transcend into another world, an erotic landscape where around every corner was yet another bouquet of sexual delight.

It was a dark period in my life, as short as it was, but also an intensely sexual one. Ellen and I communicated only what was necessary through terse text messages.

Yes, she would say to my queries about her health, I'm fine.

I'm sorry, I would text, with one eye on my porn, I miss you, Ellen, please let's talk about it!

Then one day, Dear Abby, Ellen did want to talk about it, and it was a conversation that would change my life forever.

I remember I had just finished sending an email to one of my suppliers and was getting ready to start up another shame-filled masturbation session when my phone dinged. I could see from the screen that it was from Ellen and I mentally prepared myself for another dismissal of the olive branches I had been extending. What popped up on my phone, however, was beyond the limit of all my expectations.

Tell me, Sean, read the text, is this what you want?

I had a brief moment of confusion before the next text arrived with a loud ding. It was a picture, and my heart exploded into furious motion as soon as I saw it. It was a shot of a naked woman, her upper face obscured by what looked to be a harlequin-style mask, seated in a chair.

Her legs were open and her bare and glistening sex was spread and on full display. Above, her breasts hung heavy and her thumb-sized nipples jutted out like sharp points from pale, pink areolas. My cock immediately flooded with blood and rose to attention before I even realized who the woman was.

It was Ellen! It had been so long since I'd been in her studio, or even seen her naked, that it took me a full minute for my brain to process what I was seeing.

Babe, I texted with trembling hands, what is this?

It's what you wanted, replied Ellen within seconds, right? You get hard for porn stars, don't you like this one?

I remember I had began to sweat, even though the day was cool, and I wiped my forehead free of moisture before I replied.

Of course I like it, honey, I typed, it's really hot. Does this mean you're not angry with me anymore?

While I waited for Ellen to respond I painfully pushed my cock back into my pants before heading to the window. From my office I could just barely see Ellen's garden studio. The windows were covered with their customary drapes but I assumed she was inside. As my phone dinged I hastily unlocked it to see a single text.

Are you, Ellen had texted, hard now, Sean?

I was, Dear Abby, I was harder than I'd ever been. My cock pulsed painfully against my boxers and I felt almost like I was close to climax.

Yes, I'm hard, I typed, I love it. Can I come see you?

I thought you'd like it, Sean, texted Ellen, everyone seems to!

Below this cryptic text she sent a link and, my face flushing with growing realization and anger, I quickly opened it.

Hot Amateurs In Naughty Action, screamed the page's headline, Horny Sluts Expose Themselves For YOU! Below this lurid, pink text was the photo Ellen had just sent me and I felt my heart skip a beat. With shaking hands I scrolled down and saw that below the photo was a series of comments and a view counter. My god, I remember thinking, there's hundreds of views already!

The comments were exactly what you'd expect, Dear Anna, and every single one of them as crude as the last.

Hott slutt, read one, I'd fuck you 2 good!

Baby Im cumming to your pussy, read another, where do u live?

I couldn't believe it, Dear Anna, I just couldn't believe she would do something like this to me. I remember feeling my knees weaken and I stumbled back into my office computer chair.

What the fuck, Ellen, I began to type, how could yo...

Then I saw at the top of the screen something that made me pause, an account name: Porn-Star-Evie.

My heart sank in my chest as I tapped on it. Just how many pictures had she posted? I almost yelled out loud as I saw the page, there were five other pictures dating back several days! I scrolled through them as quickly as I could.

The first three were shots of Ellen's impressive chest from different angles, her nipples just as hard as they were in the one I'd first saw. The fourth was the one she'd originally sent me, but the fifth, Dear Abby, was different.

In this photo, which my bleary eyes noted had been posted not five minutes before, Ellen was once again posing on the same chair. This time, however, she was bent over it, and it wasn't her pussy she was spreading but her ample bottom.

Let me tell you, Dear Anna, that it had been literal years since I'd seen this most private part of my wife and I was dumbstruck by the sight. Her hairless pussy (when did Ellen even start waxing?) and beautifully puckered asshole were in such stark detail that it was as if you could reach out and touch them through the screen.