Dear Matt, My Husband

Introduction: The author of this letter is Lissa Barenthal, from my story Unwitting Porn Star Wife. It is not necessary to read that story to understand this one, but doing so might help the reader understand the background and the characters' motivations.

Dear Matt, my husband:

I know this letter will come as a surprise, but you can hardly complain about surprises. You surprised me, a few months ago, when you posted photos of me—nude—on the Internet, without asking my permission or even telling me you were doing it.

I won't lie. I was shocked when I found out. And, yes, I felt betrayed, because you had posted those photos without asking me. I felt violated.

And yet . . .

I was turned on. I admit it. You know that already. We've talked about it. As we both know, I found out about your betrayal early. I had known, for a long time, that you frequented that Site—the one where men post photos of their wives and girlfriends. You had been careful to hide your activity from me, but not careful enough, and one day I checked your browser history without your knowing. When you started taking nude photos of me, that morning after we made love and talked for a long time in bed, I was flattered, but suspicious, too. I checked out the Site and my suspicions were confirmed: you were taking photos of me and posting them on the Site. Nude photos.

When I found out, my feelings were mixed up. I was angry, of course. You must know and understand that. You should never have done that without my permission.

But I would be lying if I said I didn't feel other things, too. I was intrigued about this side of you that I had not known: the side that wanted other men to see me like this. I wondered what made you want to see me and show me off that way, what you enjoyed about it.

I learned something about myself, too. I went to the Site and I scanned all the photos you posted of me and my naked body, and I read the other comments that men wrote. They knew me as Megan, the pseudonym you had given me. I was flattered—astounded—at all the comments they wrote about me. To feel so desired, so lusted after. It was overwhelming. I was aroused. I savored the taste of my doppelganger's display. I enjoyed the naughtiness of the exhibitionism of it, too. I've never been ashamed of my body, but I've never been one to expose it for the sake of a kinky thrill. Yet, for the first time, you stirred something in me.

So, rather than confront you, I decided to tease you, by taking on the role of a woman member of the Site, under another name, MissAngela, an anagram of my real name Lissa and the fake name you'd given me Megan, and in her name I started a series of chats with you to encourage you to continue to expose me, your wife. I also posted photos on the Site, as MissAngela, showing myself partly nude but not exposing my face so you would not recognize me. I even pasted a fake tattoo decal on my body to misguide you. I must take some blame, then, for what you did after that. But only some. You still should not have done it.

Later, after I confronted you, and let you know that I knew, we made love. Or had sex. Or fucked. I'm not sure what the right term is. But you threw me on the bed and parted my legs and entered me and filled me as fully and aggressively as you ever had before, and I loved it. The story of our relationship had turned a page, and I plunged into this new chapter willingly. But I wondered where the tale would take us.

You showed me, soon enough. You put the videocamera on a tripod, a few feet away from us, and you flipped me over and turned my body sideways to the camera and you entered me from behind, and you made love to me—no, to be honest, you fucked me—doggy style. I've always liked it that way because of how deep you get and the special way your cock hits my sensitive places inside. I came quickly, in just minutes, and you came too, spilling your seed in me. When our breathing slowed again, you uploaded the video to the computer and we watched it on the large monitor. I saw our naked bodies together in exquisite high definition. I'd never seen us like that together in a video, and I noticed so many things in that video. Like the way my breasts bobbed and rocked underneath me as you kept pushing me back and forth. The way you would pull out, almost all the way, slowly, before rapidly thrusting into me again, and what a dramatic effect the timing of your thrusts gave to the show. The way you constantly guided my ass with your hands to maximize its exposure to the camera, so it could capture, in exquisite detail, the way my lips rocked back and forth and clung to your shaft as you fucked me. And finally, of course, after we were done, the way you held my up-turned ass toward the camera so it could capture the creamy proof of your orgasm as it leaked out of me and dripped to the floor in a milky puddle.

I could not help but notice that, because of the way you positioned the camera and our bodies, my entire naked body and my face were exposed to the camera, but your face was cut off from the neck up. You exposed me, but not yourself.

I noticed the way, from off-screen, your voice could be heard, now and then, low and rumbly and urgent, calling "My porn star wife."

When we finished watching it, you couldn't wait to upload the video to the Site, despite my mumbling, half-heartedly, that I wasn't sure I was ready. I think you took my half-heartedness as approval, so you uploaded it, and I offered no more complaints. To be honest, I wanted you to do it. By that time, I was crazed with horniness and curiosity to see how well it would be received.

It didn't take long to find out. It was a great success. I've never received so many compliments in my life. And ever since then, you've been taking photographs and videos of me and posting them to the Site. We have hundreds, even thousands, of fans. Who knows how many thousands of men have seen images and videos of me so brazenly sexual and exposed? It makes me shudder (mostly in a good way!) to think about it.

I've embraced this new change in our life. I enjoy it. But not without some occasional hesitation.

I wonder, sometimes, if this foray into the world of erotica and porn will hurt us in some way. Will we be exposed or humiliated among our family and friends? Maybe. But if that happens then I guess we will find out who our real friends were. I think I'm prepared to take that risk and deal with it if it arises. I don't worry too much about my job. Owning my own travel agency means I don't have to worry about a disapproving boss. I may, possibly, lose clients, but I doubt it. You work at home as a writer, so you don't have a boss to worry about, either.

The thing that DOES still, well, not TROUBLE me, exactly, but often occupies my mind is adjusting to my new awareness of the way you see me. I see how excited you get about it—that strange combination of adolescent eagerness, masculine lust, and intense artistic gaze when you pick up the camera. But most of all, I'm perhaps struck, and maybe a little bemused, by how passionate you are about this newly expressed voyeuristic/exhibitionist kink.

I remember the conversation we had a little while ago, while you videorecorded me writhing on the oak floor of our kitchen, wearing nothing but cheap, plastic stripper heels you had purchased online. My legs were open a lot during that shoot, and you held the camera between my knees to capture my pussy in as much detail as possible.

While you were taking the photos you said, "God, you look so slutty. I just love it."

I sat up on my elbows, still keeping my legs open.

"Do you think of me as a slut?"

That rocked you back, a little. You lowered the camera and looked at me and you didn't say anything at first.

"Does that word bother you?" you asked. You looked nervous. It was rather cute. I liked having that power over you and I intended to use it.

"No, you don't get to do that. You must answer me, first. Do you like calling me a 'slut'? Do you like thinking of me that way?"

You took a long time to answer.

"Kind of, yes," you said. "It's a part of you that I adore. I don't know what it means, exactly, but, yes, I like this part of you and I like that word. It turns me on to call you that."

I said nothing back to you for maybe half a minute. You looked so nervous. You probably thought it felt like an hour rather than half a minute. At last, I decided to put you out of your misery.

"I like it too," I said. I've never seen you look so relieved.

"Would it turn you on if I called myself that name?"

You looked like a ravenous dog that's been offered a steak bone.

"Oh yes," you said. "God yes. Please Lissa. Please call yourself that."

We spent another half an hour of you taking pictures of me in every possible position. I called myself a "slut," over and over for you, and I used every other dirty word my fevered brain could dream of. You ate it up—it felt so easy! When I spread my labia back and told you how much I liked the way you looked at my cunt—a word I seldom use—I thought you'd drop the camera right then and there and take me. But you finished the shoot, and I twisted and turned my body over the smooth, stained wood planks and talked dirty the whole time. If only that kitchen floor could talk!

It took me a little while, but I finally overcame my initial reluctance to accept the way you not only saw me but wanted to show me off to the world—Lissa the slut, the hot wife, the porn star. I accepted it. I came to see it as another way that you loved and adored me, albeit in a twisted and kinky way, and posing for you became my own way to show you that I loved and adored you back.

But for all the fun we had—and yes, Matt, it was SO much fun—another thought lingered in my mind.

I loved this new game you had created for us, but it was your game, and you wrote the rules. You loved seeing me as your slut and porn star, and you loved the way other men looked at me in that role. That was fine with me, at first. But I wasn't totally satisfied with my role. It was too passive. At times, it felt like you'd captured this strange, previously unknown fantastic creature inside of me, that you'd put it in a cage, and that you had displayed her for men like an animal at a zoo, for their viewing pleasure and yours.

I was willing—eager, even—to play this part, and I enjoyed, and I still enjoy, your gaze and theirs, but I had to play a more active part in writing this ongoing story.

Do you remember that stupid, trite, New-Agey cliché, that we laughed about when we saw it on the Internet the first time, years ago? It was this:

"If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours forever. If it doesn't, then it was never meant to be."

Well, it may be trite, but there's truth to it. When you posted naked photos of me on the Internet, you let me go. You took a risk. You didn't know what I would do. You didn't know if I would come back. But you did it anyway.

Before I write anything further, I want to allay any concern you have about where I'm going with this. Yes, I have come back, and I WILL come back to you, always. You are my husband, lover, and partner for life.

But in coming back to you, I must do so on my terms. You must deal with that.

That's what I want to tell you about.

A month ago, I was sitting in my office at the travel agency, taking my lunch break. The employees had left for lunch, so it was just me, the boss lady, alone with my cell phone. I thumbed through the most recent photos you had taken of me and posted to the Site. They were some of the most brazen and explicit photos you had posted of me.

In the photos, I was sitting on the sofa in the living room, naked except for a silver David Yurman necklace and the strappy black Louboutin heels you had recently purchased for me. My legs were open, as they so often are for you and your camera these days. I was plunging a slender blue tube of glass into my pussy, and wetness from my depths already trickled out of me, tickling my skin. The camera captured everything in crystal-clear detail, for you held it not more than two feet away.

The quality of your photography and videography had kept getting better, but the dominant impression of the video, as I watched it in my office, wasn't the excellence of the light and resolution but of its sheer and utter lewdness. In viewing the video, I felt your hot need to expose your wife as a slut. You WANTED me to look that way, wanted men to see that way. I enjoyed the fantasy as well.

But so far, it was just a fantasy. I wasn't after all, really a slut. A slut sleeps with more than one man. I hadn't slept with another man in years. How could I be a slut or porn star if I only slept with you? I couldn't really. I had to do something about that. I just HAD to. I decided exactly what I had to do.

I decided to have sex with other men—more than one, maybe-- and to have someone photograph and record the encounter. Then you would know that I was truly a slut and a porn wife.

I thought about who might help me pull this off. I didn't have any experience with the porn industry and had no contacts. Except, upon recollection, I did have one. Rinaldo Remos, whom you have met, is a professional photographer whose chief business is advertising photography, and he's helped me create images and short videos to market my travel business. What you don't know, until now, is that some time ago I discovered after doing online background checks that he has a side business as an erotic photographer and porn producer. He even has his own website, under another name. I asked him about it once, and he was startled and nervous that my disapproval might end our business relationship, but I laughed and assured him that I loved his work and wouldn't end the relationship because of something like that. We talked about it, and he even offered to do a free boudoir photoshoot for me if I ever wanted to. I said "No," of course, but I was flattered by the offer.

Later, I forgot about the conversation, but I recalled it that day in the office when I made my resolution. Rinaldo could help me. He had the talent, the studio, and the contacts to help me get it done.

Now, at this point, you might ask why I didn't just ask you to do it. I thought about it, but I decided not to, for a few reasons.

I wanted it to be my project, an act of my own will and volition, and I felt if I turned to you that with your superior artistic experience you would take it over. I didn't want that. I wanted to know whether I COULD do it without you. If I could take that brave plunge into the erotic unknown without your support.

Also, if I was going to do it, I wanted to do it in a first-rate way. Despite your obvious skills (you make me look so good!), Rinaldo had greater experience, more resources, and the contacts that would be needed to get the job done right.

There was one other thing. In that moment, I realized I really WANTED to be a slut, not just to play one. I thought you wanted that too, and to be honest if I had truly thought you would not enjoy it, I would not have gone through with the plan. My goal was to fulfill a mutual naughty fantasy, not to hurt or humiliate you. But something told me you would take it the right way. And I wanted it. I wanted to take the plunge. I wanted to live up to the promise of the title "slut" had given me, once and for all. And to do it right, I had to do it myself.

After girding my resolve, I called Rinaldo two days later and told him I wanted to meet him to talk about a photography project. I didn't tell him what it was. He met me in my office the next day and I revealed my intentions. He was surprised at first, but he quickly warmed to the idea and wanted to get involved. I'll be honest with you: I think part of his motive was a desire to see me naked. Rinaldo is 15 years older than I am, and he is always polite and professional with me, but I think he's always had a little crush on me.

During our meeting, he gave me many ideas about how the shoot, but I could tell he knew right away that I wanted it to be my own and that I was looking for a collaborator and not a director. At the end of our meeting, we'd figured out, more or less, what we were going to do.

This is what we agreed to . . .

I gulp as I admit this to you.

I decided that I would have sex with three men in one encounter. It would not be a made-up silly story, like a tale about three plumbers and a randy housewife. It would be about me, a 40-something woman, although under the name "Megan" that you had given me already at the Site, having an intense sexual experience for the first time.

Do I shock you? I'll bet I do. As far as I have gone down this path, I doubt you are prepared to know that I have gone THIS far.

But I did, Matt. Rinaldo and I pulled it together quickly. I think he was as eager as I was. His eyes would light up when he talked about it. I just knew that besides professional interest he wanted to see me naked, and I wanted him to see me naked, too. You started a snowball rolling down the hill, Matt. It's careening down the slopes, faster and faster, and barely in control. I think I like the idea of strange men seeing me naked almost as much as you do.

We chose his spacious home studio as the setting. One end of it would be decorated as an elegant bedroom, with a beautifully carved wood king-sized bedframe and sumptuous cream bedcovers and pillows. He talked at length about the equipment he would use—the camera, the videorecorder, the lights and light stands, reflectors, you name it. I barely could absorb all the technical talk but I knew enough to understand that he was going to go all out for me. He offered to do it for free, but I insisted on paying him, in full. He would work with a trusted assistant, a young woman named Phoebe, who had experience with makeup and helped him with the lights and videography.

And then, of course, there was the cast to line up. We discussed names and I accepted his recommendations: three men, all between 26 and 33, that Rinaldo had worked with making adult videos. He told me they had the "skills" and experience to do the job right and to make me comfortable.

"Not too comfortable," I said, laughing. "One of the purposes of this is to push my comfort level to the edge and beyond."

"Oh, don't worry about that," he said. "You haven't done this before, and it's going to be wild. It will be much easier to perform well if you're as comfortable as you can be. Trust me."

"You're the maestro," I said, and he beamed at me.

"That's music to my ears," he said.

Before the big date, Rinaldo invited me for a short visit to his studio so he could test the way the light hit my skin. Yes, I stripped bare, completely naked for his eyes for the first time, but he was thoroughly professional. He neither did nor said anything untoward. I posed for him in the manner of an artistic nude rather than as an erotic nude. I left after 45 minutes.

I imagine as you read this, husband, that your eyes have grown wide and your jaw has dropped with that cute boyish look you get sometimes when I surprise you. I imagine, too, that your hand is wrapped around your cock and is sliding up and down its hard, ample shaft. I like to think of those little pearls of pre-cum you get popping out the hole at the end a minute or two after the beginning of one of those vigorous hand jobs I like to give you. If you are not stroking already, please do. I want you to do so as you read to the end of this letter. Your slut is about to give you a good story.

Do you like my use of dirty language? It's surprising, is it not, after so many years during which I seldom talked to you that way. But, as I already said, you started me down this path, and I like it, and I'm going to keep walking it. I like it, in my own fashion, as an embrace of something bold and new I've discovered in myself. Brace yourself for the obscenities that will flow as my fingers strike the keys of my computer. I've always loved your skill with words, and while I can't match it, I'm confident you're going to love the way I tell my tale.