My Wife, the CyberSlut

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.

Then one trip, it happened. A few days in, a photo scrolled into my feed. Shot from behind, she knelt upright on the bed, legs splayed, with her peachy fine arse hidden slightly in the covers. Her strong, smooth back was framed perfectly in shot, rivers of ginger hair curled down over it, past a hint of side-boob swelling from her ribs. Her arms were raised over her head, tied at the wrists in leather binding; a silver chain disappeared up out of shot. Beside her, a reflection of our bedroom mirror; the short focus ensuring that although her frontal profile was visible, it was heavily blurred so that her face was unrecognisable; one got only an impression of her amazing breasts and the bounty between her spread thighs. The caption read: I hope my master returns to release me soon. I promise I'll be a good girl!

It was our room, and it was undeniably her. But how had she got that shot with her hands bound? How was she going to get released? Who, exactly, had been there with her?!

Was that twinge of jealousy irrational? Hadn't I spent trip after trip lusting over her from afar, enjoying her reveal herself to untold thousands of horny admirers? So what if she'd had someone take a picture. So what if she thanked them with a quickie - could I honestly say that I wouldn't do the same?

And fucking hell, she looked so hot. My mind reeled at the idea of her tied up, waiting for me, powerless to resist my desires, my pleasure. It sparked my creative juices, not just my carnal ones, imagining how that would play out. I needed my keyboard.

Obviously she'd got free, to post the picture. Probably was just a trick of the staging. Maybe one day, when the secret was out, I could ask her how it was done. But for now...

Me: fuck me that is so hot. Call for me if he doesn't come back to unlock you

Her: (blush) yes sir. Be my knight in amour. Rescue me

Me: it would be my pleasure. Can I ask you a favour?

Her: err, that's not the way round this is supposed to work. But sure, whatevs ;-)

Me: I'm an #erotica author, and you've really inspired me. Can I write about you?

Her: omg, that's so hot. Fuck yes. Let me read it before you post it, maybe I can give you some ideas?

The words poured forth from me into the keyboard; filthy prose hadn't come so easily for weeks. I'd found my muse; my own wife, or at least her secret identity. I had to remember to write the character as her internet persona, and not as the woman I'd known and loved for so long. She was both, but if I wasn't careful I'd reveal who I was by reflecting too much of the real woman in the prose, secrets that Dave the author couldn't possibly know, that only her husband could have experienced.

I stayed up all night writing the story, and sent it over. She was probably asleep already by that point. I'd have to wait for her reaction.

As I walked through the door that evening, she grabbed my hand and dragged me to the sofa, threw me across it and mounted me, fucking me furiously. I saw her iPad on the coffee table, my words - Dave's words - shining up through the glass. There was a damp patch on the seat where she usually sat. I locked my hands round her hips as she rode me, pulling her close. This wasn't man and wife making love. This was a camgirl, driven wild by a story in which she took starring role, acting out the final scene. Was she imagining fucking me, or the hero, or Dave the author? I really didn't care.

///

I found a conversation between her and a fan.

Him: stop teasing bitch, when we gonna see them titties?

Her: you can't afford me

Him: try me, how much?

One of her online sisters chipped in: sounds like someone needs a FansAccess account

Him: fucking right

Her: um I'm not sure

And another of her girlfriends: they give me $7.99 a month each for some private flirting and some uncensored pics. You could easily make that

Well, this had taken a turn. I'd seen the camgirls and such on my timeline, of course. The professionals, tossing free saucy pics into the stream, fishing for horny punters who'd sign up for private access. I felt a little uneasy about it, but was relieved that she didn't seem to want to go for it either.

Later, I found another tweet from my wife: this outfit is the bomb for Hallowe'en, but I can't manage $799 for a dress, boots and undies :-(

This wasn't some polyester nightmare. A lace bodysuit embroidered with pumpkins and cats. Thigh-high leather boots. And a bottle-green dress with corseting to hold her best assets on display. God, I wanted to see her in it, but payday was the end of the month, and we were over budget already...

Her thirsty followers had seen the message, of course.

-- I'd pay $5 to see you in that

-- me too, maybe $10 for a GIF of you blowing a kiss

...and the comments went on for pages in a similar vein - guys making easy idle promises, others encouraging her. So, inevitably, she relented.

Her: okay, okay, fine Let's do this

-- fuck yeah girl, about time you got something back from the reply guys

Her: Maybe Cinders shall go to the ball. Help me reach my target, and you'll get an exclusive vid of me in the outfit.

...followed by a link to one of those crowdfunding websites. I doubted anyone would really put their money where their mouth was. I clicked the link. Target: $800. Current: $15. I felt rather sorry for her. I did want to see her in that outfit. And there was something deliciously perverted about me paying my wife to dress up in a sexy witch outfit for others. So, I pledged her $5 before drifting off to sleep.

I overslept, and the next day was busy. The client was awkward, asking stupid questions we'd answered a hundred times before. Yes, the customer is always right, but... So annoying. I'd not looked at my phone all day. Laying on the bed, head pounding from stress, I wasn't sure I wanted to look into that bright window. But I needed to call home, and I was curious how the auction was going.

Her: omg I can't believe it, wow you're all so amazing

And the first reply?

-- looks like a bitch has to go shopping

I pulled the funding page back up again. Target: $800. Current.

I blinked.

Current: $3,845

Say what?

Current: $3,850

Even as I watched, it was still climbing - five dollars, ten dollars. I scrolled back through the donations - some were $20 or more! Fuck me, had none of those horny dudes heard of PornHub? My mind spun with possibilities - what would people pay, I wondered, for a personalised video?

///

Hallowe'en came around. We were due to head to some friends for a party. This year I was Frankenstein's monster - a raggedy old suit and some stick-on bolts, and half an hour in front of the mirror struggling with stage make-up.

Eventually my wife was ready. I knew the outfit already, of course, but I acted suitably surprised. "Wow babe, you look hot as fuck!"

She fake-blushed. "Get your camera out," she teased. "I want to give you something for your next trip."

I stood at one end of the hallway, filming her slink towards me. "If I'm still out after midnight," she teased, "these rags will just fall away to dust!" She pouted, standing with hand on hip to show how the tight dress held her breasts and framed her peachy arse. She slut-dropped, enabling me to film downward, her expertly made-up eyes looking huge in her tiny face, with the deep chasm of her cleavage fully revealed. "Wouldn't that be naughty of me?" she teased, and blew a kiss into the camera.

I stopped filming her. "Jesus," I said, dragging her to her feet and sliding my tongue into her mouth.

"It's crotchless," she whispered into my ear. I reached under the short hem of the dress; she was soaking wet. I pushed her onto the stairs; she knelt waiting and glanced back over her shoulder, biting her lip. "Try not to rip the body stocking, it cost a fortune," she said.

As one of her admirers that had pledged, I got access to that video. I'm sure it proved great wank-bank material for her fans. The comments section went wild with approval. But I'd had the real thing.

///

Now she'd started, there was no stopping her. Her fans loved to buy sexy outfits that she'd wear for them. She started filming short clips, thanking generous punters for their donations, hoping they liked what they saw. Small sums, but enough to cover the cost of the underwear or whatever it was they wanted.

Her: You buy it, I'll wear it! Xx

Small sums that is except for the Ms Claus outfit; they wanted to treat her for Christmas, and she treated them in return. And me.

Her: For you, Santa comes but once a year. Every other night, he comes for me!

All the while, her naughtiness spurred my creativity, and we'd take our lust out on each other whenever we could. Our relationship had never been stale, but now I was learning to love her again, find her irresistibly alluring, seeing her through other people's eyes. We'd never played dress-up before; now, the endless parade of slutty lingerie was becoming almost a fetish. Not just stuff she'd bought; more outfits arrived in the post, from admirers wanting to see her fulfil their fantasies. It got to the point where there was just too much of it. Fortunately, before I could stop pretending to notice and it would have been weird for me not to mention anything, she found her own solution.