I travel for work—a lot. It’s a tired trope, an icebreaker for bored businessmen at hotel lobby bars, but in my case it’s true. I’m home maybe two weeks out of six. My wife and I, we make it work. When I’m away, we text, we FaceTime, we send pictures. Sometimes the pictures are sweet, sometimes they’re dirty, and sometimes they’re—well, sometimes they’re the kind of thing that would get us both fired if anyone ever found out.
But I realized, somewhere in the haze of layovers and antiseptic hotel rooms, that it was never quite enough for me. Not just the sex, or even the intimacy. It was the idea of her on someone else’s mind, what it would be like if another man craved her the way I do. I started reading the comments guys left under her photos online. The way they talked about her body. The way they imagined what she’d be like to fuck, or to kiss, or just to talk to. I wondered what it would be like if I could watch them, see them lose control, just because of her.
It started as a fantasy, the kind of thing you can only admit to yourself when you’re a thousand miles from home. But the more I thought about it, the more it gnawed at me. I started testing the waters. I joined a few online groups—anonymous, low-stakes stuff. I posted a couple of her pictures, the ones she’d taken just for me, and watched the comments roll in. Some guys messaged me directly, desperate for more. They wanted videos, or panties, or just to tell me what they’d do to her if they ever got the chance.
At first, I thought it was just the novelty. But I realized quickly that it was more than that. I loved the idea that she was so sexy, so irresistible, that other men would lose themselves over her—even if they never met her, even if they only saw her through a screen. And I loved that it was me she sent the pictures to, me she called when she was horny, me who got to fuck her when I was home.
I started pushing it further. Once, on a layover in Omaha I found myself messaging a guy who seemed just as obsessed with her as I was. We’d been trading messages for weeks, talking about what we’d do if we ever met, how it would feel to jerk off together to her photos. I was nervous, but I wanted it so bad that I could barely eat all day. When he knocked on my hotel room door, I half expected to panic and send him away.
But he was normal. Boring, even. A little younger than me, nervous and polite. We shook hands, made awkward small talk, and then sat on opposite beds with our phones out like two kids discovering porn for the first time. I showed him some of the videos she’d sent me—her naked in bed, touching herself and moaning my name. His hands were shaking as he scrolled through them, and when he started jerking off, I was so hard I thought I might cum just watching him.
It must sound weird, but I don’t want to touch other guys, and I don’t want them touching me. I just like the idea of sharing in her, of being part of this secret little club of men who all want the same thing but know that I’m the only one who gets it for real. We sat there, jerking off in silence, except for the sounds from the video and the muffled breathing. When we both finished, we wiped up, laughed awkwardly, and went our separate ways. He asked if I had more pics, but I told him that was all for now.
After that, I brought a pair of her panties with me on trips. She made a game of picking out which ones I’d take. Sometimes I’d wear them in my briefcase, just to know they were there. Other times, I’d let a guy smell them—never touch, just inhale while we watched the videos. It made me feel like I was in control, like I was the one orchestrating their pleasure, their need. It was intoxicating. I found myself daydreaming about new ways to push it, new lines to cross.
Last week, back in Omaha, I matched with another guy from one of the forums. We exchanged messages for a few days, and I could tell he was more aggressive than the others. He wanted to jerk each other off, maybe more. He kept hinting at it, pushing, asking me if I’d ever tried it, what I was afraid of. I was tempted, but the whole reason I do this is because I like the distance. I like the idea that we’re all focused on her, not on each other.
So I ghosted him. I felt a little bad, but mostly relieved. If I’m being honest, there’s a part of me that wonders what it would be like to take it further, to see what would happen if I let someone touch me, or if I touched them. But for now, I’m sticking to the rules I’ve made. It keeps things safe, controlled, and lets me enjoy the fantasy without letting it get away from me.
It’s funny—if you met me on the street, you’d never guess any of this. I’m not some sex-crazed creep. I love my wife, I love my job, I just… I need this. I need to know that she’s out there, driving men crazy even when I can’t be home. I need to know that I’m the only one who can claim her for real, no matter how many strangers jack off to her photos.
Maybe I’ll keep confessing all of my Omaha jerking adventures.
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