We had agreed to take a break from each other, my girlfriend and I. She was an absolute stunner — 26 years old, radiant tan, flawless skin, and a perfectly toned body with a voluptuous backside. A total knockout, easily a ten in anyone’s book. Even while we were apart, I couldn’t help but fantasize about her; her photos crowded my mind, and I found myself frequently touching myself to the memories of her.
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Whispers around town told of her newfound freedom and wild encounters, and one day, out of the blue, I received a video from a suspicious account on my social media. Hesitantly, I tapped play and was shocked to see her, unmistakably my girl, positioned on all fours, being taken by another man. The clip was brief but enough to shatter me. Yet, strangely, despite the initial pain, I found myself becoming aroused by the sight.
What followed was unexpected: more videos arrived, each accompanied by cruel messages degrading her, calling her names unfit for print. Instead of pushing them away, I became obsessed, drawn deeper into this twisted voyeurism.
Our communication didn’t stop; she and I still chatted regularly, oblivious to the fact that the man filming her was sending these glimpses straight to me. It baffled me that she seemed okay with it — but then I realized I had never asked if recording was acceptable. I’d only ever taken tantalizing snapshots and sensual portraits of her before.
Weeks have passed, and the emotional turmoil gnaws at me. The pain is sharp, almost unbearable, but the arousal it stirs within me is overpowering. I find myself endlessly drawn to these videos, mixing them with the photos I treasure, desperate to feel close to her again as I lose myself in the fantasy during my private moments.