Confession - Part 1 free porn video

I don't know what started me having the absurd fantasies about Gina--certainly nothing comes to mind when I think back to it now. We were just a normal couple: we were dating for a year before we moved in together; then lived together for two years before I asked her to marry me; then married within a year of that. There was never any doubt that we were in love, but there was no need to rush. We had our whole lives to spend together.

The wedding was a grand affair in the Surrey countryside, something we wouldn't have been able to afford on our meagre salaries. Her dad had put up most of the money. He was a lawyer and he'd done well over the years. "I'm happy to pay for it, and you guys would never be able to afford anything like this!" he'd said, a clear dig at me.

He had no problem at all that his daughter had become a teacher. He was proud of her for that. But he had expected more from her choice of husband: he had expected someone rich, powerful, important.

I was just an insurance salesman. I'd started in the company when I'd left school and it had never occurred to me to move up or move on, or even that there might be something better out there.

I could understand why he wanted better for Gina. And it was obvious she could do much better if she wanted to. She's kind and she's smart and she's sweet. She's also beautiful. She's short at 5"2', slender, dainty. Her hair is jet black--completely natural--and hangs around her shoulders. She has dark, lively eyes, a small nose and a thin mouth.

I've always thought she looks like Winona Ryder (or, for the younger readers, Krysten Ritter).

She also has an incredible body, lithe and supple. Her boobs are perfect little fleshy handfuls, her legs toned, her stomach flat and firm. She doesn't work out at all or carefully monitor her diet: she's just got great genes and an exceptional metabolism.

No one else knows any of this about her. She dresses for practicality rather than for show. She doesn't spend hours applying make-up (and of course there's no need for it at the primary school where she works). Most days, she throws on something comfortable, bunches her hair into a ponytail, and puts on her work glasses.

To most people who see her, she must look like a typical suburban mum (though of course we don't have kids, and have never wanted them).

Maybe that's where all the depraved fantasies started: me wondering what would happen if people knew how good she looked in her sexiest clothes. Or if they could in any way conceive how amazing she looked when she was naked, wearing nothing except the little pink butterfly tattooed to her hip.

It certainly didn't come from any kind of lack of sex. There was no problem at all with our sex life. We'd been together five years and still we were having sex once or twice a month.

I can't even claim that I'm after something more, or that Gina isn't adventurous enough. She's never said no to any of my suggestions in the bedroom--even the time I wanted to try out some unusual positions (which hadn't been great in the end--I never wanted to experiment again after that).

Any yet I found myself, less than a year after our wedding, the happiest day of my life, imagining what it would be like to see Gina being chatted up by another man.

Of course it was disgusting, depraved; of course I'd never want it to happen; and of course there was no way Gina would ever want to experiment like that in anyway. But I still found myself wondering, inventing scenarios in my head and then imagining how they would play out in real life.

I imagined how she'd react if someone tried to chat her up in a bar. She'd be shocked, embarrassed: her eyes would become wide and her face would darken to a deep shade of red. She wouldn't know what to do. Obviously, she'd be flattered, but likely more worried about what anyone around her might think. She'd want to put a stop to it immediately, but she was far too kind to tell a guy, point blank, that she wasn't interested. She'd probably sit there awkwardly, waiting to find an escape route.

And maybe it would excite her, just a little bit...

Whenever I thought about it, my erection sprang up immediately.

I began to dream about the scenario, and they would often get out of hand. Once I imagined she was dancing in a club and, too shy to push the guy away, he actually began to take it to the next level, leaning in to kiss her. Shocked, she couldn't push him away in time. Then he was kissing her, running his hands down her back and taking a handful of her bum. She wanted to push away but the whole situation was making her horny and weak. It was a half-hearted attempt to say no, and he kept going, his hands massaging her buttocks as he groped her...

There were dozens of other scenarios, all very similar, all equally depraved. Sometimes I would live the fantasies in my dreams, and would wake up sweaty and clammy, clutching my balls and clumsily trying not to wake Gina up as she lay next to me.

I didn't dare let her know about these dirty thoughts. No chance.

Then, a while after all this started--and before it began to grow into something unbearable--I read about a new app that had suddenly become popular. It was called "Confession"--it was an app where people could anonymously post things about their life, their thoughts, the things they'd done they weren't proud of.

I downloaded it and registered. Once registered, I then had to set up a profile and ticked a number of boxes related to my "interests." Once the interests were established, I was then able to see the groups linked with those interests: under the "Adult" section (the only interest I'd ticked), there were thousands of those groups.

I could join as many groups as I wanted, or even set up my own. Then, if I wanted to post a Confession, I just had to specify the group (or groups) I wanted to post to, and could then send out an update.

When I set up the profile, I chose a username--"DevotedHusband"--but then whenever I posted, the app would ask if I wanted to post anonymously. If I did, it would generate a new username for me and post under that handle. I could receive private messages sent to this random handle, and then any conversation under that thread would have me listed under this new name.

And, of course, I could post under my real username if I wanted to. I could add friends, and set up entire networks of friends. I could set up my own group, invite specific friends, and then send out updates that would be private among those particular people.

It was pretty neat, had a lot of possibilities.

But I only ever used it for one thing: to indulge in those fantasies about Gina.

Among all the adult groups I'd joined, there were hundreds of "wife appreciation" ones. The actual content varied widely: in some of them, it was guys who just wanted to point out how great their wives are; in others, it was about appreciating others' wives. The main groups I'd joined were: "Fuck My Wife" (bold, obvious, clear-cut); "Wife sharing"; "My Hotwife". These were big groups with thousands of members. Most posts were sexy pictures or memes related to the theme, along with a load of likes and sometimes some comments (most of the comments along the lines of "I wish that was my wife" or "You're a lucky guy.")

I didn't post often, but when I did it was always about Gina--about the fantasies I'd been having, about how I wished I could watch someone coming onto her. There wasn't a lot of discussion around these Confessions: usually a couple of guys offering to help out, and a bunch of others offering well-meaning but completely useless advice. However much they suggested I should just "go for it", they didn't understand Gina.

And besides, it was difficult to explain exactly what I wanted. I wanted guys to notice Gina, to see how sexy she was (and thus, I suppose, how lucky I was), and then to put her in an uncomfortable or awkward position. That was all.

I played along anyway, agreeing to any suggestion that I was desperate to see another man have his way with her. After a while, I even found myself wondering--was that what I wanted deep down? Would that turn me on?

I started posting in March 2018: I want to see if you can seduce my wife.

This elicited a number of comments: Of course I could. I'm sure she's a slut like the rest of them was one response; Show us a pic and I'll let you know was another. All other responses seemed to be an echo of these two.

The requests for pictures were annoying, but the other responses made me tingle somehow when I read them.

Over the next month or so, I posted a few more of these types of posts in various groups, always getting similar responses, and always in similar numbers--maybe a few dozen, at most.

Then in late April, I sneaked a picture of Gina when we were in bed one night, after she had fallen asleep. She was naked, rolled over with her back to me. No nudity, nothing to make her recognisable--just her bare, shapely back and her unkempt hair.

I posted that to the group with the caption: Luckiest guy in the world. If another guy out there was able to chat her up, you'd know what I mean.

This one drove people wild: there were hundreds of likes and hearts and responses. I began to get private messages--again, mostly lonely, desperate men asking for more pictures of her. I enjoyed causing that kind of reaction, but I didn't respond to any of them and moved on to the next auto-generated handle.

I kept on like this for a while. I remember spending most of that summer trying to find suitable pictures to post on the app. Flashes of her when she was sleeping, or a pic I'd caught of her when she was looking away.

It couldn't do any harm, I figured.

#

As Christmas approached, I realised how much these thoughts were taking over my brain.

It was my work Christmas party and Gina looked stunning. She wore a short black dress, her skin pale and smooth and translucent.

I'd been there ten years, and most of the team had met her before. We mingled among them. I could see how their eyes flicked over her, tried not to be too obvious at how they were drinking her in.

A year ago, I wouldn't have noticed; but now I could feel my heart leap every time she spoke to a new person, every time someone leaned across and kissed her cheek or patted her shoulder (no doubt using the greeting to take a sly look down her dress at the same time).

There was one guy from the office, Preston, who was new and had never met her before. He zeroed in on her right at the start. He backed away apologetically when he realised his mistake--though there was a dark cloud in his eyes that suggested he hadn't wanted to back away at all. That maybe he actually fancied his chances.

It was just a symptom of those silly fantasies, I told myself.

But the idea stuck in my mind for the rest of the night. I kept looking over at him, trying to catch him eyeing her up, wondering if he was thinking about her.

Later on, she got up to dance with one of the temps. I didn't know his name.

Gina loved to dance. I wondered if Preston was watching, what he would be thinking. Maybe he would dance with her next. Maybe he'd had too much to drink and he'd get frisky. Maybe he'd push it too far.

I wondered how she would react.

But then the song was over and Gina came and sat beside me. I smiled at her and kissed her cheek.

I got lost in work talk with some of the guys at our table. When I looked around at Gina, she'd gone. My eyes scanned the room--maybe she was getting a drink, or she was up dancing again?--but she was nowhere to be seen. How long had she been gone?

I got up and wandered around the room, looking for her. I asked a few people, but none had seen her. My mind revved into overdrive.

Eventually I found her, standing outside. She smiled awkwardly, knowing I'd caught her out.

I rolled my eyes and tutted.

It should have been my first thought. It wasn't uncommon, when she'd had too much to drink, to catch her outside with the smokers. It had been a habit she'd had back in university; now it was just a craving that resurfaced whenever she'd been drinking.

I stayed with her while she smoked this one, and offered my jacket--it was a cold December night, and she was wearing only that short dress--but she declined.

We went back inside and sat down. I wondered what Gina would have thought if she'd known what had been running through my head--the idea that someone was trying to chat her up and that maybe she was actually enjoying it. Or the crazy, chaotic thoughts I'd had about Preston pouncing on her somewhere and telling her that he wouldn't take no for an answer.

Or how sickened she would be if I told her how much those thoughts turned me on.

After a while, Gina got up and danced with one of the other guys from my team. I was lost in conversation with the guys--we were discussing the recent upgrade of the office software from Windows Vista to Windows 7, and the planned further upgrade to Windows 10. Not riveting stuff, but somehow the guys kept this conversation going for two hours. Even though I hated dancing, I considered getting up and joining Gina, just to get away from them.

But when I looked around, she was gone. Another cigarette, no doubt. That would be my escape, I thought, but then as I started to excuse myself she walked back in, a fresh drink in her hand, and sat down beside me. She gave me a cheeky smile.

The rest of the night whizzed by--a blur of sitting at that table and talking shop, of trips to the bar. But overriding all of this, constantly thinking about Gina: who she was dancing with, where she was, what she was doing, how many cigarettes she'd had...whether Preston had tried his luck with her.

By the end of the night, I was exhausted. Gina was hammered. We got a cab home, and it took the last ounces of my strength to get her into the house and up to bed. I dropped onto the bed beside her, both of us fully-clothed. I could smell the alcohol and smoke coming off her in waves.

I pulled out my phone as consciousness dwindled.

I couldn't go on like this. I had to correct this weird fixation in my brain, and there was only one way I could do that. I had to delete the app.

But my fingers wouldn't co-ordinate. My addled brain fought against sleep, but it was a battle it couldn't win. The darkness rushed up and washed over me before I could go through with it, and by the morning I'd forgotten that the idea had even occurred to me.

Things might have been so different if I'd actually managed to delete the app that day.

#

Then in May, Gina told me that she had a night planned with her old uni friend, Steff. They hadn't seen each other in over a year.

I only ever worried about her when she was out with Steff. Gina was usually sensible, but Steff seemed to bring out the worst in her. They were always out til late, and always drank far too much.

Steff was also a bit of a wild-child, usually going home with a different guy each time they went out.

She told me on the Monday, with the night planned for the Friday after work. I raised my eyebrows at her questioningly across the dinner table. She chuckled. "It's fine--Steff's a changed woman now. She's getting married next year. No more big nights out, no more partying."

But as soon as she told me, I found myself reaching for my phone and loading up Confession. My fingers moved automatically--I had no idea what I was about to do. I went straight to one of the groups--one of the smaller, local ones. My wife will be getting the train from Waterloo to Dover on Friday night with her best friend. 9pm. The two of them will be drunk and gagging for it.

I hit post and broadcast it to the group. A few people commented over the next few days, but nothing particularly exciting. No one thought I was being serious.

#

When Friday night came, I had forgotten all about that post.

In fact, I had forgotten that Gina was even going out. It was only when I came through the door, tired from a hard week at the office, and slumped onto the sofa, that I realised that she wasn't in. My brain whizzed and a second later I remembered--of course!

I texted her to tell her to have a nice time, asked if everything was going okay, and asked what time she would be home.

She replied that all was fine, and the plan was to be on the 9pm train. The usual routine.

You know I don't mind you staying out, I responded. It's not every day you get dressed up and go out partying! Enjoy yourself! Just let me know if you do end up staying out later.

It happened often when she was out with Steff: they'd drink heavily, go on to a club or a late bar. She'd completely forget to let me know what was happening. It was understandable, I suppose. They hardly saw each other and they were having fun, catching up. It was easy to lose track of time.

About half an hour later she sent something back. Not a message--a picture. I opened it and smiled. It was her and Steff, side by side, pulling silly pouting faces.

Engaged or not, Steff was dressed up in her usual attire: a tight black miniskirt and a tight white top. Her breasts bulged through the fabric, huge and ripe. Her blond hair was cut into a bob and her skin was tanned healthily. She looked sultrily into the camera. Her tongue was poked out at me and there was a small blue stud embedded in her tongue.

That was Steff. Loud, an in-your-face type. Always showing off. Which is probably why she was the type of woman who definitely did get chatted up wherever she went. Guys looked at her, figured that she was wild, and hoped she might be easy.

And often she was.

Gina was taking the selfie, her arm held out in front of her. She had her head tilted towards Steff and her mouth was also twisted into a silly pout. Her tongue peeked out from the corner of her mouth. She didn't have that same crazy, wildchild look that Steff had--but of course she was much quieter, more reserved.

Gina wasn't wearing the same kind of outfit, but she looked great. A plain orange top, cleavage on show (but not the same heaving bust trying to burst through the fabric as with Steff), and a dark tartan skirt, not tight like her friend's. Also, a much more respectable length, somewhere midway between her knee and the top of her legs. Her hair hung around her shoulders, silky and slightly curled at the ends. Her glasses were perched on the edge of her nose, and her eyes looked at the camera over the frame.

I chuckled. That was my Gina.

#

For me, it was just a quiet night in front of the Friday-night television. I wondered if Gina really would be on the train at nine, whether she would be feeling frisky when she got home. I smiled at the thought.

A sudden idea hit me.

I pulled out my phone and looked at the picture they'd sent me. Steff was no doubt hotter--I'm sure nine out of ten guys would have said that if they'd seen this picture. But Gina was cuter, prettier.

I tore those thoughts out of my head and opened the phone's picture editor. I covered their faces in a black scribble, protecting their identities.

Could I really do this? I wondered. Should I?

I didn't even think to answer myself--just loaded up the Confession app and posted the image, along with the following caption: Two horny ladies on the prowl tonight.

There were a few very quick comments--mostly smiley faces or guys saying how hot the two of them looked.

I smiled and put the phone to one side, then continued watching TV.

I had a bunch of comments waiting when I checked the app again a while later, most of them along the same lines. I also had one private message. I opened it.

Will they still be on the train at 9pm?

Confused, I re-read the post I'd put out. I'd made no mention of the train, or of the time they were due.

Then I remembered that I'd posted something about it a few days ago, when Gina had first mentioned she and Steff were going out. I scrolled through the app until I found that particular message.

I almost slapped myself on the forehead when I found it. What an idiot. I'd posted that message--and the one today--without using the anonymous function. Both had been sent using my real handle. That had been silly. Not only had I sent out a picture of Gina and Steff--okay, I'd covered their faces, but it would be easy to identify them based on their clothes--but I'd also sent out a message saying that they would be on the train at Waterloo at 9pm.

It was the kind of error that could lead to potentially devastating consequences, I thought to myself. Imagine if some weirdo pervert was reading these posts--and no doubt a lot of the people following this group fell into that category. Anything could happen.

I wondered if I should warn her, but--no. What was I supposed to say? What would she say when I told her what had happened, what I'd done? It didn't bear thinking about.

I'd just have to make sure I checked in on her. There was no way she'd be on the train at nine o'clock anyway, I thought with a chuckle.

I'd just leave it until five past nine: then I'll message and ask if they got on the train okay. No doubt they'd still be out in a bar somewhere. And even if they were on their way home, it was incredibly unlikely that anyone would piece all this together. The app wasn't that popular, and I'd only posted into one of the small Kent-only groups. So, first someone would have to have seen both posts and figure out they were about the same person; then they'd have to be somewhere in the local area; then they'd have to actually believe I was telling the truth and it wasn't all some silly story I was telling; then they'd have to actually go out and start looking.

Pretty much impossible, I thought.

I checked the time--it was just after eight. A little over an hour.

I put the phone to one side and went back to the TV, though I found now that I wasn't able to follow what was happening. I didn't even know what I was watching any more.

All I could think about was Gina.

#

I sent her a text a few minutes after nine, as planned.

It got to half past and she still hadn't responded--which I figured was a good sign. They were probably still out at a bar and she hadn't thought to check her phone. I didn't want to call her--that behaviour would be unusual--but if I still hadn't heard from her by ten, I would. Just to be sure.

#

Just before ten, I picked up my phone again. I was going to have to call her, see if she was okay. Before I did that, though, I checked the app again.

There was another private message waiting, and I could see that it was from the same user who'd sent the last one, "SinglePringle". This message had been sent just a minute ago.

I gasped as I opened it: Dude, you were right! One of them is bang up for it. Thanks for the tip!

I stared at the words. I typed back: What's happened?

I thought you were joking when you posted on the app, never thought you'd be telling the truth. But we were in a bar right next to Waterloo and there were these two chicks in there--the two from your picture. So we started talking to them. One of them left, said she had to get back to her husband, but the other one decided to stay and have another drink with us.

Well, it seemed Steff would never change, I thought with a wry smile. Engaged or not, she was always the party animal. Always craved attention when she was out.

And then it dawned on me... they would have chatted up Gina, too. My heart pounded in my chest. I wondered whether any of them had pushed their luck with her, tried to kiss her or get her number... Clearly she had left because she felt things were getting out of hand, going too far. She had no doubt tried to convince Steff to come with her, reminded her that she had a fiance now and she needed to be sensible, that she had no idea who these guys were. Steff would have encouraged her to stay, to let her hair down, that she didn't need to grow old before her time.

I wondered if Gina would tell me about any of this when she got home.

The other wasn't up for it though? How did she respond to being chatted up?

My dick stirred as I typed out the words.

I think she enjoyed it too, but she was a bit more serious, more wary. I think we might have had some luck with her if we'd had more time.

I smiled at the thought.

I actually think she was a little scared of Leon. Maybe she's racist.

I jolted and asked: Are you black?

No - but Leon is. He's the one doing most of the chatting up. He's a demon with the ladies, but as I said, I think the black thing put her off from the start.

Well that didn't sound like Gina at all, I thought. But then this guy had no doubt read the situation completely wrong anyway.

He continued: But this one is bang up for it. Exactly like you said. She really came out of her shell when her friend left. She's getting on real well with Leon. She hasn't hid her wedding ring, but she hasn't mentioned her husband at all.

Hang on, hang on, I thought. This didn't make any sense. I asked: I thought the married one had left?

He took a bit longer to respond. Yeah sorry, I always get the ring fingers wrong. The married one stayed--the one who left was engaged.

Tell me what she looks like, the one who stayed.

Again, there was a bit of time before he responded. Then he sent through a message that caused my heart to jump into my throat and a sinking, sickly feeling to begin spreading through my stomach: Brunette. Glasses. Small, slim. Nice tits, good legs. Not as obvious as the other one but hot. Kinda mumsy, at least until her friend left anyway.

Gina!

My mind raced with possibilities. It couldn't be happening, not like this--Steff leaving early and Gina staying out to be chatted up by some guy... Unless this whole thing was a joke, a wind-up?

Of course, I thought to myself. That made sense. This guy was just trolling, pretending this was happening to get a reaction out of me. I looked at the picture I'd posted--yep, that description could have all come from that picture. And when I asked which one, why didn't he just use her name? That would have cleared everything up.

I could ask him that very thing: What's her name? He wouldn't be able to answer that one.

But I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. I wasn't going to send any response at all. I'd just wait here until I heard from Gina. She'd be on her way home soon, I thought.

#

I hadn't heard from her as the clock ticked to 10:45.

I picked up the phone to send her another text, but as I did I couldn't resist taking a peek at the app again to see if the troll had sent any more messages.

There were, indeed, a couple of them waiting in my inbox.

The first one wasn't a message--it was a picture. I opened it and my mouth dropped open in shock.

It was Gina. In a bar, a drink in her hand, looking at the camera and smiling politely. There was a tall black guy standing next to her, well-dressed and well-groomed. His shirt was fitted and tight and I fancied I could see his muscles rippling under it.

The message under this picture read: Dude, this is your wife isn't it? Her name is Gina.

I flicked to the next message he'd sent: I'm pretty sure Leon is going to fuck her tonight. Women never say no to him. And she has been talking and drinking and flirting for the last two hours.

I had to do something. But what?

Anything. I couldn't just sit here in shock, I told myself. I knew Gina wouldn't do anything--she was just being polite. But still. I typed: Which bar are you at?

I stared at the screen as I waited for a response. I felt like I waited a long, long time, but really it was only a few minutes before a message came back: Yeah right. I'm not gonna cockblock my best mate. I won't keep teasing you with it though--I thought the whole thing was a joke, some silly game. I didn't realise this was actually gonna be your wife. I feel bad for you, but it's your own fault really. You started it by sending those posts. If it's something you're really into, I can set up a private group if you like and send you updates as the night progresses. You never know, she might not even go through with it.

Of course she won't do anything, I thought to myself. Not my Gina. I should tell him to just get lost, then get in touch with her and tell her to come home... But, on the other hand, I could hear all about her getting chatted up by this other guy.

I looked down at my raging erection. There was nothing difficult about this decision.

I told him to set up the group.

#

So SinglePringle set up a new group. He titled it "Will she...?" and the two of us were the only members. He set the group to private, which meant no one could join unless they were specifically invited.

So much for not teasing: this whole thing was a game for Mr Pringle.

I knew I could end this whole thing by just giving her a call, but for now I would play along.

The first post read as follows: She just went outside for a cigarette with Leon. I don't think anything happened.

Then another post, immediately after: She just told us she's married (as if the ring doesn't give it away). Didn't say much more about it. Leon played it cool. He still think there's a chance, I can tell.

I let out a long, slow breath. No doubt that was the end of the whole thing. Maybe she had been a little flirty, I reflected. Maybe she'd even led them on a bit (my nuts ached at the thought--I wish I could have been there to witness it), but now she'd revealed the truth, let them down, and no doubt she'd be on the train soon.

I wondered if she'd tell me anything about these guys when I asked how her night had been.

My phone suddenly pinged--not a notification from the app--this time a text message. From Gina. I opened it: We're still at a bar but leaving soon. All is fine, don't worry, be home soon. Xx.

I went back to SinglePringle's group. The next post read: When she told us she was married, I was sure that was the end of it. But they've kept going, flirting, ever since. More so, even. She still seems up for it.

Ten minutes later: I just went to the toilet, came back--and I'm sure they were kissing! They were pretty close anyway, and she looked breathless and flushed.

Then: Usually I'd take my cue and just go home. Clearly I'm not needed or wanted here anymore. But I promised you I'd send live updates; I wouldn't be much of a journalist if I walked away from this now, would I?

The only response I could muster: Thanks.

She went to the loo and I took the chance to grill Leon about my suspicions. He didn't want to answer at first but... I was right! He said they were kissing while I was gone and that he even managed a little feel of her tits.

He wanted to know why I was so interested, so I told him about you. Told him you're her husband, that you tipped us off in the first place. Leon said thanks. He said he will send her back well serviced.

This had gone too far.

I called Gina but she didn't answer. She sent a text right away: Sorry honey, loud in here, not much reception. You were right, we went out to a late bar. You off to bed? We're just drinking up, should be on our way soon. Xx.

I knew I could put a stop to the whole thing. I could just message her to say there was some emergency--her dad was ill, something like that--and she'd come rushing home. Then tell her I'd made a mistake, I was joking, something like that. Sure, she'd be pissed off, probably wouldn't talk to me for days. But at least it would put an end to this torturous night.

No, I told myself. I wouldn't do that. I wanted to see how this played out. Maybe she really had kissed this guy--maybe she was more drunk than I'd ever seen before--but she wouldn't do anything more than that. Not Gina.

Then again, an hour before I'd have insisted there was no chance she'd even kiss him.

To be continued…