My name is Kieran, and for the past five years, my life with Elle has been nothing short of a dream. We met in a crowded coffee shop in downtown Seattle, where she spilled her latte all over my laptop. Instead of getting angry, I laughed it off, and she insisted on buying me a new one. That led to our first date, and from there, it was a whirlwind of shared adventures–hiking in the Cascades, lazy Sundays binge-watching shows, and building a home together in a cozy apartment overlooking the Puget Sound. Elle was my rock: smart, funny, with a smile that could light up the darkest room.
She worked as a graphic designer for a tech firm, and I was climbing the ladder in software development. We talked about marriage, kids, the whole package. Life was good. Perfect, even.
But perfection has a way of cracking under pressure. About three months ago, Elle’s company downsized, and she was one of the casualties. Redundant, they called it. She came home that day with tears in her eyes, clutching a severance check that wouldn’t last long in this economy.
I held her as she sobbed, promising we’d get through it together. “We’ll tighten our belts,” I said. “I’ve got your back.”
At first, she threw herself into job hunting, updating her portfolio and networking like mad. But as the rejections piled up, something shifted. Her laughter grew forced, her touches less frequent. She’d snap at little things, like when I’d forget to load the dishwasher, or she’d zone out during our conversations, staring at her phone with a distant look. I chalked it up to stress–unemployment can do that to anyone. I tried to be supportive, planning surprise date nights and encouraging her to pursue freelance gigs. But deep down, I felt a nagging unease, like a shadow creeping into our sunny life.
One rainy Tuesday evening, while Elle was in the shower, that unease got the better of me. I’d never been the jealous type; trust was the foundation of our relationship. But her phone had been buzzing non-stop lately, and she’d been quick to silence it or angle the screen away from me. Curiosity, or maybe paranoia, led me to pick it up from the nightstand. Her passcode was our anniversary date–easy enough. I swiped through her messages first, but they were mundane: chats with friends, job applications, a few flirty emojis from old acquaintances that made my stomach twist but weren’t damning. Then I opened her photo gallery, scrolling through recent albums. That’s when I found them..
Hidden in a folder labeled “Work Stuff,” there were videos. Dozens of them, all dated within the last month. My heart pounded as I tapped the first one. The screen filled with Elle, naked on our bed, her legs spread wide, a vibrator buzzing against her clit. She was moaning, her eyes half-lidded with pleasure, but it was her words that hit like a gut punch.
“Oh god, yes… my cuck boyfriend has no idea… he thinks he’s enough, but I need real men to make me cum…” She arched her back, gasping, ridiculing me in explicit detail–my size, my stamina, how I’d never satisfied her like “the bulls” she fantasized about. The video ended with her shuddering in orgasm, whispering, “Thank you for the request, Daddy.”
I felt sick, a mix of anger and betrayal boiling up. I clicked another: similar setup, but this time she was using a dildo, thrusting it deep while laughing about how I’d “never measure up.” “My little cuck Kieran… he’d probably watch if he knew.” My hands shook as I dug deeper. In her browser history, I found it: an OnlyFans account under a pseudonym, “ElleWild88.” The bio read: “Naughty girl exploring her fantasies. Custom requests welcome!” Subscriber count: over 500. Earnings statements showed she’d made a couple thousand bucks already–enough to cover rent while job hunting stalled.
The shower turned off, and I panicked, closing everything and placing the phone back. Elle emerged wrapped in a towel, her wet hair cascading down her shoulders. She smiled at me, oblivious. “Hey babe, want to order pizza?” I nodded numbly, but that night, sleep evaded me. The images replayed in my mind: her body writhing, her voice mocking me. Part of me was furious–how could she? But another part, shamefully, was aroused. The humiliation stung, yet it stirred something dark inside.
The next morning, I couldn’t hold it in. Over breakfast, I confronted her. “Elle, I saw the videos on your phone.” Her face drained of color. She denied it at first, then broke down in tears. “I’m so sorry, Kieran. The redundancy hit me hard. I felt worthless, like I couldn’t contribute. A friend suggested OnlyFans as a side hustle–easy money, anonymous. But the requests… they wanted cuckold stuff, humiliation fantasies. I didn’t mean any of it; it’s just role-play for the camera. You’re the only one I love.”
She explained how it started innocently: solo pics, then videos. But customs paid more, and the themes escalated.
“I never cheated,” she swore. “It’s all fake, for the fans.”
I wanted to believe her. We talked for hours, her apologies pouring out. She deleted the account right there, showed me the confirmation. “I’ll find a real job. Please forgive me.” The pain was raw, but our history won out. Five years wasn’t nothing. I hugged her, whispered, “I accept. But no more secrets.” We made love that night, passionate and reaffirming, like reclaiming our bond. For a while, things improved. Elle’s attitude brightened; she landed freelance gigs, and our intimacy returned. I pushed the videos to the back of my mind, convincing myself it was a bump in the road.
A month passed. Life normalized–or so I thought. But curiosity is a relentless beast. One afternoon, while Elle was out grocery shopping, I found myself alone with her phone again. She’d left it charging on the kitchen counter.
“Just a quick check,” I told myself. “To make sure.”
Passcode unchanged. Gallery first: new folders. My pulse quickened. More videos, fresher dates–some from just last week. The humiliation had ramped up. In one, she was on all fours, a larger toy pounding into her, as she moaned, “Kieran’s such a pathetic cuck… he thinks he owns this pussy, but it’s for real alphas now. Watch me cum without him.”
She degraded me further, comparing me to fictional lovers, laughing at my “tiny dick energy.” Another video had her fingering herself while reading fan messages aloud, incorporating their cruel suggestions: “Yes, subscriber X, I’d make Kieran clean up after a real man fucked me.”
I was reeling, anger surging hotter than before. How could she restart after promising? But just as I was about to slam the phone down, I spotted one more video, timestamped two days ago. The thumbnail showed our bedroom, her phone propped on a tripod by the mirror. I hit play, volume low.
The scene unfolded in high definition. Elle entered the frame, wearing lingerie I’d bought her for our anniversary–black lace that hugged her curves. But she wasn’t alone. A man followed, tall, muscular, his face obscured by a mask, but his body language screamed confidence. He grabbed her roughly, pushing her onto the bed.
“Ready to get destroyed, slut?” he growled.
Elle giggled, glancing at the camera. “Oh yes, show my cuck boyfriend how it’s done.”
What followed was intense, raw. He stripped her, his hands everywhere, pinching, slapping lightly. She moaned louder than I’d ever heard, begging for more. He entered her from behind, thrusting hard, her body jolting with each impact.
“Fuck me like Kieran never could!” she cried, ridiculing me relentlessly. “He’s probably jerking off to this right now, the loser. Tiny cock can’t compare!”
She came once, shuddering, then again as he flipped her over, pounding missionary style. Her eyes rolled back, screams echoing. “Yes, destroy this pussy! Cuck can’t make me squirt like this!” A third orgasm hit as he choked her lightly, her body convulsing.
In the background, clear as day on the dresser, was our framed photo from a vacation in Hawaii–smiling, arms around each other. This was filmed here, in our bed, while we were still together. The betrayal hit like a freight train. The video ended with her panting, cum dripping, blowing a kiss to the camera. “Thanks for the custom, big boy. Kieran’s none the wiser.”
I dropped the phone, my world shattering. Questions flooded: Who was he? How long? Was it all a lie? The apologies from before felt hollow now. Part of me wanted to confront her immediately, but another part–the humiliated, aroused part–hesitated. What now?