How cheating got me to send nudes to my Gf’s Boss Part1

A little back story first from my 2nd GF. This is a prelude from what’s to come. All the names used are made up.

Sarina was nothing like my first girlfriend. With Rachelle, I had to steal moments — sneaky photos when she wasn’t looking, snapshots where a slip of skin or a tight shirt gave me just enough to imagine the rest. But Sarina? She didn’t make me work for it.

We had only been dating for a short time when she sent the first one.

A simple mirror selfie — bra and panties, her hair loose, standing in the dim yellow light of her bedroom. She looked casual, like it was no big deal. But for me? My heart was pounding. I remember zooming in, taking in every detail — the curve of her waist, the faint lines where her underwear hugged her hips.

That was all it took. After that, the pictures came more easily. Some nights she’d send me topless shots, one hand holding her phone, the other cupping her breast. Other times she’d lay on her bed in nothing but panties, her legs slightly open, a grin on her face like she knew exactly what I wanted.

She didn’t think twice about it. To her, it was just something couples did.

To me, it was more than that.

At first, I kept them to myself, the way most boyfriends would. But the thought kept gnawing at me — what if someone else saw this? Not a friend, not anyone in our circle… but a total stranger. Someone with no context, no history, just eyes locked on her naked body. Someone who would look at her the way I looked at women online.

It started with curiosity. I found small corners of the internet where anonymity was easy — forums, image boards, chatrooms that disappeared after a few minutes. The first time I uploaded one of Sarina’s photos, I cropped out her face, her bedroom, anything that could identify her. All that remained was her body.

The replies came fast. “Hot.” “More?” “Who is she?”

They didn’t care about her name or her life. She was just a body to them.

And that’s what hooked me.

The rush wasn’t just in looking at her. It was in letting others look at her.

Knowing that right in that moment, someone somewhere was jerking off to my girlfriend without her even knowing. That they would see her the same way I did, strip her down in their mind, and then go about their day like nothing happened.

I started to get bolder. The crops became looser — more of her skin, more of the little details that made her real. Sometimes I’d leave in her hair, her lips, the curve of her chin. Nothing that screamed her name, but enough that someone who really knew her might start to wonder. That possibility — that thin, dangerous line — was the part that turned me on the most.

I never told her, of course. She thought those pictures were safe between us. And maybe part of me liked that too — the trust, the secrecy, the imbalance of power.

With Sarina, I learned something about myself. It wasn’t just about seeing her naked. It was about showing her to the world without her consent, letting her become a silent exhibition for strangers’ lust.

It was a small step back then, but looking back now, that’s where it really began.

The first time I crossed the line — and realized I didn’t want to go back.