My name is Leroy. I’m 41, pretty average-looking—not someone who turns heads, not a model, just… normal. I live in Germany with my wife, Manuela. We’ve been together for sixteen years, married for six.
Our sex life has been problematic for about ten years. Four or five times a year, maybe, we have sex. That’s it. The rest of our relationship works: we share everyday life, responsibilities, conversations—but in the bedroom, it’s silent. And because I can’t just suppress my sexuality, I find ways to express it online.
I stream on a cam site, anonymously, hidden. And then, mid-January, it happens: Jenny finds me. She enters my room, stays for a while, watches, writes in the chat. She’s 25, young, beautiful, hot—sexually more adventurous than I am, with a higher drive—and that says a lot. Sparks fly immediately. We start messaging, exchanging pictures and videos, having fun. I take the dominant role, she the submissive. We invent roleplays. I even write her a story with us as the main characters.
Soon, our connection deepens, despite the fact that I live in Germany and she in the States. The distance should make it impossible, but somehow it doesn’t. CNC, knife play, little tasks she carries into her daily life—like working a shift while wearing a plug. Messages between shifts, small proofs of obedience. No one around her notices, no one in my world suspects anything—but an invisible thread connects us. Our games are intense, but safe. We watch out for each other, set boundaries, and protect our real lives.
We talk about our marriages too. We see how similar our problems are: lack of closeness, dormant passion, the feeling of being unseen in the most important areas. We advise each other on handling our partners. More than that, we support each other. I feel understood in a way I never imagined.
By March, I can’t stand it any longer. I’m restless, because Jenny is real to me and yet can never be fully real. So I speak with Manuela. I tell her about our almost nonexistent sex life and that it cannot continue this way for me. I confess my online activity, I tell her about Jenny. It’s a difficult conversation, full of tears and uncertainty. But something changes: our sex life comes alive again. Not perfect, but alive—and that is more than I dared hope for.
Honestly, I think my connection with Jenny probably saved my marriage. Without her, I might never have found the courage to break the silence between Manuela and me. Jenny reminds me that a part of me is still alive, a part that doesn’t have to be buried forever—and that’s exactly what gives me the strength to be honest with Manuela.
Gradually, I tell Manuela more about what Jenny and I do online. It sometimes sounds like cheating, and sometimes it feels that way. But I explain that she, Manuela, will always be my number one priority. That Jenny gives me things she cannot or does not need to give. That Jenny is no threat.
I give Manuela three options. We could end our marriage. I could continue as before—still active online, including Jenny, but in a way that doesn’t burden her, that she knows about but doesn’t feel. Or we could handle it openly, include her where it makes sense, create transparency. After thinking it over, she chooses the third option. She accepts that my sexuality is part of me—and that Jenny is part of it. I realize how fortunate I am to have a partner who doesn’t turn away, who chooses to face this with me instead of against me. Many wouldn’t, but Manuela does. And that makes me grateful beyond words.
In April, my connection with Jenny continues. We try to scale back the sexual aspect because she feels guilty; some things are meant only for her husband. But after a short pause, we’re back, fully immersed again. Playing, messaging, challenging each other. Living our fantasies, escalating, enjoying. During our sessions, she calls me Daddy, or simply “Sir.” Sometimes, when the intensity peaks, she moans my name—and just the thought of it sends a pleasant shiver down my spine.
In May, Jenny goes on vacation with her family—without her husband. She asks me to pause sexual activities during that time, so no accidental messages appear on her phone. We agree she can “order” if she’s undisturbed. During the ten days, that rarely happens, but we still communicate daily. We talk as friends, not lovers. At the end of her trip, she tells me she has feelings for me that go beyond friendship and lust—feelings that could be called love.
I feel the same, though I’ve known it longer. There she is: my unicorn. A mythical creature that shouldn’t exist. Young, beautiful, hot, more sexually adventurous than I am, with a higher drive—and she finds me attractive and has feelings for me. Sometimes, the word “love” slips out of her mouth, only for her to quickly catch herself and turn it into “really like like you.” My heart melts every time—it’s not the grand, all-consuming love, because we have our spouses for that. But it is a deep connection, a bond that carries many aspects of love, intense and intimate in its own right. I’m in heaven. Still.
After she returns, she begins streaming herself on the same platform. It’s not a secret; her husband knows and supports her. I help her make her streams more interactive. I gift her some small things — not to buy affection, but to help her reduce stress at her main job. She appreciates it, though accepting gifts from me feels slightly awkward.
A few days later, Jenny starts having pangs of guilt. She wants to reduce our relationship to something platonic, to try and protect her marriage. For a week, we attempt it—talking as friends, keeping the sexual tension at bay. But it doesn’t feel right. I miss the passion, the intimacy that goes beyond friendship.
Then, one evening, my phone vibrates. It’s Jenny. She’s just come home from a night out, celebrating with a friend. She’s craving the sexual closeness her husband isn’t giving her in this moment. I feel a rush of confusion. Part of me is relieved, part of me frustrated—the platonic boundary I was trying to respect suddenly collapses.
She sends me videos—so charged with lust that the air around me seems to heat up. I can feel the spark she ignites in me, but I also pause, asking if this is okay, how I should understand this sudden shift. She promises to talk about it properly the next day, but right now, she needs me, and she needs the fire I can awaken in her.
The next day, we have a long conversation. About us. About our relationships with our respective partners. About what we want and don’t get, about what we can give each other, and why a purely platonic friendship won’t work. We are both people for whom sex is very important, and suppressing it would feel like self-harm. The conversation isn’t easy. There are misunderstandings, but our connection is strong enough to navigate them. In the end, we decide to continue being there for each other—both as friends and as lovers.
I also want to give her something personal: a worn oversized T-shirt for her afternoon naps, a toy that matches my anatomy, or my collar—not one of the playful ones she chose, but a special one: brown suede, white lace, gold-colored brass fittings. As much as she wants any of it, she knows there’s little room for such a symbol in her marriage. So we leave it as a thought.
Jenny then goes on a spontaneously planned short vacation with her husband. I tell her to focus entirely on him for the week, to not send messages, ideally not to think about me at all. I want her to have no reason to feel that I would be upset by the silence. The opposite is true: our connection is strong, and I know I will never take her husband’s place—and I don’t want to. She loves him, and she should be happy with him, just as I am with Manuela. We are “pen pals.” It adds something to our lives without taking anything away from our marriages.
Of course, she doesn’t fully follow my instruction. During that week, I receive a few messages—none erotic, but incredibly sweet. When I ask why she didn’t follow my request, she simply replies that she doesn’t want to.
After that week, the next few weeks pass with less direct contact. Outside of her streams, which I occasionally visit, we rarely have overlapping time for us. But that’s only half as bad as it sounds. I still receive “good morning” messages from her, pictures of her hair tousled from sleep. I love it. No makeup, raw, real. No need to fake anything. These “good morning” and “sleep well” messages can salvage even the worst day.
A few weeks later, Jenny and her husband take a longer planned vacation trip. Exactly six months after Jenny entered my life, we play together for the last time. I remind her again to focus entirely on him during that week. This time, she adheres to it—and I go through hell. My mind races, imagining her realizing that she doesn’t need me to be happy, that a life without Leroy is the better choice for her and her marriage. And then it happens.
My phone rings, and I receive an emotionless, deflating text from her: we can no longer have any contact. None at all. Poor communication, misunderstandings, and frustration lead to an escalating argument. It’s ugly, and during the fight, she tells him everything about her online life—not the streaming, which he already knows, but everything else.
The result: she can no longer contact her online play partners, including me. She wants an intimate relationship with her husband and must unfortunately exclude me from this new reality.
And yet, Jenny tells me it’s hard for her too. She admits that the thought of wearing my collar excites her more than she’s ever admitted. But as much as she desires it, it’s clear there’s no place for it in her life. She tells me that she loves me as a person and as a friend, that she values our bond—but that this very love forces her to let me go.
And so I lose not only a lover but also a friend. For eight weeks, my thoughts circle only around her. Her smile, her laughter, the good morning and good night messages. The openness we shared, the ease between us.
On a good day, I’m sad. On a bad day, I think about what it would be like to feel nothing—no loss, no grief, no pain. I don’t always eat regularly, and my sleep is often disturbed. Only Manuela, my greatest support, holds me back. But I don’t know if it will be enough.
