Chapter 2: The Hangover Confession
The morning light was a cruel, precise instrument. It found the gap in the blinds and laid a hot, narrow stripe directly across Ritchie’s closed eyelids. He winced, turning his head into the pillow, which felt damp and vaguely sour. His mouth was a desert, his tongue a piece of felt. The throb behind his temples synchronized with his heartbeat, a dull, punishing drum.
He reached out blindly, his hand searching the cool, empty expanse of sheet beside him. It was still warm.
Ellie was up.
The events of the previous evening returned not as a flood, but as a series of sharp, disconnected images: the glint of wine bottles, the scent of her perfume, the weight of her hips against his thigh. Her voice, low and clear. ‘You’re going to take a kink test.’
A cold, clarity seeped through the ache. The warm, wine-soaked courage of last night had evaporated, leaving behind the bare scaffolding of his confession. He’d said it. He’d actually said it out loud.
With a groan, he pushed himself up on his elbows. The room tilted, then settled. His phone was on his nightstand, face-down. He stared at it as if it were a live grenade. After a minute of gathering will, he flipped it over. The screen lit up, blinding him. A notification from WhatsApp glowed atop.
Ellie: [Link]
His thumb hovered over the screen, the pad slightly damp. The memory of her teeth on his earlobe, the wine-dark command in her whisper, propelled him forward through the haze of his hangover. He tapped the link, and a clean, minimalist website loaded, devoid of any playful branding or suggestive imagery.
The screen presented a single field for an email address and, below it, a stark black button. A faint tremor passed through his fingertip as it hovered over the keyboard, the silence of the sunlit room now oppressive. He exhaled, the sound ragged in the quiet, and typed in his email. His mouth was chalk-dry as he finally tapped the button, the screen dissolving into a void of pure white. Then, crisp black text appeared, centered and pulsing slightly as if with its own heartbeat: ARE YOU READY TO BEGIN?
He clicked YES before the fear could coil any tighter in his throat.
A new question materialized instantly, the text clinical and profound: would you like your wife to talk dirty to you?
His throat tightened, the memory of her wine-glossed smirk in the lamplight making his answer inevitable. The cursor blinked, a patient, digital heartbeat beside the stark options: YES. NO.
Last night’s slurred confession had carved a path, and now he had to walk it sober. A tremor traveled from his knuckle to the screen as he tapped YES, the word flashing once before vanishing, and the next qustion to appear. : would you like to take picture or film during sex?
The question hung there, a digital specter in the sunlit room. A film of sweat, cold and abrupt, blossomed across the back of his neck. The fantasy had always lived in the dark, private cinema of his mind, never exposed to the clarifying glare of a lens or, more terrifyingly, to Ellie’s observing eye. His thumb, which had known the shape of her spine in the dark, now trembled over the screen. He thought of her command, her smirk, and the dark, curious part of him he had finally set free, and he clicked YES.
He thought of her command, her smirk, and the dark, curious part of him he had finally set free, and he clicked YES.
The screen dissolved, then reformed with a new, more specific query that sent a jolt through his nervous system: WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAVE YOUR WIFE WEAR STOCKINGS AND/OR HIGH HEELS DURING SEX? The clinical text could not dull the vivid, sudden image it provoked—Ellie, all those magnificent curves, outlined in sheer silk and amplified by a stiletto’s dangerous arch. His breath hitched, a sharp intake that tasted of last night's red wine and this morning's raw shame. Without allowing himself to think, his finger moved, a spasm of want that connected with the glass screen. He selected YES.
The phone felt suddenly heavy in his palm, its screen now displaying a question that stripped away all pretense of abstract fantasy: DO YOU LIKE TO HAVE SEX IN YOUR WORK ENVIRONMENT? The stark words seemed to pulse with the same rhythm as his pounding hangover, conjuring not a vague erotic notion but the specific, tangible reality of his glass-walled office, the hum of the central air, the scent of lemon-scented cleaner. He imagined the dangerous, silent thrill of it, the risk of discovery a wire stretched taut across his professional life, and before the fear could metastasize, his thumb moved. He selected YES. A soft chime sounded from the device, a gentle, final click that echoed in the quiet room like a lock turning.
The next question materialized without preamble, its text a stark demand in the serene morning light: WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAVE SEX, IN A PLACE WHERE YOU MIGHT GET CAUGHT? His headache pulsed behind his eyes, a dull counterpoint to the sudden, visceral thrill that tightened his stomach. The phantom scent of her perfume from the living room couch seemed to mix with the imagined danger of a public stairwell or a parked car in a dim lot. He swallowed, his throat clicking dryly, and the memory of his own drunken mind, pushed his thumb forward. He selected YES, and the screen instantly went black, absorbing his secret into its silent heart before beginning its cold, algorithmic calculation.
The screen remained blank for three long breaths, a void of potential, before a new line of text materialized in a softer, curving font. WOULD YOU LIKE TO GIVE YOUR WIFE A SENSUAL MASSAGE? The question was simpler, quieter, a gentle eddy in the startling current of the others. A different kind of heat, one of tenderness and specific memory, washed through the wine-sour fear still coating his mouth—the weight of her shoulders under his palms after a long day, the soft sigh she made when he found a knot. He selected YES, and the device chimed once, a soft, decisive note that felt like a promise.
The screen refreshed, the new question appearing with a stark finality that made the throb behind his eyes sharpen: WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAVE ANAL SEX WITH YOUR WIFE?
A memory, unbidden and crystalline, flashed—Ellie laughing on a beach years ago, the sun on her shoulders, a look of pure, uncomplicated trust. The phantom taste of last night’s wine turned acidic in his dry mouth. His finger, however, did not tremble this time; it moved with a shocking, surrender, tapping the glass directly over the word YES. The resultant chime was not soft, but a sharp, clear note that hung in the lavender-scented air, severing something.
The screen refreshed again, the text now blunt and unadorned: WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE PEGGED BY YOUR WIFE? A cold, sharp shock lanced through his wine-fogged brain, his muscles tightening involuntarily against the image it conjured. He heard Ellie's laugh from last night—playful, commanding—but this felt like a boundary, a line his curiosity couldn't cross. His thumb, which had flown to so many yeses, now stabbed decisively at the NO. The silence that followed was thicker than before, heavy with the weight of a door firmly shut.
The screen refreshed once more, the new question appearing with a deceptive simplicity that made the pit of his stomach tighten. WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR WIFE TO SHARE NAUGHTY STORIES FROM HER PAST? It was a different kind of exposure, a voyeurism into a time before he existed, and the notion sent a sharp, unexpected current through him. He imagined her voice, low and confessional over dinner, detailing some half-remembered encounter, and a possessive heat flared alongside the curiosity. His finger, almost of its own volition, tapped YES.
The screen refreshed, presenting a new line of text that seemed to pulse in his hand. WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR WIFE TO USE A BUTT PLUG?
The question was stark, a direct line to a secret image he’d pictured in the dark. His throat clicked dryly as the phantom weight of last night’s confession pressed down. Without allowing himself to breathe, his thumb moved forward and tapped YES. The screen went immediately, ominously black, preparing its final verdict.
The screen refreshed, presenting the question again but with the pronoun cruelly shifted: WOULD YOU USE A BUTT PLUG? His entire body went still, the morning light now feeling like an interrogator’s lamp. This wasn’t about her; this was about him, a vulnerability so profound his mouth went dry. He exhaled a shaky breath, the ghost of wine and shame, and stabbed the screen on NO. A final, definitive chime sliced the silent room, and a progress bar began to fill with a terrifying, patient blue.
The blue line completed its journey with a soft, terminal ping. A new question materialized, its letters stark against the white void: DO YOU LIKE TO WATCH YOUR WIFE DANCE WITH ANOTHER PERSON?
The image was immediate and brutal: Ellie’s hips, that hypnotic sway he knew in the dark of their bedroom, moving for a stranger’s eyes in some crowded, low-lit bar. A fresh, metallic taste of panic joined the stale wine in his mouth, but beneath it, a hotter, darker current pulled his thumb down. He selected YES.
The screen went black for a heartbeat, then offered its most brutal question yet in the same sterile font: WOULD YOU WATCH YOUR WIFE HAVE SEX WITH ANOTHER PERSON?
The electric thrum of the phone in his palm synced with the sudden, sick pounding behind his ribs. A part of him, the part that lived in sunlight and held her hand in public, recoiled, screaming a warning that tasted like bile and cheap wine. But beneath the dread, a darker, deeper current surged forward, pulling his thumb down with the gravity of a confessed truth. He selected YES.
The screen refreshed, the letters now seeming to drill into his aching skull. WOULD YOU LIKE TO ENGAGE IN HUMILIATION PLAY WITH YOUR WIFE? The words sat there, cold and absolute, stripping the earlier fantasies of their warm, thrilling veneer and exposing a raw nerve of shame he had no desire to touch. This, unlike the risk of being caught or even the visceral image of sharing her, felt like an erosion of the very ground he stood on. He didn’t hesitate; his thumb drove down onto the NO with a force that made the phone case creak.
The screen went utterly still, then displayed a single, pulsing phrase: ALL DONE CALCULATING RESULTS. A new field appeared below, blank and demanding: FILL IN EMAIL TO SEND RESULTS TO. His chest was a cage of trapped birds, their wings beating against his ribs as he typed in Ellie’s address, each keystroke a tiny, mechanical confession. He hovered over the send button, the phantom taste of her lipstick and last night’s wine thick in his dry mouth. With a final exhale that emptied his lungs, he pressed it, the soft digital whoosh sounding like a door slamming shut in a distant room.
With a final exhale that emptied his lungs, he pressed it, the soft digital whoosh sounding like a door slamming shut in a distant room.
He sat in the silence afterward, the phone dark in his hand, the morning sun now feeling invasive.
The interior of Ellie’s car was a steamy capsule of her own exertion. The air conditioning fought a losing battle against the heat of her skin, and her leggings clung to her thighs with a damp insistence. The post-gym ache in her muscles was a satisfying, clean burn, a contrast to the sticky, wine-soured confusion she’d left at home.
She merged into midday traffic, the city a blur of chrome and grey beyond her windshield.
Her phone, plugged into the console, buzzed once. A notification glowed on the dashboard screen: Ritchie has shared a link with you. Her breath caught for a fractured second, the clean burn in her muscles instantly replaced by a different kind of tension. She signaled, changed lanes with a brisk turn of the wheel, and pulled into the next available side street, the tires nudging the curb with a soft jolt.
The engine idled, a low rumble beneath the sudden quiet. She unlocked her phone, the screen bright in the shaded car.
She tapped the notification.
It was not a link, but a document. His results. Her thumb hovered, a faint tremor in her fingertip. She saw the list, a clinical summation of his private mind. Her eyes skimmed, her pulse a dull drum in her ears. Dirty talk. Yes. Pictures or film. Yes. Stockings, heels. Yes. Work environment. Yes. Risk of getting caught. Yes. Sensual massage. Yes. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, a sharp, quiet puff that fogged the screen for an instant.
Her gaze scanned down. Anal sex. Yes. A warmth, unexpected and deep, pooled low in her stomach. Pegging. No. She almost smiled at the definitive clarity of it. Her past stories. Yes. Her smile faded into something more contemplative. Her using a plug. Yes. Him using one. No. The specifics were startling, yet the map they drew was undeniably familiar.
Then she saw the last two. Watch her dance with another. Yes. Her throat tightened. Watch her have sex with another. The words seemed to vibrate on the glass. Yes.
A strange, suspended quiet filled the car. The shock was there, a cold splash against the back of her neck. But it was followed not by disgust, nor by fear, but by a surging, profound wave of recognition. It mirrored a dark, unarticulated curiosity of her own, a fantasy she had never dared to shape into thought, let alone words. The relief was physical, a loosening of muscles she had carried knotted for years.
They were, in this bizarre, digital confession, on the same page.
A slow smile touched her lips, not the wine-dark smirk of last night, but something warmer, more astonished. She tapped the screen, closing the document. The city outside resumed its noise. She pulled back into the flow of traffic, her hands steady on the wheel, her mind no longer on the road ahead but on the warm, shadowed house she was driving toward, and on the man inside it who had, at last, handed her a key.