Chapter 2: The Revenge Blowjob
The walk back to the campsite was a journey through a different kind of haze. The chemical buzz had downgraded to a dull, pleasant hum behind Jules’s eyes, but his body felt raw, oversensitive. Every cheer from a distant campfire, every burst of laughter, seemed to vibrate in his teeth. He could still smell them—the mix of Stella’s perfume, Kai’s sweat, and the unmistakable, musky scent of sex that clung to his own skin like a confession.
Stella had vanished about twenty minutes ago, pulled into a whispering huddle with Liam by the portaloos. Liam, his oldest friend, with his easy grin and a camera always in hand. “Just gonna get some B-roll for the channel, mate,” Liam had said, clapping Jules on the back. “Festival vibes, you know?” But the look that passed between Liam and Stella was a closed loop, excluding him. Stella had just winked, her green eyes still dark with the night’s earlier adventures. “Don’t wait up,” she’d murmured, before letting Liam lead her away into the shifting shadows between the tents.
So Jules walked alone, the gravel crunching under his boots. Their tent, a supposedly weather-proof dome, was a pale blue island in a sea of more colorful setups. The lantern hanging from the central pole was off, but the neighboring camp’s fire cast a flickering, orange glow across its nylon walls.
He unzipped the door, the sound loud in the relative quiet of their corner of the field, and ducked inside.
The air was warm and still, thick with the smell of fabric and dry grass. Their double air mattress took up most of the floor. And on it, sprawled with deliberate, languid carelessness, was Emma.
Stella’s best friend. The bad influence.
She was on her stomach, head propped on one hand. The only thing she wore was Jules’s faded gray football jersey, the one he’d tossed aside yesterday. It was huge on her, but it gaped open at the neck, revealing the soft swell of her breasts against the thin mattress. The hem hit her mid-thigh. She held a plastic cup of something clear, sipping it slowly, her eyes tracking him from the moment he entered.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Emma said, her voice a smoky drawl. “Or should I say, look what dragged the cat.”
Jules froze, half-crouched in the doorway. “Emma. What’s up? Where’s…”
“Stella?” Emma finished for him. She took another slow sip. “Oh, she’s around.” She nodded her head towards the east wall of the tent. “Busy.”
Jules followed her gaze. The firelight from next door painted the tent wall a translucent orange. And on it, thrown in sharp, magnified silhouette by a powerful lantern from the other side, was a shadow play.
Two figures.
One was tall—Liam’s unmistakable lanky outline. The other was petite, on her knees before him. The silhouette of the kneeling figure bent forward, and the head of the tall figure tilted back in a sharp, ecstatic jerk.
A low, satisfied groan filtered through the tent walls, muffled but unmistakably Liam’s.
Jules’s stomach tightened. It wasn’t the shock of the previous night with Kai. That had been a surreal, shared dream. This was colder. This was his best friend. This was calculated. And he was watching its shadow.
“Quite the show, isn’t it?” Emma murmured. She shifted, rolling onto her side. The jersey rode up, exposing the pale curve of her hip, the dark shadow between her thighs. She made no move to cover herself. “She’s been at it for a while. Must be going for the ‘best audio’ award. Liam’s always been about the production value.”
Jules couldn’t look away from the wall. He saw the kneeling shadow’s hand come up, cupping, stroking. He saw Liam’s hands sink into the silhouette of her hair. A hot, sour mix of betrayal and a treacherous, unwelcome arousal churned in his gut. The memory of Stella on her knees for Kai was now superimposed with this new, sharper image.
“I should…” he started, his voice thick. He meant to say ‘go’, to walk out, to find them and… and what? He had given his permission with his silence, with his participation last night. The rules had evaporated.
“You should what?” Emma asked, sitting up in one fluid motion. The jersey fell open completely. She didn’t bother to close it. Her bare breasts were full, her nipples taut in the cool night air of the tent. “Go be the cuckolded husband? Bit late for that, Jules. After your little backstage adventure?”
He flinched. “How do you…”
“Please.” She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Stella told me everything. She was giddy. Couldn’t wait to tell me how her ‘sweet, laid-back Jules’ took a rock star’s cock in his mouth.” Emma’s eyes glittered in the dim light. “So don’t stand there pretending to be shocked. You opened this door. Now you’re just pissed someone else walked through it first.”
The accuracy of it was a physical slap. The righteous anger he wanted to feel crumbled, leaving only a hollow, humiliated heat. He stared at the shadows. Liam’s hips were moving now, a slow, deep thrust into the mouth of the silhouette. A low, steady moan drifted through the nylon.
“It’s different,” Jules whispered, but the protest was weak, even to him.
“Why? Because Liam’s your mate?” Emma crawled to the edge of the mattress, stopping at his feet. She looked up at him. “Makes it hotter, I’d think. For her. For him. He’s probably fucking loving it. Getting his dick sucked by his best mate’s wife while his best mate listens.” She reached out, her fingers brushing the stiff denim over his knee. “The risk is the whole point, Jules. You should know that by now.”
He was hard. God help him, he was painfully, shamefully hard. The visuals, Emma’s words, the raw memory of last night—it all coalesced into a single, driving pulse of need.
“I’m leaving,” he said, turning to fumble with the tent zipper.
Her hand shot out, cold fingers closing around his wrist with surprising strength. “No, you’re not.”
Then her other hand went to his belt. The click of the buckle was deafening. He looked down. Her face was inches from his crotch, her expression one of cool, clinical assessment. She worked the button of his jeans, then the zipper.
“Don’t you want to return the favor?” she breathed, her words hot through the fabric of his boxers. “She’s over there servicing your friend. Seems only fair you get a little service of your own. Keep things even.”
“Emma, don’t…”
It was the weakest protest in history. She wasn’t listening. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his jeans and boxers and yanked them down to his thighs in one rough motion. His cock sprang free, already fully erect, betraying him completely.
Emma didn’t hesitate. She didn’t tease or kiss. She opened her mouth and took him in, deep and fast, her tongue flattening against the sensitive underside.
“Fuck!” The word ripped out of him, a raw gasp. Her mouth was hot, wet, demanding. It was nothing like Stella’s eager enthusiasm or the shocking novelty of Kai’s kiss. This was aggression. This was a transaction. Her head bobbed with a ruthless, efficient rhythm, one hand wrapping around the base of him to work him in tandem with her mouth. The sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet tent—the slick, gulping noises, his own ragged breathing.
He looked over her head, his vision blurring. On the tent wall, the shadow play continued. Liam’s silhouette was still, his head thrown back. The kneeling silhouette was moving faster now, a frantic, bobbing motion. They were close. He was close.
Emma sensed it. She pulled off with a wet pop, leaving him throbbing in the cool air. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes locked on his. “Not like that,” she panted. “I’m not finishing you like a cheap whore. She gets a show? So do I.”
She shoved him backward. He stumbled, his jeans around his thighs, and landed hard on the edge of the air mattress. Emma was on him instantly, climbing into his lap, straddling him. The rough nylon of the jersey scraped against his chest. She gripped him in one hand, positioned him, and then sank down onto him in one brutal, searing drop.
She was tight, but not hesitant. There was no gentle accommodation. She took him, her body swallowing his length with a sharp, guttural cry that was more challenge than pleasure. She began to ride him, a hard, punishing rhythm, her nails digging into the muscles of his shoulders.
“This what you needed?” she grunted into his ear, her breath smelling of vodka and mint. “To fuck the friend? To get even? You’re just as bad as they are, Jules. You’re just fucking quiet about it.”
Her words were gasoline on the fire. He grabbed her hips, his fingers biting into her flesh, and started thrusting up into her, meeting her downward plunges with equal force. The air mattress squeaked and groaned in protest, sliding on the tent floor. The sound mixed with the wet slap of skin on skin, with their harsh, animal breathing.
He could still see the shadows. Liam’s silhouette was trembling, his hands clutching the head of the kneeling figure. A final, choked cry came through the wall, followed by a low, feminine laugh he knew too well.
Emma clenched around him, her inner muscles gripping him like a vise. “They’re done,” she hissed, her own movements becoming erratic. “Come on, Jules. Finish it. Give it to me.”
It was a command. The last thread of his control snapped. With a choked, broken sound that was part sob, part roar, he drove up into her one final, desperate time and came, his vision whiting out at the edges, his body convulsing with a release that felt more like exorcism than pleasure.
For a long minute, the only sound was their heaving breaths. Emma collapsed forward against his chest, a damp, heavy weight. The jersey was soaked with sweat between them. Slowly, the world seeped back in—the distant music, the crackle of the fire, the sound of a tent zipper nearby.
Then, their own tent zipper began to hum.
Emma didn’t move. She lifted her head, her eyes meeting Jules’s. A slow, complicated smile touched her lips—triumphant, pitying, and deeply complicit.
The door flap opened.
Stella ducked inside, her hair gloriously messy, her lips swollen. Liam was right behind her, his camera slung over his shoulder, a familiar, lazy smirk on his face.
Stella’s bright, post-fellatio smile froze. Her green eyes took in the scene: Jules, pants around his thighs, Emma straddling him, both of them glistening with sweat in the lantern light.
The silence that followed was absolute, and infinitely more deafening than any bass drop.