Chapter 2: The Dredd replica lies discarded on the floor as Camille rides Bruce with uncharacteristic aggression, both pretending not to notice tears mixing with sweat on their heated skin.
The cursor blinked, a tiny, metronomic pulse in the silent room. Bruce stared at the empty composition box on the screen, the void where words were supposed to go. His hand was still covering Camille’s, both of them gone cold and still.
Then, as if by silent agreement, they retreated. Camille slowly closed the laptop, the soft click of the latch final. She set it on the floor, as if putting a sleeping animal down. They didn’t speak. They slid under the covers, turning off the lamp, plunging the room into a darkness that felt heavier than before.
Bruce lay on his back, eyes open, tracing the familiar cracks in the ceiling he couldn’t see. The clock ticked. The furnace kicked on with a rumble. Normal sounds that now seemed to be counting down to something. Camille was curled away from him, a tense mound under the duvet. He could feel the space between their bodies like a frozen channel.
An hour passed. Maybe two. Sleep was a distant country.
Then, a shift. The mattress groaned softly as she turned. Her hand found his arm in the dark, fingers cool and searching. She didn’t say anything. She just moved, climbing over him, the weight of her settling onto his thighs. The cotton of her panties brushed his stomach. He was already hard, a painful, shameful ache that had been there since they clicked the button.
In the absolute black, he couldn’t see her face. He could only feel her, hear her. She lifted her hips, her hands fumbling between them to push his boxers down, to guide him. She was wet—a shocking, slick heat that made him gasp as she sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.
She took all of him, seating herself fully, letting out a shuddering breath that wasn’t pleasure, not exactly. It was release. It was desperation.
For a moment, she didn’t move. They were joined in the dark, breathing raggedly in unison. Then she began to rock, a slow, deep grind that was more intense than any frantic fucking. Her hands planted on his chest, fingers digging into the soft muscle there.
“What have we done?” Her voice was a raw whisper, disembodied in the dark.
He had no answer. His hands came up to grip her hips, feeling the powerful muscles of her thighs working as she rode him. It was familiar territory, her rhythm, the way her inner muscles clenched around him. But it was all different. Charged. A current of something dangerous arced between them.
Her pace increased. The slow grind became sharper thrusts, her body slapping against his with a wet, rhythmic sound. She leaned down, her breath hot and frantic against his ear. Her words came in panting bursts, mingling with the sounds of their bodies.
“I’m picturing him,” she hissed. Her voice was low, gritty, unlike her. “Fucking me. Right now. While you’re inside me.”
A white-hot bolt seared through Bruce’s gut. Guilt. Arousal. A sick, possessive fury. He thrust upward to meet her, harder.
“His big black cock,” she moaned, the obscenity filthy and perfect in her kindergarten-teacher mouth. “Stretching my tight, married pussy. Would it hurt? Would I scream?”
“Camille…” It was a warning, a plea.
“Are you just watching, Bruce?” Her voice was relentless, a demon in his ear. She was galloping now, slamming down on him, taking him so deep he saw stars. “Sitting in a chair? Or are you up close?”
She gasped, her rhythm faltering for a second as her own words overwhelmed her. She recovered, driving down harder. “Are you… feeling my ass shake while he pounds me from behind? Are you… kissing me while he fills me up?”
The image exploded in Bruce’s mind, vivid and devastating. Not the vague fantasy anymore. The specific man from the profile—‘ApexActual’—his calm eyes now fierce with concentration, his powerful body moving over, behind, inside his wife. And he saw himself, a ghost in the room, watching his own replacement, touching her skin as another man claimed her.
It was the most corrosive, most exhilarating thought he’d ever had.
He rolled her over suddenly, pinning her beneath him in the dark. He couldn’t see her, but he could smell her arousal, could feel the slick mess between her legs. He drove into her, fucking her with a frantic, wordless urgency. The bed slammed against the wall. A picture frame rattled.
“Yes,” he grunted into the hollow of her throat. “Fuck, yes. I’d be watching. I’d be right there.”
“Would you touch me?” she begged, her legs locking around his back, her heels digging into his ass. “While he’s in me?”
“Everywhere. I’d touch you everywhere.”
“Tell me,” she demanded, her voice breaking on a sob. “Tell me what you’d see.”
He was close. The pressure was volcanic. He reared up, hands gripping the headboard, pistoning into her. The words tore out of him, rough and true.
“I’d see his hands on your tits. I’d see his stomach slap against your ass. I’d see your face… God, your face… while he makes you come on a dick that isn’t mine.” He was punishing her, punishing himself. “I’d see you take it all. Every fucking inch. And I’d love it. I’d hate it. I’d be so fucking hard.”
It was too much. The confession, the brutal imagery, the physical ferocity of their coupling. Camille cried out, a sharp, choked sound, and her body convulsed around him, a series of tight, pulsing waves. Her climax triggered his. He came with a guttural roar, emptying himself into her, his vision whiting out in the darkness, seeing nothing and everything at once.
He collapsed on top of her, then immediately rolled off, spent and gutted. They lay in a wreck of sheets and sweat, breathing like they’d drowned and been resuscitated. The room came back in pieces: the tick of the clock, the scent of sex, the cold air on his damp skin.
A long time passed. The shame began its cold crawl back up his spine. He felt hollowed out, used.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the void.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice quiet, flat. “We opened the door. We can’t be sorry for what walked in.”
“Was it real?” he asked. “What you said… what you pictured?”
She was silent for so long he thought she might not answer. Then: “It felt more real than anything has in years.”
The honesty was a knife. It cut clean, leaving no room for platitudes.
They didn’t sleep. As dawn began to bleach the edges of the blinds gray, Bruce’s phone, charging on the nightstand, chimed once. A soft, discrete notification.
They both froze.
Camille propped herself up on an elbow. Bruce stared at the glowing screen. It was an email notification. The sender address was a string of garbled letters and numbers. The subject line was just two words.
Re: Inquiry.
The air left the room. The click of the mouse, the frantic, whispered fantasy in the dark—it all coalesced into this single, luminous point on his screen.
“He answered,” Camille breathed, the words barely audible.
Bruce reached for the phone, his hand trembling slightly. He didn’t open it. He just held it, feeling the weight of the unread message, the new path solidifying beneath their feet, leading away from everything they knew.
The glow from the screen painted Bruce’s face in sickly shades of blue. He could feel Camille’s gaze on him, a physical pressure in the dim room. The notification was a tiny, pulsating star of consequence in his hand.
“Open it,” she said. Her voice was stripped bare, hollow from their night.
“I can’t.” The admission was pathetic. He was the one who’d wanted this, and now he was paralyzed by the reality of a reply.
“Give it to me.” She didn’t wait. She plucked the phone from his slack fingers. Her thumb hovered, then she pressed the screen and set the phone down on the rumpled duvet between them, the message open for them both to see. She didn’t look at it. Instead, she swung her legs out of bed and walked, naked, to the dresser. She picked up the Dredd.
Bruce’s eyes were locked on the phone, but his peripheral vision tracked her. The silicone was a dark silhouette against her pale skin. She came back to the bed, standing beside it, holding the toy loosely at her side.
“Read it,” she commanded, her eyes not on the phone but on his face.
He forced his eyes down.
The message was brutally efficient.
Thank you for your inquiry. I appreciate you reaching out. Please understand I only proceed with mutual, enthusiastic consent from both partners. If you are serious, the next step is a video call. A simple conversation. No obligations, no performance. We see if we’re humanly compatible. Let me know a time that works. -M.
That was it. No sales pitch. No crude insinuations. It was a calibrated, professional response that felt more intimidating than any lewd proposition. M. A single initial. A man reduced to a letter, cool and impersonal.
“A video call,” Bruce mumbled. His mouth was dry. “He wants to see us.”
“He wants to see you,” Camille corrected softly. She was staring at the toy in her hand, her expression unreadable. “To see if you’re real. If you’re not a freak. If we’re not freaks.” She let out a short, sharp breath that was almost a laugh. “He’s vetting us.”
The surreal normality of it was collapsing Bruce’s lungs. This was a job interview for the defilement of his marriage.
Camille’s posture changed. A tightness left her shoulders, replaced by a terrifying resolve. She slowly climbed onto the bed, kneeling before him. She held the replica in both hands, presenting it. Her eyes, when they met his, were dark pools of a challenge he didn’t understand.
“Is this what you want to see me do to him?” she asked, her voice low and deliberate.
Before he could form a word, she brought the silicone balls to her mouth. She extended her tongue, slow and deliberate, and licked a broad, wet stripe from the base of the scrotum up along the underside of the thick shaft. A shiver racked her body, but her gaze never wavered from his. It was a clinical, studied gesture, utterly devoid of the passion they’d shared hours before.
Bruce could only watch, his throat sealed shut.
Then she opened her mouth and took the wide, blunt tip of the fake cock past her lips. She pushed forward, her jaw straining, taking more and more of the impossible girth. A low gag vibrated in her chest, but she forced herself deeper, her eyes beginning to water. She sucked hard, her cheeks hollowing, a obscene, wet slurping sound filling the silent bedroom.
She pulled back, gasping for air, saliva webbing her chin and the black silicone. “So you want to see me do this to him?” she rasped, her voice wrecked. “Choking on it? Gagging like a whore?”
She couldn’t believe herself. The thought screamed in her head, a silent, piercing alarm behind the performance. But her body was betraying her completely. A fresh, hot gush of arousal soaked her inner thighs, trickling down onto the sheets. She was dizzy with it, with the filthy spectacle she was creating.
“Bruce,” she pleaded, her composure cracking into pure need. “Yes. Tell me yes. Tell me you want to see Camille suck his big black dick.”
It broke him. He surged forward, pushing her onto her back. He didn’t enter her. Instead, he knelt over her face. “Do it,” he growled. “Now. Suck it while I fuck you.”
He positioned himself at her entrance, watching as she brought the replica back to her lips. This time, she took it with a frenzied hunger, bobbing her head, mimicking a ruthless, deep-throating rhythm. The gagging sounds were real now, raw and wet.
Bruce drove into her in time with her fake fellatio. Each thrust into her soaking cunt was met with a muffled choke around the toy. He fucked her with a punishing, rhythmic intensity, his eyes glued to the sight of the black silicone disappearing between her lips, glistening with her spit. Her tight married pussy clenched around him, milking his cock in time with her desperate performance.
“That’s it,” he grunted, slamming into her. “Take it all. Show me how you’d suck him. Show me how you’d beg for his cum.”
She moaned around the fake cock, the vibration traveling up the shaft. Her body was a frantic arc, split between his pounding and her own frantic miming. The dual sensations, the brutal theatre of it, pushed her over the edge first. Her climax was a silent, shuddering quake, her throat constricting around the dildo as her hips bucked wildly beneath him.
The clenching of her walls pulled his orgasm from him. He came with a shout, spilling into her, his vision tunneling to the single image of her streaked face and the monstrous toy in her mouth.
They collapsed, a tangle of limbs and sweat and silicone. The replica fell from her lips with a damp thud onto the sheet. For minutes, there was only the sound of their shattered breathing. The guilt, when it returned, was a cold, heavy blanket.
Wordlessly, still connected, Bruce reached a trembling arm out. His fingers found the phone where it had fallen. He brought it to his face, the screen bright. Camille, her head on his chest, stared at it too.
With a sense of finality that felt like falling, Bruce typed a reply with one thumb.
Tomorrow night. 9 PM.
He showed her the screen. She gave a single, faint nod against his skin. He hit send.
The message whooshed away, a digital gate swinging shut behind them. There was no sound, but in the quiet of their bedroom, it was deafening.
There was no sound, but in the quiet of their bedroom, it was deafening.
The next twenty-four hours passed in a blur of normalcy that felt like a cruel joke. Bruce filed quarterly reports, his fingers clumsy on the keyboard. Camille guided small hands through glue and glitter, her smile a stiff, professional mask. They exchanged texts about groceries and dry cleaning, a pantomime of domestic life papering over the fissure beneath their feet.
At 8:45 PM, Bruce scrubbed the kitchen counter for the third time. Camille stood silently by the fireplace in the living room, having changed her outfit four times, finally settling on a simple black sweater and jeans. She looked like she was waiting for a surgeon, not a suitor.
“We don’t have to do this,” Bruce said, the words ash in his mouth.
“We sent the time,” she replied, not looking at him. Her voice was toneless. “We’ll look like cowards if we cancel now.”
“Maybe we are cowards.”
“We’re something.” She finally met his eyes. “Let’s just find out what.”
They went upstairs to the bedroom, the site of their previous night’s frenzy. It felt different now, staged. Camille opened her laptop on the dresser, angling it away from the bed. Bruce pulled a chair beside her, his knee bouncing. At 8:59, she clicked the link M. had sent.
A ringing tone echoed. Bruce’s stomach twisted.
The screen resolved.
He was there, in a clean, spare room with a white wall behind him. He was wearing a grey henley, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looked exactly like his picture, but the live image added disconcerting depth. The calm eyes were sharper, intelligent, assessing. A small, neutral smile touched his lips.
“Bruce, Camille,” he said. His voice was a warm, relaxed baritone. No trace of performative sleaze. “Thanks for making the time.”
“Hi,” Camille managed, her voice faintly brittle.
“M.,” Bruce said, nodding, feeling like an idiot.
“You can call me Marcus.” He leaned back slightly, his demeanor open. “This is just a chat. No pressure. The fantasy in your head is one thing. Talking to the human being who might facilitate it is another. I find it saves a lot of trouble.”
The clinical word facilitate hung in the air. Bruce’s mouth was dry. “Right.”
“So,” Marcus said, folding his hands. “Your profile mentioned you’re new to this. What’s drawing you to the idea now?”
The question, so direct, leveled the room. Camille looked at Bruce, her eyes wide with panic. This wasn’t dirty talk. This was an interview.
Bruce cleared his throat. “It’s… a fantasy I’ve had. For a while. Camille knows.”
Marcus’s gaze shifted to her. “And for you, Camille? Is this purely for him?”
She swallowed. “No. Not purely. The idea… it does something. After last night, it does a lot.” The admission, so stark in this polite forum, flushed her neck red.
“Good. Honesty is oxygen here.” Marcus nodded. “My role, if we proceed, isn’t to be a prop. It’s to be a participant. The energy flows between all three. Bruce, if you’re just a spectator, that’s a different dynamic. A less stable one.”
“I wouldn’t just be watching,” Bruce heard himself say. “I’d be… involved.”
“How?”
Bruce’s mind blanked. He saw the replica in her mouth, heard her gagging. “Touching her. Being close. Maybe… guiding. I don’t know.”
Marcus didn’t blink. “That’s a start. And limits? What’s off the table?”
The conversation continued, a bizarre mapping of erotic boundaries spoken in the calm tones of a business meeting. No marks. No humiliation—of each other. No anal unless discussed in the moment. Aftercare, together. It was surreal, drafting a contract for their own undoing.
“And after,” Marcus asked finally. “When I leave. What does that look like for you two?”
The question struck Bruce as profoundly intimate, more than any query about sex. “We… we’ll be together,” he said, reaching for Camille’s hand. Her fingers were ice. “We’ll talk.”
Marcus watched their linked hands on the screen. He was quiet for a long moment. “This can bring up unexpected things. Jealousy isn’t always a flame. Sometimes it’s a slow, cold seep. You have to promise each other to speak it, no matter how ugly.”
They both nodded, mute.
“Okay,” Marcus said, his smile returning, a little softer. “I think we can do this. If you’re ready, we can schedule a date. My next available slot is Saturday night.”
Saturday. Three days. A countdown.
“Where?” Camille whispered.
“A hotel. Neutral, clean, discreet. I’ll book it. You just arrive.” He stated a price for his time, the number shocking in its normality, another layer of surreality. Bruce nodded, numb.
“We’ll send the details tomorrow,” Marcus said. “Think on it tonight. Confirm in the morning if the door is still open.” He gave a small, parting wave. “Be good to each other.”
The screen went black.
Silence flooded back, thicker now, poisoned by possibility. The man had a name. Marcus. He had a calm voice and rules. He was real.
Camille stood up abruptly and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door. Bruce heard the sink run. He stared at the blank laptop screen, seeing his own pale, strained reflection in the dark glass.
When she came out, her face was washed, her expression hollow. She walked to the bed, to the spot where the Dredd still lay. She picked it up, holding it in both hands, then turned to Bruce.
“He’s nothing like this, is he?” she asked, her voice thin. “This is just plastic. He’s… a person.”
“Yes.”
She dropped the toy. It thudded on the carpet. Then she came to him, pushing his knees apart to stand between them. She untied the drawstring of his sweatpants, her movements urgent, almost angry.
“I need you to fuck me,” she said, not looking at his eyes. “I need you to fuck me and not be him. I need you to be you, right now, before I can’t tell the difference.”
She shoved his pants down and climbed onto him, sinking onto his stiffening cock right there in the chair. She was wet, a slick, heated readiness that shamed him. She rode him with a frantic, driving rhythm, her head thrown back, her nails biting into his shoulders.
“Tell me you’re my husband,” she demanded, her breath hot on his neck.
“I’m your husband,” he grunted, hands gripping her ass, lifting her, slamming her back down.
“Tell me this is your cock. Only yours.”
“It’s mine, goddamn it, it’s mine.” He pistoned up into her, the chair screeching on the floor.
But he couldn’t chase the ghost away. Marcus’s calm, observant face floated behind his eyes. The measured voice asking about limits. The promise of what was to come. Bruce felt his climax building, a tense coil in his gut, but it was tangled with images of Saturday, of this same act happening with a different, more powerful body moving where his was now.
He came with a choked cry, his release feeling like a surrender. Camille followed, a sharp, sobbing gasp against his collar, but her orgasm felt solitary, a convulsion of anxiety rather than pleasure.
She collapsed against him, both of them sticky and spent in the hard chair. The room was cold. After a minute, she pushed herself up, wiping her face.
“I’m scared,” she said, simply.
“Me too.”
She looked at the laptop. “We confirm in the morning.”
Bruce nodded, holding her tighter, as if the pressure of his arms could keep their world from splitting along the fault line they had just authorized. The digital clock on the dresser ticked over to 10:00 PM. Friday night was gone.
Saturday was rushing toward them, a dark train with a single, inevitable destination.