Chapter 16: The Hidden Camera
The champagne flute sweated in Melissa's hand, condensation dripping onto her silk robe. She'd been standing in the hallway for five minutes, listening to the silence, trying to convince herself she wasn't nervous.
David's car had pulled out of the driveway forty-seven minutes ago. She'd watched from the upstairs window, counted the taillights until they disappeared around the bend. Then she'd showered. Shaved. Slipped into the black lace set she'd ordered online and never worn, the tags still dangling until she'd ripped them off an hour ago.
Victor's door was at the end of the hall. Closed.
She checked her phone. No messages. No texts. He'd been quiet all day—polite at breakfast, distant during their usual Saturday workout. When she'd asked if something was wrong, he'd shrugged and said he was tired.
Tired. Right.
Melissa took a breath. Adjusted the robe. Walked toward his door with the kind of measured steps that betrayed everything she was trying not to feel.
She raised her hand to knock.
And then she heard it.
A giggle. High, light, unmistakably female.
Melissa's hand froze mid-air.
"You're so bad," a voice said from inside. Young. Playful. The kind of voice that didn't belong in her house, in her life, in this moment she'd been building for weeks.
"I'm not bad," Victor replied. "I'm just honest about what I want."
Another giggle. The creak of a mattress.
Melissa's stomach dropped. Then hardened into something sharper. Colder.
She tried the doorknob. Unlocked.
The door swung open an inch. Two. Just enough to see through the crack.
Victor sat on the edge of his bed, back against the headboard, still in his workout clothes—gray joggers, white tank. The yoga mat lay unrolled by the window, abandoned mid-session. And there, straddling his lap like she belonged there, was a girl.
Petite. Blonde. Short skirt riding up her thighs as she wriggled closer.
Emma.
The same girl from the videos. The one with the pink manicure and the breathy little moans. The one who looked up at Victor with eyes so wide and trusting that Melissa almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
"You said you'd make time for me," Emma pouted. "You've been ignoring my texts all week."
"Been busy."
"Busy with what?"
Victor's hand slid up her thigh. "Things."
"What kind of things?"
"Things that don't concern you."
Emma laughed. "You're such an asshole."
"I know."
"And I like it."
Melissa's phone was in her hand before she'd made the conscious decision to reach for it. She unlocked it. Opened the camera. Hit record.
The angle was perfect—just wide enough to capture the bed, the bodies, the slow way Victor's fingers traced circles on Emma's inner thigh.
"Come here," he said.
Emma leaned in. Their mouths met, sloppy and eager. She ground against his lap like a puppy, all enthusiasm and no finesse, while Victor let her—let her take what she wanted, let her think she was in control.
Then he flipped her.
One second she was on top. The next, she was flat on her back, wrists pinned above her head, Victor looming over her like something out of a nightmare. The good kind.
"Hey!" Emma protested. "I was—"
"I know what you were doing." His voice was low. Measured. "You were trying to rush me."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." He nipped at her bottom lip. "And you know what happens when you rush me."
Emma shivered. "You make me wait."
"That's right."
"Victor—"
"Shh."
His free hand found the hem of her shirt. Slid it up. Exposed her stomach—flat, pale, the kind of stomach that had never carried a child, never stretched or scarred or known anything but youth.
Melissa's hand tightened on her phone.
Victor traced the edge of Emma's bra. One finger. Two. Not quite touching skin.
"You want me to take it off?"
"Yes."
"Ask nicely."
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please take it off."
He unhooked the clasp with one hand. The bra fell away, exposing small, round breasts tipped with pale pink nipples. Emma gasped as the air hit them, and Victor smiled—that crooked, knowing smile that made Melissa's knees weak even now.
"Beautiful," he murmured.
He lowered his head. Took one nipple between his lips. Sucked gently, then harder, while his fingers rolled the other between thumb and forefinger.
Emma whimpered. Her hips bucked. Her hands—still pinned—flexed uselessly against his grip.
"Victor—"
"Not yet."
"But I—"
"Not. Yet."
He switched breasts. Gave the other the same treatment—licking, sucking, biting just hard enough to make her cry out. Emma's legs wrapped around his waist. Her heels dug into his back. She was grinding against him now, desperate for friction, for contact, for anything.
"Please," she gasped. "Please, I need—"
"You need what?"
"You. Inside me. Please—"
"Oh, I don't think so." Victor pulled back. "You made me wait all week. You sent me those pictures. Those videos. You thought I'd just—what? Roll over? Give you what you wanted?"
"I'm sorry—"
"Not yet."
He moved down her body. Slow. Deliberate. Kissing her neck, her collarbone, the valley between her breasts. His hand found the zipper of her skirt and pulled. The fabric slid away, leaving her in nothing but a scrap of pink lace.
"This is cute," he said, snapping the waistband.
"Victor—"
"Shh."
His fingers slipped beneath the lace. Found her clit. Circled it—light, teasing, the barest hint of pressure.
Emma's hips jerked. "Fuck—"
"Patience."
"But I'm—"
"Patience."
He kept circling. Kept teasing. When she got close—when her breathing changed, when her thighs started to shake—he stopped. Pulled his hand away. Waited.
"Victor, please—"
"You'll come when I say you can come."
"But—"
"When I say."
He started again. Slower this time. His thumb on her clit, his fingers dipping lower, just barely entering her before pulling back. Never enough. Never what she needed.
Melissa watched from the closet. Her own hand had found its way beneath her robe, beneath the lace of her panties, and she was touching herself in time with Victor's movements—slow circles, gentle pressure, nothing that would push her over the edge.
Not yet.
Emma was crying now. Real tears, streaking down her cheeks, her breath coming in great shuddering sobs. "Please," she begged. "Please, Victor, I'll do anything. Just please—"
"You'll do anything?"
"Yes. Anything."
"Then ask me for it. Tell me what you want."
"I want—I want you inside me. Please. I want your cock. I need it. I need you to fuck me."
"Such a dirty mouth."
"Please—"
"And you're mine, aren't you? This pussy is mine."
"Yours—"
"You're my little slut."
"Yes—"
"Say it."
"I'm your little slut. I'm yours. Please—"
"Good girl."
He positioned himself between her legs. Melissa held her breath. Her thumb pressed harder against her clit.
Victor pushed inside.
Emma screamed.
Not in pain—though the stretch was visible even from across the room, the way her body opened around him, took him in inch by inch. She screamed from relief. From finally. From the sheer overwhelming sensation of being filled after so long wanting.
Victor didn't move fast. Didn't slam into her the way Melissa had expected. He fucked her slow and deep, grinding his hips against her clit with every thrust, watching her face with the kind of focus that bordered on scientific.
"How does that feel?"
"So good—"
"You like being filled?"
"Yes—"
"You like knowing that I own this? That you're never going to feel anything this good again?"
"Yes—"
"Then come for me."
She did.
The orgasm rolled through her like a wave—building, breaking, pulling her under. She clenched around his cock, sobbing his name, her whole body trembling with the force of it.
Victor didn't stop.
He kept moving. Slow. Steady. Working her toward another peak before she'd even come down from the first.
"I can't—"
"You can."
"It's too much—"
"Then take it." His voice was rough. "Take everything I give you. Because you're mine, and I'm going to come in this pussy until you can't remember your own name."
Emma whimpered. But she didn't tell him to stop. Didn't push him away. Her hips rose to meet his, lazy and desperate, and when the second orgasm hit, she screamed loud enough that Melissa's hand tightened on her phone, afraid the recording would pick up the sound of her own ragged breathing.
Victor lasted forty minutes.
Melissa counted.
He pulled Emma into different positions—doggy with her face buried in the pillows, missionary with her legs pushed to her chest, cowgirl when her legs were too shaky to hold her weight. Each time, he brought her to the edge. Each time, he made her come harder than the last.
When he finally let himself go, he was behind her. Hands gripping her hips. Cock buried so deep that every thrust made her whole body jerk forward.
"Tell me," he grunted.
"I'm yours—"
"Tell me who owns this."
"You do—"
"Say my name."
"Victor—"
"Again."
"Victor!"
He came with a growl. Long and deep, his hips stuttering, ropes of come flooding into her while she sobbed with relief. When he pulled out, she collapsed onto the mattress like a puppet with cut strings, twitching and gasping and utterly wrecked.
Victor stood over her. Breathed for a moment. Then walked to the bathroom without a word.
The shower came on.
Emma lay on the bed, still trembling. Her thighs were slick with a mix of fluids. Her hair was a wreck. Her whole body bore the marks of what had just happened—fingerprints on her hips, faint stubble burn on her inner thighs, the unmistakable sheen of sweat and come glistening between her legs.
Melissa's phone buzzed.
Recording saved.
She stopped it. Pocketed the phone. And stood there in the closet, her own panties soaked through, her fingers slick, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
The shower stopped.
Victor emerged in a towel. He glanced at Emma—still sprawled across his bed like a discarded toy—and something flickered across his face. Not guilt. Not quite. Something more like satisfaction.
Then he turned toward the closet.
Walked.
Opened the door.
Melissa didn't have time to hide. Didn't have time to run. She stood there, caught, her hand still wet, her lips still parted, her whole body humming with unspent need.
Victor's eyes swept over her. Took in the robe. The lace beneath it. The phone in her hand.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"How long have you been standing there?"
Melissa lifted her chin. "Long enough."
"And you didn't think to knock?"
"You didn't tell me you had company."
"I didn't know I was supposed to check in."
Emma stirred on the bed. "Victor? Who are you—"
"Shh." He didn't look at her. Didn't take his eyes off Melissa. "Go home, Emma."
"But—"
"Now."
Emma sat up. Confusion gave way to hurt, then to something harder. She gathered her clothes with stiff movements, yanking them on without looking at either of them. When she passed Victor in the doorway, she paused.
"You're an asshole," she said.
"I know."
"I'm not coming back."
"You will."
The front door slammed.
Victor and Melissa stood alone.
He reached out. Took her wrist. Lifted her hand and examined her fingers—still glistening, still wet, the evidence undeniable.
"You liked it."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." He brought her fingers to his mouth. Licked them clean. "You taste like me."
Melissa's breath caught.
"You're not mad," he said.
"I should be."
"But you're not."
"No."
"She’s jealous.”
"Who?"
"You." Victor dropped her hand. Stepped back. "You watched me fuck someone else and you're standing here soaked through your panties, wondering why I didn't save it for you."
"That's not—"
"It is." He crossed his arms. "You thought I'd be waiting. Thought I'd be yours for the taking the second David's car left the driveway. But I'm not a toy, Mom. I'm not something you pull out when you're bored."
"I never said—"
"You didn't have to." His voice was low. Hard. "I've been waiting for you. For weeks. And you show up tonight like it's a sure thing. Like I'm just—"
"I'm sorry."
He stopped.
"What?"
"I'm sorry." Melissa took a step toward him. Then another. "I didn't think. I just—I wanted you. I've been wanting you. And I thought—"
"You thought wrong."
"Then tell me what to do."
Victor stared at her.
The towel hung low on his hips. His chest was still damp, still flushed from the heat of the shower. He looked like something carved from stone—hard, unyielding, beautiful in the most dangerous way.
"I'm going to make you watch," he said.
"Watch what?"
"Everything." He reached for her hand again. Pulled her toward the bed. "You're going to watch me. You've been getting off on watching me. But now you're going to do it while I tell you what I'm thinking. What I want. What I'm going to do to you when you earn it."
"Earn it?"
"You think you deserve to be fucked right now? After what you just did?"
Melissa's mouth went dry. "I—"
"You stood in my closet. You recorded me. You touched yourself while I was inside another woman." He sat on the edge of the bed. Pulled her to stand between his knees. "And I know you loved it. But that doesn't mean you get me. Not yet."
"Then what do I get?"
He reached up. Untied the belt of her robe. Let it fall open, revealing the black lace, the hard peaks of her nipples, the unmistakable dampness staining her panties.
"This," he said. "You get to stand here and be looked at. You get to wait. And when I'm ready—when I decide you've earned it—you get to come."
"You're serious."
"Dead serious."
Melissa stood there, exposed, aching, and understood with perfect clarity that she'd never wanted anyone the way she wanted him.
Not David. Not any of the men before him. Just this. Just him.
"Okay," she whispered.
Victor smiled. Leaned back on his elbows. Let his eyes drift over her body like he was memorizing every inch.
"Then take off the rest," he said. "And show me what I'm waiting for."