Chapter 19: The Confession and the New Video
The wine was already open before Melissa's finger touched the doorbell.
Karen answered in yoga pants and a silk camisole, her hair loose around her shoulders, her smile sharp as a knife. She took one look at Melissa's face—the grin, the flush, the phone clutched in her hand—and stepped aside.
"You brought it."
"I brought it."
They didn't bother with glasses. Karen grabbed two mugs from the cabinet, filled them to the brim with Cabernet, and led Melissa to the living room. The fire was already going—low, orange, casting shadows across the leather furniture. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the coffee table next to a stack of magazines.
"Mark's at his brother's," Karen said. "We've got the place to ourselves."
"Perfect."
Melissa sank into the plush sofa. Karen dropped beside her, close enough that their thighs touched, and held out her hand.
"Give me the phone."
Melissa queued up the video. The thumbnail alone—Elizabeth's face, twisted with pleasure and shame—made Karen suck in a breath.
"Press play," she said.
The video opened on Melissa’s living room, dim and intimate.
Elizabeth bent over the arm of the sofa, her skirt bunched around her waist, her panties pooled on the floor. Victor stood behind her, his hand clamped over her mouth, his hips moving in slow, deliberate strokes.
Karen's breath caught.
"Jesus Christ," she whispered.
Melissa watched Karen's face instead of the screen. Watched the way her pupils dilated, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips, the way her hand drifted—almost unconsciously—toward the waistband of her yoga pants.
On screen, Elizabeth whimpered against Victor's palm.
"Ask her," Melissa's voice said from the phone.
Karen's eyes flicked to Melissa. "You were filming this?"
"I was directing."
On screen, Victor thrust deeper. "Are the twins mine?"
Elizabeth's muffled response. The way her body shook. The way Victor pulled his hand away just long enough to hear her gasp, "Yes. Yes, they're yours."
Karen's hand slipped beneath her waistband.
Melissa didn't look away.
The video continued—Elizabeth coming, twice, her legs buckling, Victor pulling out just as Richard stirred on the couch. The final shot: Elizabeth stumbling toward the bathroom, come dripping down her thigh.
Melissa hit pause.
Karen exhaled. Long. Slow. Her hand still down her pants.
"Holy shit, Mel." Her voice was hoarse. "You're a fucking mastermind."
"I know."
"How did you—" Karen shook her head. "How did you get her to confess?"
"She wanted to." Melissa took a sip of wine. "She's been carrying that secret for years. All I did was give her permission to let it go."
"And Victor just—" Karen gestured at the screen. "He just fucked her? Right there? While her husband was passed out?"
"He's very good at following instructions."
Karen pulled her hand out of her pants. Wiped her fingers on her thigh. Grabbed her mug and drained half of it in one gulp.
"I need a cigarette," she said.
"You don't smoke."
"I'm starting."
They finished the bottle in twenty minutes.
Karen's cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, her laughter too loud. Melissa felt the wine buzzing in her veins, loosening her limbs, blurring the edges of everything.
"So what's next?" Karen asked. "You've got the video. You've got the confession. What are you going to do with it?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Not yet." Melissa set her mug down. "The video is insurance. If Elizabeth ever tries to cause problems—if she ever looks at Victor the wrong way—I have leverage."
"That's cold."
"That's practical."
Karen laughed. "God, I love you."
Melissa smiled. Reached for her phone.
"Speaking of Victor," she said. "I want to check something."
She navigated to his amateur page—the one he'd told her about weeks ago, the one he'd laughed off as a joke. She'd never actually looked at it. Never wanted to.
But now, with the wine warm in her stomach and the image of Elizabeth's face still burned into her brain, she was curious.
The page loaded.
Victor's profile picture was a shirtless shot—abs, arms, that infuriating smirk. His bio read: 22. Athlete. Content creator. DM for collabs.
"Collabs," Karen snorted. "Is that what they're calling it now?"
Melissa scrolled through the videos. Most were old—solo stuff, workout content, a few clips with women whose faces were blurred. But at the top, uploaded just three days ago, was something new.
Tied Up and Milked Dry by My Buddy's Mom
Melissa's jaw tightened.
"What?" Karen leaned over. "Oh, shit."
The thumbnail showed Victor's wrists bound to a headboard with silk ties. His body was spread-eagle, his cock thick and hard and leaking against his stomach.
"That's the same woman," Melissa said.
"What woman?"
"From the other video. The one he did before." She clicked play.
The video opened on a luxurious bedroom—four-poster bed, silk sheets, candles flickering on the nightstand. The same older woman from the "girlfriend's mom" video: dark hair, killer body, a sly smile that suggested she knew exactly how good she looked.
She was fully clothed in a silk robe, while Victor was naked and spread-eagle on the bed.
"You've been a bad boy," she purred, trailing a feather down his chest.
Victor strained against the ties. "Please, Mommy, I'm sorry."
Karen choked on her wine. "Mommy?"
"He calls me that too," Melissa said.
Karen stared at her.
"During sex," Melissa clarified. "It's a thing."
"A thing."
"A power thing."
Karen took another drink. "Right. A power thing."
On screen, the woman—the other woman, the one who wasn't Melissa—was teasing Victor with the feather. Light touches, slow strokes down his chest, his stomach, the inside of his thighs. She avoided his cock entirely, circling it, never quite touching.
"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" she murmured. "Fucking all those married women. Did you think I wouldn't hear about it?"
"I'm sorry—"
"You're not sorry yet." She set the feather down. Trailed her fingers along his shaft—slow, feather-light. "But you will be."
Victor's hips bucked. "Please—"
"Please what?"
"Please touch me. Please—"
"I am touching you."
"You know what I mean—"
She laughed. Leaned down. Flicked her tongue across his nipple.
Victor gasped.
She did it again. And again. Licking, sucking, biting—while her hand continued its slow torture between his legs.
"Mommy—"
"Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips. "You don't get to come until I say so."
Karen's hand was back in her pants.
Melissa didn't blame her.
On screen, the woman was edging him—bringing him to the brink and pulling back, over and over. Victor's breath came in ragged gasps. His wrists strained against the ties. His cock was slick with pre-come, his balls drawn tight.
"Please," he begged. "Please, Mommy, let me come. I'll do anything."
"Anything?"
"Anything—"
She smiled. Straddled him. Sunk down onto his cock with a satisfied moan.
"Then give me what I want."
She rode him with slow, deliberate strokes—grinding down on him, rolling her hips, milking him with every movement. Victor's head thrashed against the pillow. His mouth fell open. His eyes squeezed shut.
"Come for me," she commanded.
He did.
Karen made a sound—half gasp, half moan—as the woman kept riding, kept milking, her hips never stilling. Victor shuddered beneath her. His cock stayed hard.
"Again," she said.
"I can't—"
"You can."
She rode him harder. Faster. Her breasts bounced beneath the silk robe, her face flushed with concentration. Victor's mouth opened in a silent scream as he came a second time.
She didn't stop.
"A third," she murmured.
"I can't—can't—"
"You will."
And he did.
By the fourth, Victor was a shuddering, whimpering mess. His wrists were red from straining, his stomach streaked with come, his breath coming in wet, broken sobs. The woman was trembling too—her orgasms wracking her body, her nails raking down his chest.
She collapsed onto him. Breathless. Satisfied.
The video ended.
Melissa closed the laptop.
Her jaw was tight. Her heart was pounding. Her cunt was wet—so wet she could feel it soaking through her underwear.
"I want that," she said.
Karen looked at her. "What?"
"I want to tie him up." Melissa's voice was low. Fierce. "I want to make him beg. I want to make him call me Mommy and milk him until he can't fucking move."
Karen grinned.
"Then do it."
She stood. Crossed to the window. Stared out at the darkened street.
"And this time," she added, turning back, "I want to watch in person."
Melissa met her eyes.
"When?"
"I don't know. Soon."
"I'll clear my schedule."
Melissa laughed. "You don't have a schedule."
"I do now." Karen walked toward her. Stopped inches away. "I've been watching you, Mel. Watching what you and Victor have. Watching you come alive for the first time in years."
"I—"
"Don't." Karen held up a hand. "Don't tell me it's complicated. Don't tell me you feel guilty. I know you don't. I know you like it."
Melissa didn't deny it.
"I want in," Karen said. "Not like that. Not with him. But I want to watch. I want to be there. I want to see the look on his face when he realizes he's not the one in control anymore."
Melissa considered it.
"You'd have to follow my rules," she said.
"I can do that."
"You'd have to do what I say."
"Always."
"And you'd have to keep your mouth shut. No teasing. No comments. Just watch."
Karen nodded. "I can do that."
Melissa studied her friend's face—the hunger there, the curiosity, the same restlessness she recognized in herself. They'd been friends for a decade. They'd shared secrets, heartbreaks, bottles of wine. But never this.
"Alright," Melissa said. "Saturday. My house. David's in Chicago."
Karen's smile widened. "I'll bring the ties."
"I'll bring the boy."