Chapter 4: The Professor's Secret
The wine was supposed to help.
Melissa had poured it an hour ago, a generous glug of Cabernet into a crystal glass that David had bought for their tenth anniversary. The glass sat untouched on the edge of her desk, the wine inside catching the amber glow of her desk lamp. She hadn't taken a single sip.
Her laptop was open. The screen was bright in the dim office, casting blue-white light across her face. She'd told herself she was working. She'd opened a spreadsheet, stared at the numbers, closed it. She'd checked her email twice. She'd reorganized the pens in the holder beside her keyboard.
Then she'd opened the browser.
The site was still in her history. She hadn't cleared it—hadn't been able to bring herself to erase the evidence, even though every rational part of her brain screamed that she should. She clicked the link and watched the page load, her pulse quickening with each passing second.
The thumbnails appeared. Victor's torso. Victor's hand. Victor's cock.
She scrolled past Pool Boy Part 2 without clicking. She'd seen enough of that one. Instead, she started at the beginning, methodical and deliberate. If she was going to do this—and she was, apparently, going to do this—she was going to do it right.
Pool Boy Part 1.
The video opened on a backyard. Not just any backyard—hers. The pool was visible in the background, the same pool where she'd swum laps that morning, the same pool where Victor had lounged three weeks ago with a beer in his hand and a grin on his face. He was shirtless, his skin slick with water, his hair damp and curling at the ends.
"Hey, everyone," he said to the camera. "It's a hot one today. Thought I'd cool off."
He dove into the pool. The camera followed him, capturing the way his body cut through the water, the way his muscles flexed as he pulled himself out on the other side. He was showing off. Of course he was. He was twenty-two and built like a god and he knew it.
Melissa's thighs pressed together under the desk.
The video cut to a different angle. Victor was sitting on the edge of the pool now, his legs dangling in the water. His hand was on his cock, stroking slowly, lazily. He was already hard, already thick, already leaking.
"Fuck," he murmured. "I've been thinking about this all day."
Melissa's mouth went dry. She reached for the wine glass, took a sip, set it back down. The taste was rich and dark, but it didn't distract her. Nothing could distract her from the screen.
Victor's hand moved faster. His head fell back, his throat exposed, his lips parted. He groaned—a low, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate through the laptop speakers and settle somewhere deep in Melissa's chest.
"You like watching me?" he asked the camera. "You like seeing my big cock?"
Melissa didn't answer. She couldn't. Her hand had drifted to her own thigh, her fingers pressing into the fabric of her jeans.
The video ended. She clicked on the next one.
Shower Strokes.
The bathroom was familiar. The tiles. The glass door. The expensive shampoo she'd bought last month. Victor was inside the shower, the water streaming down his chest, his hand wrapped around his cock.
"Fuck," he said again. "This feels so good."
He stroked himself with long, slow pulls. His other hand was braced against the wall. The water ran over his shoulders, his back, his ass. He looked like a painting. Like something from a museum.
Melissa's hand moved higher. She caught herself, pulled back, pressed her palm flat against the desk.
This was wrong. This was so fucking wrong.
She clicked on the next video anyway.
Late Night Jerk.
It was dark. The camera was shaky, handheld, the quality worse than the others. Victor was in bed—not his bed, she realized. The sheets were different. The room was different. He must have been traveling.
"Can't sleep," he whispered. "Figured I'd make some content for you."
He threw the covers back. He was naked, his cock already hard against his stomach. He wrapped his hand around it and started to stroke.
Melissa watched. Her breath came in shallow, uneven pulls. The wine glass was forgotten. The spreadsheet was forgotten. Everything was forgotten except the screen, except Victor, except the way his hips bucked into his fist.
He came with a groan, thick ropes of come splattering across his stomach. He didn't bother to clean up. He just lay there, breathing hard, the camera still rolling.
"See you tomorrow," he said.
The video ended.
Melissa sat back in her chair. Her heart was pounding. Her skin was flushed. She felt like she'd run a mile, like she'd been holding her breath for an hour.
She clicked on another video.
Extra Credit.
The thumbnail was different from the others. It showed a classroom—desks, a whiteboard, a teacher's desk in the foreground. A woman was bent over the desk, her skirt hiked up around her waist. Melissa couldn't see her face. Just her body. Just her submission.
She clicked play.
The video was older. Grainier. The lighting was bad, the audio slightly muffled. But Victor was unmistakable. He was younger here—maybe nineteen, maybe twenty—his body leaner than it was now, his face softer. He was standing behind the woman, his hands on her hips, his cock buried deep inside her.
"You like that, Professor?" he grunted.
The woman moaned. Her fingers gripped the edge of the desk, her knuckles white.
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, Victor."
Melissa's blood ran cold.
She knew that voice. She knew that face—what little she could see of it. Dark hair. Glasses. A mouth that had smiled at her once, politely, at a parent-teacher night three years ago.
Elizabeth Harper.
Victor's English Lit professor.
Melissa had met her once. Just once. David had insisted on attending the parent-teacher mixer during Victor's freshman year, and Elizabeth had been there, her hand resting on her husband's arm, her twins in a stroller beside her. She'd been pleasant. Distracted. She'd excused herself early, claiming the babies needed to get home.
The babies.
Melissa's mind raced. The video was uploaded four years ago. Four years. The twins would be about three now. Three years old.
She did the math. Her heart pounded. Her hands shook.
If the twins were conceived around the time of this video... if Elizabeth had been sleeping with Victor while married... if her husband wasn't the father...
They could be Victor's.
On the screen, Victor fucked Elizabeth with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His hips rolled against her ass. His hand reached around to grab her breast. She moaned louder, her body arching back against him.
"You're so tight, Professor," he said. "Your husband not fucking you right?"
"No," she gasped. "He's not. He's never—"
"Never what?"
"Never like this. Never like you."
Victor laughed. It was a dark, knowing sound. "That's because I'm not some old man, sweetheart. I'm young. I'm hung. I know how to make a woman feel good."
Elizabeth whimpered. Her legs spread wider. Her skirt bunched around her waist, exposing her ass, her thighs, the place where Victor's cock disappeared inside her.
"Tell me you want it," he said.
"I want it."
"Tell me you want my cock."
"I want your cock. I want—I need—"
"What do you need?"
"I need you to fuck me. Please. Please, Victor."
He picked up the pace. The desk creaked beneath them. Elizabeth's glasses slipped down her nose, but she didn't bother to push them up. She just moaned, her mouth open, her eyes squeezed shut.
"Come for me," Victor said. "Come on my cock, you dirty professor slut."
Elizabeth shuddered. Her whole body convulsed. She cried out—a high, desperate sound that echoed off the classroom walls.
Victor followed a moment later. He pulled out at the last second, jerking himself off onto her lower back. Come splattered across her skin, thick and white. She moaned at the feeling.
"Fuck," Victor breathed. "That was amazing."
Elizabeth straightened up slowly. She turned to face him—and for a moment, just a moment, the camera caught her face. Her flushed cheeks. Her swollen lips. Her eyes, dazed and satisfied.
Then the video ended.
Melissa sat frozen.
The silence in the room was deafening. The laptop screen had gone dark, reflecting her face back at her—pale, wide-eyed, horrified. She could hear her own heartbeat, loud and insistent, a drumbeat of panic.
She thought about Elizabeth's husband. The tall, quiet man who'd stood beside her at the mixer, one hand on the stroller, the other on his wife's shoulder. He'd looked proud. Happy. Oblivious.
She thought about the twins. Three years old. Blonde hair, blue eyes—or was that just how she remembered them? She couldn't be sure. She'd only seen them once, from across the room, in a stroller.
But if they had dark hair... if they had Victor's jaw... if they had his eyes...
Melissa's hand flew to her mouth. She felt nauseous. She felt dizzy. She felt like the floor was falling away beneath her.
She reached for her phone. Her fingers fumbled with the lock screen, her passcode wrong twice before she got it right. She opened her messages and found Karen's name.
Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
What could she say? What could she possibly say?
She typed: You won't believe what I just found.
She hit send.
Then she sat back in her chair, staring at the screen, waiting for Karen's reply. The wine glass sat untouched beside her, the red liquid dark and still, catching the light like a pool of blood.
Her office was silent. The house was silent. Somewhere upstairs, she heard the faint creak of footsteps—Victor, home from the gym, moving through his room.
She didn't move. She didn't breathe.
Her phone buzzed.
Karen: What?
Melissa's fingers trembled as she typed her reply.
Melissa: I found another video.
Karen: Another Victor video?
Melissa: Yes.
Karen: Okay. And?
Melissa: It's not just him.
She paused. Her throat was tight. Her eyes burned.
Melissa: He's with a woman. A professor. From his college.
Karen: What the fuck
Melissa: She's married. She has twins.
Karen: Melissa.
Melissa: I think they might be his.
The message sent.
Then another.
Karen: I'm coming over.
Melissa set the phone down. She closed the laptop. She stood up, her legs unsteady, her hands shaking.
She walked to the window and stared out at the backyard. The pool was dark now, the water still, reflecting the moon. She could picture Victor there, young and naked and shameless, his hand wrapped around his cock, his voice low and filthy.
She could picture Elizabeth Harper, bent over a desk, her skirt around her waist, her wedding ring catching the light.
She could picture the twins—two little boys, three years old, with dark hair and blue eyes and a father who didn't know they existed.
The doorbell rang.
Melissa didn't move.
She just stood there, staring at the pool, waiting for the next chapter of her life to begin.