Chapter 5: The Videos
The doorbell rang again, and Melissa finally moved.
Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else as she crossed the office, her hand brushing against the doorframe for balance. The hallway stretched before her, lined with photographs—her and David in Italy, her and David at a charity gala, her and David pretending. She didn't look at any of them.
Karen was already stepping inside before Melissa had the door fully open.
"Jesus Christ, you look like you've seen a ghost." Karen pushed past her, purse still on her shoulder, a bottle of wine clutched in her free hand. "Or maybe you are the ghost. You're pale as fuck."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying." Karen set the bottle on the console table in the entryway and turned to face her. "Where is he?"
"Upstairs. Shower."
"Good." Karen grabbed Melissa's wrist and pulled her toward the living room. "We need to talk before he comes down. And you need to tell me everything."
The living room was dark. Melissa hadn't turned on any lights, and Karen didn't bother now. They sat on the couch in the blue glow of the television that wasn't on, the silence heavy between them.
"Start talking," Karen said.
Melissa told her. The video. Elizabeth Harper. The classroom. The twins.
Karen listened without interrupting, her expression shifting from curiosity to shock to something harder—something Melissa couldn't quite read.
"Four years ago," Karen said when Melissa finished. "The twins are three."
"Three and a half, maybe. I don't know exactly."
"And you think—"
"I don't know what I think." Melissa pressed her palms against her thighs. "I just... the timeline fits. And the way she was with him in that video... that wasn't a one-time thing. That was a relationship. A prolonged, ongoing—"
"Affair."
"Yes."
Karen leaned back against the cushions. "Fuck."
"Yeah."
They sat in silence for a moment. Outside, the last light of dusk was fading, the sky turning from orange to purple to black. Somewhere upstairs, the shower shut off.
"He's going to come down," Melissa said. "He's going to come down and sit at the dinner table and talk about his day and I'm going to have to look at him and know—"
"Know what? That he fucked his professor? That he might have fathered her kids?" Karen shook her head. "Melissa, that was four years ago. Before you were even in the picture. Before he was your stepson."
"I know."
"So why does it matter?"
Melissa didn't answer. She couldn't. Because the truth was complicated—messier than she wanted to admit, even to Karen.
It mattered because she'd watched those videos and felt something she hadn't felt in years. It mattered because Victor was twenty-two and already more alive, more reckless, more present than David had ever been. It mattered because she'd spent the last three years telling herself that her marriage was fine, that her life was fine, that she was fine—and one grainy video of her stepson fucking a married woman had cracked something open inside her that she didn't know how to close.
"It matters," Melissa said finally, "because I need to know who I'm living with."
Karen studied her for a long moment. Then she reached for the wine bottle she'd brought and started working at the cork with her keys.
"Okay," she said. "Then we're going to find out."
---
The laptop was open on the coffee table, its screen a bright rectangle in the dim room. Melissa had retrieved it from her office while Karen poured two glasses of wine—generous pours, the kind that said this is going to be a long night.
Karen handed her a glass and sat down beside her on the couch. Their shoulders touched. Their knees pressed together under the blanket Karen had pulled from the back of the sofa.
"Show me," Karen said.
Melissa navigated back to the site. Her hands were steadier now—the wine, maybe, or just the relief of not being alone. She scrolled past the videos she'd already watched, past Pool Boy and Shower Strokes and Late Night Jerk, past Extra Credit, which she couldn't bring herself to click again.
"We've seen the professor," Melissa said. "But there are more."
"How many more?"
"Dozens."
Karen exhaled slowly. "Okay. Start at the top. We'll work our way down."
Melissa clicked on the first video: Sneaky Fuck With My Friend's Girl...Sorry Bro.
The thumbnail showed a dim hotel room—beige walls, generic art, a bed with white sheets. Two figures were visible: a man on his stomach, face turned away, and behind him, barely in frame, Victor's unmistakable silhouette.
The video started.
The camera was shaky at first, adjusting to the low light. Then it steadied, framing the bed from a dresser or nightstand. The man on his stomach was snoring softly, one arm dangling off the edge of the mattress.
A blonde woman lay beside him. Her eyes were open. She was staring at the camera—at Victor—with a look that was half fear, half hunger.
Victor's hand appeared first, sliding across her hip. She flinched. Then she relaxed.
"You awake?" he whispered.
She nodded.
"Good."
He pulled back the sheet. The woman was naked underneath—small breasts, pale skin, a tattoo of a butterfly on her hip. Victor was naked too, his cock already hard, already pressing against her ass.
"Victor, we can't," she whispered. "He's right there."
"He's passed out. He won't wake up."
"But—"
Victor silenced her with a kiss. His hand slid between her legs. She gasped into his mouth.
"You like that?" he murmured against her lips. "You like my fingers on your clit?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her hips were already moving, grinding against his hand, betraying everything her mouth refused to say.
Karen leaned closer to the screen. "Oh my God," she whispered.
Victor positioned himself behind the woman. His cock pressed against her entrance. She reached back and grabbed his thigh—not to stop him, but to pull him closer.
"This is so fucked up," Karen said.
Melissa didn't respond. She was watching the screen, watching Victor slide inside the blonde with a slow, deliberate thrust. The woman's mouth fell open. Her hand flew to her face, covering her lips, muffling the moan that escaped anyway.
"You like that?" Victor whispered. "You like my big cock inside you while your boyfriend sleeps?"
The blonde whimpered. Her body arched back against him, her ass pressing into his hips.
"What would he say if he woke up right now?" Victor's voice was low, taunting. "If he saw you taking my cock? If he saw how wet you are for me?"
"Don't—" she gasped.
"Don't what? Don't stop?" He thrust deeper. "You don't want me to stop. You want me to fuck you harder. You want me to make you come while he's lying right there."
Karen's hand found Melissa's knee under the blanket. Her grip was tight.
Victor's rhythm increased. The bed creaked softly. The man on his stomach shifted in his sleep, mumbled something, then went still again. The blonde's eyes went wide. Her whole body tensed.
"Shh," Victor whispered. "Be quiet. You don't want to wake him up, do you?"
She shook her head frantically.
"Then be a good girl and take my cock."
He reached around her body, his fingers finding her clit. She shuddered, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. Victor fucked her harder—deeper—his hips slapping against her ass.
"Come for me," he growled. "Come on my cock."
The blonde's body convulsed. She buried her face in the pillow, her scream muffled by the fabric. Victor followed a moment later, burying himself to the hilt and filling her with his seed.
He pulled out slowly. Come dripped from her pussy, staining the white sheets. He didn't bother to clean up. He just smirked at the camera, ran a hand through his hair, and reached for his phone.
"Same time next week?" he asked.
The video cut to black.
Karen exhaled. "That was... intense."
Melissa nodded. Her mouth was dry. She took a sip of wine, then another.
"There's more," she said.
She clicked on the next video: My girlfriend's mom wants me more.
The scene opened on a luxurious living room—high ceilings, marble floors, a chandelier that probably cost more than Melissa's car. A woman was waiting on an ivory couch, her legs crossed, her manicured fingers wrapped around a glass of champagne.
She was beautiful. Mid-forties, maybe. Dark hair swept into an elegant bun. A black dress that hugged her curves. A smile that promised trouble.
Victor walked in. He was wearing a suit—an actual suit, tailored and expensive—but the woman didn't seem impressed. She set down her glass and stood.
"You're late," she said.
"Traffic."
"I don't care about traffic." She crossed the room in three steps and pushed him down onto the couch. "I've been waiting."
Victor laughed. "Someone's eager."
"Shut up."
She kissed him. Hard. Her hands worked at his tie, his buttons, his belt. She practically ripped his clothes off—jacket on the floor, shirt torn open, pants around his ankles. Her mouth moved down his chest, his stomach, his thighs.
"You have no idea," she murmured, "how long I've wanted this."
"Then take it."
She did.
She took his cock in her hand—already hard, already leaking—and stroked him slowly. Her thumb circled the head, spreading pre-come down the shaft. Victor groaned.
"Please," he said.
"Please what?"
"Please, Mommy."
Karen made a choking sound. "Did he just—"
"Shh."
The woman smirked. She straddled him, her dress bunched around her waist, her thong pulled to the side. She lowered herself onto his cock with a slow, deliberate motion. Victor's head fell back against the couch cushions.
"You better not break my daughter's heart," she said, "or I'll punish you again, young man."
She started to move. Her hips rolled in a fierce, possessive rhythm. Her nails dug into his chest. Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps.
Victor grabbed her ass. "Fuck," he breathed. "You feel so good."
"I know."
"I'm gonna—"
"Not yet." She slowed down. "You come when I tell you to come."
He groaned. "Please—"
"Beg for it."
"Please, Mommy. Please let me come. Please—"
She picked up the pace. Faster. Harder. The couch creaked beneath them. Her hair came loose from its bun, falling around her shoulders in dark waves. Her mouth was open, her eyes half-closed.
"Now," she said. "Come now."
Victor shouted. His body convulsed. The woman followed, collapsing onto his chest, her breath warm against his neck.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then she lifted her head. "Same time next week?"
Victor laughed. "Yes, ma'am."
Karen fanned herself with her hand. "Jesus Christ. This kid has a type."
Melissa's stomach churned. "Wait. There's one more."
She clicked on the final video: Taking my buddy's mom next to her sleeping husband.
The scene opened on a dim bedroom. A nightlight cast soft shadows across the walls. A king-sized bed dominated the frame. In it, a man was sleeping on his back, his mouth slightly open, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
Beside him, a woman lay on her side. She was maybe fifty—older than the others, with silver-streaked hair and a body that had softened with age. She was awake. Her eyes were open. Watching.
Victor set the camera on a dresser, adjusting the angle so both the bed and the sleeping man were visible. Then he crept toward the bed.
He was naked. His cock was hard.
He lifted the covers and slid underneath. The woman didn't move. Her breath hitched—just slightly—as his head disappeared between her legs.
Karen's grip on Melissa's knee tightened. "Oh God."
The woman stirred. Her hips shifted. Her hand flew to her mouth as she woke to the feeling of Victor's tongue on her clit. Her eyes went wide. She looked at the man beside her—still sleeping, still snoring—then back at the shape moving under the covers.
"Victor, no," she whispered. "Be a good boy."
His response was muffled. But his tongue kept moving. Licking. Sucking. The woman's back arched off the mattress. Her thighs trembled. Her hand pressed harder against her mouth.
"Please," she gasped. "Please, you have to stop."
He didn't stop.
He moved up her body, his face appearing above the covers. He kissed her—let her taste herself on his lips—then positioned himself between her legs.
"One more time," he whispered. "For old times' sake."
She shook her head. But her legs spread wider.
He slid inside her with a slow, deep thrust. The woman gasped. Her eyes darted to her sleeping husband—still oblivious, still snoring—and then closed.
"You like that, Mrs. H?” Victor whispered.
She nodded. Tears were streaming down her face.
"You like me fucking you while your husband sleeps?"
Another nod. Her hips were moving now, meeting his thrusts, betraying everything.
Victor fucked her slowly. Deliberately. Each stroke was measured, controlled, designed to make her feel every inch of him. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Her fingers clawed at the sheets.
"You're gonna come," he said. "I can feel it."
"No—"
"Yes. You're gonna come on my cock while your husband's right next to you."
Her body convulsed. She bit her hand hard enough to leave marks. Victor covered her mouth with his palm, muffling her cry as she came.
He didn't stop. He kept fucking her—slower now, softer—until she came again. And again. And again.
"Please," she whispered when he finally stilled. "Please, no more."
He pulled out. Come dripped onto the sheets. He leaned down and kissed her forehead.
"Goodnight, Mrs. H.”
Then he grabbed the camera, pointed it at the sleeping man—still snoring, still oblivious—and smirked.
"Thanks for letting me borrow your wife, bro."
The video cut to black.
Melissa closed the laptop.
The room was silent except for their ragged breathing. The wine glasses sat empty on the coffee table. Karen's hand was still on Melissa's knee, her grip looser now but still there.
"So," Karen said, her voice hoarse. "That was... a lot."
Melissa nodded. Her mind was racing—flashes of Victor's hands, Victor's mouth, Victor's cock. The blonde. The cougar. The wife. The professor. So many women. So many beds.
"I think I need more wine," she said.
Karen didn't argue. She reached for the bottle and refilled both glasses. Then she sat back, her eyes fixed on the dark television screen.
"Melissa," she said carefully. "I have to ask you something."
"What?"
"Why are you really watching these?"
Melissa opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I told you. I need to understand—"
"That's bullshit." Karen's voice was sharp but not unkind. "You could have stopped after the first video. You could have deleted the site from your history and never looked back. But you didn't. You watched all of them. You watched them twice. So I'm asking you again: why?"
Melissa stared at her glass. The wine was dark, almost black in the dim light.
"Because," she said slowly, "I've never had that."
"Had what?"
"Passion. Desire. Someone who wants me so badly they can't control themselves." She laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. "David hasn't looked at me like that since our honeymoon. And even then, it was... polite. Controlled. He never—" She stopped. Swallowed. "He never fucked me like that. He never wanted to."
Karen was quiet for a long moment.
"You deserve to be wanted," she said finally.
"I know."
"Do you?"
Melissa didn't answer.
Somewhere upstairs, a door opened. Footsteps. Victor, coming down the stairs.
Karen squeezed Melissa's knee once, then let go.
"Put the laptop away," she said. "I'll handle the small talk."
Melissa closed the laptop and slid it under the couch. Her heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking.
She could hear him now—his steps on the stairs, his voice calling out.
"Melissa? You down there?"
He appeared in the doorway. His hair was still damp from the shower. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that clung to his chest. He looked young. Innocent. Nothing like the man in those videos.
"Oh," he said, noticing Karen. "Hey, Karen. Didn't know you were here."
"Just leaving," Karen said, standing. "Melissa and I were having a little wine."
Victor's eyes flicked to the wine bottle, the two empty glasses, the laptop-shaped shadow under the couch. Something passed across his face—curiosity, maybe. Or suspicion.
"Sounds fun," he said.
"It was." Karen grabbed her purse. "I'll call you tomorrow, Mel."
She squeezed Melissa's shoulder as she passed, then disappeared into the hallway. The front door opened. Closed.
Victor was still standing in the doorway.
"You okay?" he asked. "You look... weird."
Melissa stood up. Her legs were steady now. Her hands weren't shaking anymore.
"I'm fine," she said. "Just tired."
"Okay." He shrugged. "I'm gonna make a sandwich. Want one?"
"No."
"Suit yourself."
He turned and walked toward the kitchen. Melissa watched him go—watched the way his sweatpants hung low on his hips, the way his t-shirt stretched across his back, the way he moved with that easy, confident swagger.
She thought about the videos. About the women. About the things he'd done.
She thought about Elizabeth Harper. About the twins.
She thought about herself—about what she wanted, what she'd been missing, what she'd been pretending not to need.
Her phone buzzed.
Karen: You okay?
Melissa typed her reply.
Melissa: No.
Karen: I know.
Melissa: What do I do?
Karen: I don't know. But I'm here.
Melissa set the phone down. She walked to the kitchen and stood in the doorway. Victor was at the counter, spreading mayonnaise on bread, humming some song she didn't recognize.
He looked up. Smiled.
"Change your mind about that sandwich?"
Melissa shook her head. She walked past him to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. Her hand brushed his as she closed the door.
Neither of them mentioned it.
Neither of them ever did.