Chapter 7: The Birthday Tape
The video file, labeled “R_Birthday_Surprise.mov”, sat in her phone’s gallery like a live grenade. For three days, Tara’s thumb had hovered over it, a nervous tremor in her hand each time. She hadn’t sent it. The audacity of that afternoon, the cold eye of the camera lens watching as Matthew took her from behind, felt like something a different woman had done.
Now, back in the warehouse, the memory was a fever under her skin. She was doing a routine safety check of the loading bay, clipboard in hand, when Matthew found her. He moved with a new confidence, a swagger that hadn’t been there before. He cornered her between a towering rack of pallets and the cold, corrugated wall.
“You gonna send it?” he asked, his voice low. He didn’t touch her, just stood close, his body heat a palpable force.
“I don’t know,” Tara whispered, her eyes darting past him to the distant figures of other workers. “It was… a lot.”
“It was the truth.” His hand came up to caress her. “He doesn’t fuck you like that. He never has.” His fingers traced a line down the sleeve of her work shirt. “I can still smell me on you from that day.”
A shudder ran through her. He was right. The phantom sensation of his hands on her hips, the brutal, perfect rhythm of his thrusts, was all she could think about. Her husband’s tired, routine lovemaking was a pale, forgotten ghost.
“Follow me,” Matthew said. He turned and walked toward the oldest part of the warehouse, a section slated for demolition, a labyrinth of obsolete machinery and forgotten inventory.
Her feet moved before her mind could protest. He led her to a disused mechanical room, the air thick with the smell of rust and old oil. A single, dust-caked bulb provided a sickly yellow light. He closed the door behind her, offering her a cover so she doesn't get dirty from the dust.
“Show me the video,” he asks.
She pulls out her phone, pulling up the file. He looks at it with her, their eyes glued to the screen. On the playback, her own voice, high and ecstatic, filled the silent room. “Happy birthday, Richaaard… This is your gift for, well...being cool with it.” Then her giggle, followed by the wet, slapping sounds of Matthew driving into her.
A dark, possessive smile spread across his face as he watched. “You see that?” he growls, “You see how your ass jiggles every time I pound into you? That’s mine."
“This is mine,” he bites his lip as his hand slaps her ass hard and she had to shake him off. "Stop, Im trying to watch." She says giggling as she watches herself reach climax and kiss the camera before ending the video. “You make that video for him, but this…it’s all for me. Isn’t it?” He smiles behind her holding her hips.
“Yes,” she gasped, the word torn from her. “It’s yours.”
“Say it.”
“It’s your cunt,” she moaned, the obscenity fueling her, making her push back against him. “Only yours.”
He looks at the paused video, a frozen image of her own ecstasy at the end. “Send it,” he said, his voice calm.
She looked down at the phone in her hand. Her thumb, now steady, hovered over the ‘share’ icon. She selected Richard’s contact. She typed no message. Just the video. She took a deep, sharp breath, and pressed ‘send’.
The whoosh sound confirmed it was gone.
The whoosh sound confirmed it was gone, leaving a void in the room that was immediately filled by the heavy thrum of Tara’s own heartbeat. She stared at the screen, the sent icon burning into her vision, her breath caught somewhere between terror and a wild, thrilling liberation. Matthew’s hand, still resting on her hip, tightened its grip.
Her phone buzzed in her hand, a violent shudder that made her jump. The screen lit up with Richard’s name. A single, simple message appeared: Thank you.
“That’s it?” The words tore from her, sharp with a disappointment that felt like physical pain. “Just… thank you?” She showed the screen to Matthew, her hand trembling. “After what we sent him, that’s all he has to say?”
Matthew took the phone from her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Ask him what he thinks.” His voice was a low, commanding rumble. “Put it on speaker. I want to hear this.”
She typed with frantic fingers, the grimy keys smudging under her touch. What did you think of it? She held her breath, her thumb hovering over the send button for a second terrifying moment before she pressed it. Then she tapped the speaker icon, the mechanical room filling with the soft static of an open line.
The phone buzzed again almost immediately. Richard’s voice, flat and processed through the speaker, filled the dusty space. “It was… educational.” A long pause stretched, taut and uncomfortable. “I didn’t know you could sound like that.”
A hot flush of shame and power washed over Tara. “Like what?” she whispered into the phone, her eyes locked on Matthew’s.
“Like a whore,” Richard’s voice came back, devoid of anger, almost clinical. “I’ve never heard you make those noises. I watched him fuck you, Tara. I watched how his cock stretched you open, how you begged for it.”
Matthew’s breath hitched, a dark, hungry sound. He pulled Tara back against him, his hands sliding around to cup her breasts through her work shirt. “Tell him,” Matthew growled into her ear, his voice barely audible over the phone’s static. “Tell him what you are.”
“I’m your whore,” Tara moaned into the phone, the words a sacrilege that sent a jolt straight to her core. Richard’s soft, approving grunt came through the speaker.
“Keep the video,” Richard said, his voice gaining a subtle, unsettling heat. “I’ll probably watch it again.”
The line went dead. The silence that followed was thicker than the dust in the air. Matthew spun her around to face him, his eyes blazing with a feral light. He didn’t kiss her; he devoured her, his tongue plunging into her mouth with a possessive fury that stole her breath.
His hands tore at her button, the fabric straining before giving way. “He doesn’t get to have that sound,” Matthew snarled against her lips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass. “That’s my sound. This cunt is my cunt.”
He backed her against a cold, metal control panel, the edge digging into her lower back. He unbuckled his belt with one hand, the rasp of leather and metal loud in the quiet room. His cock sprang free, already thick and hard, and he spat into his palm before slicking himself up.
“Tell me you want it,” he demanded, his voice rough as gravel. He pushed her skirt up around her waist, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties and yanking them down to her ankles.
“I want it,” she panted, her head falling back against the metal. “I want your cock, Matthew. Please, fuck me.”
He drove into her in one brutal, unyielding thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Tara’s cry echoed off the grimy walls, a raw, shattered sound of pure sensation. He didn’t give her a moment to adjust, setting a punishing rhythm that slammed her body against the panel with every snap of his hips.
“This is what he heard,” he grunted, his breath hot on her neck. “This is the sound of me owning you.” He pistoned into her, his balls slapping against her skin with wet, rhythmic smacks. “You’re gonna scream for me, Tara. Scream so goddamn loud he hears it in his dreams.”
His words unlocked something primal in her. Her nails scraped down his back as her climax built, a terrifying wave about to break. “I’m gonna come,” she choked out, her vision blurring. “Oh god, Matthew, I’m coming all over your fucking cock.”
Her body seized, convulsing around him in violent, pulsing waves. He fucked her through it, his pace never faltering, prolonging the agony and the ecstasy until she was sobbing his name. With a final, deep thrust and a guttural roar, he emptied himself inside her, his own release a hot, claiming flood.
They slumped together against the machinery, panting, slick with sweat. The phone lay silent on the floor, the screen dark. Tara’s mind was a numb, blissful blank, every thought of Richard obliterated by the animal reality of Matthew’s possession. He nuzzled her hair, his voice a soft, dangerous promise in the aftermath. “Next time, we’ll call him.”
The words hung in the dusty air, a promise that felt like a threat. Tara’s body still hummed from his possession, her skin slick with sweat and the evidence of his release cooling between her thighs. She leaned against the cold metal panel, her breathing slowly returning to normal, the weight of what they’d just done settling deep in her bones.
Her phone, discarded on the floor, lit up with a violent buzz. The screen cast a blue glow on the grimy concrete. Matthew’s eyes, dark and intent, dropped to it. “He’s not done,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
Tara bent slowly, her muscles protesting, and retrieved the device. Richard’s name glared back at her. She opened the message, her heart hammering against her ribs. The words were stark and crude in the dim light: WELL MAYBE NEXT TIME SHOW ME THE CREAMPIE.
A sharp, involuntary laugh escaped her, tinged with hysteria. She showed the screen to Matthew. “He wants a show,” she whispered, her voice raw.
Matthew’s expression didn’t change, but a new heat ignited in his gaze. He took the phone from her trembling hand, his thumb tracing the words. “He wants to see me claim what’s mine.” He dropped the phone onto a stack of old manuals, the clatter echoing in the small room. “Then let’s not keep him waiting.”