Author's Note: This story is darker than the typical fiction in this category. The main relationship is highly non-consensual, described in fairly visceral terms at times. If you're looking for a simple fun fantasy, this may not be the story for you.
It was a plain manila envelope, the label typed and stuck on, stamps in their proper place. It was addressed to Bethany Corder, which already made it unusual. Most of my university correspondence was sent to Dr. Corder, or perhaps Dr. Bethany Corder, P.h.D. if it was something formal.
I was already curious what it contained as I walked back to my office holding the stack of mail in my arms. It was late in the day, I should have been heading out to my car, but instead I was killing time, delaying the dull routine that awaited me at home. I closed my office door, dropped the letters on my desk and started sorting through them one by one. Most of them went straight into the trash with barely a glance. The envelope was the first one I stopped to open.
I peeked inside. There was a typed letter, and a thick glossy piece of paper, or no, a photograph. I pulled it out first. It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at, but once I did, my heart stopped.
It was me and David. The photo was dim and grainy, zoomed in, taken through my bedroom window. My face was clearly visible. Everything was visible. I was nude, standing up and facing the window. David was behind me, his arm draped across my chest under my breasts, pushing them up. I could see my dark pink nipples jutting out and barely visible in the dim lamp light. My dark brown hair was a mess, strewn across my bare shoulders. My mouth was open in an expression of pure lust. I couldn't see his cock in the photo, our lower halves were blocked by the windowsill, but I knew it was there, deep inside me as he fucked me from behind.
Oh no. No. I kept repeating it in my head as the adrenaline hit me. No, no, no. My eyes were wide with shock. I was instantly hit by cold sweat all over my body.
Someone knew. How? Who? Why? The thoughts raced across my mind faster than I could process them.
I could barely see straight. I stared at the picture for what felt like hours. Someone had spied on us. Taken a photo.
I remembered the night he came over. My husband, Paul, was at some law enforcement conference, and my son Kyl was on a camping trip with a few of his new college friends. We had the place to ourselves, and had taken advantage of the empty house.
The memories flooded back as I clutched the glossy paper between my fingers. David had fucked me downstairs in the living room. We'd practically torn off each other's clothes as soon as he walked in the door. Later that night, after we'd calmed down, we'd done it again in the master bedroom. He'd been slow. Sensual. And someone else had been outside, up the slope of the hill in the dark backyard, spying on us having sex through the window.
I broke off the affair a few months later. I couldn't handle the guilt. The numerous little lies I told to explain why I was home late, or leaving early for work.
So what was this? Whoever took this photo had it for months. Why now? I swallowed nervously and fished the letter out of the envelope.
It was typed on plain white paper, no identifying marks.
TELL ANYONE AND THIS PICTURE WILL BE EMAILED TO YOUR HUSBAND AND HIS ENTIRE PRECINCT, ALL THE FACULTY OF YOUR SCHOOL, AND ALL YOUR STUDENTS. THEY WILL ALL SEE IT. YOUR LIFE WILL BE RUINED.
RENT A ROOM AT THE SEASIDE INN ON TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 12TH, 8PM. GO INSIDE AND LEAVE THE DOOR UNLOCKED. IF YOU DON'T, THE PICTURES GO PUBLIC.
Pictures? There were more? It was already Monday. I hadn't checked my office mail in nearly a week. I had barely a day to deal with this. My mouth was a desert. I tried to swallow away the lump in my throat, but it persisted no matter how many times I gulped. What could I do? I tried to think, but my mind felt fuzzy, like my brain had been replaced with pink cotton candy.
I couldn't go to the police. My husband was the deputy sheriff, going to them would be the same as letting this creep expose me. I thought about the FBI, but what could they do in less than 24 hours? File some paperwork, most likely. Besides, whoever sent this could easily email everything they had in seconds, at which point it would all be for nothing.
Shit. My heart was still pounding as I played the scenarios out in my head. My entire office seeing pictures of me fucking one of my grad students. I'd likely be fired, ostracized in my field.
I pictured all my husband's police officer buddies opening their inbox and seeing the woman they've had barbecues with, naked, having sex with another man. I thought of Paul and Kyl. Seeing the disappointment in their eyes, the disgust at what I'd done. A wave of nausea hit me.
What could I do? This wasn't something I ever thought I'd had to think about, or deal with. Blackmail. It was like something in a movie. Maybe I could hire a private investigator. Except, we lived in a small college town. Every PI was sure to have ties to local law enforcement. I couldn't trust them not to let something slip, or to intentionally inform my husband his wife was being unfaithful out of some kind of police solidarity.
I angrily stuffed the photo and letter back into the envelope and shoved it in the bottom of my desk drawer. All thoughts of grading papers and going through the rest of my mail left my brain. I walked out of my office and out to the parking lot, my vision going dark around the edges as I started my car.
Muscle memory was the only thing that got me home safely. I shouldn't have driven. I was still wired, adrenaline flowed through my veins like ice water. I let out a scream of frustration that turned into a choked sob as I made the final turns towards our two-story home in the hills.
I had to sit in the car for another twenty minutes to calm down before I headed inside. Luckily no one came home for a few hours and I had time to settle down. I told my husband and son I wasn't feeling well, and they didn't question why I stayed locked in the bedroom all night.
I pretended to read a book in case Paul came up, but he never did. I don't know why I bothered. He always ended up falling asleep downstairs on the couch, watching some TV show.
The entire time I laid in bed all I could think about was the envelope. The words burned into my brain: RENT A ROOM. THE PICTURES GO PUBLIC.
I barely slept that night. I couldn't think of an answer. I had nothing.
I canceled my office hours the next day, but couldn't think of a good excuse to get out of my lectures, so I had to muddle through. Luckily, I had been teaching these same Microeconomics classes for almost a decade now. I stuck to my routine, trying not to slip and let my inner turmoil spill out.
The day passed in a blur. It was already five thirty. My heart was pounding. I had no choice. I had to go.
I sent a text to Paul, saying I was staying late to grade some papers at the office.
I drove to the motel. It was called the Seaside Inn, but it was still ten miles from the nearest beach on the edge of town. It looked a bit dated, an old classic road motel advertising FREE HBO next to the glowing VACANCY sign, but it wasn't dirty or neglected. It seemed quiet, like the kind of place a cheap college student might go if they needed some privacy.
The clerk barely said two words to me when I rented a single room. I filled out the form he handed me, and paid with my personal credit card, the one I used for surprise Christmas presents. My hands shook as I wrote down my information. He handed me a key to room 112.
I walked down the narrow dimly lit concrete path lined with doorways. It wasn't hard to find the room, considering the entire motel was a simple array of doorways facing the small parking lot. I stopped outside the door to room 112 and took a deep breath before unlocking it with the classic metal key the clerk had given me.
It was 7:30 when I walked into the dark motel room. I turned on the lights, surveying the space. It was clean, a queen bed with a floral print blanket sat in the middle of the room next to a single wooden nightstand and a small lamp. The walls were beige. It looked like a million other cheap motels I'd stayed in over the past 43 years of my life.
There was a chair near the door, but the space was too small for much else. I could see a sink near the back and another door next to it presumably leading to the bathroom. I walked to the end of the room, smelling the faint perfume of whatever industrial cleaning supplies the maids here used. I peeked in the bathroom door and flipped on the light switch. It had a tub, toilet, soft white towels, and a white-yellow linoleum floor. Nothing unusual.
I started pacing back and forth next to the bed. It was almost 7:50 before I remembered to unlock the door. I shuddered as I clicked the little metal toggle on the door handle. What was I doing? Was I really going to meet with someone who'd do something this? Who'd blackmail a woman? But what choice did I have?
I brought my checkbook. They probably wanted money. I'd give it to them, just this once. I needed to buy some time to come up with a plan. I kept pacing, clutching my small handbag close to my chest like a shield.
The door handle jiggled. I jumped in surprise, my eyes going wide. My legs got shaky and I quickly sat down on the bed.
The door opened, and a man walked in. His face was covered in a black ski-mask. He had on a pair of cheap blue jeans and a dark gray hoodie. He wasn't short, but not tall, maybe 5'11", I couldn't be sure. He quickly shut the door behind him. My dark brown eyes were wide open with fear.
I could tell he was young, or at least, not old, judging by the small bits of white skin I could see around his eyes, but that was about all I could discern except for his general build. He had broad shoulders and looked fit from the way his hoodie stretched across his chest, but not so muscular that he would stand out in a crowd.
He could have been any one of the many young guys I saw every day at school. But then again, maybe not. He might have been anywhere between eighteen and thirty-five. It was hard to tell. There was something strangely familiar about how he stood, but I was so frightened I could barely think.
He seemed content to stand next to the door and stare at me, so I spoke first.
"How- how much do you want? I have my checkbook right here," I said, my voice cracking with nerves. I reached into my handbag, pulling out the paper booklet. I swallowed nervously as I held it up.
He slowly shook his head.
No
.
My stomach clenched and my lips tightened into a thin line.
"What then? What do you want?" I said quickly.
He tilted his head, as if he was just now considering what to ask for.
"More pictures," he said, his voice coming out in a strange rasp, like he was intentionally disguising it, which made sense if he didn't want me to know his identity. I couldn't help but suspect it was a student of mine, someone I might recognize.
It took a moment to process what he said. More pictures? I frowned.
"What do you mean?" I said warily, frowning.
He pulled out a phone and pointed the camera at me, then quickly tapped the screen. I looked at him, confused. He'd taken another picture of me, sitting on the bed.
"Stand up," he stood up straighter as he spoke. I wasn't sure what to do. I stood up slowly, my legs were still a bit shaky.
