Blackmail
"He has photos of his boss's wife with another man. She'll do anything to keep them hidden. But somewhere along the way, 'anything' stops being a threat—and starts being what she wants."
The photos were an accident.
I was at the hotel for a conference. Wrong floor, wrong hallway, wrong door pushed open at exactly the wrong moment.
And there she was: Victoria Marsh, wife of my CEO, riding a man who definitely wasn't her husband.
I should have walked away. Should have pretended I saw nothing. But I had my phone in my hand, and my finger moved before my brain caught up.
Three photos. Clear. Damning.
And suddenly, I had leverage over the most powerful woman in my world.
Victoria is fifty-one years old.
Charles Marsh's trophy wife—though "trophy" doesn't quite capture her. She's not thin, not polished, not the kind of woman you'd expect to see on a CEO's arm. She's big. Two-seventy, maybe more. Massive breasts, wide hips, a belly that her designer dresses can't quite hide.
But Charles adores her. Everyone knows it. He built his empire for her, shows her off at every event, looks at her like she's the only woman in the world.
And she was cheating on him.
With a personal trainer half her age.
I waited three days before contacting her.
Anonymous email. A single photo attached. And a message:
We need to talk. Friday, 8 PM, the Sapphire Lounge. Come alone.
I watched her read it—watched from across the lobby as she checked her phone, saw the color drain from her face, saw her hands shake.
Friday couldn't come fast enough.
She arrived at 8:07.
Wearing a black dress that did nothing to hide her curves. No jewelry except her wedding ring. Eyes red like she'd been crying.
I was in a booth at the back. She spotted me, froze.
"You." Her voice was ice. "You work for Charles."
"Junior VP. Operations." I gestured to the seat across from me. "Sit."
"What do you want? Money?"
"Sit down, Mrs. Marsh. We'll discuss terms."
She sat.
"I have three photos," I told her. "Clear. Unmistakable. Timestamped."
"I know what you have." She gripped her purse like a weapon. "What do you want?"
"That depends." I sipped my whiskey. "What are you willing to give?"
"I have money. My own accounts. Charles doesn't—"
"I don't want money."
She went still. Her eyes met mine.
"Then what?"
I let the silence stretch. Let her imagination fill in the blanks.
"You," I said finally. "I want you."
"That's insane." She stood up. "I'm not—you can't—"
"Sit down." My voice was calm. "Or I send the photos to Charles tonight."
She sat.
"You have two options," I continued. "Option one: I go public. Charles finds out his beloved wife has been fucking her trainer. Your marriage ends. Your lifestyle ends. Everything you have—gone."
"And option two?"
"You do what I say. When I say. For as long as I want." I leaned forward. "And the photos stay between us."
"You're a monster."
"Maybe." I shrugged. "But I'm a monster who holds your future in his hands. So. Which option do you choose?"
She chose option two.
Not that night—she needed time, she said. Time to think, to plan, to come to terms.
I gave her forty-eight hours.
Sunday evening, my doorbell rang.
She was wearing the same black dress.
No makeup this time. Hair pulled back. Eyes defiant.
"I'm here," she said. "What do you want?"
"Inside. Now."
She stepped through the door. I closed it behind her.
"Strip."
She hesitated.
I pulled out my phone, opened the photos.
She stripped.
The dress fell. Her bra—industrial, black, sturdy—followed. Then her underwear. She stood naked in my living room, arms crossed over her massive breasts, eyes burning with hatred.
"Happy now?"
"Not yet." I circled her. "Arms down. Let me see you."
Her arms dropped.
She was magnificent.
Here's the thing about Victoria Marsh: she didn't know she was beautiful.
Years of being the "fat wife." Years of people wondering what Charles saw in her. Years of subtle insults and backhanded compliments.
She looked at herself and saw a problem.
I looked at her and saw a goddess.
"You're stunning," I said.
"Don't." Her voice cracked. "Don't pretend this is anything other than what it is."
"What do you think this is?"
"You taking what you want. Using me."
"Maybe." I stepped closer. "Or maybe I'm showing you something you forgot."
"Showing me what?"
"That you're worth wanting."
I didn't fuck her that night.
I touched her. Everywhere. Slowly. Gently. My hands explored every inch of her—her breasts, her belly, her thighs. I kissed her neck, her shoulders, the soft curve of her stomach.
And somewhere in the process, her hatred started to crack.
"Why are you—" She gasped as my mouth found her nipple. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because I want to." I looked up at her. "Because you deserve to be touched like this."
"I don't—"
"When's the last time Charles touched you like this?"
Silence.
"That's what I thought."
She came on my fingers.
Three times, standing in my living room, her hands gripping my shoulders for balance. By the third orgasm, she was crying—not from fear or shame, but from something she couldn't name.
"I don't understand," she whispered.
"You will." I kissed her forehead. "Go home. Come back Wednesday."
"And if I don't?"
"You will."
She did.
Wednesday. Friday. Sunday. Every few days for three weeks. And each time, something shifted.
She stopped crossing her arms when she undressed. Stopped flinching when I touched her belly. Started leaning into my hands instead of pulling away.
"You're different," I told her one night, tracing patterns on her skin. "Than when we started."
"You're still blackmailing me."
"Am I?" I met her eyes. "When's the last time you thought about the photos?"
She didn't answer.
Week four
She showed up without being summoned.
Knocked on my door at 10 PM, wearing a coat and nothing else.
"I need—" She pushed past me. "I need you to—"
"Need me to what?"
"Touch me." She dropped the coat. "Please. Charles hasn't—and I can't stop thinking about—"
I kissed her before she could finish.
I fucked her for the first time that night.
On my couch. On my kitchen counter. Against the wall. She was insatiable—years of neglect finally breaking loose, flooding out in moans and demands and please, more, don't stop.
"Is this still blackmail?" I asked, buried inside her.
"I don't know." She pulled me deeper. "I don't care."
Week six
The photos stopped mattering.
I still had them. She knew I still had them. But neither of us mentioned them anymore.
"What are we?" she asked one night, lying in my bed. Her massive body was warm against mine, soft and satisfied.
"What do you want us to be?"
"I want—" She stopped. "I want to feel like this. All the time. Not just when I'm here."
"Then leave him."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
She didn't have an answer.
Week ten
Charles suspected something.
He mentioned it at a company dinner—Victoria's been so happy lately, I don't know what's changed—and I watched her blush across the table.
Later, in the bathroom, she cornered me.
"He's noticing."
"Does that scare you?"
"It should." She pressed against me. "But all I can think about is when I get to see you again."
I hiked up her dress. Took her against the bathroom wall while her husband waited in the next room.
She came with his name on her lips.
Not her husband's.
Mine.
Week twelve
She made a decision.
I found her in my apartment when I came home from work. Not unusual anymore—I'd given her a key weeks ago. But she was sitting at the kitchen table, fully dressed, with a document in front of her.
"Divorce papers," she said. "I had them drawn up today."
"Victoria—"
"I'm leaving him." She stood up. Walked toward me. "Not because you're blackmailing me. Not because I'm afraid of the photos. Because I can't keep pretending to be happy in a marriage that doesn't satisfy me."
"And the photos?"
"Delete them." She cupped my face. "Or don't. I don't care anymore. I'm done being afraid of what people think."
I pulled out my phone. Deleted the photos in front of her.
"There," I said. "Now what?"
"Now..." She kissed me. Slow and deep. "Now we start over. As equals. No leverage. No threats. Just us."
"And what do you want us to be?"
"Everything." She smiled. "I want us to be everything."
Six months later
Victoria's divorce was messy.
Charles fought it—of course he did. Hired the best lawyers, dragged her through the mud, accused her of everything he could think of.
The photos never surfaced. I'd deleted them completely.
In the end, she walked away with enough. Enough to start over. Enough to be free.
"Any regrets?" I asked her on the night the divorce was final.
"One." She curled against me in our bed. "That I wasted so many years being afraid."
"And now?"
"Now I'm not afraid of anything." She kissed my chest. "Especially not you."
I held her closer.
The blackmail had been a beginning. An ugly one.
But what grew from it—that was something else entirely.
Something worth keeping.