It wasn’t even a real office, just a cheap IKEA desk wedged into the corner of the so-called master bedroom in a cramped apartment I never planned to stay in long.

It never felt like home, and wasn’t supposed to. It was a stopover, a holding cell, the kind of temporary arrangement that felt beneath a fifty-year-old man coming off twenty-five years of marriage.

No fights. No cheating. Nothing thrown or broken. Just a slow, quiet unraveling of the life we had built.

It was a story as old as time; intimacy fading quietly as we poured everything into raising our daughter.

For years, we ran the house like clockwork, tag-teaming practices, carpools, homework, and half-cold dinners. Weekends blurred into errands and collapsing on the couch, too tired for more.

By the time we finally turned our attention back to each other, the space between us had calcified into something permanent.

In the end, we split everything with quiet resignation. She kept the house, the kitchen table where we had shared a thousand meals, and the couch that still carried both our imprints. I took the leftovers: a car, a few assets, some boxes I’d probably never unpack.

We signed the papers and walked away as good-enough friends, both knowing whatever had once held us together was gone.

Through the wall drifted Melissa’s voice, laughing with friends or doing whatever eighteen-year-olds do to cope with the collateral damage of divorce. In just weeks, she’d be off to the University of Florida, our alma mater, eighteen and gone, the topic of custody irrelevant.

My fingers hovered over the keys, shaking like they no longer answered to me. Then, against every instinct started typing the address of a site I was never supposed to visit, not in this life, not in any. A place that promised nothing but pure nightmare fuel, the kind no one would force on their worst enemy.

This wasn’t a late-morning jerkoff session. I wasn’t bored. I wasn’t horny. I was chasing something I didn’t want to find.

Chris, my best friend since grade school, had dropped it like a bomb the night before at the bar; buzzed, hesitant, and sweating more than usual.

We were halfway through our third round when he stopped pretending to watch the game and leaned in.

“There’s something you need to know, man,” he said, his voice low, like he was about to confess a crime.

Then he just sat there, staring into his beer, silent for so long I thought maybe he’d changed his mind.

When he finally spoke again, it came out like a slow exhale.

“It’s… Emily.”

My chest pulled tight.

“What about her?” I cut in, barely letting him finish, the edge in my voice rising as I tried to figure out why the hell he had brought up my ex-wife of barely two months.

He shifted in his seat, eyes flicking toward the door like he wished he could be anywhere else. His mouth opened, then closed again, and for a moment I thought he might just swallow the words and change the subject.

When he finally spoke, his voice was slow and reluctant.

“It’s… Mike,” he started.

The pause that followed was long and heavy, the kind that felt dragged out of him by nothing more than the weight of our friendship.

I stared at him, my jaw tightening. “What are you talking about?”

The words came out fast, sharper than I intended, as he shifted again, his leg bouncing under the table, eyes fixed anywhere but mine.

His face carried that look I’d seen on him before, a mix of guilt and the wish he could rewind the last thirty seconds and keep his mouth shut.

“What about him?” I followed, the annoyance beginning to show in my voice.

He hesitated, his throat working before he finally spoke, like the words were slipping out against his better judgment.

“He saw her…”

He didn’t need to say more. I already knew from his tone, and what “saw her” meant when it came to Mike.

Mike was that guy, a lifelong friend, the kind who seems to exist in every friend circle. The one who refused to grow up. Still single, still firing off X-rated clips in the group chat like we were all stuck in our twenties.

That friend with a knack for keeping tabs on women from the past. Classmates once out of our league, now thirty years older, some divorced, some still married.

The one who always seemed to end up with a bikini shot or a full nude, dropping it in the chat without hesitation, no one asking where they came from, nor ever suggesting he stop.

His words hit like a sucker punch I couldn’t accept, maybe just him being an asshole, or maybe thinking the statute of limitations on divorce jokes had already expired.

I didn’t give him a chance to say another word or explain himself. Even with a lifelong friend I could joke about anything with, this felt like a bridge too far.

I reached for my wallet, dropped a twenty on the bar, and stood without looking at him, the chair scraping hard enough to turn a few heads as I stormed out, every step a fight not to spin around and say something I’d regret.

Back at my desk the following morning, Melissa’s voice still came faintly through the wall, still on the phone, her words a low hum beneath the glow of the laptop that taunted me.

Thumb scrolling on its own, I re-read Chris’s messages again and again, as if they might say something different the tenth time around.

He had texted me three times after I walked out. all apologies; vague, careful, like someone trying not to make things worse.

By the time I fired back with “Mike is an idiot,” I’d already filled in the blanks myself. I didn’t ask. Didn’t wait for him to explain.

I heard “Mike saw her” and jumped to the worst possible conclusion: my ex-wife caught in that scummy orbit Mike never seemed to grow out of.

But it didn’t add up. Emily was forty-seven, menopausal, a stay-at-home mom; the foundation of our family. She’d been the class mom, served on the HOA. The things normal people did.

But on the inside, she hadn’t shown real interest in intimacy for nearly a decade. Even anniversary sex felt like an obligation, a box to check and forget.

She was body-conscious to a fault, for no reason I could ever understand; always in t-shirts instead of tank tops, pants instead of shorts, a one-piece if she went near the water at all.

She had that Jennifer Aniston kind of appeal, only softer, fuller in the face, attractive in a way she never seemed willing to believe herself.

Someone that self-conscious didn’t strip for a camera. It had to be someone else. A mistake. A doppelgänger. But not Emily.

Then his reply came: “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry, man.”

Not the response I’d expected. No quick agreement that Mike was an idiot. No hint it was probably a mistake.

Just an apology for something that hadn’t even officially been said out loud yet.

I stared at my phone, blood pressure spiking again.

Finally, I fired back, sharper and more defensive than I meant to be.

“She’d never take a nude photo, if that’s what you’re getting at. Again, Mike’s an idiot.”

The typing bubble appeared… then vanished. Came back. Disappeared again. Over and over, the digital version of Chris squirming in his chair, just like at the bar, clearly regretting telling me in the first place and struggling to figure out how to respond.

Finally: "Just leave it alone, Alex.”

That stopped me cold. Not just because the message had taken nearly two minutes to appear, but because of the way he addressed me; by name, not 'man' or 'buddy' as usual.

Even through a screen, the tone felt foreign, sharper than I’d ever heard from him. Short. Final. It told me this wasn’t mistaken identity or a blurry photo. It was worse.

Much worse.

"Seriously," he followed, not even waiting for a response; a desperate, direct attempt to stop me from pushing further, as if the brevity of whatever he knew hit him even harder the moment it left his fingertips.

“What in the hell are you talking about?” An automatic response, the kind you send when you’re still clinging to denial, praying the answer might be different.

A long pause, the bubble flickering on and off, like some cruel kind of Morse code.

When it finally reappeared, it hung there for several seconds before the message came through.

“Not a picture, man.”

The words felt forced, each one dragged out of him by my curiosity. Every short reply carried the hope I might take the hint and stop pushing.

It was a story he didn’t want to tell, but one he couldn’t escape once I’d started pulling.

“Spit it out!” I fired back, my thumb trembling over the keyboard.

Another pause. Longer this time, like he was trapped between finishing the thought or throwing his phone across the room.

“Fuck, man,” he replied, then fell silent again, as if the next words being dragged out of him would be the ones to break me.

“BBP.”

"I’m so sorry, buddy," followed almost instantly, the kind of instinctive apology you send when you know you’ve just hit someone in the chest with a sledgehammer, and worse, when that someone is your best friend.

And that’s when I knew it had officially become the worst day of my life.

I set the phone down as if it might burn me, then picked it back up, staring at the name.

Chris had abbreviated it, perhaps hoping to soften the blow or ease his own guilt.

BBP: three letters that could mean a thousand things, but only one when they came from the fucked up world of Mike.

Big Ben & Parliament.

Not your average porn stars, but local legends; an amateur site born right here in South Florida that everyone knew, even if only by its acronym. Men and women alike, whether they’d admit it or not.

Clips every adult with an internet connection had stumbled across at least once, the ones you raced to catch before the fastest copyright takedown team on the planet could erase them, all for a glimpse of a reality reserved for two men who had hit the genetic lottery.

Almost mythical, they were underground kingpins who didn’t need mainstream attention to dominate the scene.

Their appeal came from never selling out; no studio lights, no fake moans, just the raw grain of an '80s RCA camcorder capturing everything in brutal detail.

At the center of it all were Ben and Parliament, identical twins born in Great Britain and settled in Miami, impossible to mistake for anyone else. Two white men who shattered every stereotype by a wide margin.

Twenty-four inches of cock between them, split evenly, known to anyone with a pulse for their infamous finishing move, The Double Decker, a British-themed play on double penetration.

They looked engineered, products of a creator with a twisted sense of humor, designed to make a point.

I didn’t respond. I just sat there, frozen.

Chris could be blunt, even reckless with his jokes, but he wasn’t cruel, not like this. He wouldn’t drag something this serious out just to get a rise out of me, not with the divorce still raw.

He hadn’t typed another word, leaving me to wrestle with the bomb he’d just dropped.

Against my will, my fingers moved, my subconscious jumping in like it had something to prove: that Chris was wrong, that Mike was full of shit.

BBP. Before I’d even finished typing, Google filled in the rest: Big Ben & Parliament of Miami at the top.

I clicked before I knew I had, my fingers moving before my brain could protest.

The page began to load, and already I wished I could take it back.

It looked like a site built in the late ’90s with the earliest web software and never touched again because it didn’t need to be. No glossy rebrand, no modern interface, just a bare-bones shrine to exactly what people came for.

At the very top sat Ben and Parliament, side by side in a low-res banner photo, the real Big Ben and Parliament in London blurred behind them.

Below-average-looking guys at first glance, both wearing the same shit-eating grin, their teeth a little off, feeding right into the British stereotype, the kind of grin you wear when the world knows you by three letters.

The scroll bar shrank as the site loaded. No numbered pages, no polish, no thought to design. Performance didn’t matter. Only the content.

Hundreds of little squares began to fill the screen, each one a face. Some smiling, some mid-pout. Some younger, some older. Different races, different styles, but all with the same glassy stare.

And beneath it, that faint trace of pride. The look of someone who’d been chosen from thousands of applications, like winning a lottery for an exclusive sporting event.

Beneath each thumbnail was a name, sometimes real but more often a common one with the spelling twisted, either to stand out or as an attempt to hide their identity altogether.

Most of them chasing the same thing: a start in the industry, with Big Ben & Parliament at the top of their résumé.

I refused to believe Emily had anything to do with this. It felt impossible, like an April Fools’ joke that missed the mark by a month.

I wanted to close the site, slam the laptop shut, and chalk it up as some twisted misunderstanding.

But I couldn’t.

I scrolled slowly, fifty-year-old eyes squinting, forcing the tiny thumbnails into focus.

It hit like a fist to the sternum. My back flashed cold, then soaked with sweat, the room tilting while my pulse stumbled. My heart didn’t drop; it simply disappeared, leaving a hollow thud in its place.

Just a few rows down the page, there she was.

My mind attempted to turn her into a stranger, some unlucky lookalike, but my gut refused.

It clenched before my brain caught up, my worst nightmare coming to fruition, and with it the bitter truth that, for all his faults, Mike had been right.

Even under layers of makeup, a ridiculous fake tan, and a hairstyle meant to pass her off as someone else, it was her.

The name beneath it read Emmalee, that cheap, knockoff porn-star spelling meant to disguise something real. It fooled no one. I had known that face for half my life: my wife of twenty-five years, Melissa’s mother, the woman I stood beside at the altar and again every five years as we renewed vows we were sure would hold forever.

Now she was here, staring back at me with that same pout she used to endlessly mock on other women.

The moment I saw her, I slammed the laptop as if closing it might make it all go away.

None of it felt real. It was a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.

Instead, I buried myself in routine. Cleaned the kitchen. Shifted a stack of boxes from one wall to another. Unpacked things I’d only repack in a few months.

Pointless tasks, busy work, distractions to make me feel like I still had control over something.

Nothing I did made a difference. That thumbnail clung to me, seared into my mind, dragging me back again and again. I hadn’t even clicked, but the damage was already done.

No chore and no denial could distract me from what I already knew waited behind that image, the format etched into the brain of anyone who’d ever stumbled across one of their clips before the takedown team wiped it away.

No buildup. No wasted time.

The subject was stripped on command, prepped like a patient on the operating table while the cameraman barked orders. Then Big Ben and Parliament entered, naked and perfectly synced, moving with the cold precision of surgeons who had done this procedure a thousand times. It never mattered who she was: aspiring starlet, soccer mom, or CEO chasing a high money couldn’t buy. She always looked small under the lights, out of place, already tasting the regret that would come later. But in that moment, the gamble felt worth it; worth her marriage, her career, her anonymity.

Camera shyness vanished. Any fear of judgment faded the second they saw, in the flesh, the source of years of private orgasms.

It always began with a coin toss, a crude ritual deciding who claimed which hole. No oral, no foreplay, just the main event everyone was there for: the Double Decker.

Two foot-long cocks vanishing into the same woman, her body stretched to its limits.

It always ended the same: a double cream pie, its quantity as excessive as the men delivering it.

A sight you could never unsee, never unhear.

Finally, if you made it that far, came the conclusion: built to embarrass, designed to demean.

Disheveled, glassy-eyed, body worn down to a pulp, she was slid into the standard-issue T-shirt with the cartoon double-decker bus and "I Survived BBP" stamped across the chest. A few days later, reduced to another thumbnail in a grid of thousands, all but forgotten, eventually clipped into a three-second loop for some compilation a year down the line.

Exhausted of meaningless chores, every distraction run dry, I was drawn back to the bedroom by a pull I couldn’t resist, like rubbernecking a wreck you swore not to look at but always did, knowing bodies lay inside.

I opened the laptop slowly, as if stalling might change what waited for me.

But the screen lit up fast, throwing her back at me, patient and smug, like it had known all along I’d return no matter how much it shattered me.

My cursor hovered over her name: Emmalee. Every rational part of me screaming not to click, warning that there’d be no coming back from whatever waited on the other side.

My chest hammered, breath shallow. I told myself to shut the laptop and walk away, but my hand refused, still clinging to the desperate hope it was a twin, a lookalike, some cruel mistake.

Then I clicked.

My palm was slick with sweat against the mouse, and the page loaded in agonizing slivers. The paywall slid into place, pure mercy, the last thin wall holding back my worst nightmare.

Behind it, the image was a blurred mess; soft, distorted, impossible to make out. Just vague shapes and colors. Nothing real yet, but everything implied.

Across the center of the page, bold letters read: Watch Emmalee ride the Double Decker for only $1,212 per month.

The message was generic, likely the same no matter which thumbnail you clicked, just a name programmatically swapped in.

But the price stopped you. Astronomical, dressed up to look like a deal. The kind of number that punched you in the stomach.

The twin “12”s in the price stylized as rulers, a taunt as arrogant as the men themselves. Twenty-four inches of cock turned into a brand, into a billing joke, into a commodity people lined up to pay for.

The price felt exclusive, almost luxurious, like a black-market club engineered to gut your wallet. No casuals. No quick nuts.

Designed to weed out the one-offs and hook the junkies: men and women who'd worn out every ten-second preview and were now ready to go into debt for more.

You weren’t just paying for porn. You were paying for a myth, and everything that supported their empire: the shabby apartment and a legal team on standby to wipe a stolen clip in minutes.

The price made it plain: this wasn’t smut. It was an investment.

Dazed, I stared at the screen, the sick truth hitting hard: what waited on the other side had already happened, Emily split in half, swallowed, and spat back out as Emmalee, yet there I was, on the verge of paying to watch the machine that destroyed her.

My fingers tapped out the credit card number from memory, as casually as making an Amazon purchase, outpacing my brain like they had a mind of their own.

Not pocket change. Nearly a week’s salary gone in seconds, funneled straight into the pockets of two men who didn’t even know I existed. A transaction that would drag me to the edge of my credit limit and sanity.

It didn’t feel like a decision. I wasn’t in control. There was no pride left in me. No dignity. Just compulsion. The same blind momentum that had pulled me back to the computer.

The instant I clicked, my phone buzzed with an Amex text confirming the charge, a gut punch that vaporized money for a better apartment and Melissa’s tuition in seconds, all under a plain, forgettable billing name designed to slip past any suspicious glance.

By the time I looked up from my phone, the screen had already refreshed. No warning, no prompt, no chance to second-guess or back out.

Just a brutal rip of the Band-Aid, dragging me straight into my worst nightmare.

The blur was gone, the paywall cleared. And there she was.

Not a doppelgänger. Not some lookalike I could cling to as an excuse. Emily. And she was a fucking wreck.

Through the wall, Melissa’s voice drifted in, humming the same Taylor Swift song I’d been forced to scream along to at the concert months ago, one of the last nights we were still a family.

A frozen frame from the aftermath: makeup collapsed in black rivulets, spray tan streaked into pale patches, damp hair plastered to her neck. She looked spent, hollowed out, life wrung dry. Her face held everything I never wanted to see: regret, exhaustion, humiliation; something cracked, something surrendered.

And buried beneath it all, the one thing I hadn’t seen in her in over a decade: pure, undeniable satisfaction.

The photo reeked of ritual, the final stage of every Ben & Parliament video. Forced to kneel, forced to face the camera, forced to let them document the aftermath like it was written in the contract.

She knelt between the twins, dwarfed by their size, their same shit-eating grins from the banner unchanged. Their cocks hung heavy, eight inches soft and thick as summer sausages, still slick with the residue of everything they’d taken from her.

No pants, nothing to cover her. Just the infamous Double-Decker T-shirt hanging loose on her frame like an afterthought, cartoon red bus stamped across her chest like a trophy, handed over to mark the end of it, not to protect her.

The play button hovered over it all, daring me to press it, daring me to see what had put her there.