The paper bag from Arbetter’s sat open on the table, its greasy steam carrying the faint spice of chili and onions, a Miami staple since ’59. It was the kind of unpretentious comfort we’d grabbed a thousand times as a family, now tainted by Emily’s betrayal.
A minute earlier, a knock at the bedroom door from Melissa had jolted me from my worst nightmare.
“Got lunch!” she announced, her voice bright, oblivious to the horror that had swallowed her father, breaking through just as the video faded to black.
She sat across the table, blonde hair tied back, her Gators T-shirt a knife in my gut, the same one Emily wore in that video. Her face mirrored her mother's thirty years ago: young, untouched, before time, motherhood, and BBP had carved her ruin.
My fists locked on the table’s edge, knuckles white, face frozen in a brittle mask, doing anything to hide the pathetic wreck who’d just forked over twelve hundred dollars to watch her mother get obliterated.
“Mom’s hurting too, you know,” she murmured, her gentle voice trying to comfort a pain I’d worn on my face since the divorce, completely blind to the cruel irony those words now carried.
I forced a nod, throat locked tight.
“Yeah, honey, I know,” I rasped, the words scraping out hollow, like they’d been dragged over broken glass.
Melissa dug into the bag, her fingers rustling the grease-stained paper as she tugged out two gigantic sausages, their casings glistening under the kitchen light.
“Good golly, I forgot how freaking huge these things were,” she gasped, half-laughing as she set them side by side on the plate, the culinary equivalent of Big Ben and Parliament.
Of all the places, Arbetter’s. The universe laughing its ass off, twisting the knife with surgical precision.
I stared blankly, her hands hovering over the plate, my mind buckling under the weight of everything I’d witnessed, when she aimed the mustard bottle and squeezed.
As the yellow ribbon began its slow crawl down the sausage, Ed’s voice detonated inside my skull, sharp as a manager waving in the closer from the bullpen:
“Alright, Parl, time to earn that paycheck, lad.”
The KY bottle sailed, Ed’s lazy toss, snatched out of the air one-handed by Parliament without even looking, business as usual.
The mustard became lube. The sausage became his cock. The cheap IKEA table and the grimy yellow couch slammed together in one nauseating blink.
Same squeeze. Same thick, deliberate stripe. I was in both rooms at once, watching my daughter top a sausage while Parliament did the same.
That single squeeze hit like a detonator. I couldn’t tell which world was real anymore, and the floor fell out from under me, my mind plummeting straight back into the glow of the laptop.
By the time Ed called for Parliament, Emily was already a vegetable.
At his barked command, she had climbed onto the grimy couch, knees sinking into the sagging, fluid-stained cushions that had swallowed a thousand women before her.
She straddled Ben, the coin-toss “loser” who always went first, the couch groaning like it was already laughing at what was coming.
Most women held out for a minute or two, fighting the inevitable.
Emily never had a prayer.
Her thighs gave out in under thirty seconds. A Tower-of-Terror-like drop in slow motion. Twelve inches of human sausage, thick as a shaving-cream can, vanished inside her in one searing, helpless plunge until his balls pressed flush against her ass like they were merely an extension of her.
She came so fast it looked like a seizure, her whole body jackknifing, a scream I’d never heard in twenty-five years exploding out of her, guttural, a sound torn from somewhere deeper than her throat.
It was the type of orgasm you only ever saw in porn and always dismissed as fake, caged inside her for fifty years, one only a monster could tear loose.
Then nothing.
Body slack, eyes rolled white, mouth drooling, brain gone.
She hung there like a limp noodle still impaled, her ruined pussy leaking a cream that poured over his grapefruit-heavy balls and soaked into the fabric beneath.
Ben didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, doing exactly what he was programmed to do: turn anyone on that couch into brain-dead meat without lifting a finger.
“That’s a proper orgasm, love! Bloody hell, you came fast!” Ed crowed, voice dripping venom and snapping me out of my daze like a slap.
“Jesus Christ, look at that filthy mess.”
I sat frozen, watching the woman I’d loved for half my life reduced to a dead-eyed, drooling husk, the scummy cameraman’s laugh ringing in my ears while every fresh insult he hurled hammered me deeper into the ground.
“You okay, Dad?” Melissa asked, brow creasing, sausage paused mid-bite. “You’re all red.”
Her voice cut through the haze and yanked me back to the kitchen.
I gripped the table edge hard enough to feel the laminate bite my palms, clung to the smell of Arbetter’s, to the sound of Melissa chewing, to anything that might keep me from sliding straight into the hell that came next.
“Just tired,” I rasped.
She nodded, took another bite, and started humming that same fucking Taylor Swift song under her breath, our last moment as a family, now the anthem of her mother’s ruin.
Parliament stepped in from behind, face as blank as his brothers, nothing behind the eyes but a robot waiting for its next command.
He raised the lube bottle with the bored flick of a pitmaster topping off ribs and fired.
A thick ribbon landed high on her ass and slid down her crack in a glistening trail. It rolled over the entrance that had been off-limits our entire marriage, not even broached during our sexual peak, before spilling onto Ben below and vanishing into her creamy aftermath.
That ring now framed the impossible: the fist-sized mushroom parked against it; an angry battering ram aimed at a hole nothing that size was ever supposed to fit through.
The instant Chris texted “BBP,” my mind did what any man’s would. It seized on the single impossible question. How? How could a neglected body, sexless for a decade, untouched, unpracticed, ever survive the Double Decker?
I knew what I was about to witness hadn’t happened without training. Years of it. Quiet, secret practice while the house stood empty.
My mind started chasing the how through every corner of our old life. Too big for the nightstand. Too big for a shoebox. Too obvious anywhere else I might stumble across them.
Then it hit me.
Those long poster tubes in the back of her closet, the ones I’d stepped over a thousand times while putting away laundry without a second thought. They were the perfect hiding place; tall, innocent, forgotten. Two monstrous dildos no ordinary spot could conceal, stashed right there in plain sight.
Quiet afternoons while I was at work and Melissa at school, she had locked the bedroom door, pulled out her weapons, and stretched herself in secret, preparing her body for this exact moment.
Parliament pressed forward, relentlessly.
She folded hard against Ben, tits flattening against his chest, dragging across his skin with every ragged breath, arms clutching his shoulders, face buried in the crook of his neck, sweat already slick between them as his salami pinned her like a seatbelt she couldn’t unbuckle.
Ed slid in tight from the side, master of angles, catching the exact second Parliament pressed against her.
Her body fought for one last heartbeat, then surrendered.
A wet, ripping pop cracked through my earbuds, followed by a scream that shredded the air as her ass swallowed Parliament in one sudden, unstoppable gulp.
The sensation hit her all at once, a full-body shock that jerked her spine straight, toes curling hard enough to cramp.
Inch by brutal inch, he disappeared, her practiced hole opening like it had been waiting its whole life for this exact moment.
The camera moved like a dolly on Hollywood tracks, smooth, cruel, effortless, gliding from Parliament’s invasion to her face in one merciless, unbroken arc.
Emily’s eyes hung half-lidded and glassy, too spent for anything more than ragged, broken whimpers that leaked out with every shallow breath.
Sweat plastered her hair to her cheeks in ropes, black eyeliner streaking down in dark rivers, the bronzer just beginning to break, tiny pale dots blooming through like the first cracks in a dam.
Ben just sat there, buried to the hilt, nothing more than a living piece of furniture, as Parliament’s rhythm turned brutal.
No warm-up, no mercy, just a savage, piston-like pounding that fucked the life out of her.
Her screams tore through what must have been paper-thin walls, loud enough to rattle every apartment in the complex, by now nothing more than background noise to the neighbors who’d memorized this soundtrack by heart.
That couch, that hammering, those cries; they were supposed to remain locked behind the thumbnails, other women, nameless strangers I could scroll past without bleeding.
Not Emily.
Never Emily.
Ed’s voice drifted back in, lazy as ordering another pint while Parliament operated like a runaway drill press:
“Lean back, love, let’s see that mummy scar.”
Ben’s hands shot up, clamped her shoulders, and wrenched her backward, spine bowing until it looked ready to snap.
The camera plunged like a vulture, zooming down the trench of her stomach to the pale C-section scar, Melissa’s door into the world eighteen years ago.
Every brutal thrust made the lower belly distend in a single, obscene ridge, the scar itself stretching thin and blanching white, pulled so tight you could see the faint pulse of pressure beneath it, raw proof of exactly how deep they were buried.
“Look at that tan coming off!” Ed crowed, delighted. “Bloody hell, you’re melting like plastic!”
She was too far gone to hear the mockery, too ruined to care she was being laughed at like a ten-dollar whore. The bronze washed away in streaks, pooling in her navel, sliding off her ribs in dirty rivers while she dissolved right in front of me.
Mike had seen this.
Chris had seen this.
I knew this was the moment that had made Chris type “I’m so sorry, buddy” the instant after the BBP bomb: the frame he understood would finish me, the point of no return that would erase the friend he’d known forever.
Her parents would see it soon enough, her father’s face crumpling when he realized the daughter they’d poured everything into had chosen this anyway, the same man who had likely jerked off to BBP clips a thousand times, never dreaming his own girl would one day get split in half in that very same apartment; her mother’s hand flying to her mouth in horror, both of them frozen, staring at the screen in numb disbelief. Hundreds of thousands spent on private schools, tutors, braces, every advantage to set her up for the best life they could give her, and none of it enough to keep her off that couch, ruined on camera for strangers.
I clawed for the kitchen, for Melissa, for air, but the screen had me by the throat.
The camera finally abandoned her face and whipped back around.
It dropped low, sliding behind Parliament’s thighs like a snake, framing the carnage from below.
Both twins were buried to the root, twenty-four inches gone. Four swollen balls, mashed tight beneath her like a bag of overripe avocados, pulsing in perfect, mechanical sync with every last savage thrust.
From that angle, she was nothing but a stretched, dripping sleeve pinned between two machines, every inch of her claimed, owned, discarded.
Ed whooped, triumphant.
“That’s a proper Double Decker, lads!”
I knew what came next, and the knowing was worse than the watching.
The finale always hung in the balance on Ed’s whim.
The twins stayed buried, then leaned forward in perfect lockstep, arms reaching over her back until their hands clasped high above her, fingers laced, palms flat, that rigid human bridge across her shaking body.
Ed began to hum “London Bridge Is Falling Down,” low, lazy, venomous, each note synced to the slow squeeze of their grip. He drew the tune out a full extra minute, deliberate penalty time tacked on like a soccer game, payback for the lightning-quick orgasm she’d had on Ben, making damn sure every member who’d dropped twelve hundred got their money’s worth of her agony.
Only when the last note faded did he finally give the command, vicious and gleeful:
“Time to paint her insides, lads, let’s make it a fucking masterpiece…”
The first sounds they made all day broke the silence: two low, guttural grunts, perfectly synced, raw and mechanical, like factory presses hitting the same beat.
The camera stayed locked between their legs, catching every twitch as they began to unload.
Priceless ropes began to flood her, twin-making seed so rare and potent it could be bottled and sold on the dark web for a fortune, fertility clinics and private buyers paying anything for even a fifty percent shot at producing another set of twenty-four-inch heirs.
Emily, jelly now, quivered helplessly between them, a slack, shattered shell, her body no longer her own, just the final canvas for their masterpiece.
Parliament began its slow withdrawal, inch by deliberate inch from the woman who used to be my wife.
Her ruined hole clung to every veined ridge, stretching thin and white, fighting to hold on to what had claimed her so completely.
Halfway out, his load already spilled: thick, pearlescent strands drooling from her gaping ass and splattering onto Ben below. When Parliament finally pulled free with a wet pop, Emily summoned one last flicker of strength and rolled off Ben in a broken, graceless lurch.
His cock, now soft and heavy, glazed in the slick mix of her juices and his own thick spend, slid free like a serpent abandoning its burrow, dropping against his thigh with a lazy, wet slap.
“You’ve earned this, love,” Ed said without a breath of pause, voice flat and mocking, flicking the “I Survived BBP” tee at her like a used rag, no time given to catch her breath.
She’d watched this exact moment in every clip a thousand times, but her face still carried the stunned look of someone who couldn’t believe the script was finally hers.
Even through the haze, a last exhausted wave of shame washed over her, raw and undeniable.
She tried to raise her arms for the shirt, but they barely twitched, then fell back like dead weight, too ruined to obey.
“Lads, help her out,” Ed barked.
Ben and Parliament, faces blank, each hooked one of her limp wrists and hauled her upright just long enough to yank the T-shirt over her head. Weekend at Bernie’s style, they manhandled a body that had already checked out. Cold, mechanical, no eye contact, like dressing a store mannequin.
Her head lolled, arms dangled uselessly while they tugged the shirt down.
The cartoon bus stretched crooked across her chest, already smudged with streaks of bronzer rubbing off her skin.
They let her drop, crumpling to her knees on the cold tile, shirt half-twisted, face hollow, eyes dead.
The twins stepped in on either side, close enough for the shot, the same bored half-smirk celebrities give when leaning in for a quick photo with some random fan they’ll forget the second the flash pops.
Ed framed it.
The aftermath photo: Emily on her knees between the twins, face shattered, the exact real-life version of the image that had greeted me hours ago and ended my world.
They turned without a word, no goodbye, no thank-you, no flicker of acknowledgment for the physical and emotional carnage they’d just left behind.
They walked off camera without a word, faces as blank as they’d been when they first appeared fifteen minutes earlier, cold as machines powering down, gone and not to be seen again until Ed summoned them back to ruin the next woman in line.
Emily stayed kneeling alone on the tile as the screen cut to black.
Back in the kitchen, Melissa looked up once, as if she’d waited for the final frame to burn itself out behind my eyes.
She yawned, crumpled the greasy Arbetter’s wrapper, and stood.
“Night, Dad,” she said, voice gentle at the doorway. “Hang in there, okay?”
Then she was gone.
The door clicked shut. Silence swallowed the apartment. I stayed at the table, my sausage untouched and cold, congealing beside the crumpled Arbetter’s bag.
My mind fixated on the seven; seven new thumbnails that had already shoved Emmalee down the endless grid. Seven women the twins had taken since her, most of them perfect tens chasing a start in the industry: tight, flawless twenty-somethings that didn't require ridiculous spray-on tans to make them camera-ready; without scars, without the soft, worn bodies of motherhood. But between that perfection, I knew there was another Emily: another self-conscious housewife who'd risked everything for her turn, leaving the man she once belonged to staring at his phone, getting that same gut-punch text from his own version of Chris.
My life was over.
Chris's messages waited unread. I'd have to face him eventually. And in weeks, Gainesville: the three of us smiling for move-in day photos, Melissa beaming between Emily and me, orange and blue everywhere. We'd hug her goodbye, pretend everything was fine while that rancid couch sat invisible between us, reeking of everything she'd done.
And one day, thirty years from now, the phone would buzz again.
“Mike saw her…”
Only this time, Melissa, on whatever passed for that couch in the modern day, eyes wide with the same stunned surrender.
DNA doesn't lie. That ravenous hunger, the one that finally devoured Emily, wasn't some midlife whim. It was carved into her genes, handed down to our daughter like a ticking inheritance. Thirty years from now, it would stir in her just as violently, dragging her to the new mythic pair: the current heirs to the throne, splitting those same legendary twenty-four inches between them, hidden behind their own thousand-dollar paywall.
They would destroy her on camera in front of her husband, her ex-husband, her children, and Emily.
And if the universe were as cruel as I knew it, it would make sure I was still around to see it too.
