A performance

The video started with a blur of movement, then steadied. The karaoke bar from Saturday night. The pink and purple lights I'd seen in her Instagram photos now cast the room in a lurid, neon glow. The stage was pushed back against the wall, and in the center of the space sat a single chair.

Chloe was in it, laughing, holding her hands up in mock surrender. Two men flanked her.

The one on the left was Black, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing the remains of a police costume - a torn shirt hanging open, aviator sunglasses pushed up into his hair. The one on the right was white, stocky, with a fireman's jacket unzipped to reveal a tanned, muscular chest. The Strippers. Of course.

I almost smiled. Classic bachelorette stuff.

Then my eyes found Emily.

She was off to the side, drink in one hand, phone filming in the other, laughing at something. She was dancing - actually dancing, her hips moving loose and free, her body swaying to a rhythm I couldn't hear but could almost feel through the screen. Her black dress was shorter than I remembered. Or maybe she'd just hiked it up. Either way, it showed off an incredible amount of leg, and the low-cut neckline revealed a deeper stretch of cleavage than I was used to seeing her display of her large handfuls. Her honey-brown hair was pinned up in an elegant twist, tendrils framing her face.

Next to her was a girl I didn't recognize. Brunette, athletic build, wearing a fitted red dress. She was holding her phone up too, filming the strippers. And as Emily laughed and leaned into her, the girl's hand found the small of Emily's back, resting there with easy familiarity.

On stage, the strippers continued their routine. The police officer spun his shirt over his head and tossed it into the crowd of screaming women. The fireman dropped to his knees in front of Chloe, grinding against the air, miming removing his jacket with exaggerated slowness. Chloe was laughing, shaking her head, waving her hands. She was a good sport, but she clearly wasn't into it.

The music thumped, inaudible through the phone's speakers but visible in the way the women moved, the way the lights pulsed.

Then Emily stumbled over, drink still in hand, her phone still raised. She leaned down and said something to Chloe. Chloe looked up at her, laughed, and nodded. She stood up, vacating the chair, and gestured for Emily to take her place.

Emily didn't hesitate. She sat down, beaming, and the girl in the red dress dragged another chair over, placing it right next to Emily's. She sat down too, angling her phone for a better view.

The strippers regrouped. The fireman positioned himself in front of Emily. The police officer took the red-dressed girl.

And then the real show began.

The fireman gyrated in front of Emily, his hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles. He was soon down to just a tiny G-string pouch, his muscular thighs glistening under the lights. He turned around, bent over, shook his ass in her face, then turned again, thrusting towards her to the music. Emily's hand came up - not to push him away, but to *touch*, her fingers brushing against the fabric of his pouch. Didn't they have rules against touching? But the stripper didn't miss a beat.

She leaned forward. Her nose pressed into the thin material. She inhaled, deep and visible, her eyes closing for a moment.

My stomach tightened.

The camera shifted sideways and around, moving for a better angle. Jess must have been circling, capturing the full scene.

And then I saw it clearly again. Emily's face, buried in the stripper's crotch. Her mouth open, nuzzling against the pouch. The stripper's package, barely contained by the thin fabric, was visibly pressed against her lips, her nose, her cheeks. She was *snuffling* into it, like she was breathing him in, like she couldn't get enough.

She looked up at him. Her lips moved. I couldn't hear what she said, but I saw the shape of the words - a question, an ask. The stripper looked down at her, smiled, and nodded.

Emily's hands came up. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of the G-string. And she pulled it down.

The stripper's generous cock sprang free. It was thick, uncut, already half-hard. And Emily looked at it like it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

She leaned forward again, pressing her open mouth against the base of it. Her nose nestled into his pubic hair. She breathed him in again, her eyes fluttering closed, her lips parting to press soft, reverent kisses along his hardening shaft.

I felt a strange, cold numbness spread through my chest. My hands were trembling. I couldn't look away.

Emily's tongue emerged. It was slow, deliberate - a long, languid lick from the base of his balls all the way up to the tip. She circled the head, her tongue tracing the ridge, before opening her mouth and taking just the tip between her lips. She sucked gently, her eyes on his dick, watching her own mouth work.

Then she did it again. And again. Licking up and down, up and down, her pace increasing, her head bobbing with growing enthusiasm. Then she dropped lower, taking one of his balls into her mouth, sucking it gently, her eyes closing in apparent ecstasy.

The screaming and clapping from her friends was audible even through the phone's tinny speakers. They were cheering her on. The other girl was doing the same with the police officer, a competition unfolding in real time.

Saturday, I realized. This was Saturday. Two full days. Two full days before she'd whispered "I think I'd like to try" and taken me in her mouth with the same technique I was watching her use on a stranger.

Emily was back on the head now, her mouth stretched wide around it, bobbing steadily. She was working it deeper with each pass, her throat opening, her jaw relaxing. The stripper's hand came up, not forcing, but guiding. Encouraging. Her phone was still out, I realized. If this was what she was posting, no wonder her account was reported. Finally her hand dropped, her phone placed in her lap. Was it over? Was she done now?

But with both hands free, Emily reached up and grabbed his wrists, pulling his palms to either side of her head. She gave him permission. She wanted him to take control.

Her hands slid around to his ass, pulling him closer, pulling herself down onto him. And the stripper obliged, his hips beginning to thrust, his hands gripping her head as he fucked her face in earnest.

Emily's eyes were open. Focused. Determined. Her nose bounced against his crotch with every thrust. His pace quickened, faster, harder, and Emily took it all, never gagging, never pulling away.

He slowed for a moment. He said something to her. She looked up at him and nodded before diving herself back down onto him.

And he pulled too, a final, brutal thrust. Once. Twice. A third time, and he held her there, his head thrown back, his body shuddering in release. I could see the bulge in Emily's throat, the gentle, rhythmic movement of her swallowing.

The camera fumbled. Dropped. The screen went black for a moment, and then the video ended.

I was standing in my kitchen, my phone held in a white-knuckled grip, the stir-fry forgotten on the counter. The onions were starting to brown in the pan, sending up a faint wisp of smoke.

I couldn't move.

I couldn't think.

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. My dick was hard, uncomfortable against my jeans, and I felt a wave of disgust at myself for that.

This wasn't her, and yet .. that was Emily.

That was my Emily.

And she'd done that for a *stranger* before she'd ever done it for me.