You don’t choose out of protest so he picks

You sit on the edge of the couch in your new suburban Chicago home, staring at the clock as the afternoon light fades. It’s Saturday, just past 5 PM, and your phone rests heavy in your hand like a live grenade. All day you’ve turned the blackmail over in your mind, anger and sadness churning into a sick knot in your stomach. You refuse to open that link again. You refuse to pick any of those vile options. Laura is your fiancée—beautiful, kind, still a virgin because of her faith and family values—and you won’t drag her into this nightmare. Not for some anonymous creep who hacked the cheap cameras you installed to protect her after the robbery.

The house is quiet. Laura is out running errands, picking up groceries and flowers, completely unaware of the storm raging inside you. Her yellow sundress from last night still lingers in your memory, the way it hugged her 34D breasts and round ass, her long brown hair cascading down her back, that perfect smile lighting up the room. She loves you more than anything. She trusts you. And now this.

Your thumb hovers over the power button. You power the phone off entirely. Protest. Let them do their worst. You won’t participate. You won’t choose.

But when you turn it back on later, a new message waits.

“Deadline missed. We chose for you. The worst one. Laura has sex with your neighbor AND one of her girlfriends. Make it happen this week. Follow every rule. Proof through the cameras by Sunday night. Videos go viral otherwise.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. You read it twice, then a third time, hoping the words will rearrange into something less devastating. They don’t. Mike, the sleazy divorced neighbor who always stares at Laura when she’s in the garden. And Sarah, her bubbly blonde best friend from nursing school, the one she shares wine nights and secrets with. The combination is cruel on purpose. They picked the option designed to shatter your soul and her innocence in one blow.

You pace the living room, fists clenched. “No. Fuck you,” you mutter at the screen. You type a furious reply, but it won’t send. Another message pings immediately.

“Rule 1: She never discovers the blackmail. Rule 3: Make her believe this is your genuine desire. Get it done.”

You sink onto the couch, head in your hands. The reality crashes over you like ice water. You have no choice. If those videos leak—Laura naked in the shower, her beautiful face and body exposed, the one clip of her giving you a loving blowjob—everything ends. Her reputation as a new nurse, your engineering job, your families, the wedding in four months. Everyone would see your perfect 23-year-old fiancée in the most intimate, private moments. You can’t let that happen. Even though every fiber of your being screams to burn the cameras, move houses, call the police, you know the blackmailer has leverage. They installed the system. They control the feeds.

You hate this. You hate yourself for even considering compliance. You wanted to wake up from this nightmare, to go back to the simple joy of coming home to Laura’s cooking and movies. But here you are, realizing you’re going to have to facilitate it. You’re going to have to guide your loving, naive fiancée into bed with your neighbor and her best friend. The thought makes bile rise in your throat.

Still, your engineer’s mind—practical, problem-solving—begins turning over the logistics despite the revulsion. How could you make this happen without her suspecting anything? Rule 1 is ironclad: Laura must remain completely unaware. She can never know this stems from blackmail. You have to sell it as your own deep, genuine fantasy. Something you desire. Something that excites you.

You start brainstorming, stomach twisting with self-loathing. Maybe frame it as pre-wedding exploration. You’ve been the safe, respectful guy who waited for marriage. What if you confess to her that you’ve been having secret fantasies about her being desired by others? Compliment her body in ways that make her blush—her amazing face with that beautiful smile, those attention-grabbing 34D breasts, her round ass that turns heads. Tell her you get turned on imagining her letting go, experiencing pleasure from trusted people like Mike and Sarah. Make it sound intimate, like a gift you’re offering her.

You think about planting the seed tonight when she gets home. Act a little nervous but eager. “Laura, honey, I’ve been thinking a lot about us lately. About how beautiful and sexy you are. I fantasize about watching you explore with others—maybe Mike next door and Sarah. It makes me so hard thinking about you being wanted like that.” You’d have to sell it convincingly, eyes locked on hers, voice low with feigned arousal. Touch her gently, remind her how much you love her, how you’d never push but this feels right for you.

If she hesitates—and she will, because she’s religious and innocent—you’d reassure her softly. “It’s just for us. I want to see you confident and sensual before we’re married. You do everything for me already. This would mean the world.” No pressure, per the rules, but persistent enough that she believes it’s your authentic wish.

Logistically, you map it out further. Invite them over casually tomorrow—Sunday afternoon BBQ in the backyard. Mike will jump at the chance; he’s always eyeing her. Sarah comes over often enough that it won’t seem strange. Let drinks loosen everyone up. Steer the conversation toward playful flirting. Compliment Laura in front of them: “Doesn’t she look incredible?” Make eye contact with her the whole time so she feels safe, anchored to you.

Then, transition inside. Suggest moving to the bedroom as if it’s a spontaneous, exciting idea born from your “fantasy.” Position yourself in the corner at first, watching, directing lightly—“Touch her like this, Mike. Sarah, kiss her neck the way she likes.” The cameras in every room will capture it all in Full HD: Laura’s long brown hair spilling across the pillows, her perfect body bare, those full breasts and round ass on display as Mike takes her virginity and Sarah joins in. You’ll have to record extra proof on your phone too.

The images flood your mind unbidden—Laura gasping, confused pleasure on her sweet face, believing this is what her loving fiancé truly wants. Mike’s hands on her, Sarah’s lips on hers. It makes you furious and sick. You don’t want any of this. You want to protect her, not whore her out to the neighbor and her friend. But the alternative is worse. The videos going viral would destroy her life far more brutally.

You check the clock again. Laura will be home soon. You rehearse the lines in your head, practicing the smile, the loving tone. She must believe it 100%. No slips. You’ll hate every second, but you’ll facilitate it because you have no real choice. The blackmailer owns this week, and you’re already calculating how to survive it without breaking her trust or your soul entirely.

By the time her car pulls into the driveway, you’ve settled on the approach. Casual dinner conversation leading into the confession. Build excitement. Make her feel desired and safe in your arms even as you steer her toward this. She’s completely unaware, humming as she carries in the grocery bags, that beautiful smile lighting up when she sees you.

“Hey honey,” she says sweetly, oblivious to the storm in your eyes. “Missed you today.”

You stand up, force warmth into your voice, and begin the performance that will change everything. Inside, you scream for it to stop, for this nightmare to vanish. But it won’t. You have to make it happen.