My Wife's Livestream Scandal - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
You are reading My Wife's Livestream Scandal, Chapter 2: Chapter 2. Read more chapters of My Wife's Livestream Scandal.
The video was filmed in a dimly lit massage room, the air thick with tension.
The woman on the table had a body that could stop traffic—curves sculpted to perfection, her peach-shaped backside impossible to ignore.
She was on her knees, face pressed into the table, her features hidden. But her body alone screamed temptation—every inch of her radiating sensuality.
Except… something was off.
Her full, round breasts swayed with each subtle movement. The necklace around her neck swung in a hypnotic rhythm. And the longer I stared, the more it looked exactly like the one I'd given my wife.
My stomach twisted. I slowed the video, frame by frame, searching for any clue.
Still no face.
But that necklace—the delicate silver chain, the teardrop pendant—was identical to the one Vivian never took off.
Coincidence?
Maybe. It was a popular design.
But the body—the slope of her waist, the curve of her hips—it was her.
A cold dread settled in my gut.
Back in the car group chat, the guy who'd posted the video gloated: "Trust me, this one's a knockout—face like an angel. Oh, and she's married."
"Nice. Married women don't hold back."
"Got any face shots? Show us."
"Aren't you scared her husband's gonna come after you?"
The chat erupted with crude jokes and laughter.
The guy—username Marco Valentino—shot back, smug as hell: "Scared? Please. She came to me willingly. No money, no force. Worst case, it's a moral gray area. But if her husband touches me? That's assault. I'd love for him to try. Easy lawsuit, easy payout. Paid vacation, baby."
No shame. Just pride.
And worse—he wasn't wrong. Legally, my hands were tied.
The group called him every name in the book—scum, predator, animal—but their tone was laced with amusement. A few even slid into his DMs, asking for the woman's number.
Rage burned through me.
I still hadn't confirmed it was Vivian, but my gut screamed yes.
After a long pause, I sent Marco a friend request.
He accepted instantly.
"Hey man, want the full vids? $20 for one, $50 for three," he offered without hesitation.
My blood ran cold. This bastard was selling them?
"Do the full videos show her face?"
"Nah. Different locations—woods, car, hotel. But no face. Too risky."
"What about her contact info?"
"Hah! Sold that already. Two guys in the group bid for it. Went for $500."
I demanded names, but he shut me down—client confidentiality.
I wanted to reach through the screen and throttle him. But if I wanted answers, I had to play it cool. Casually, I asked which hospital the woman worked at.
Marco's tone shifted. "You buying or not?"
Not wanting to spook him, I sent the $50.
Three videos popped up—woods, car, hotel.
Same woman. Still no face.
The money was wasted. No leads.
I pressed Marco for more, but after payment, he ghosted me.
Back in our bedroom, I studied Vivian as she lounged in a lavender nightgown, her skin glowing in the soft light.
Every curve, every movement—I compared it to the woman in the videos.
Was it her?
The woman on the table had a body that could stop traffic—curves sculpted to perfection, her peach-shaped backside impossible to ignore.
She was on her knees, face pressed into the table, her features hidden. But her body alone screamed temptation—every inch of her radiating sensuality.
Except… something was off.
Her full, round breasts swayed with each subtle movement. The necklace around her neck swung in a hypnotic rhythm. And the longer I stared, the more it looked exactly like the one I'd given my wife.
My stomach twisted. I slowed the video, frame by frame, searching for any clue.
Still no face.
But that necklace—the delicate silver chain, the teardrop pendant—was identical to the one Vivian never took off.
Coincidence?
Maybe. It was a popular design.
But the body—the slope of her waist, the curve of her hips—it was her.
A cold dread settled in my gut.
Back in the car group chat, the guy who'd posted the video gloated: "Trust me, this one's a knockout—face like an angel. Oh, and she's married."
"Nice. Married women don't hold back."
"Got any face shots? Show us."
"Aren't you scared her husband's gonna come after you?"
The chat erupted with crude jokes and laughter.
The guy—username Marco Valentino—shot back, smug as hell: "Scared? Please. She came to me willingly. No money, no force. Worst case, it's a moral gray area. But if her husband touches me? That's assault. I'd love for him to try. Easy lawsuit, easy payout. Paid vacation, baby."
No shame. Just pride.
And worse—he wasn't wrong. Legally, my hands were tied.
The group called him every name in the book—scum, predator, animal—but their tone was laced with amusement. A few even slid into his DMs, asking for the woman's number.
Rage burned through me.
I still hadn't confirmed it was Vivian, but my gut screamed yes.
After a long pause, I sent Marco a friend request.
He accepted instantly.
"Hey man, want the full vids? $20 for one, $50 for three," he offered without hesitation.
My blood ran cold. This bastard was selling them?
"Do the full videos show her face?"
"Nah. Different locations—woods, car, hotel. But no face. Too risky."
"What about her contact info?"
"Hah! Sold that already. Two guys in the group bid for it. Went for $500."
I demanded names, but he shut me down—client confidentiality.
I wanted to reach through the screen and throttle him. But if I wanted answers, I had to play it cool. Casually, I asked which hospital the woman worked at.
Marco's tone shifted. "You buying or not?"
Not wanting to spook him, I sent the $50.
Three videos popped up—woods, car, hotel.
Same woman. Still no face.
The money was wasted. No leads.
I pressed Marco for more, but after payment, he ghosted me.
Back in our bedroom, I studied Vivian as she lounged in a lavender nightgown, her skin glowing in the soft light.
Every curve, every movement—I compared it to the woman in the videos.
Was it her?
End of My Wife's Livestream Scandal Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to My Wife's Livestream Scandal book page.