I didn't sleep. Not really. Emily's breathing evened out around midnight, her small body curled against mine under the sheets, completely unaware that less than twelve inches from her head, my phone was a ticking time bomb.
At 2 AM, I gave up pretending. I carefully extracted myself from Emily's embrace, claiming I needed water, and locked myself in the kitchen. The screen blazed to life in the dark.
Nat: Did you watch it?
Nat: Don't leave a girl on read.
Nat: I can see you're online, you know.
My thumb hovered. I should delete the thread. I should block the number. I should tell Emily everything and face the consequences like a man.
Instead, I typed: You're insane.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Nat: Insane is boring. I'm just ambitious. Like you said—building that loyal following.
Nat: Did you like the preview?
Nat: Subscribers get the full video. Plus exclusive content.
I leaned against the counter, the kitchen tile cold against my bare feet. This was a trap. This was obviously a trap. Nat was Emily's coworker, her friend, someone she'd vouched for when we made plans to grab drinks. And now she was standing naked in some bathroom across town, texting me like we were already something dirty.
Me: Emily is in the next room.
Nat: I know. That's why it's fun.
She sent another file before I could respond—a photo this time. Her legs draped over the edge of the tub, water droplets catching the light on her skin. Her toes were painted a dark red. The crop top was nowhere in sight.
Nat: I'm still in the bath. Water's getting cold. Come warm me up?
I nearly dropped the phone. The address she sent next was only fifteen minutes away.
I didn't go. Obviously I didn't go. I deleted the messages, cleared my history, and crawled back into bed with Emily, burying my face in her hair and hating myself for the hardness that wouldn't subside.
But I didn't block the number.
The Office
"You look terrible," Emily said over coffee three days later. She was already dressed for work, her hair pulled back in a neat bun, her expression concerned. "Are you getting sick?"
"Just didn't sleep well," I mumbled, which was true in its own way.
She kissed my forehead, gathered her bag, and paused at the door. "Oh, Nat mentioned she might stop by the office today to grab some files. If you see her, can you tell her I left the keycard with reception?"
My blood turned to ice. "She's coming here?"
"Just for a minute. Love you!" And she was gone.
I worked from Emily's apartment often—my own place was being renovated, and she had the better WiFi. Now the walls felt too thin. The space felt compromised.
The knock came at 10:30 AM. I told myself not to answer it. I told myself to pretend I wasn't home.
I opened the door.
Nat stood in the hallway wearing a trench coat and sunglasses, looking like a cliché from a noir film. She pushed past me without waiting for an invitation, her perfume—something expensive and musky—filling the entryway.
"You ignored me for three days," she said, dropping her bag on Emily's coffee table. "Rude."
"You sent me a video while I was in bed with my girlfriend," I hissed, keeping my voice low. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Nat turned, letting her sunglasses slide down her nose. She looked me up and down with the same predatory assessment she'd used at the bar. "I told you. I'm ambitious. And I've decided I want you."
"Emily is your friend."
"Emily is sweet," Nat corrected, stepping closer. "Emily is safe. Emily is the kind of girl who talks about target audiences at marketing firms and thinks 'getting exposure' is about LinkedIn posts." She reached out, her fingers brushing my chest. "I know what you actually want. I saw it in your face when I touched your thigh under the table."
I should have stepped back. "That was a mistake."
"Was it?" She untied the belt of her trench coat. Underneath, she wore black lingerie—lace and sheer panels that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. "Because your breathing says otherwise."
"Nat—"
"She won't be back until six," Nat interrupted, stepping out of the coat and letting it pool on the floor. "That's seven hours. I'm very thorough when I'm working on a campaign." She reached behind her back, and I heard the snap of a clasp. "Don't you want to see the full subscriber content?"
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Emily's name lit up the screen: Forgot my lunch on the counter! Love you!
Nat saw it. She smiled, slow and devastating.
"Pick up," she whispered. "Tell her you're busy."
She dropped the last piece of fabric and walked toward the bedroom, hips swaying, not looking back to see if I would follow.
I picked up the phone. My thumb hovered over the answer button.
"Hey babe," I said, my eyes fixed on the open bedroom door. "What's up?"
Change the
I didn't sleep. Not really. Emily's breathing evened out around midnight, her small body curled against mine under the sheets, completely unaware that less than twelve inches from her head, my phone was a ticking time bomb.
At 2 AM, I gave up pretending. I carefully extracted myself from Emily's embrace, claiming I needed water, and locked myself in the bathroom. The screen blazed to life in the dark.
Nat: Did you watch it?
Nat: Don't leave a girl on read.
Nat: I can see you're online, you know.
My thumb hovered. I should delete the thread. I should block the number. I should tell Emily everything.
Instead, I typed: You're insane.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Nat: Insane is boring. I'm just ambitious.
Nat: Did you like the preview?
Nat: Subscribers get the full video. Plus exclusive content.
She sent another file—a photo this time. Not in the bath anymore. She was lying on her bed, the camera angled down, her breasts bare and full, nipples hard and dark against her pale skin. She'd taken the shot biting her lower lip, her free hand cupping one heavy breast, fingers teasing the nipple.
Nat: Thinking about you touching yourself while she sleeps.
I stared at the image, my cock already straining against my sweatpants. The guilt was there, thrumming beneath my ribs, but it was losing ground fast to the sheer, filthy urgency of the moment. Emily was twenty feet away, trusting and peaceful, and I was in her bathroom with my hand down my pants, staring at another woman's tits.
I shouldn't. God, I shouldn't.
I pulled my cock free, already hard and aching, and started stroking slowly, my eyes fixed on Nat's breasts. They were perfect—full and heavy, the kind that would spill over your hands, nipples peaked like she was already aroused. I imagined them in my mouth, imagined the weight of them, the softness. My hand moved faster, gripping tighter, pre-cum slicking my palm.
Another message popped up. A video this time, only ten seconds long. I fumbled with the volume, keeping it low, and hit play.
Nat was topless, the camera close on her chest. She was pinching her own nipples, rolling them between her fingers, her breath coming in soft gasps. "Come for me," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I want to know you came on my tits."
That was it. My hips bucked forward, and I bit down hard on my own lip to keep silent as I came in thick ropes across the bathroom sink, my vision blurring, my mind empty of everything except the image of her breasts covered in my cum, the fantasy of marking her skin while Emily slept down the hall.
I cleaned up quickly, my hands shaking, the post-orgasm shame hitting like a wave. I deleted the messages. Cleared my history. |
