Rising from the bed, Jillian raked her fingers through her hair, attempting to smooth the disarray left by an uneasy nap. The house stirred below, and the sounds of utensils clinking and Michael's buoyant voice floated up the staircase, guiding her to the kitchen. As she descended, the cacophony became more vivid: the rhythmic chop of a knife against the cutting board, the metallic clang of a pan against the counter, and the faint, static-laced voice of his publisher cutting through the air, rising and falling in animated exchange.
Michael stood at the counter, his gestures exaggerated as he spoke, his free hand busy dissecting a gleaming fillet of fish. A tableau of fresh seafood was spread before him—shrimp glistening under the overhead light, mussels nestled in their black shells, the citrusy tang of sliced lemons mingling with the sharp aroma of garlic. "Hey, sleepyhead," he said, catching sight of her. Without missing a beat, he leaned over to press a quick kiss to her cheek, then dove back into his conversation, his voice lilting with affected cheerfulness.
Jillian lingered in the doorway, her gaze settling on him. "Where's Jonathan?" she asked, her tone deliberately even, masking the undercurrent of her thoughts.
Michael glanced at her, momentarily caught between her question and his conversation. "Uh, hold on," he mumbled, lifting a finger in an awkward pause. "He went to play pool with Mack," he finally offered, his words hurried and almost rehearsed, before pivoting back to the call with his publisher. His eagerness to please was almost cloying, his attempts to juggle his charm and work leaving her both amused and exasperated.
"Can I help with dinner?" she asked, stepping closer. He gestured toward the array of vegetables waiting to be chopped, his gratitude conveyed in a fleeting smile before his attention snapped back to the phone.
As Jillian took up a knife and began slicing peppers and onions, her eyes strayed to him again. He was animated in his discussion, his voice rising and falling with an enthusiasm she recognized as performative. There was something almost pitiable about him, about the way he was trying so hard—too hard. That morning on the beach, with his forced joviality and saccharine pet names, had been another act, a desperate attempt to patch the fraying edges of their relationship. He must have sensed the shift in her, the subtle lowering of her guard, and was clinging to the illusion that this vacation was indeed mending them.
A pang of something—was it guilt?—flickered through her, but it was quickly chased away by disgust. His efforts felt spineless to her now, his saccharine attempts at charm hollow and grating. If only he knew, she thought bitterly. If he had even the faintest inkling of what she had done, of the unspeakable act that hung between her and Jonathan, would he still try so hard?
She glanced at him again, this time through narrowed eyes, noticing the way his forehead creased as he juggled a response to the voice on the speakerphone. He was trying to be sweet with her, slipping in an occasional wink or soft smile as if to assure her they were fine. But she saw through it all.
The kitchen had become a symphony of noise, a chaotic swirl of sizzling garlic, chopping knives, and Michael's fragmented sentences. Amid it, Jillian's phone buzzed in her pocket, a sharp interruption to the domestic din. As Michael gestured toward a bowl of chopped herbs, still engrossed in his call, she fished out her phone, her curiosity piqued by the series of rapid vibrations.
The screen glowed in her palm, illuminating a cascade of Instagram notifications. Dylan had liked ten of her photos. Jillian's pulse quickened as she swiped through the gallery, each heart icon leading her to an image deliberately chosen. A shot of her reclining on a sunlit beach in a sleek black bikini. Another, from a gallery opening, where the dress clung to her figure, plunging just enough to flirt with propriety. And then that photo—the one taken in a dimly lit room, her face obscured, but the curve of her body and the faint shadow of her nipples visible beneath the gauzy fabric left nothing to the imagination.
Her stomach churned. The realization settled in like a weighted blanket, pressing against her thoughts: Dylan hadn't just stumbled upon these. He had gone looking, retracing the digital breadcrumbs from Mack's post. He must have clicked on the group photo Michael had shared, followed Michael's content back to her account, and delved into her life. It was the same thing she had done to him, albeit with more guarded success; Dylan's account was private, hers was not.
Jillian's mind reeled, a flood of contradictions pulling her in opposing directions. Disgust prickled at the edge of her consciousness—she regretted her oversight in not locking her profile. Yet, beneath the surface, there was an undeniable exhilaration, an electric thrill. The fact that he had searched for her, liked only those photos, wasn't subtle; it was a deliberate choice, a whisper in the void that only she could hear. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, her drowsiness dissolving into sharp awareness.
Dylan's voice echoed in her mind, repeating the words from the beach: sixteen. Could that be true? He looked even younger—his gangly frame and boyish face hinted at fewer years. And yet, even if he was sixteen, he was underage. A child. The label alone sent a cold shiver down her spine, a visceral rejection of the path her thoughts dared to wander.
But what if he had lied? What if, in a bid to seem older, he had tacked on a year or two? The possibility lingered like a faint, troubling whisper, making her sick to her stomach. The mere fact that she was asking herself these questions—that his age was now a labyrinth she was navigating—left her feeling sullied. Dirty. The strangeness of it all twisted in her gut, a tight knot of guilt and shame that no rationalization could untangle.
The kitchen's cacophony seemed to surge around her, amplifying her disorientation, as thoughts ran circles around her. Michael's voice rose in animated agreement with his publisher, a pan clattered as he reached for something, and the knife she had set down earlier scraped noisily against the counter. She quickly slid the phone into her pocket, ignoring the swarm of emotions it had stirred, her movements deliberate. She refused to dwell on it. So what if Dylan had liked her more provocative photos? It wasn't as if they were obscene or indecent. Each one, carefully curated, still adhered to her sense of dignity—a bikini shot on the beach, a slinky dress at a formal event. There was nothing overtly inappropriate about them.
And yet, a flicker of unease tried to creep in, but she swatted it away with a silent scoff. Boys will be boys, she told herself, the age-old refrain ringing hollow even as she invoked it. Was it really that surprising?
Jillian turned her attention back to the cutting board, picking up the peppers she'd been slicing before the notifications had derailed her. The knife moved with mechanical precision, its rhythmic thunk grounding her. Michael looked over, flashing her a distracted smile as he reached for the mussels. "Almost done," he said, the cheer in his voice grating against her frayed nerves. He handed her a sprig of parsley with a wink.
"Thanks," she murmured, forcing a tight smile. The scent of garlic sizzling in olive oil rose, mingling with the briny tang of seafood and the citrus notes from the lemon zest she grated onto the shrimp. She concentrated on these sensory details, willing them to drown out the hum of her thoughts.
Michael's hand brushed hers briefly as he leaned over to grab a pot lid, his touch warm but meaningless. Jillian glanced at him, watching as he stirred the broth with a flourish, his laughter spilling freely into the air as he joked with the publisher about an upcoming event. She could see the hope in his movements, in the careful way he tried to include her despite his distractions.
And yet, as she watched him, the revulsion crept back. He seemed so pathetic. The thought made her grip the knife tighter, her knuckles whitening as she pressed the blade into a stubborn piece of pepper. But she didn't let herself linger there. The kitchen was a stage, and they both had roles to play.
She finished the chopping and slid the vegetables into the pan, the hiss and pop of oil masking the disquiet in her chest. The charade continued, seamless to anyone outside this fractured tableau. But Jillian knew the cracks were there, sharp and jagged beneath the veneer.
"Everything okay?" Michael asked suddenly, breaking his conversation to look at her. His tone was light, distracted, but his eyes lingered for a moment longer than necessary.
Jillian forced a smile, nodding. "Yeah, all is well," she said, her voice steady, though her grip on the knife tightened imperceptibly. She turned her attention back to the cutting board, her thoughts a chaotic jumble as she tried to focus on the mundane task at hand.
By the time dinner was ready, the rhythmic clatter of cutlery and the aroma of garlic and lemon had drawn Jonathan back from the pool bar. He entered with a casual air, his earlier sullenness replaced by a surprising lightness. He settled into his chair and began recounting his game of pool with Mack, offering snippets of banter and the occasional boast about his shots. Jillian listened, her attention caught not so much by what he was saying but by the subtle transformation in his demeanor. The tension that had tethered him earlier had dissolved, replaced by a guarded ease. It left her wondering if his shift in mood was genuine or simply a performance meant to smooth the rough edges of their strained relationship.
Michael, ever the raconteur, dominated the conversation, his voice buoyed by the wine and the momentum of his thoughts. He spoke at length about his new novel, the themes he was wrestling with, and his publisher's guardedly optimistic feedback. Jillian offered the occasional nod or murmured agreement, her face adorned with a polite smile that concealed the emotional distance she felt. She had perfected the art of appearing present while her mind wandered elsewhere, a skill honed through years of dinners like these.
Jonathan chimed in sparingly, his contributions brief but oddly amiable, leaving Jillian further perplexed. Was this newfound civility a peace offering or a fleeting reprieve? She couldn't tell. Michael seemed oblivious to the subtleties, absorbed in his own narrative.
By the time dessert was served—a simple bowl of summer berries drizzled with cream—Jillian felt a weight settle in her chest. The dinner, for all its outward normalcy, had been a carefully choreographed dance of avoidance and superficiality. When she excused herself, citing the need for a walk to ease the fullness in her stomach, Michael had looked at her with a hint of concern masked by a too-bright smile.
"Do you want me to come with you?" he asked, his voice tinged with eagerness.
"No, no," she said quickly, waving him off. "You said you wanted to get back to writing tonight. Go do that. I'll just take a quick lap around the house."
Jonathan mumbled something about heading to his room, already half out of his chair. Within moments, Jillian found herself alone, stepping out into the velvet dusk with the soft click of the door closing behind her.
She followed the familiar trail that circled the property, her steps deliberate yet unhurried, the rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot grounding her thoughts. The path meandered through a cluster of pines before opening onto a small clearing with a view of the coastline below. She stopped, her arms crossed loosely as she gazed out at the waves, their rhythmic crashing against the rocks offering a temporary reprieve from the dissonance within her. Jillian stayed there for a while, letting the breeze tease at her hair, the vastness of the ocean a reminder of how small, how fleeting everything was.
The walk back felt shorter, her steps quicker now as the temperature dropped. The house loomed ahead, its windows glowing softly against the darkening sky. She stepped inside to find it quiet—Michael had probably moved upstairs to write, while Jonathan was most definitely still in his bedroom.
The house held a peculiar stillness, the kind that settles when each inhabitant is locked in their own orbit, disconnected from the others. She paused in the hallway, glancing toward the stairs and then toward the living room, unsure of where to go. The weight of the day lingered on her shoulders, a persistent ache she couldn't shake.
She drifted into the living room, her steps light, almost cautious, as if she were trespassing on her own solitude. The room welcomed her with its quiet familiarity, the faint scent of leather and the lingering traces of salt air that clung to her skin. She lowered herself onto the black leather sofa—the same one she had shared with Jonathan. The memory of Jonathan anchored inside of her, holding her by the hips as he pounded her from the back, prickled at the edges of her consciousness, unwanted yet unshakable.
She didn't bother with the light. The decision came easily, practical in part but deeply instinctual. The darkness offered refuge, a veil she could hide behind, free from the probing presence of Michael or Jonathan. She had no desire to announce her location or to answer questions about why she was there.
Her thoughts churned, restless and unwelcome. She leaned back into the cool embrace of the leather, staring into the shadows that enveloped the room. It wasn't just the day weighing on her—it was the accumulation of moments, decisions, and feelings that had brought her here.
She pulled out her phone, its glow stark against the surrounding darkness. Her fingers instinctively tapped on Instagram, and there it was again—the notifications bar lit up with Dylan's name, a cascade of likes that felt like tiny spotlights cast on her private world. That familiar mix of emotions returned, curling around her chest: a cocktail of dread and exhilaration. What was it about those likes that felt so charged, so inappropriate, yet undeniably flattering?
Her eyes darted to the clock at the top of the screen—10:30 PM. Late, but not too late, she thought absently. As if drawn by an invisible force, her thumb hovered over Dylan's profile picture. The small circle revealed nothing but a cropped, sunlit image—just enough to tease. She clicked on it, her curiosity overriding her better judgment, and was met with the same familiar lock: This Account is Private.
Her finger hovered over the "Follow" button, the weight of the decision suddenly magnified. What would it mean if she clicked it? Would it be noticed, analyzed, reciprocated? The thought sent a thrill through her, but also a sharp pang of self-reproach. She lacked the courage to send the request, retreating instead into safer indecision. She let her thumb fall away, retreating to the home screen of the app.
Just as she was about to close Instagram altogether, a small, red badge caught her eye in the upper right corner—a message notification. Her heart stuttered, her breath caught. She opened her direct messages, and there it was: Dylan. He had sent her a message request. How had she not noticed before?
Her body stiffened as she clicked on it. The message was simple, almost benign: "Your photos are amazing."
She froze, staring at the screen as if it had betrayed her. A thousand thoughts flooded her mind, each more conflicting than the last. What did he mean by that? Was it flirtation, admiration, or something in between? The words seemed harmless on the surface but carried an unmistakable undercurrent that sent her pulse racing.
What was she supposed to do? Ignore it, dismiss it as a juvenile attempt at flattery, or acknowledge it and risk opening a door she wasn't sure she wanted to step through? After what felt like an eternity, she composed herself, determined to respond with the bare minimum. She typed back a single, measured reply: "Thank you."
The message was cold, polite, detached—the exact opposite of how she felt. Yet, she hit "Send" before she could second-guess herself, watching the little check mark appear beside her words. There. It was done.
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately, its pulsating rhythm sending an involuntary jolt through her chest. Then his response came: "You're welcome." A beat passed before another bubble appeared: "What are you up to?"
She stared at the screen, her mind racing. By responding to his initial message, she had cracked open a door that might have been better left shut. Why hadn't she just ignored it? Why had she felt compelled to reply, to maintain the semblance of civility? Now, here she was, trying to navigate the murky waters of a conversation she hadn't intended to have.
Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard, the weight of her next words pressing heavily on her. Finally, she typed, "Not much, just resting," a benign answer, safe and neutral. But before she could stop herself, a misplaced sense of politeness pushed her to add, "And you?"
The reply came swiftly: "Just chilling at home, had a long day at the beach after you left." His words were casual, innocuous, yet they carried an undertone that made her uneasy. As she read them, another notification flashed—a photo.
She opened it, and there he was. Dylan. Shirtless, sprawled on his bed, his tousled hair and tanned skin illuminated by the dim glow of his room. The image was casual yet calculated, meant to seem offhand but clearly intended to make an impression. Her heart began to pound in a chaotic rhythm, an unsettling blend of excitement and shame. What was she doing? Why was she even entertaining this?
Her mind reeled, caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The undeniable flattery of his attention clashed violently with the voice of reason screaming in her head. He was a teenager, possibly even younger than he claimed. And here she was, sitting in her living room, secretly exchanging messages with him. It was absurd. It was wrong. Yet, she couldn't bring herself to cut it off—not yet.
She stared at his photo, unsure of how to react, of what he wanted her to say. After a long pause, she settled on the safest response she could muster. "That's nice," she typed, deliberately ignoring the photo entirely. She hit send and immediately placed her phone face down on the coffee table, but before she could even calm herself, she heard a new vibration ring against the wood.
She picked up her phone again, her finger hesitating before unlocking the screen. Sure enough, a new message from Dylan awaited: "So, tell me a bit more about yourself." The audacity of it made her exhale sharply, a mixture of annoyance and bemusement swirling in her mind. It was obvious he wasn't just looking for a polite exchange. This was his attempt to prolong the conversation, to draw her out into something more substantial than idle pleasantries.
The sheer absurdity of it gnawed at her. What is this kid thinking? she wondered. Did he genuinely believe a 48-year-old woman would be interested in engaging in an actual conversation with a 16-year-old? With someone possibly even younger? The thought was almost laughable, yet it irritated her all the same. It was the brazenness of youth, the reckless confidence that came with knowing so little about the world, about boundaries. For a fleeting moment, she considered shutting it down entirely with a sharp, cutting response. Something that would remind him of his place and hers.
But she hesitated. A streak of curiosity held her back. Perhaps she wanted to understand what his intentions were, what he hoped to achieve by messaging her at all. Maybe it was the same curiosity that had led her to respond in the first place, a need to see where this improbable thread would unravel. Instead of rebuffing him outright, she typed, "What would you like to know?" The words were measured, cool, a deliberate attempt to turn the spotlight back on him.
Her thumb hovered over the send button for a moment longer than necessary before she pressed it. The message sent, she leaned back into the sofa, phone resting loosely in her hand. The room around her felt heavier, the darkness more oppressive, as though her own questions about this interaction were seeping into the walls.
His reply was unexpected, catching her off guard in its simplicity and confidence: "Here's what I suggest. We each ask a question and go around in circles, so we get to know each other better." The directness of it made her pause. He wasn't trying to keep things superficial. No, Dylan was fishing for something more, for an actual exchange—a real conversation that demanded mutual investment.
He actually wants me to be interested in him, she thought, incredulous. The idea that this boy believed he could engage her in such a way was both laughable and oddly disarming. For a brief moment, she wondered what gave him this sense of entitlement, this audacity to propose such a game to her. But then another thought crept in, sly and practical: If I play along, I can finally figure out how old he really is.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she crafted her response, careful to keep her tone neutral, nonchalant, as though she wasn't at all perturbed by this strange proposition. Finally, she typed: "Okay, but under one condition. You have to answer one question I have honestly."
She hit send and waited, the faint hum of anticipation tingling in her chest. It didn't take long for his reply to come through: "Okay." The word blinked on the screen, a single syllable that seemed to thrum with possibility. She felt a strange, electric tension in the air, as though this small exchange was about to tip into something heavier, something with weight.
She typed the question hastily, her fingers pressing each key as if she were running against a timer: "Are you really 16?"The message sent, she stared at the screen, waiting.
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately, a faint pulse of anticipation on the screen. Then it stopped. Then it started again. Then stopped once more. Her mind began to fill the silence with possibilities. He's hesitating. Why? Because he's not 16? Because he's figuring out what to say? She leaned back into the couch, her grip tightening on the phone. The bubble returned, a flicker of movement that teased her patience until, finally, the reply arrived: "No."
Her breath caught. She typed back immediately, her thoughts narrowing to a single, driving question: "How old are you?"
Again, the pause. The same rhythmic dance of the typing bubble—appearing, vanishing, reappearing. Finally, the answer arrived, stark and unavoidable: "15."
The number hung there on the screen, more like a confession than a fact. She stared at it for a long moment, her mind racing through a series of emotions—disbelief, irritation, and something darker she didn't want to name. Gathering herself, she typed her next question: "Why did you lie?" She sent it and waited, her patience stretched thin by the weight of his silence.
The response came, but it wasn't the answer she expected. His message was short, almost defiant in its simplicity: "My turn to ask."
She stared at those three words, the casual shift of control in the conversation both unnerving and audacious. A strange heat rose in her chest, but she forced herself to keep her tone neutral. "Okay," she replied, her curiosity now tempered by the creeping realization that this game was taking on a life of its own.
"Describe yourself in three words," he asked.
The question was surprisingly thoughtful, almost disarming in its simplicity. She paused before typing, considering her answer carefully, knowing this was an opportunity to project a certain image. "Empathic, creative, idealistic," she finally wrote. It was true—or at least, it was the truth she wanted to emphasize. But as she hit send, she couldn't ignore the quiet voice in her mind that questioned if this was who she truly was or simply who she wanted to appear to be.
His reply came quickly, cool and detached: "Nice. Your turn."
She hesitated, suddenly unsure of what to ask. Her curiosity about him had already been sated—she knew his age, and that had been the only question truly burning in her mind. Now, she felt the weight of continuing the game. The thought of it unsettled her; there was an undercurrent of something unspoken here, something she didn't fully understand but couldn't ignore.
Still, she responded, drawing on the tone of his own question to keep things light. "What is your favorite book?"
The typing bubble flickered back to life. "Ender's Game," he replied after a pause.
Her eyebrows raised slightly at the choice. It was a book she had read years ago, a tale of youth, power, and manipulation. It seemed fitting for someone like him. She considered asking him why he liked it, but before she could type, his next message arrived:
"What's your biggest fear?"
She stared at the screen, unsettled. This was no longer playful or innocuous. It was probing, an attempt to peel back layers she wasn't sure she wanted to expose to someone like him. After a moment of deliberation, she typed: "Losing control."
His response came almost instantly: "Interesting. Your turn."
The pace of the game felt quickened now as if he were pushing her to keep up. She scrambled for a question, something neutral but revealing enough to keep the balance. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"I don't know yet. Maybe an architect," he replied. There was a trace of vulnerability in his answer, a reminder that he was still just a boy fumbling through his own uncertainties.
She didn't have time to dwell on this, though, as his next question landed: "What's the most impulsive thing you've ever done?"
Her chest tightened. She knew the answer instantly but didn't dare write it. Instead, she crafted something safe, something that wouldn't give anything away. "Once, I cut my own bangs on a whim. They looked terrible," she typed, hoping humor would deflect the question's weight.
He replied with a laughing emoji and then said, "Your turn."
This time, her question was deliberate, designed to subtly regain control of the conversation. "What's your happiest memory?"
The bubble lingered longer than usual. "Probably a family trip to Italy when I was ten," he finally replied.
His next question caught her off guard, shaking her to her core: "What kind of guys are you attracted to?"
The layers of innocence in this game were wearing thin, and she realized he was no longer just trying to get to know her.
Jillian's reply was cold, her words carefully crafted to draw a hard line: "I'm attracted to my husband." She wanted to shut him down immediately, to block any further probing. But deep down, she knew that the statement was a lie, a white lie woven from the need to protect herself from this conversation—this dangerous, impossible situation. She had to, for her own peace, push away the sickening thought that this was happening at all, that she was being drawn into this disturbing exchange with an underage boy younger than her own son. It was morally wrong, unethical, and, if anyone were to find out, illegal. But Dylan's response was a simple, indifferent "cool." A response that stung in its casualness, as if her rejection meant nothing to him.
Then, without missing a beat, Dylan's typing bubble appeared once more. "Send a selfie, I sent you mine."
A wave of discomfort swept over Jillian. She knew it was wrong. She knew the consequences of indulging him, but there was an overwhelming pressure—an undeniable tension—that hung between them. She couldn't afford to make a scene, not at that moment. The silence on the other side of the screen was thick, and there was a part of her that feared what would happen if she didn't comply. "I can't, I'm in the dark. You won't see anything."
But Dylan was persistent. "Doesn't matter, try."
Her stomach churned, a mixture of disgust and a twisted curiosity, and yet… she complied. A strange, helpless part of her felt trapped as if she were locked into a game she never wanted to play. She lifted the phone, her hand trembling as she positioned it carefully. The only part of her visible was her face, framed down to her shoulders, just enough to avoid any revealing details, just enough to pretend she wasn't giving anything away. With a flick of her thumb, she sent the picture as a disappearing message. "There," she typed, hoping—praying—that the conversation would end. But she knew deep down that it had just taken a darker turn.
"You're very attractive," he remarked, his voice laced with a familiarity that gave her pause. She had anticipated such a comment from him, for why else would he have liked her photos, why else request a selfie? She felt herself detach as she typed a reply: "Thank you." The words felt hollow. Then, like an unwelcome intrusion, the typing bubble flickered back to life. A new message blinked into view: "Could you send another one? Lower the camera. I want to see the rest of you."
A chill swept over her. She was caught off guard, her mind scrambling for a response. Before she could muster the word "No," a new image appeared: it was of him. He had positioned the camera higher, revealing his entire body, lounging in bed, clad only in tight gray boxers revealing something hard and big underneath them. The audacity of it took her breath away, as she felt her pussy dampen.
As if driven by an unseen force, she lifted her phone above herself, her fingers moving almost involuntarily. The lens clicked, capturing her image—a stark contrast to the invasion of the moment. She wore nothing more than a simple white tank top and denim shorts, the fabric unremarkable, yet her cleavage visible.
Without a word, the phone buzzed again. A new selfie from Dylan appeared its arrival as abrupt as the silence that had preceded it. The image was raw, unfiltered, an unspoken demand hanging between them. He had shed his gray boxers down to his knees, revealing his erect cock. He was holding it upright with his left hand. She stared at the screen, her heart quickening, vulva dripping, and mouth dry, as if the distance that separated them had shrunk to nothing in an instant.
"Your turn," he wrote, his words as cold and indifferent as the screen she stared at. An overwhelming heat surged through her, unfamiliar and disorienting. Is this really happening? she asked herself, her pulse quickening. But before she could fully grasp the question, her hand moved of its own accord, capturing a new selfie. It was nearly the same as the last—except now, she had pulled her décolletage down by the hem, partially revealing her breasts.
She couldn't contain herself. An overwhelming sexual excitement, foreign and unsettling, surged through her veins. It wasn't just the sexting—it was the fact that the exchange was with someone so young, so untamed. The realization made her dizzy, her heart pounding in her chest like a frantic drumbeat.
Then, without warning, a video call request flashed across the screen, its sound cutting through the haze of her lust. Without thought, without hesitation, she pressed accept. And there he was, staring back at her—Dylan, face to face, as real and immediate as the breath she was suddenly struggling to take. Without a word, he switched to his back camera, revealing the raw, startling image of his young cock in hand, his fingers gripping it with casual ease. He began to gently masturbate it, pulling back its foreskin with every new stroke. Jillian, caught in a horny impulse, lowered her camera in turn. She began to reveal her small, yet well-formed, delicate tits—perky and nubile. Sliding her fingertip along the edge of her décolletage, gently tugging it downward, she toyed with him, before fully revealing them to him. Next, she began to gently run her thumb over her hardened nipples, before gliding her hand downwards, unbuttoning her denim shorts with two fingers, and slipping it under her drenched panties. She began to pleasure herself, thrusting her index finger inside of herself as she watched Dylan stroke himself faster and faster.
Amid this immoral ecstasy, this morbid indulgence, as she found herself lost in a haze of lust and sexual gratification, the unexpected sound of the door opening upstairs jolted her. Footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing nearer. A light flickered on above, casting a faint glow into the living room, illuminating her like a stage under harsh scrutiny. Her heart seized with terror. She was aghast, mortified beyond measure. In one swift, almost mechanical motion, her thumb ended the video call, severing the connection before either of them could reach orgasm. She buttoned up her shorts and sat frozen for a moment, her breath shallow, her pulse thudding in her ears.
She glanced toward the stairs, her heart sinking as Michael appeared, descending the steps with an easy gait. He caught sight of her and smiled. "When did you get back?" he asked, his tone casual, unaware of the storm that had just passed through her.
She returned the smile, expertly rehearsed, as if nothing were amiss. "An hour or so ago," she said. "I wanted to catch up on a few political columns on my phone."
"Ah, okay," he replied, nodding as he continued down. "I'm just getting some orange juice, then heading to bed."
"Yeah, I'll be up in a sec," she replied, her voice steady, though her mind was far from it.
As Michael disappeared into the kitchen, she feigned concentration on the column before her, her gaze fixed but distant. Beneath the guise of reading, her fingers moved with purpose, unlocking her phone and scrolling to Dylan's Instagram account. With a quick, decisive motion, she blocked him, her finger trembling slightly as the digital barrier went up, sealing him out of her life—at least for now.