Felicity gets a reply

Three excruciating minutes later, the notification popped up: *A girl who knows what she’s asking for. Who lets me take control without playing games.* My breath hitched. Too close. The next bubble appeared: *Who begs prettily when I stretch her open.*

The screen blurred as my pulse roared in my ears. My thumbs hovered—shaking now—before typing: *Sounds like you’ve done this before.* A beat. Then: *Are you married?*

The typing bubble appeared instantly. James’ reply was brutally simple: *Yes.*

I exhaled through my nose, watching the cursor blink as my fingers hovered. Upstairs, Bella’s bedroom door slammed—her laughter drifting down with the thud of bass from her speakers. The perfect cover. My next message was deliberate: *Does she know you like tight, obedient girls?*

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. My thumb traced the edge of the phone—right where his wedding band had dug into my thigh in the garden. When his reply came, it was a single word: *No.*

Heat flooded my cheeks. I pressed my thighs together under the table, the lace thong dampening further. The app showed him still typing—those three pulsing dots stretching like ****—until another message popped up: *She doesn’t touch me. Hasn’t in months.*

My fingers trembled as I typed back: *And you touch yourself thinking about girls like me?*

The reply came faster this time: *Every fucking night.*

My breath caught in my throat, fingers tapping the screen before sanity could intervene: *Anyone specific? Or just… any tight little thing that begs for it?* The words burned on my tongue—too bold, too revealing—but the damage was done. The typing bubble pulsed like a live wire. Down the hall, a chair scraped—James shifting impatiently.