Yes tell her to finger herself

You unlock the phone. The glow of the screen illuminates your face in the dark room. Your fingers move with a certainty that surprises you. "Show me," you type. "Show me how you take care of loud thoughts." You pause, then add, "Prove that bra is more than just for show." You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

The wait is agonizing. A minute. Two. You're half-convinced she's fallen asleep, or worse, that your message was too crass, too demanding. Then, a new notification. Another video.

You press play, holding your breath. This one is shorter. The camera angle is lower, pointed down her body. You can't see her face, only the pale skin of her stomach and the pink lace of her panties. One of her hands disappears beneath the fabric. For a few seconds, nothing happens. Then her hips give a slow, deliberate roll. The movement is subtle, intimate. No sound, but you can hear it in your head anyway a soft, slick rhythm that matches the gentle rocking on the screen. The video is only fifteen seconds long before it cuts to black, leaving you with the image of her hand, still and possessive, beneath the lace.

Your breath catches. The warmth in your chest is now a furnace. Your own boxer briefs feel suddenly tight. This is no longer just flirting. This is a line being drawn in the sand, and you've just hurdled over it. You look at Ava again, a pang of real, sharp guilt piercing through the haze. This is the woman who trusted you, who lay beside you **** and trusting, while you conduct this silent, sordid transaction in the dark.

The phone buzzes once more. A simple text. "Your turn?"

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