New Task

Julia pushed her plate away, the remnants of salmon and asparagus barely touched, her appetite vanished under the weight of the day. Dinner had been quiet—Riley chattering about some drama with her friends, Nick glued to his phone, Angela out with her sorority sisters. William was still abroad, oblivious as ever. Julia had smiled through it all, nodding at the right moments, but her mind was elsewhere: the headmaster's earlier praise ("Good girl") still echoing, Chloe's whisper in the parking lot heating her cheeks, the Snapchat username she'd betrayed her daughter with burning like a brand.

She cleared the table mechanically, loaded the dishwasher, and retreated to the living room with a glass of pinot noir. The kids scattered—Riley to her room for "homework," Nick to game online. Julia sank into the oversized sectional, staring out at the darkening yard where Tony had probably finished his work hours ago. Her phone buzzed on the cushion beside her, sharp and insistent. She knew before looking.

Unknown Number: Next task, slut. Get Riley to text this number. Tell her it's a hot guy from school she should flirt with. Don't let her know it's me. Do it now.

Julia's wine glass trembled in her hand. She reread the message, stomach churning. Riley—her baby girl, even at eighteen, wild and rebellious but still hers to protect. Texting him? Flirting unknowingly with the man who'd just used Julia's mouth like a toy, who held Riley's expulsion over their heads? Images flashed: Riley's bikini-clad body by the pool, her daughter's trusting eyes, the Snapchat app Julia had violated that afternoon. No. She couldn't drag Riley into this filth, couldn't pimp her out even indirectly. But disobeying… what would he do? Expose her? Ruin Riley anyway?

Her thumbs hovered, then typed: I can't. Please, Master. Not her. Anything else.

The reply was swift: Unknown Number: You forget your place, whore. Do it or Riley's out of school tomorrow. And I'll send your husband pictures of you **** on my cock.

Julia's breath caught, panic spiking hot through her veins. She paced the room, wine forgotten, mind racing. Beg him. Offer something else. Her body, her humiliation, anything but Riley.

She texted back: Please, Sir. I'll do whatever you want. Just not involving my daughter. Use me instead.

A pause, then,

Unknown Number: Fine. New task. Blow your neighbor's college-aged son. The one home on break—I've seen him around. Get proof. By midnight. Or the deal's off.

Julia froze, staring at the screen. Ethan, the boy next door, nineteen, lanky and handsome in that awkward post-high-school way, home from UCLA for the week. She'd seen him mowing the lawn shirtless, muscles rippling under sun-kissed skin, and felt a forbidden spark more than once since her awakening. Blowing him? In her own neighborhood? Nervous sweat prickled her skin; her pussy clenched at the degradation, the risk, the sheer audacity. Midnight—less than three hours. What if he refused? What if someone saw?

But the alternative, losing everything, dragging Riley down, was worse. She typed back, fingers shaking: Yes, Master. I'll do it by 12.

Unknown Number: Good slut. Send video proof. Clock's ticking.