Mara

The first picture shouldn’t have been a big deal.

It was just me in my bathroom, hair still damp from the shower, my robe hanging open enough to show a triangle of lace and the top curve of my chest. Not nude. Not even that daring. But the fact that my thumb hovered over send for a full ten seconds made my pulse thud like it had somewhere to be.

Graham’s name sat at the top of the screen. His last message — from two hours ago — was still there.

Made it back to the hotel. You alive over there, trouble?

Trouble.

He’d said it with a smile earlier too, as we’d stood in the lobby bar of the conference hotel pretending we were just two strangers chatting politely. He was older — not in a way that made him feel distant, but in a way that made him feel settled. Salt-and-pepper at his temples. Calm eyes. Hands that didn’t fidget when he spoke.

He’d asked about my job like it mattered. He’d listened like it mattered more. And when I’d teased him about being “too composed,” he’d leaned in just enough to make my breath catch and said, softly, “Composed is different than controlled.”

It had been hours and I could still feel the warmth of that sentence.

I looked at myself in the mirror again. The lace was black. My skin looked flushed. My mouth looked like I’d been thinking about being kissed.

Maybe I had.

I hit send.

The bubble whooshed away. Delivered. Then the little indicator: Seen.

My stomach dipped so hard it felt like missing a stair.

And then his reply came.

You’re going to ruin my sleep.

I bit my lip, smiling before I could stop myself.

Is that a complaint? I typed.

Three dots appeared, vanished, appeared again — the visual equivalent of someone taking a slow breath.

Not a complaint.
But if you’re going to distract me, you should do it properly.

The words were calm. Measured. Like him. And they lit a match behind my ribs.

I walked back into my bedroom, dimmed the lamp until the room looked like honey, and held my phone up again.

If properly meant “more,” I could do more.

I slid the robe off one shoulder. Took another photo — this one with my face half in shadow, eyes looking straight into the camera, the lace more obvious, the robe more absent.

I sent it before I could talk myself out of it.

This time he didn’t answer immediately. The delay made it worse.

I imagined him in his room: tie loosened, sleeves rolled, glasses off, that composed mouth tightening at the corners as he looked at what I’d given him. I imagined him deciding whether to be careful with me… or not.

Finally:

Better.
Now tell me the truth. Are you doing this because it’s fun… or because you want me to tell you what to do?

My cheeks went hot.

It was ridiculous — two adults, separated by hallways and floors, playing with words like they were fingers. But the question landed like it knew something about me I hadn’t said out loud.

I stared at the screen.

Then typed:

I want you to tell me what to do.

Graham

Her confession hit me lower than it had any right to.

I’d been sitting at the little desk by the window with an expense report open, pretending I had discipline. Then her first photo arrived and discipline became a memory.

Mara wasn’t just pretty — she was alive. All sharp curiosity and soft edges. She wore confidence like a dare, but there was something under it that felt like trust if you handled it right. And if you handled it wrong, it would feel like theft.

So I didn’t rush.

I read her words again: I want you to tell me what to do.

My thumb hovered.

The temptation was to go straight for the filth. To see how far she’d go if I tugged on the right thread. But I’d learned, with time, that what really undid a person wasn’t crude language.

It was being seen.

I typed slowly.

Then we do it on your terms.
You can stop whenever you want. Say “red,” and I stop immediately. Understood?

Her reply came fast.

Understood.

Good girl—no. Not yet. Not until she chose it.

I looked at her second photo again. The shadows. The deliberate gaze. The open robe like an invitation she was trying to pretend wasn’t one.

I let myself enjoy it for a moment. Then:

Stand in front of the mirror.
Turn the light down like you did for that photo.
And take a picture that shows me what you look like when you’re trying to be brave.

There. A challenge without a command. A doorway without a shove.

The dots appeared instantly.

Then:

You’re dangerous.

I smiled to myself, because she was the one about to be in trouble.

Mara

My hands were shaking, which made me laugh quietly because… seriously?

I was in my own room. Alone. Safe. And yet I felt like I was about to step onstage.

I turned the lamp down even more. My bedroom became a soft blur of gold and shadow. I stood in front of the mirror, robe open, lace catching the light.

“What does brave look like?” I murmured to myself.

Brave looked like my shoulders back.

Brave looked like my chin lifted.

Brave looked like choosing to be watched.

I took the picture — full-length, mirror shot, the robe falling open enough to show lace and skin, my thighs bare, my expression steady even as my stomach flipped.

Then, because I was apparently a lunatic, I took another: closer, angled, my mouth parted like I’d been interrupted mid-breath.

I sent both.

I waited. My body hummed with anticipation like a phone on vibrate.

Seen.

Then:

There you are.

Three words, and I swore my knees went soft.

Another message followed:

You’re not just brave. You’re beautiful.
Now… do you want to keep teasing me, or do you want me to make you ache?

I swallowed.

The way he wrote — calm, confident, like he didn’t have to raise his voice to take control — made heat coil low in my belly.

Make me ache, I typed, and my thumb hovered, then added: please.

This time he waited long enough to make my breath stutter.

Then:

Good.
Take the robe off.
Keep the lace.
And send me a photo that you would never let a stranger have.

My entire body flushed at the word stranger, because that was exactly what we were. We’d talked for two nights in a hotel bar, exchanged numbers like it was casual, and now I was standing in my room with my robe in my hands feeling like I’d been waiting for this for years.

I let the robe slip to the floor.

The lace felt suddenly like a confession.

I took the photo from the side, my silhouette in the mirror: the curve of my hip, the slope of my waist, the straps against my skin. It was intimate without being vulgar — the kind of image that made my heart race because it felt like something private had become shared.

I sent it.

The seen came instantly.

No reply.

No reply.

And then—finally:

That’s not for strangers, he wrote.
That’s for me.

I pressed my fingers against my mouth to keep from making a sound.

Then he sent another message:

Touch yourself.
Not for the camera — for you.
Tell me what you’re thinking while you do.

My breath caught.

I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in my hand, the room quiet except for the rain tapping the window. I could feel my heartbeat everywhere.

I typed:

I’m thinking about you watching.
About you telling me I’m yours for this.
About how I’d behave if you were here.

My face burned after I hit send.

And then his reply arrived like a hand at the small of my back.

That’s it.
Slow.
Let it build.
And if you want to send me one more… make it something I’ll replay in my head tomorrow.

I lifted the phone again, hands unsteady, and took a short video — not explicit, but suggestive: the lace, my breathing, the way my body moved as if guided by something I couldn’t resist. My face turned away at the last second, like I was trying not to reveal how much I wanted it.

I sent it.

And then I put the phone down and let myself fall into the feeling.

No rushing. No performance. Just the heat, the tension, the quiet pleasure of being guided by his words while alone, the way desire could fill a room without anyone else in it.

My breathing turned ragged. My thoughts went soft and messy, all Graham’s voice in my head — composed, controlled, urging.

When my phone buzzed, I snatched it up like it was oxygen.

Graham

Her video made me inhale through my teeth.

Not because it showed everything — it didn’t. It didn’t have to. It showed enough: the lace, the movement, her breath. The undeniable fact that she was doing exactly what I’d told her, in her own room, because she wanted to.

That was the part that got me.

I’d been careful in my phrasing, careful in my pace, but there was no pretending I wasn’t affected. My control was a suit I wore well, but it was still just clothing. Underneath it, my body reacted like any man’s.

I typed back:

You’re being very good for me.

Then I paused. Considered. Added:

Tell me when you’re close.
I want to know.

The dots appeared almost immediately.

I’m close, she wrote. I can’t… I can’t stay quiet.

I stood up from the desk and moved toward the window, looking out at the lights smeared by rain. My room felt suddenly too small for the amount of want in it.

I wrote:

Then don’t.
Let yourself.
And when it happens, I want you to tell me exactly one honest thing: what you wished I’d done to you.

A few seconds passed.

Then:

Okay.

And then silence.

The silence was the loudest part — the stretch where I knew she was on the edge, where my own restraint frayed.

I let myself follow her there, guided by the images she’d sent and the way she’d written please like it was a gift.

When my phone finally buzzed, I looked down so fast I nearly dropped it.

Mara

My hands were trembling when I picked up the phone.

My whole body felt boneless, warm, wrung-out in the best way. I stared at the screen for a second, blinking like I’d just woken up.

Then I typed, because he’d asked. Because I wanted him to know.

I couldn’t hold it back.
I just— I finished.

Even writing it made my face flush again, like the moment was still happening.

And then I added the one honest thing:

I wished you’d had me up against the window.
Like you owned the view.

I hit send and exhaled shakily, half-laughing into my pillow.

The reply came so quickly it felt like he’d been waiting with his finger poised.

Graham

Her message made my chest go tight.

Not because it was crude — it wasn’t. It was intimate. It carried the image of her against the glass, rain outside, my hand steady at her hip, her mouth open with a sound she couldn’t keep in.

And it pushed me the last few inches.

I typed back with a steadiness I didn’t entirely feel:

Good.
I’m glad you let yourself.

Then, because she deserved honesty too:

You’re not the only one.
I did too.

I stared at that sentence for a long moment before I sent it. It felt like a confession — not shameful, just real. A bridge between two rooms.

I hit send.

Then I added:

Sleep now, Mara.
Tomorrow we go back to being polite strangers in the lobby.
But tonight… you were mine, and you knew it.

Mara

I read it twice.

Three times.

My body softened all over again, the afterglow turning into something sweeter, heavier. I didn’t know if we’d ever do this again. I didn’t know if it was a one-night heat-haze that would evaporate with daylight.

But I knew one thing:

He had made me feel chosen.

I typed back:

Goodnight, Graham.
I did know it.

And then I turned my phone face down, hugged the pillow to my chest, and let sleep take me with the rain still tapping at the window like applause.