I just want to make this clear, at least to myself: I love my husband, and I would never leave him.
That is never going to change, and I’ve never wavered on that, even when I started crossing lines I swore I’d never cross.
I never fell for Caleb. It was never about that.
It was about the thrill, the escape, the attention I wasn’t getting. His first message wasn’t on a public post; it went straight to my spam folder in Messenger. I have this weird habit of checking that folder randomly, just to see what kind of junk ends up there. That’s how I saw it. A simple message from a stranger:
“You’re a little cutie. I’d love to get to know you better.”
I saw it, rolled my eyes, and ignored it for months. Typical spam message from guys who saw a selfie I posted and figured it gave them the green light to message me. Caleb was just another random guy, a faceless profile from across the world. But one night, bored and restless, I scrolled back, found his message, and replied without thinking much of it.
He replied almost instantly. That was the start of it.
Days turned into weeks, then months. Caleb was easy to talk to. Maybe too easy. I told him about my job, my boring routines, my little frustrations. He told me about the city, the constant grey drizzle, the pubs, the rush-hour chaos, his late nights; his accent slipping into messages with certain words. I heard it in my head when I read them, that soft, rounded Italian warmth wrapped inside crisp London slang.
I told him I was married early on. I dropped it in like it was nothing, like a casual detail. He didn’t disappear.
He just said, “Then I’ll behave. Mostly.”
I should’ve stopped there. I didn’t. Over time, our chats shifted. My selfies got a little more deliberate. A lower neckline. A tighter dress. A sexy new lingerie nightie. A shot from behind where I knew my ass looked good. I told myself it didn’t mean anything—it was just fun, just attention. But he noticed everything.
“That angle is dangerous,” he wrote once. *”You know I’m obsessed with that ass, right? I would love to take you over my knee and spank you.”
I stared at that line way too long. My face felt hot. My stomach did that guilty flip. And still, I took another picture. A little more explicit one. I sent it.
He started asking to call. Then, after that, to video call. I shut that down for months.
I HATE video calls—always have. I don’t like seeing myself on screen, don’t like feeling trapped, watched. Messages were safe. Pictures, even the spicy ones, still felt like they belonged to me. A video felt like stepping over a line I couldn’t pretend wasn’t there.
Caleb didn’t push. Not exactly. He just kept teasing. “One day I’m going to see you,” he’d write.
“I want to see your face when you laugh. I want to see your eyes when you look at me. I want to know how you look when you’re thinking. I want to see your smile for real.
And then, more bluntly: “I want to watch how your body reacts when I talk to you. I want to see that perfect ass jiggle.”
I answered with sarcasm, with emojis, with deflections: my husband is home; I’m busy. Anything.
But late at night, lying in bed with my phone glowing in my hand, the idea crept under my skin and settled there. What would it actually feel like, seeing him looking back at me? Hearing that accent say my name in real time, instead of reading it?
The first time I finally did it, I was at work. I don’t know what possessed me that day. Maybe it was the way the afternoon dragged into evening. Maybe it was the way my phone lit up with his message: “I need to hear your voice. Just for a minute.”
I was alone in the break room, the lights dimmed, the main glow coming from my phone and the vending machine in the corner. I stared at the screen for a long time before I hit the call button. He didn’t answer at first. I almost lost my nerve. Waited a moment, then tried again. This time, he picked up after four rings. My heart leapt into my throat.
“Ciao,” he said, and my whole body reacted to that one word. That accent—soft and warm and rolling—was real now, not imagined. His hair was a little messy, his stubble darker than I’d pictured, his smile slow and genuine.
“There you are,” he said, and it came out like he’d been waiting a very long time. I wanted to hide. I wanted to stare. I did both. I laughed too loudly. My cheeks were hot. I tucked hair behind my ear that didn’t need tucking. I told him I looked terrible, that the lighting was awful, that I never did this.
He just shook his head. “Sei bellissima,” he said, then repeated in English before I could ask. “You’re beautiful. Just like I knew you would be.”
The call didn’t last long. I couldn’t handle it. I kept glancing toward the door, terrified someone would walk in and see me grinning like an idiot at my phone. We talked about nothing—the weather, his commute, my coffee—but I felt wired for hours afterwards. When I hung up, my hands were shaking.
And then, that night, I called him again. I was home from work, the house quiet and empty. My husband had texted that he’d be home about 10 minutes later than usual. I’d showered, put on something soft and simple, something that wouldn’t look like I was trying to hard, but made me feel pretty. It was quiet without my husband around. The kind of quiet that can turn into anything. My phone buzzed with his name, and before I could talk myself out of it, I hit video call.
He answered, lying on his bed, propped on one elbow, that same slow smile blooming when he saw me. “Twice in one day,” he said. “I must be very lucky.
Or very stupid, I thought. My heart thudded, but I didn’t hang up. We talked at first like we always did, but there was a new weight in the pauses. His eyes moved over me the way they’d moved over my pictures. I could feel him looking at my mouth, my collarbone, the way my top clung to my curves.
“Stand back,” he said eventually, voice softer, like he was afraid to break something delicate. “Let me see you.”
I hesitated. Then I did. I set the phone down, stepped back so he could see all of me. His eyes darkened instantly. “Gorgeous,” he said. “Turn around for me.”
My stomach flipped. I turned. I knew exactly what he was looking at. My ass had been his obsession for months—every compliment, every request, every half-joking, half-serious plea for another angle. I felt exposed in a way no photo had ever made me feel. My skin prickled.
“Perfect,” he murmured. “Stay there.”
When I looked back at the screen, his expression had changed. He was breathing a little harder. His hand had disappeared out of frame, and I knew, I just knew, it was wrapped around his cock. My pulse kicked up again, guilt and heat tangling until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
“Come closer,” he said. “Show me more.”
I should’ve said no. Instead, I picked up the phone and brought it with me to the bed. I sat down, the mattress dipping under my weight, and set the phone against the pillows, angled so he could see me from mid-thigh up. My fingers felt clumsy as I hooked them under the hem of my top.
“Are you sure?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He smiled, soft and devastating. “I have been thinking about this for over a year,” he said. “But if you say stop, I stop. Always.”
That line settled some part of me. Not the guilt—that stayed—but the fear. I nodded. I peeled my top off slowly, feeling his gaze track every inch of exposed skin. His praise came in a murmur—“Absolutely beautiful… stunning… oh god, look at you…”—each word making it easier to keep going. My bra. My shorts. Everything. Until it was just me, naked on my bed, lit by the soft glow of my bedside lamp, with a man in London staring at me like I was the only thing that existed.
“Turn around,” he said again, voice lower now. “You know what I need to see.”
I swallowed and moved, kneeling up and turning so my back faced the camera. I bent forward slightly, feeling utterly exposed, knowing he could see everything. The air felt cooler on my skin; my body felt too hot everywhere else.
“Breathtaking,” he murmured. “Touch yourself for me.”
My cheeks burned, and my breath hitched. My hand trembled as I reached between my thighs. I was already slick—of course I was. Months of flirting, of pictures, of thoughts I refused to name, all funneled into this one impossible, reckless moment. On the screen, I could hear his breathing, see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders shifted. The thought of him stroking himself to the sight of me made my own fingers glide through my wetness with an easy, aching familiarity.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “Let me hear you.”
Time twisted. There was just the slick sound of my fingers circling my clit, my own quiet breaths turning into soft, helpless sounds, his accent-laced praise filling my ears. He talked me through it in a low, urgent voice—telling me how beautiful I looked, how much he wished he could be there, how crazy my body drove him.
Somewhere in the distance, a car rolled by. A dog barked. And in the back of my mind, a clock started ticking. My husband would be home soon. Less than twenty minutes. I knew his route. I knew his habits. I knew exactly how long it took his truck to get from his work to the driveway. The thought should have made me stop. Instead, it made everything sharper, faster, hotter.
“I want you to come for me,” he said, voice rough now. “Right now. I want to see your face when you do it. Turn back around.”
I did, breathless, flipping to face the camera again, my hand still working between my legs. My hair was a mess, my cheeks flushed, my chest rising and falling too fast. He looked wrecked, too, jaw tight, eyes dark, his arm moving rhythmically just out of frame.
“For me,” he urged. “Come for me, baby girl. Before he gets home.”
The way he said it—soft, almost tender, and yet edged with something wicked—pushed me over. My body clenched, pleasure crashing through me in hot waves. I bit down on a moan and failed, a sharp, raw sound tearing out of my throat as I came.
His name was on my lips, not my husband’s. He followed seconds later, a harsh groan, eyes squeezing shut, his body going tense as he shuddered through his release. For a moment, we just stared at each other, both breathing hard, the line between screens and real life blurred to nothing.
Then I heard it. The low, unmistakable rumble of a truck turning into the driveway. Every drop of blood in my body seemed to rush to my ears at once. I scrambled for the nearest shirt, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
“I have to go,” I whispered, fingers fumbling at the edges of the screen.
His expression shifted instantly, concern cutting through the haze. “Message me later,” he said quickly. “Tell me you’re okay.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how. I just ended the call.
I stood there for a heartbeat, half-dressed, pulse still tripping over itself, the taste of his name still on my tongue, my body still buzzing with aftershocks and guilt.
Then I pulled the shirt down, smoothed my hair with shaking hands, and went to meet my husband at the door.
