Lena.
My heart misfires. She has not texted me once in all these years. I have texted her.
Birthdays, a couple of check-ins, some attempt at an apology that never got past the first line on her end.
She never blocked my number, but she never answered, either. We live in that strange place between silence and possibility.
I tap the notification and the chat opens.
The photo hits me first.
Full screen. No warning. No lead-in.
Lena, naked, one hand cupping her breast. Hair loose around her shoulders. Lips swollen and parted. Cheeks flushed. Eyes heavy and fixed on the camera.
Every curve I remember is fuller now, more grounded, more woman. She'ssobeautiful.
Every part of my body wakes up at once. Heat slams through my gut. My hand tightens around the phone until my knuckles go white.
I know her. I know that belly. Those hips. Those breasts.
I know how they feel in my palms, against my chest, under my mouth. I know the sounds she makes when I push her past the edge.
For five years I have carried those details in a locked room in my head. Suddenly, the door is wide open.
My cock is already thick in my pants. There is no point pretending I am above this. I drag the phone closer, swallow hard, and shove my free hand under my waistband.
I am hard enough that it feels like a punch when my fingers close around myself.
The reaction my body gives is enough to make me forget I'm a grown man, not a teenager in a barracks.
I stroke myself fast, rough, no finesse, eyes fixed on the picture of her touching herself. I hear the echo of her voice in my head, the way she said my name the first time I pushed into her. My muscles tighten.
Breath saws in my chest. It takes less than a minute.
When I come, it is sharp and hard and leaves me sagging against the couch, lungs dragging for air. I sit there panting, pants half open, phone still lit in my hand, and shame hits right on the tail of release.
I pull myself together, literally and otherwise, and head to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.
Then I take a harsh look in the mirror.
I have gray at my temples now, deeper lines around my mouth. A chest that is still solid because I keep it that way, but the work shows.
I look like a man who knows better than to jerk off to a woman who has made it very clear she's done with him, through no fault of her own. I did that to her.
Back on the couch, I pick up the phone again. The photo is still there. Under it, the message I ignored in the rush.
Freshly creamed but starving for cock. Come over.
My jaw locks. The heat in my gut shifts into something heavier.
She did not send that to me on purpose.
I scroll up. The last entry in this thread is mine, from a few months ago.Can we just talk? No answer.
Nothing between that night and this photo.
I know how phones work.
