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By *omptomp OP Man
12 weeks ago
Maidstone |
Tommy had never thought of himself as the “type” to be scrolling through an adult sex site. He told himself it was curiosity, an itch he’d never scratched, but the truth was simpler, he wanted connection, something raw and real, something that started in the mind before it reached the body. Something he would never find meeting women in bars and pubs in the west end on a Friday night. Most nights, he found himself rolling his eyes at the endless parade of profiles: over-posed selfies, copy-and-paste bios, and a desperation that stank through the screen.
Then he saw her.
Victoria. Posed on horseback, immaculate posture, smile perfectly measured. At the polo, of course. Posh bird through and through, he thought with a grin. Too posh for him, if he was honest. But her other pictures…those were different. Wavy brunette hair tumbling loose around her shoulders, a figure that made
him sit forward in his chair, lips that looked like they were made to test a man’s willpower. He didn’t just glance through them; he studied them. Each photo held something. A spark, a subtle defiance, an unspoken secret.
Without overthinking it, he tapped out a message:
“By the look of your Polo picture I’m probably far too common for you. You look like the kind of girl who’d send me home for not knowing which fork to use at dinner.”
It wasn’t slick. He knew it. But it was honest, cheeky, it was him.
Victoria’s inbox was usually chaos. Hundreds of messages a day, most not worth opening, blurry mirror shots, men bragging about their anatomy, half-literate one-liners. She barely skimmed them anymore. But for some reason, her eyes landed on Tommy’s message. Not the words at first but the photo.
He wasn’t posing, wasn’t pouting, wasn’t trying too hard. Just an easy grin, eyes that seemed to hold something mischievous, alive. She clicked through to his profile, prepared to be underwhelmed. Instead, she felt herself leaning in, devouring line after line. Articulate. Sharp. Funny. Confident without arrogance.
And damn it substance. The kind she’d been craving without even realising it.
Her fingers hovered, heart racing a little. She glanced back at his opening line, laughed under her breath, and typed before she could stop herself:
“It wouldn’t be the first time someone of my stature slept with the stable boy.”
As soon as she hit send, doubt flooded her. Too forward? Too silly? She was about to close the app when the notification pinged. His reply was instant.
“Very true, Lady Chatterley.”
She froze. She hadn’t expected that. Her lips curled into a smile, slow and unguarded. Intrigue pulsed through her.
From that moment, the messages became a current they both surrendered to. Not smut, not crude, just playful teasing, sharp banter, threads of innuendo stitched through hours of conversation. They skipped easily from childhood TV shows to economic policy, trading jokes one minute and confessions the next.
Both intelligent. Both witty. Both hooked.
For Victoria, the site blurred into irrelevance. The other men, the constant dings of new messages,
forgotten. There was only him.
The next evening, she came home, exhaustion tugging at her body but her phone burning in her bag. She should’ve been glowing. She’d been laughing, grinning at his words like a schoolgirl. But as she dropped her keys onto the kitchen table, a sharp wave of unease crashed over her. Nobody is this perfect. Nobody.
Her exes had been polished, entitled, and careless with her heart. She’d been treated like a trophy, not a partner. Tommy was different. Too different. It rattled her.
She slid her phone out, her eyes hovering over his latest message. A message that stopped her breath.
“I can’t stop thinking about kissing you. Not any old kiss. A kiss that will change your life forever.”
Her pulse jumped. Both a thrill and panic tangled her tightly. It was too much, too soon. This must be a trick. He’s too good to be true.
She stuffed the phone back into her bag, got changed, grabbed her running shoes, and bolted out the door. Running was her release, her clarity. But even pounding the pavement, breath burning in her lungs, she couldn’t outrun him. His words, his eyes, the way her chest tightened at the thought of him being real.
When she finally returned, sweat-damp and restless, she stripped off and stepped under the shower, letting hot water batter her skin. She stayed there too long, trying to wash away the doubt, the hope, the terrifying desire that had bloomed so fast.
But the moment she stepped out, towel wrapped tight, she found herself walking straight to her bag. She opened the app, intention firm: block him, delete her profile, move on. Better to cut it off now rather than be made a fool of later.
Then she saw it. His new message.
“Did I say something wrong? I’m really sorry if I did.”
Her chest tightened. Frustration, fear, relief. All tangled. Fuck it, she muttered under her breath. Fingersflying, she typed honesty she hadn’t planned to give. She told him the truth: that it felt too perfect, that she was scared, that if it was some cruel trick, it was unforgivable. She hit send, heart hammering, certain she’d never hear from him again.
The reply came fast.
“I promise I’m 100% real. This isn’t a trick. Honestly, I thought you might be one of the lads from the pub out to get a picture of my Hampton so they could pin it up on the wall on down the local.”
She burst into a laugh despite herself. Bloody infuriating man. He was making jokes when she was being serious. But before she could form her reply, another message appeared.
“Let me prove it. FaceTime me”
Another message shortly followed with his number.
Her heart stopped. The world narrowed. She froze. |
