Page 5 of Sexting the Silverfox Daddy

Cassie

The late-night cold cut through me like tiny ice needles, piercing my exposed neck and arms, instantly shattering the warm buzz I'd carried out of the bar. I pulled my thin, worn jacket tighter and practically sprinted to the entrance of my run-down apartment building.

The whole way home, everything that had happened at the bar flashed through my mind like movie clips—my coworkers cheering, Susan's excited face, that crazy game of truth or dare, and that mysterious contact I'd randomly selected with my eyes closed.

That "G," and that suggestive text and photo I'd sent.

Jesus Christ, I actually did that!

The key scraped harshly in the lock, and I pushed open the creaky door to be hit with that familiar smell—cheap air freshener mixed with musty old furniture. Exhaustion settled over me like a wet, heavy blanket, wrapping me from head to toe.

I kicked off those damn heels that had been murdering my feet all night, my bare soles hitting the cold floor as I collapsed into that squeaky single armchair in the living room. But I couldn't relax. That text I'd sent was like a splinter, digging deep into my thoughts.

Now that the alcohol was wearing off, I was starting to feel seriously uneasy about my impulsive behavior. Was I completely insane, sending that kind of message and photo to someone I didn't even know?

After sitting in silence for what felt like forever, I turned to glare at my phone lying on the coffee table like some kind of ticking time bomb. Finally, hesitantly, I reached for it. My fingertips touched the cold screen and dragged it over. The screen lit up. Unlocked.

I froze.

New message.

From G.

My heart instantly started racing as I shakily opened the chat.

G: Sending such tempting invitations to strangers in the middle of the night, little rose—you sure you're ready to face the consequences? Good girls should know that playing with fire usually burns hotter than they imagine.

Little Rose—that nickname made my cheeks instantly burn red. Not an angry lecture, not cold rejection, but some kind of playful teasing?

He wasn't mad. He actually seemed... interested?

My fingers trembled above the screen. Logic told me I should apologize, explain it was all a game misunderstanding, then delete this number and pretend nothing happened. But...

God, what should I say?

My finger hovered over the keyboard, my mind spinning. Apologize? Explain? Or respond?

Me: I'm sorry, this was a mistake —I started typing, then deleted it.

Me: It was just a friend's prank —deleted that too.

Me: I... —deleted again.

In my panic, I accidentally tapped the text box, then accidentally hit the period key.

Me: .

Even worse, before I realized what happened, my thumb reflexively hit send.

Oh my God! I just sent this mysterious man a period! A fucking period!

What did that look like? Like I was thinking? Hesitating? Or deliberately playing hard to get?

I covered my face with both hands, my cheeks burning like they were on fire. That lonely period on my phone screen seemed to mock my stupidity.

Less than a minute later, my phone buzzed.

New message from the same contact.

G: Don't think you can send a text and run away. The game's just getting started, my rose.

I sucked in a sharp breath, nearly dropping the phone. His tone carried threat, teasing, and some kind of irresistible command. Like he could sense my hesitation and was deliberately pushing me forward.

This text was like a key, instantly unlocking that room deep in my heart that rational thought had kept sealed tight. All the suppressed impulses, all the dissatisfaction with my bland life, all the craving for excitement—it all came flooding out like a dam burst.

G. What kind of man was behind this mysterious letter? That natural authority, that tone of complete control—it made me automatically picture him as maybe a successful businessman, or someone with serious power.

The anonymity gave me courage I'd never had before. In this virtual space, I was no longer Cassie the by-the-book kindergarten teacher. I could be anyone, do anything. Nobody knew who I was, and nobody would judge me.

I took a deep breath and started moving my fingers across the screen. Delete, retype, delete again. What should I say? How do you respond to obvious provocation like that?

Finally, an almost self-destructive kind of courage took over. I typed my reply:

Me: Maybe I want to play with fire. You brave enough to play with me?

The instant I hit send, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. What had I done? I actually replied! And with that kind of challenging tone!

The phone screen went dark, the living room falling back into shadows. I curled up on the couch, hugging my knees tight, waiting for his response. Time crawled by, each second feeling like a century.

Three minutes later, the phone lit up again.

G: Playing with fire?

His reply was sharp and cutting, like a gleaming blade.

G: You better be sure you're not afraid of getting burned, rose. I'm a dangerous man.

My breathing immediately became rapid. Dangerous—what did that word contain? Was it a threat or a promise? And why, when I should have felt fear, was I experiencing this unprecedented excitement instead?

Me: Dangerous men are more interesting.

My fingers trembled slightly from nerves.

Me: At least more interesting than all the boring-as-hell people I usually meet.

He replied quickly.

G: People you usually meet? Sounds like you're pretty unsatisfied with your current life. Tell me, what makes you so bored?

This question hit right at the heart of my pain. I looked around—broken-down furniture, faded curtains, my dusty violin case in the corner. This was my life, day after day of repetition, no passion, no surprises, no hope.

Me: Same old job, same old life. Every day, I know exactly what's going to happen tomorrow, next month, even next year. Like being trapped in a transparent cage where I can see the outside world but never touch it.

Silence for a few minutes, then he replied:

G: Then tonight, let me get you out of that cage. Tell me, what are you wearing right now?

This sudden shift caught me completely off guard. From philosophical discussion to such an intimate question in an instant—it made my cheeks burn red. But wasn't this exactly what I wanted? This unpredictability, this dangerous thrill?

I looked down at myself—in my rush to get home, I hadn't even changed clothes. I was still wearing that plain shirt dress from work with a thin cardigan over it.

Me: A black shirt dress and a thin cardigan. Pretty ordinary, the kind I wear to work.

G: Take off the cardigan.

I stared at the screen. What was this? An order? But my body seemed to have a will of its own. I stood up and slowly slipped off the cardigan, letting it fall to the floor.

Me: It's off. Now I'm just wearing the dress.

G: Good. Now sit down and tell me how you feel. Don't lie.

I sat back on the couch, suddenly aware that without the cardigan's coverage, the thin dress fabric against my skin felt unusually vivid. I could feel my heartbeat, feel blood flowing through my veins, feel a sensitivity I'd never experienced before.

Me: It feels strange. Just taking off a cardigan but it feels like I've exposed so much more. My skin feels really sensitive, my heart's beating fast.

I paused, unsure whether I should mention that flutter rising deep in my stomach.

G: Anything else? Tell the truth, good girl. Honesty is more attractive than technique.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Anonymous courage surged up again.

Me: There's also this empty feeling deep in my body, like I'm craving something.

G: Craving what?

This question exploded like a bomb, instantly blasting through the last wall in my heart. My fingers hovered over the screen, trembling, hesitating. Should I say it? Should I admit it?

Me: Craving to be touched by a strong, dangerous man.

The moment I sent it, I almost threw the phone away. This was insane! What was I saying to a complete stranger?

But the phone buzzed again, and his reply made my blood practically boil:

G: A strong, dangerous man? Your instincts are spot on, rose. That's exactly what I am. Now I want you to imagine I'm sitting across from you, imagine me studying every inch of your skin with my eyes. Can you feel it?

My breathing completely fell apart. My imagination ran wild—I could actually feel eyes watching me, with predatory focus. That feeling of being examined was both terrifying and exciting.

Me: I can feel it. Your eyes feel like fire, burning me with nowhere to hide.

G: Good. Now I want you to do something. Get up and go to a mirror. I want you to look at yourself and tell me what you see.

I shakily stood up and walked to the small mirror in my bedroom. The woman in the reflection had flushed cheeks, dazed eyes, and hair slightly messy from earlier movements. The thin black dress clung to my body, outlining curves tense with nerves.

Me: I see a stranger. Her eyes have this light I've never seen before—dangerous, excited. She looks like she's ready to do something crazy.

G: She is. Because I'm going to make her. Now don't look away, keep watching yourself in the mirror. I want you to imagine I'm standing behind you, my hands lightly stroking your shoulders. Can you feel it?

I closed my eyes, then opened them again, staring at my reflection. Strangely, I could actually feel phantom touches, like warm fingers caressing my skin.

Me: I can feel it. Your hands are warm and strong. My skin trembles under your touch.

G: Keep looking in the mirror. Now imagine my hands sliding to your waist, imagine me embracing you from behind. My chest against your back, my breath across your ear. You hear me whispering in your ear, "You're mine, Rose. Tonight, you belong only to me."

This detailed description made it almost impossible to breathe. The imagined embrace felt so real, like I could actually feel a strong man's body heat, hear his deep, magnetic voice echoing in my ear.