It was just a fantasy.

That’s what I told myself.

No touching. No texting. No crossing lines. Just thoughts. Heat. Curiosity.

He’s the boy next door—not a boy, really, but young enough to make me feel older and dangerous. He mows the lawn shirtless on Saturdays, sweat carving rivers down his chest like it was made for thirst traps. And every time I wave from my porch, he waves back. With both hands.

I’d been good. Real good. But that night? I don’t know. Something was different. Maybe it was the way he looked at me while his girlfriend wrangled their little dog with more attitude than obedience. Maybe it was the sun on his shoulders. Or maybe I was just tired of pretending I didn’t want to know what his mouth would feel like between my thighs.

So I lit a candle. Put on something soft—black lace, no lining. And slid into bed, alone.

At first, I just let my mind wander. A little story about him showing up to borrow sugar. Me opening the door in a robe I hadn’t bothered to tie. His nervous smile. His knuckles brushing mine. And then—oh, then—I imagined him reaching for me. Like he couldn’t help himself. Like he needed it.

My fingers moved slow. My breathing shallowed. I bit my lip and let the fantasy deepen. I pictured his face between my legs, his tongue unsure at first, then desperate to please. He’d try so hard. Good boys always do. And I’d guide him. Show him exactly what made me purr.

And just as the first wave of pleasure crashed over me, it happened.

His name.

Out loud.

I didn’t scream it—but it came from someplace real. Guttural. Instinctive. Like my body had betrayed me, whispering his name into the night like a prayer or a confession.

I froze afterward. Just lay there, stunned, heart racing. Windows open. Curtains swaying. The neighborhood was still and quiet, but suddenly it felt too quiet.

I went to sleep anyway. Told myself no one heard. No one was listening.

Until the next morning.

I was out front, watering my flowers. Trying to look like someone who wasn’t mentally reliving the best orgasm she’d had in months. And there she was—his girlfriend—coming outside in her yoga pants and judgmental ponytail.

We locked eyes. And she said, “Morning, Cassidy.”

Just like that.

My name, all honey and venom. No smile. No wave. Just knowledge.

She knew.

She’d heard.

And somehow, that single moment was even more erotic than the fantasy.

Now everything’s changed.

I catch him watching me more often—but he’s careful. Timid. Like he knows his leash just got tighter.

She smiles now, but it’s brittle. Like glassware with a hairline crack.

And me?

I’ve never felt more alive.

I think about doing it again. Saying his name on purpose. Leaving my windows open. Giving her a little encore.

And if I do?

Maybe I’ll say hers next.

Hope YOU can keep a secret. You’re gonna need to,

~ Cassidy

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