JPEG.

It wasn’t planned—

just a moment,

late,

alone with the ache of you still on my skin.

I took the photo

with no filters, no edits—

just the heat of want,

the memory of your mouth,

the thought of you opening the message

and seeing me hard,

waiting.

I sent it without a word—

just the image,

bare,

unapologetic.

And then I waited,

heart thudding in my throat,

knowing you’d feel it—

the pulse behind it,

the hunger.

When your reply came—

just a voice note,

a breath,

a moan—

I knew.

I knew you were already touching yourself,

already imagining me inside you,

already lost in the same fire

I’d lit with a single click.

And I knew this was only the start—

the kind of night

where distance didn’t matter,

where your fingers could make you mine

just as well as mine could.