Challenge
by Sandra Alek
Copyright© 2026 by Sandra Alek
Fiction Sex Story: Two ordinary suburban wives, Mary and Lisa, both 32, married with young children, have let the wild spark of their youth fade under the weight of routine, motherhood, and predictable marriages. One December afternoon at Starbucks, over lattes and nostalgia for midnight skinny-dipping and reckless adventures, they dare each other to reclaim that fire. The challenge is simple, secret, and dangerously addictive.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Exhibitionism Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Voyeurism Big Breasts AI Generated .
The late-afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of the Starbucks on Maple and 5th, painting everything in a warm, golden haze. The place was busy but not crowded—holiday music played softly overhead, and the air smelled of cinnamon and roasted coffee.
Mary pushed open the door first, scanning the room with her usual quick, analytical sweep. She spotted Lisa immediately, already seated at a corner table by the window, one long leg crossed over the other, scrolling on her phone. Lisa looked up at the exact same moment, and her face broke into a wide, unguarded grin.
“Mary!” Lisa called, standing up so fast she nearly knocked over her iced latte. She strode across the small space in three quick steps and pulled Mary into a tight hug.
Mary laughed, surprised by how good it felt to be squeezed like that. “God, look at you,” she said, stepping back but keeping hold of Lisa’s arms. “You haven’t aged a day. It’s disgusting.”
Lisa rolled her brown eyes and tugged at a strand of her dark hair. “Liar. I found three gray hairs this morning. Three. I almost cried into my protein shake.” She gestured to the empty chair opposite her. “Sit, sit. I already ordered for you—grande oat-milk latte, extra hot, no foam. Still your drink?”
Mary slid into the seat, shrugging off her coat. “You remember that? It’s been ... what, three years?”
“Four,” Lisa corrected, sitting back down. “Since Jenna’s baby shower. You were pregnant with your second at the time? No, wait, you’d just had him.” She shook her head, still smiling. “Time is a thief.”
Mary wrapped her hands around the warm cup the barista had just delivered. “Tell me about it.” She studied Lisa for a moment—still tall and lean, still moving like someone who could run a spontaneous 5K without breaking a sweat. “You look amazing, though. Seriously. Whatever you’re doing at the gym, keep doing it.”
Lisa waved the compliment away, but her cheeks colored slightly. “Just trying not to let marriage and mortgage turn me into a complete blob. Joe keeps saying we should get a dog to force us outside more, but I’m holding out for something that doesn’t poop.”
They both laughed, the easy kind of laugh that only comes when you’ve known someone long enough to skip the small-talk warm-up.
“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” Mary said, shaking her head. “A real catch-up. I kept meaning to text you and then ... life.”
“Life,” Lisa echoed, lifting her cup in a mock toast. “The ultimate excuse.”
Mary clinked her latte against Lisa’s iced drink. “To finally making time.”
“To finally making time,” Lisa repeated, her eyes bright. “And to whatever trouble we can still get into at thirty-two.”
Mary raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across her round face. “Trouble? I thought we were too old and respectable for that now.”
Lisa leaned forward, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Speak for yourself. I’m just getting started.”
And just like that, the years between them folded away, and they were twenty-two again—fearless, reckless, and hungry for something they couldn’t yet name.
The laughter from their reunion lingered for a moment, then faded into the comfortable quiet of two people who didn’t need to fill every second with words. Lisa sipped her iced latte, watching the holiday shoppers hustle past the window. Mary traced the rim of her cup with one finger, her blue eyes thoughtful.
“You know what’s weird?” Lisa said suddenly, setting her drink down. “I actually look forward to leg day at the gym now. Because it’s the only time something interesting happens in my week.”
Mary snorted. “God, same. Dave and I have dinner at six-thirty every night. Same three recipes on rotation. Then it’s dishes, Netflix, bed by ten. On weekends we ‘go wild’ and order Thai instead of pizza.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m thirty-two, not seventy-two.”
Lisa leaned back, stretching her long legs under the table. “Joe’s obsessed with his fantasy football league. He talks about it more than he talks to me. Last month he asked if I wanted to ‘spice things up’ and then suggested we try a new brand of protein powder together.” She laughed, but it sounded hollow. “I almost threw the tub at him.”
Mary shook her head, a small, sad smile on her face. “We used to be fun, didn’t we? Remember that summer after sophomore year? Hitchhiking down the coast with nothing but backpacks and a tent?”
Lisa’s eyes lit up. “Oh my God, yes. That guy in the convertible who picked us up outside Santa Cruz—he thought we were runway models or something. Took us all the way to Big Sur.”
“And we paid him back by skinny-dipping in that cove at midnight,” Mary added, her voice softening with the memory. “The water was freezing, but we didn’t care. We felt ... invincible.”
“Alive,” Lisa corrected. “We felt alive.” She paused, staring into her drink. “When’s the last time either of us did something that stupid and thrilling?”
Mary thought about it. Really thought. “I can’t remember,” she admitted quietly.
They sat in silence for a minute, the hum of the coffee shop around them suddenly feeling too loud.
Lisa spoke first. “I miss that version of us. The ones who didn’t ask permission. Who just ... did things.”
Mary nodded slowly. Her rational mind was already turning, analyzing. She’d been scrolling late at night more often lately—Reddit threads, anonymous accounts, stories from women who’d taken control of their own sexuality online. The numbers were staggering: likes, followers, money, attention. Power.
She took a breath. “What if we brought her back?”
Lisa raised an eyebrow. “Which her?”
“That girl. The fearless one.” Mary leaned in, lowering her voice even though no one was listening. “What if we started accounts ... on a porn site.”
Lisa blinked. Once. Twice. Then she burst out laughing—not mocking, but surprised, delighted. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious,” Mary said, her round face flushing slightly but her blue eyes steady. “Not full-on videos or anything crazy. Just ... photos. Teasing. Anonymous at first. Faces cropped, maybe. See what happens. A challenge. Who gets more likes, more followers. Something just for us.”
Lisa’s laughter faded into a slow, considering smile. She tilted her head, studying Mary like she was seeing her for the first time in years. “Mary Elizabeth Thompson, suggesting we become internet cam girls. I think I love you.”
Mary grinned, the flush deepening. “It’s not cam girls. It’s ... reclaiming something. Proving we’re still hot. Still interesting. And if it’s boring, we delete the accounts and never speak of it again.”
Lisa drummed her fingers on the table, the competitive spark already flickering in her brown eyes. “A competition, huh? You know I never back down from those.”
“I’m counting on it,” Mary said.
Lisa leaned forward, voice dropping to match Mary’s conspiratorial tone. “You’re on. But we’re doing this properly. Rules. Limits. And no chickening out.”
Mary extended her hand across the table. “Deal.”
Lisa shook it firmly, her grip strong from years of deadlifts and pull-ups.
Neither of them let go right away.
Lisa finally released Mary’s hand, but the energy between them still crackled. She glanced around the Starbucks out of habit—no one was paying attention—then leaned in closer, elbows on the table.
“Okay, crazy lady,” she whispered, grinning. “Let’s say we actually do this. First question: where? Like, which site?”
Mary had already thought about this, of course. She pulled out her phone, opened a private browser tab she’d bookmarked weeks ago, and tilted the screen so only Lisa could see. “This one,” she said quietly. “It’s big, but not the biggest. Good mix of free and paid content. Easier to stay somewhat anonymous if we want to. And the verification process is strict enough that it weeds out the total creeps.”
Lisa scanned the page, nodding slowly. “I’ve heard of it. A couple of the fitness girls I follow have ‘backup accounts’ there.” She looked up. “You’ve really researched this, haven’t you?”
Mary shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I get bored at night after the kids are asleep. Dave’s usually snoring by nine-thirty. So yeah ... I read some threads. Watched some tutorials.” She paused. “The top earners make stupid money, but that’s not even the point. It’s the attention. The rush.”
Lisa’s competitive gleam returned. “Attention I can do. But safety—how do we not end up with some stalker showing up at our houses?”
Mary had an answer ready. “No face at first. Definitely no face. Cropped shots, masks if we want to be dramatic. No tattoos that are recognizable—I’ve only got that little star on my hip, easy to hide. You?”
“Just the one on my ankle from senior year. Same.” Lisa tapped her fingers thoughtfully. “No location tags, no mentions of the city, nothing about husbands or kids. Fake names, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Mary agreed. “And we use burner emails to sign up. I already made one. Separate phone number app for any messages. We never link it to our real socials.”
Lisa raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got a burner email ready to go?”
Mary’s cheeks went pink again. “I was curious, okay? Sue me.”
Lisa laughed softly. “I love planner-Mary. Always ten steps ahead.” She grew serious again. “What about Dave and Joe? If they find out...”
Mary exhaled slowly. “We don’t let them. Phones stay locked. We only upload when we’re alone. Delete browsing history like teenagers hiding porn.” She met Lisa’s eyes. “And if it ever feels wrong, we stop. No questions.”
Lisa nodded. “Same. Immediate out clause.” She bit her lip, thinking. “When do we start?”
Mary glanced at the time on her phone. “Not tonight. Too rushed. We need to think. Plan our first posts—something safe but ... tempting. Lighting, angles, outfits.” She smiled wryly. “I need to shave my legs without Dave asking why I’m suddenly putting in effort.”
Lisa snorted. “Joe will just assume I’m prepping for a gym photoshoot. He never questions that.” She drummed the table again. “Tomorrow night? After the husbands are asleep?”
Mary considered it. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve—family obligations, kids hyped on sugar, early bedtimes enforced. “No. Too chaotic. Let’s give ourselves a real buffer. How about we decide everything tomorrow—usernames, exact rules, first post ideas—and then we both create the accounts tomorrow night. But we don’t post anything yet.”
Lisa tilted her head. “Waiting?”
“One week,” Mary said firmly. “We launch on New Year’s Day. Fresh start, new year, new ... us. Gives us time to take some good photos without rushing. Build a tiny backlog. And it feels symbolic.”
Lisa’s smile turned slow and wicked. “New Year’s Day. I like it.” She extended her pinky this time, childish and solemn all at once. “Pinky swear. No backing out.”
Mary hooked her pinky around Lisa’s without hesitation. “Pinky swear.”
They held it for a second, then let go, both a little breathless.
Lisa picked up her phone. “Text me tomorrow morning. We’ll figure out usernames and rules over coffee—virtual coffee this time.”
Mary nodded, gathering her coat. “Tomorrow morning. And Lisa?”
“Yeah?”
“This is going to be fun.”
Lisa’s brown eyes sparkled. “It’s going to be dangerous.”
They stood up together, hugged once more—this time tighter, longer—and walked out into the cold December evening, each carrying a secret that already felt heavier and more alive than anything in their lives for years.
Mary’s house was quiet for once. The kids were finally down after an exhausting day of cookie-baking and last-minute wrapping, and Dave had crashed on the couch with the TV still flickering some old Christmas movie. She slipped into the bedroom, closed the door softly, and locked it behind her—just in case.
Her phone buzzed on the dresser. A message from Lisa.
*Lisa:* You up?
*Mary:* Yeah. Kids are out cold. Dave’s snoring loud enough to wake the neighbors. You?
*Lisa:* Joe’s passed out with his phone on his chest. I’m in the guest room. Ready?
Mary’s heart gave a little kick. She opened the private browser, navigated to the site, and hit “Create Account.”
Username: @CurveLogic Bio: Curvy wife who’s tired of vanilla. Watching: 0 | Followers: 0
She uploaded a simple placeholder avatar—a close-up of her collarbone and the swell of her breasts in black lace, face completely out of frame. Safe. Teasing. Perfect for now.
Account created.
She screenshotted the profile link and sent it to Lisa.
*Mary:* Your turn.
A minute later, Lisa’s reply came with her own screenshot.
Username: @LongLegsFire Bio: Fit, restless, and ready to play. Come watch me stretch the limits. Watching: 1 | Followers: 0
Her avatar was a shot from the waist down: toned thighs in sheer stockings, one long leg extended, the curve of her calf catching the light. Classic Lisa—bold, athletic, impossible to ignore.
*Lisa:* Damn, yours is classy hot. Mine’s straight-up thirst trap.
*Mary:* That’s the point. Different vibes, different audiences. This is going to be interesting.
*Lisa:* Already following you. You’re my only watch so far.
*Mary:* Same. We’re officially stalking each other.
They both sent laughing emojis.
*Mary:* Okay, rules. Let’s lock them in before we overthink.
*Lisa:* Shoot.
*Mary:* 1. One post per day max. No flooding. Quality over quantity. 2. We start posting January 1st. Exactly one week from today. Gives us time to build a small stash of photos. 3. No faces until—we decide together. Maybe never. 4. We check in every night. Share follower count, likes, top comments (the non-creepy ones). 5. If either of us says stop, we both stop. No judgment.
*Lisa:* Add one more: Whoever has more followers by Valentine’s Day wins.
*Mary:* Wins what?
*Lisa:* Bragging rights. And the loser buys the winner a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine. The kind we can’t afford right now.
*Mary:* Deal. Valentine’s Day deadline.
*Lisa:* You’re going down, planner girl. My legs vs. your boobs? It’s not even fair.
*Mary:* We’ll see. I’ve got strategy. You’ve got impulse. Advantage: me.
*Lisa:* Keep telling yourself that.
A pause. Then Lisa sent a voice note—her voice low, excited.
“We’re really doing this, Mary. I feel like I’m twenty again. Heart racing and everything.”
Mary smiled in the dark, pressed record on her own voice note.
“Me too. It’s stupid. It’s risky. And I can’t wait.”
She hit send, then opened her camera roll. She’d already taken three test shots earlier that afternoon while Dave was at the grocery store: one in the mirror wearing just an oversized sweater that barely covered her ass, one close-up of her breasts spilling out of a red bra (festive, she’d told herself), and one from behind, hands sliding down her hips.
She stared at them now, pulse quickening.
One week.
Seven days to prepare.
Then the challenge began.
Mary locked her phone, slipped it under her pillow, and lay back, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time in years, she couldn’t fall asleep—not from boredom, but from pure, electric anticipation.
Mary didn’t take a single photo for the account yet. Not one.
The challenge didn’t start until January 1st, and she was determined to do this right—no rushed, mediocre shots. Preparation was everything. So she turned the remaining days into a covert operation, all under the innocent cover of “holiday self-care.”
It began with research. Every night, after Sophie’s bedtime stories and Ethan’s endless questions about Santa’s reindeer, Mary retreated to the bathroom with the door locked. Phone in hand, earbuds in, she studied the top accounts like a scientist dissecting data.
She made lists in her Notes app: - Deep plunge or balconette bras with tight bands = most saved photos - Warm, diffused lighting = 35–50% more likes than cool overheads - Subtle side-boob or under-boob angles outperformed full-frontal by a surprising margin - Blondes, for reasons she couldn’t quite logic away, consistently ranked higher in views and follows
Her own reflection told the rest of the story. Her breasts had always been generous—now they would be the centerpiece. Everything else (hips, waist, face) would support them. Strategy decided.
The apartment offered limited options for future shoots. Bedroom: too many windows, too much risk of interruption. Living room: impossible. Kids’ rooms: out of the question. That left the master bathroom—lockable door, full-length mirror, wide sink ledge for propping the phone. The lighting, though, was a problem. The single overhead bulb was harsh and unflattering, casting shadows that aged her ten years. Fixable.
Dave was in the kitchen unloading groceries when Mary returned from the mall, arms full of discreet black-and-pink bags.
“Victoria’s Secret spree?” he asked, eyebrow raised.
Mary smiled sweetly. “A few new things. Been a while since I treated myself.” She pulled out a glimpse of crimson lace, just enough to distract. “Thought you might like them too.”
Dave grinned, pulling her in for a quick kiss. “I’m a lucky man.”
Later, she ordered the ring light online—next-day delivery. When the box arrived, she intercepted it at the door before Dave could see the label.
That evening, she set it up in the bathroom “for testing.”
Dave wandered in, toothbrush in hand. “What’s the spaceship light?”
Mary turned it on, bathing his face in soft, golden warmth. “For you, babe. You’re always complaining you can’t see well enough to shave without cutting yourself. No more nicks.”
He examined his reflection, surprised. “Huh. Actually ... this is pretty great. Thanks, hon.”
She kissed his cheek, hiding her triumph.
The blonde trend wouldn’t leave her alone. Data didn’t lie. She booked a same-day appointment at a salon across town, paid cash, and told Dave she was meeting an old coworker for lunch.
When she walked back in that evening, honey-blonde waves catching the hallway light, the reaction was immediate.
Sophie squealed and ran to hug her legs. “Mommy’s hair is like sunshine!”
Ethan stared. “You look like a movie star.”
Dave set down his phone slowly, eyes wide. “Mary ... holy crap. You’re blonde.”
She twirled a strand self-consciously, giving him the soft, flirty smile she’d rehearsed. “Surprise? I just ... wanted a change. New Year coming and all. Do you like it?”
Dave crossed the room, cupped her face gently, and kissed her like they were dating again. “Like it? You look incredible. Sexy as hell.”
Mary’s stomach flipped—part guilt, part thrill. He thought it was for him. And in a small way, maybe it was. But mostly, it was for @CurveLogic. For the numbers. For the win.
She unpacked the new lingerie in secret: three push-up bras one full size too small, delicate lace in black, red, and deep emerald. She tried one on in the bathroom, just to check fit and lighting with the ring light. The effect was dramatic—cleavage deep and inviting, skin glowing warm.
She didn’t take photos. Not yet.
Instead, she stood there a long moment, studying the stranger in the mirror: blonde, confident, curves accentuated. A woman on the edge of something dangerous.
She whispered to her reflection, “One more day.”
Then she changed back into her mom-sweatshirt, unlocked the door, and went to make dinner like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
Mary was ready. The shoot would come later. For now, the anticipation was its own kind of high.
Lisa never doubted she was going to win.
Mary could plan and analyze all she wanted—Lisa had legs that turned heads in grocery-store aisles, a tight ass from a thousand squats, and the kind of lean, athletic lines that made men (and half the women) on the internet lose their minds. Data was cute. Bodies spoke louder.
Still, she wasn’t going to wing it. Not completely.
On the 27th, while Joe was home between sales calls and the kids were down for rare simultaneous naps, Lisa dragged her lingerie drawer into the bedroom and dumped everything onto the bed like a colorful explosion.
Joe walked in, coffee in hand, and stopped dead. “Uh ... spring cleaning?”
Lisa grinned, already stripping off her yoga pants and tank top down to nothing. “No. Audition.” She stepped into a black strappy bodysuit that cut high on the hips, elongating her legs even more. “Tell me what works.”
Joe set the coffee down slowly, eyes widening. “Works for what?”
“For making you stupid,” she said, turning in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door. She bent one knee, cocked her hip, watched the way the straps framed her thighs. “Be honest. What turns you on the most? Don’t think—just react.”
Joe swallowed. “Jesus, Lise. Everything. But ... that one. The way it cuts up here.” He gestured vaguely at the high leg openings. “Your legs look endless.”
She nodded, filed it away, and peeled it off without ceremony. Next: a red lace thong and matching garter set. She clipped the stockings slowly, deliberately, knowing he was watching every snap.
Joe’s voice dropped. “That’s ... dangerous.”
“Dangerous good?” She walked toward him, long strides, then turned and glanced over her shoulder. “Or this view better?”
He exhaled sharply. “Back view. Hands down. The garters frame your ass perfectly.”
She tried five more sets—some too cute, some too complicated. She moved like she was on a runway only he could see: arching her back, extending one leg high against the wall, sliding her hands down her calves to highlight the muscle definition.
Finally, she slipped into a simple emerald-green set: sheer mesh bra (barely there), high-waisted thong that sat just below her hip bones, and thigh-high stockings with a thin seam up the back.
She stood in front of him, hands on hips, chin high.
Joe stared like he’d forgotten how to blink. “That one,” he said, hoarse. “That’s the one that makes me forget my own name.”
Lisa looked in the mirror and saw it immediately: the green against her skin, the way the mesh hinted without revealing, the long, clean lines of her legs broken only by the stocking tops. It screamed fitness, confidence, and just enough mystery.
Perfect.
She peeled it off, folded it carefully, and set it aside in a new, separate drawer labeled “Special” in her mind.
Joe cleared his throat. “So ... tonight? Because I’m very inspired right now.”
Lisa laughed, low and teasing, and pulled on her sweats again. “Soon, babe. I want it to be worth the wait.”
He groaned dramatically, but she could tell he loved the game.
Later that night, after Mason’s 2 a.m. feeding and Ava’s inevitable “one more water” request, Lisa lay awake beside a snoring Joe. She opened her phone and scrolled through her hidden folder—just notes for now, no photos yet.
- Focus on length: shots from low angles, one leg extended, toe pointed. - Use the home gym corner—pull-up bar, mirrors, natural side light in the mornings. - Tease the abs, the calves, the inner thigh. Never give it all away. - Captions: short, cocky, inviting.
She opened the chat with Mary.
*Lisa:* Selection made. Husband approved (repeatedly). Your curves are hot, but legs win races. Get ready to buy that expensive wine.
Mary’s reply came almost instantly.
*Mary:* Dream on, long legs. I’ve got strategy. You’ve got ego. See you on the leaderboard.
Lisa smirked in the dark, set her phone down, and stretched her legs under the covers—long, strong, ready.
Three days until launch.
She was going to crush this.
The day had finally arrived.
Lisa woke up with a buzz under her skin she hadn’t felt since the morning of her first half-marathon. She showered quickly, shaved carefully, moisturized like it was a ritual. Then, while Joe was downstairs making coffee and the kids were glued to the new tablets Santa had brought, she slipped into the emerald-green set she and Joe had chosen: sheer mesh bra, high-waisted thong, thigh-high stockings with the perfect back seam.
Over it all she tied her short silk robe—innocent enough if anyone peeked. Phone in the robe pocket, fully charged, timer app ready.
The plan was simple: wait for a pocket of quiet, slip into the home gym (best light, full-length mirrors, pull-up bar for interesting angles), snap a handful of options, pick the killer, upload before midnight.
Reality, of course, laughed at plans.
First came breakfast chaos—pancakes, spilled orange juice, Ava demanding Lisa watch her new gymnastics cartwheel video seventeen times.
Then Joe wanted to “christen the New Year” on the couch while the kids were briefly occupied. Lisa let him kiss her neck for thirty seconds before gently pushing him off. “Later, babe. Promise.”
Mid-morning: phone calls. Her sister, her mom, two friends sending hungover New Year voice notes she felt obligated to answer.
Lunch. Nap attempts that failed. A tantrum from Mason because his new truck was the wrong shade of red.
Afternoon: Joe took the kids to the park to burn off energy. Perfect window—except Joe came back early because it started drizzling.
By dinner, Lisa’s nerves were humming. She kept catching herself flexing her calves under the table.
Finally, after baths, books, and one last glass of water for Ava, the house settled. Joe headed to bed early, claiming post-holiday exhaustion, and both kids were out by 9:15.
Lisa waited another half hour, scrolling mindlessly on the couch until she heard Joe’s familiar soft snore through the baby monitor app. Then she moved.
She slipped into the master bathroom—the one place with a lock that actually worked and the big lighted mirror Joe had installed last year for his “precision shaving.” The bulbs around the mirror gave off a bright, even glow that made her skin look flawless and her legs look ten miles long.
She locked the door, let the robe slide to the floor, and stood in front of the mirror.
First pose: one foot on the closed toilet lid, hip cocked, hands sliding slowly down the extended leg. Too static.
Second: back to the mirror, looking over her shoulder, arching just enough to show the curve from waist to thigh. Better.
Third: sitting on the wide counter, legs crossed high, toe pointed. Elegant, but not quite bold enough.
She tried eight, ten variations—low angles with the phone propped on the towel rack, higher ones holding it overhead. Sweat prickled under the lights, but she was in the zone.
She settled on one: standing sideways, weight on one leg, the other slightly bent and lifted so the stocking seam ran straight and true. Hands framing her hips, head tilted down, hair falling forward to hide any hint of face. The lighting caught every muscle definition, every inch of smooth skin above the lace tops.
Perfect.
She cropped it tight, checked the metadata scrub, typed a simple caption: “New year, same legs ... but ready to run the show.”
Thumb hovering over Upload, she did one final scan of the frame.
And froze.
In the mirror behind her, perfectly centered: the heart-shaped framed photo Joe had surprised her with on their fifth anniversary. Handwritten in gold script across the glass: Lisa + Joe.
Her stomach dropped.
She grabbed a towel, draped it over the frame, checked the shot again. Safe.
Repositioned. Took the photo.
Upload.
The progress bar crawled. Then: Posted.
Her first post on @LongLegsFire was live.
A rush hit her—adrenaline, pride, a little fear.
That’s when the soft knock came.
“Mommy?” Mason’s sleepy voice. “I need to pee.”
Lisa exhaled, half-laugh, half-groan. She threw the robe back on, opened the door, and scooped her pajama-clad toddler onto the little step stool. He peed, flushed, demanded a hug, and toddled back to bed without ever noticing anything odd.
Door locked again, she checked the post one last time.
Already 12 likes. 3 comments.
She smiled, turned off the lights, and slipped into bed beside Joe.
He stirred, voice thick with sleep. “Why’d you take so long in there? Watching TikTok again?”
Lisa pressed against his back, legs tangling with his. “Something like that,” she whispered. “Just ... starting the year off right.”
Joe murmured something happy and drifted off again.
Lisa lay awake a little longer, phone hidden under her pillow, watching the notifications tick upward.
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