The picture arrived on my phone with her accompanying message:
This one?
I tapped, made it full screen. Gasped involuntarily. The deep blue off-the-shoulder dress brought out the same colour in her eyes, dark tresses cascading forward into the lens, backlit by the changing room bulb.
Hell yes, I typed.
You don't think it's too short?
Nothing is too short on you.
Shoosh, you. Can't upstage the bride.
Throwing the tennis ball into the grassy middle distance, I watched my dog scamper after it, my wife playing peek-a-boo with our daughter a hundred yards away.
I tapped in: Show me the back.
The dog returned, joyous and triumphant, dropping the ball at my feet for me to toss in a different direction.
The next picture was more stunning than the first. Clara, glancing mischievously over her shoulder, the hem at the back raised an inch with one hand. Toned thighs led down a mile of leg to strappy heels. Truly the finest woman I'd never touched. At least, not physically.
My fingers quivered as I typed: Perfection.
The dog dropped the ball at my feet and I stooped to pet his side, then arced the ball away once more.
An idea formed. I think the dress would look better lifted at the front.
I waited, lazy summer sun inching higher above the park filled with laughter and carefree shouts.
My phone pinged. Nice try!
I smiled. Need to know what's underneath so I can picture my face there.
One word popped onto the screen. Fuck.
That was my cue. I hurled the returned ball again then typed: Touch yourself, Clara. Right now. Slide your hand into your knickers. Make yourself wet for me.
There was an agonising delay. Was she doing it? I jigged my leg, glanced over at the idyllic scene of my wife and child playing in the sunshine. Felt no guilt. Felt guilty for it.
Her message drew my focus. I'm already wet.
I nearly dropped the phone at the thought of diving beneath the dress to discover that revelation. Tongue exploring the material, inhaling her arousal, the dress billowing over my shoulders as I clutched her bottom and pulled her to my mouth, giving her a thousand more reasons to soak the garment.
My fingers quivered. Picture, or it didn't happen.
The dog circled my legs and I scooped up the ball, "There you go, boy." I threw it and the terrier raced off.
I stared at the screen, willing it to change. Aching for the next message.
It pinged. I tapped.
Gawped.
Pinched out to zoom.
Her fingers, spread, two strings of silvery grool looped between them; one perilously close to her wedding band. I imagined taking the digits in my mouth. Sucking her clean, my eyes on hers the whole time, then lifting her dress and seeking the sticky source.
The phone shook as I tapped away: OMG. Keep going. Finger yourself until you cum for me right there.