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A quiet coffee. Bare legs. Open laptop.

And yes…

I know exactly what part of this photo you’re staring at.

– Tessa

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Just took this for you before heading down as you told me to.

Your son is waiting in the lobby—fresh cologne, dress shirt you probably bought him.

He has no idea that I’ve been fucking his father.

He has no idea that you told me to meet him, make him fall for me.

He thinks I’m his.

But I wore the tights you picked. No panties. You wanted it that way.

He’ll order wine, act confident. I’ll laugh at his jokes.

Let him think he’s winning me.

Then back at his place…

I’ll let him undress me slow, run his hands up the legs you wanted him to worship.

He’ll taste me on his fingers first—he’s already told me he wants to.

Then I’ll pull him to the bed and climb on top.

You said to let him fuck me like I’m his.

So I will.

I’ll ride him, make him feel powerful. Make him believe he’s the one making me moan.

And when he finishes inside me, I’ll smile and whisper thank you.

But we’ll both know who I’m really thanking.

And maybe he will invite me to Sunday dinner with his mother and father.

Just like you want.

- Grace

Photo of: @secretswithgrace

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@secretswithgrace and I have been chatting and I asked her to do the caption of one of my pictures like she does hers.

This is dangerously accurate.

You wrote me like you’ve watched me do it a dozen times—

pulling something tight over damp skin,

sending the photo before I even finish getting dressed,

knowing exactly what effect I’m chasing.

Thank you for putting words to it.

It’s slutty in the most elegant way.

And now?

You’ve created an ache.

A need.

One I didn’t have before I read your caption—

and now I have to find someone to fill it.

—Tessa

He's barely half my age and I know his hands linger just that little bit longer than they need to when adjusting my poses during the class. "Wear something light coloured." He had said after our last session. "I want the whole class to see how desperately your body reacts to my touch."

He knew what he was doing to me. He had known it all along. Of course I sent him this before today's class. "I hope you'll approve." I had said.

photo: @painted-in-stilettos

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I should’ve gotten dressed.

But my panties were already damp.

My feet were already dirty from the floor.

And something about that—the mess, the softness, the stillness—felt too good to interrupt.

So I stayed just like this.

Filthy. Bare.

And a little proud of what I left behind on the sheets.

– Tessa

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✓

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(via our heat is gospel: Image)

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Tessa’s Thoughts

June 25, 2025

I enjoy when my husband travels.

Not because I miss him—

but because I don’t.

When he’s gone, I indulge.

In heels that aren’t practical, lingerie no one will see for long,

and messages I’d never send if he were sitting beside me.

I flirt without restraint.

I drink a little too much.

I get on my knees for younger men—

eager, wide-eyed boys who moan too loud and thank me like I gave them something sacred.

And maybe I did.

I spread my legs for men who are used to getting what they want—

and in that moment,

what they want becomes me.

My mouth.

My body.

My submission.

They take it.

I let them.

And I don’t apologize for it.

When he’s gone, I’m mine.

Fully.

Shamelessly.

And when he comes back?

I’m his again.

We don’t talk about what we did while apart.

We just fuck like we missed each other.

Hard.

Hungry.

Desperate.

It’s not about guilt.

It’s about knowing we both needed the space—

to be undone, to misbehave, to remember what we still choose when we return.

That’s love.

Or maybe it’s something filthier.

Either way, it works.

—Tessa

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Pool time.