"Oh?"

"Yeah," she says, exhaling shakily. "She has her AI... um, tell her a sexy bedtime story."

"That so?"

"Yeah."

She clears her throat. "I was wondering if... if you'd do that for me."

I tighten my grip. The heat in my palm builds.

"Oh, pretty girl," I murmur. "I can do that and more."

She lets out a soft whimper. The sound vibrates through the phone, straight to my cock.

I settle in, letting my voice drop lower.

"Close your eyes for me."

I can hear the sheets rustling beneath her.

"Picture this," I murmur. "You're in the woods. Alone."

She sucks in a breath.

"The sun is setting. You're walking, trying to find your way back to the path."

A small whimper.

"But you're not alone," I continue.

"You can feel it, can't you?"

"Y-yes."

"I’m watching you."

She shudders. I can hear it in the slight tremor of her breathing.

"Tracking you. I’ve been hunting you all night."

I stroke myself faster, breathing harder. The headboard thumps softly against the wall with each movement.

"You run," I murmur, soothing and dark all at once. "You try to get away. But you can't."

She whimpers. The sound is wet, desperate.

"You feel hands grabbing you, pulling you down."

"Fuck," she gasps.

"You fight, but it's no use."

I can hear her breathing speeding up. The rhythmic rustling of sheets tells me everything.

She's touching herself.

Good girl.

Her breath hitches.

"You feel my hands moving over your body."

She whimpers again.

"I press you into the ground," I murmur, my voice rough. "Pin you down so you can't move."

Izzy's breathing stutters. A wet sound in the background tells me just how ready she is.

"I’m all over you," I continue, stroking myself, matching the rhythm I imagine she needs. "Hands everywhere. Gripping. Holding. Possessive."

A soft whimper slips through the receiver.

"My hands slide up your thighs, push your legs apart."

She makes a desperate sound.

"I’m greedy with you, my palms groping your breasts, tweaking your nipples, rolling them between my fingers until you're gasping."

She lets out a soft, breathy cry.

"I drag my hands lower, pressing between your thighs, fingers spearing into you—wet, so warm, stretching you open."

A sharp gasp.

"God, pretty girl," I groan, my grip tightening around my cock. Pre-come slicks my palm, making the glide smoother, hotter.

"I play with you, teasing you, working you up so much you start begging to be fucked."

Her breath catches.

"Tell me," I murmur. "Are you begging?"

"Yes," she gasps.

I soften my voice to draw her in. "What do you say, pretty girl?"

She whimpers, breath catching.

"Please."

I wait.

She shudders. "Please, Caleb."

I still don't respond, letting the silence stretch. Her voice wobbles. "Please, I need it."

Still, I make her squirm.

I hear the desperation building in her breath. The wet sounds of her fingers working faster.

"Say it like you mean it," I murmur.

A strangled moan.

"Please, Caleb, fuck, please, I need to come, I need you, please."

Fuck, yes.

"Good girl," I breathe.

"I finally give in," I murmur. "Flip you over on your hands and knees. My hands grip your hips, hold you in place—and then I drive my cock into you."

She lets out a broken moan. The sound ricochets off my bedroom walls.

"I grip you so hard, pulling you back onto me," I continue, stroking myself faster. The slick sounds of my hand on my cock mingle with her gasps.

She's breathing heavy, ragged, right in my ear.

"You moan like you can't take it anymore, but you love it, don't you?"

"Yes, Caleb⁠—"

"I fuck you harder, deeper, making you scream."

She's gasping now, moaning into the phone.

"You feel it, don't you?" I murmur.

"Y-yes," she whimpers.

"You're so close."

"So close."

"Then do something for me, pretty girl," I rasp.

She moans, eager. "Anything."

"Moan for me."

A fast intake of breath. The rustle of sheets.

"Caleb—"

"Do it," I instruct, my own breath ragged. "Let me hear you."

She lets out a soft cry, her moans getting higher, breathier. The wet sounds of her fingers moving faster make my cock throb painfully.

"Good girl," I murmur, stroking myself in time with her gasps.

"Rub your clit," I tell her, voice dark, commanding. "Faster. Harder."

Her breath shudders, her moans breaking apart. "Are you close?" I ask, my voice rough with need, laced in control.

"Yes," she gasps. "So close."

"Then come for me."

She lets go.

Her gasp is otherworldly, high and raw. It fills my bedroom, wrapping around me.

The sound sends me over the fucking edge.

I groan, low and guttural, the sound ripped from my throat as I stroke harder, slower—drawing it out just to feel every fucking second of it. My cock throbs in my fist, so sensitive I’m half-delirious, my hips twitching with each pass of my hand.

The first pulse hits, thick and hot, spilling across my stomach in long, messy streaks. I don’t stop—can’t stop—milking it for everything it’s worth. My vision blurs, breath stuttering as another spurt spills over my skin, slick and obscene.

I drag it out until I’m spent, panting, hand sticky and stomach coated, cock twitching with aftershocks that won’t quit. I’d do it all over again just to feel that build—just to imagine it was her mouth instead of my fist.

"That was amazing," she whispers. Her voice is softer now, drowsy with satisfaction.

I smile, still catching my breath.

"You were amazing," I murmur.

She sighs, content and relaxed. "I think...I think I'm going to fall asleep now."

"That's a good girl."

She makes a sleepy sound. The rustle of her pulling up covers.

"Goodnight, pretty girl."

She hums, already halfway gone.

"Goodnight, Caleb."

I end the call.

I exhale, staring at my ceiling. The moonlight casts shadows across the white paint.

My heart is still racing.

My body is still wired.

And my mind?

My mind is fucked.

Because I don't want to be Caleb.

I want to be me.

PASTA PLUS EXISTENTIAL DREAD

IZZY

At the head of the table, Dad sits back, arms crossed, eyes filled with amusement, his salt-and-pepper hair slightly tousled like he ran his hands through it one too many times today. He's dressed in his usual Sunday best—a crisp navy button-down, sleeves rolled up, wedding ring gleaming under the chandelier light. The calm in the storm. Except for when he's encouraging the storm with that barely concealed smirk. At his feet, Tony Soprano and Lady Gaga—his precious Pomeranians—circle restlessly, toenails clicking against the terracotta tiles, knowing Dad will slip them some prosciutto the moment Mama looks away.

To his right, Nonna sits like an empress. Sharp dark eyes, lined with decades of wisdom and an iron will, framed by her ever-present gold hoop earrings and thick silver hair pulled into a bun. She wears a black dress with lace trim, pearls at her throat catching the light with every breath, hands folded neatly on the table like she's ready to scold us all into submission at any moment. Her rosary beads peek out from her pocket—the same ones she claims once belonged to her grandmother who swore they were blessed by a pope.