First thing that hit me was color. That was pink. Not movie-pink. Not edited-too-much porn pink. That was real. Wet. Soft-looking. Skin just slightly flushed. Lips puffy, not overdone. Lighting was terrible, but it made the whole thing look like it belonged in a dirty fairy tale. She had one of those silver bracelets in frame, holding a hoodie up over her hip, like a signature or something.
[System]: Confirmed, sugar. That is a genuine pink. Healthy. Moist. Spiritually awakening. You just unlocked a new Pantone shade.
I tapped reply.
"Respectfully, I take back my doubts. That is a ten out of ten, would risk midterms."
Zoey replied: "You better risk finals too. You are coming to the art show. No flaking."
Me: "I will bring my attendance and my fingers. Maybe both stay late."
She left me on seen.
Got a free nude. Not bad for a day. Pink like she promised. Wet like I deserved. I stared at the screen for another second, but I had bigger fish to poke, and one of them was currently pretending not to seduce minors via Wi-Fi.
"Wanna bait Mrs. Harland?" I muttered.
[System]: Mmm~ teacher wants extra credit. Give her the test, sugar. Multiple choice. A, B, D for dick.
I tapped her name. DMs were open. She hadn't posted since the coat pic. Last seen, an hour ago. Probably sipping wine, grading essays, and flicking her bean to textbook erotica.
"Let's wake her up."
I scrolled down my gallery. Picked one from yesterday. Shirtless. Just enough ab lines to suggest thirst trap, but not enough to look like I tried. Natural light hit just right. No filters. Captioned it, "Might stay in bed and fail class. Convince me otherwise."
Hit send.
[System]: Damn, sugar. That is academic flirting. She about to offer you oral tutoring and call it curriculum.
Just as her typing bubble lit up, I beat her to it.
"I am so sorry, Mrs. Harland. I accidentally sent this. I am so embarrassed, it was meant for a friend"
Three little emojis playing peekaboo like I was some innocent idiot who didn't know his own photo gallery. That combo was Kryptonite for cougars who liked their prey shy and dumb enough to groom.
Typing stopped.
Started again.
Then gone.
Then typing.
System clicked.
[System]: Ooh~ sugar, she is pacing. Wine glass in one hand, vibrator on standby. That fake apology hit harder than her divorce settlement.
Three dots danced.
Then the reply popped in:
Mrs. Harland: "You should be more careful what you send, Peter. Teachers don't unsee things."
Yeah. That smelled like lust and plausible deniability. Perfect.
I tapped back:
"Sorry again. I don't usually take pics like that. I didn't mean for you to see... Because you just added me, you were at the top of my list."
Her reply dropped like it was waiting behind the screen with her lip between her teeth and one hand under the table.
Mrs. Harland: "That's a risky mistake. I could report it, you know."
Risky, yeah. Like wearing a split skirt and thigh-highs to PTA. I tapped out a reply.
Me: "Please don't. I just started really liking your class."
Bubble popped.
Mrs. Harland: "Did you like it before or after I added you?"
Easy.
Me: "After. You smiled different in that coat photo. Like you were off school hours."
Typing stopped again.
[System]: Mmm~ teacher's desk got wet, sugar. She logging off Google Classroom and logging into SpankHub.
The bubble danced.
Mrs. Harland: "Watch yourself. Or I might have to tutor you one-on-one."
Cute. Flirt disguised as discipline. Probably thought she was being subtle.
Me: "Will it be before class? Or after hours?"
She left it there. No reply. Just seen.
I tossed the phone aside, rolled off the bed, and dropped to the floor. Twenty pushups. Not for fitness. Just blood flow management. My dick had opinions and no real outlet.
Shower was calling again.
But I didn't even make it to the bathroom.
Phone rang again.
Image.
Unknown sender. No profile photo. No name.
I tapped.
Well if white pubes and cougar cunt didn't scream Mrs. Harland, I had no clue what did. The second the image loaded, I knew. Her sheets were hotel-white, but the light was low enough to make it feel seedy. Her legs were spread. Lacy panties pulled to the side. Panties that looked like they were purchased when Blockbuster still existed. But the real war crime was the visible bush. Silver. Not platinum blonde, not grey.
She sent the message three seconds later from her original account.
"Goodnight, Peter. Hope you get something good tonight."
Oh I got something alright. Trauma dressed in retirement-lingerie and the smell of expired Estée Lauder.
[System]: Mmm~ sugar, she sent you haunted pussy in 720p. Call Ghostbusters. That cooch got mileage and a pension plan.
I threw myself onto the bed like I was trying to suffocate the day out of existence. My phone slipped from my fingers and landed face-down, like even it could not deal with what just burned into its screen. Hell. Silver pubes. That shit was permanent now. My brain tried to run, but my eyes were screaming like they had just been waterboarded with expired grandma porn.
"Well, there goes the boner," I muttered to no one.
That poor bastard didn't even wait. Just curled up and died mid-thought like it had seen the future and said, "Nope." Cold shower cancelled. That image straight-up assassinated every remaining trace of horniness in my body.
[System]: Rest in peace, dick. That woman sent you a menopause manifesto in JPEG.
I covered my face with the pillow and screamed into it. Not even a long scream. Just one hard blast like I was trying to exorcise the cursed JPEG from my soul. The pillow absorbed it. Still not enough.
[System]: Sugar, if your dick was a character in a horror movie, it just heard the music and knew the killer was close.
How the hell did today start with fixing a radiator and end with unsolicited vintage cooch? This was not a progression. This was a jump cut to trauma.
I grabbed the phone again. Swiped out of Harland's chat like I was trying to erase history. Switched back to Zoey. Just staring at that unread bubble from earlier felt like staring into a safer, more hormonal timeline. Her pink pic was still in there. Digital comfort food.
Clicked.
Yup. Still there. Still pink. Still looked like it whispered lullabies to dicks and charged rent. I almost wept.
[System]: You got hit with the full evolutionary scale today. From peak fertility to relics of retired lust.
"Remind me to delete that pic later."
[System]: Save it for court. Evidence of assault.
I groaned into the pillow. "That bitch got thousand years of practice. Probably sent tit sketches to a pharaoh and signed it with perfume made from virgin goat tears."
[System]: She invented OnlyFans in stone tablets, sugar. Sent hieroglyphic nudes with pigeon mail. Queen Cleopatra got nothing on Cougar Cleopatra.
I flipped over, stared at the ceiling hoping it could bleach my memory. That damn photo. She used a burner profile to send it, too. No flirting before, no warning. Just dropped retirement pussy into my DMs like it was my homework submission. That was the scary part. She had not flirted. Not once. Just added me, waited, and sent her fucking soul in jpeg format.
The kind of confidence only comes when you know your ex-husband's still paying alimony and you already ruined a few student lives.
I needed air. Or therapy. Or both. Maybe a priest. I stood up and leapt out the window. I launched a web at the first passing flagpole, swung high, kicked off the corner of a building, and went hunting.
Someone needed to get punched tonight. Preferably someone trying to mug a grandma or sell fake Gucci in an alley. I needed crime. Petty, dumb, and just violent enough to slap the cougar trauma out of my system.
Brooklyn was awake, as always. Shadows moved. I zipped between them. Near Canal Street, I spotted two guys arguing in a corner like they were rehearsing for a low-budget crime documentary. One held a crowbar, the other had a bag that clanked when he moved.
I dropped behind them, no warning. Just hit the first one in the back with a web shot and yanked. He spun mid-fall and landed hard, crowbar flying out of his hand and skidding into the street. The other dude turned, opened his mouth.
"Wrong answer."
I kicked him in the chest, he slammed into the wall behind him and slid down like wet laundry. I checked the bag. Copper wiring, some tools, and two rolls of duct tape. Cable thieves. Creative. Boring.
I webbed them to a trash can and scribbled "Shocking work, fellas" in marker across their chests. Stuck the bag on top of the can. Let NYPD figure out the logistics. Swung off before they could even moan.
Two hours later, I was on the roof near East Village, crouched beside a vent, watching a guy try to break into a vape store with a tire iron.
"Really?"
He turned. I dropped in front of him, kicked the tire iron from his hand, webbed his ankle, and pulled. He hit the ground. Rolled. Screamed something about knowing his rights.
"You have the right to suck at crime. That count?"
I flipped him on his stomach with one boot, webbed his wrists, and added a sticky smiley face to his back. Store alarm triggered, sirens somewhere distant. I bailed.
Swung hard for a few blocks, found a rooftop camera pointing the wrong way, adjusted it, then perched beside a cracked chimney for five minutes.
By the time the sun flirted with the horizon, I had busted two more attempted break-ins and left one guy dangling from a lamppost with his pants down and "Scaring women isn't sexy" written on his forehead. I got home just after five. May's door was closed, light off under the crack.
Good. She was asleep.
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You can read up to Chapter 85...
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