Lilac: Hot, 18, Horny, Relentless!

The little bitch must have been reading my mind from thousands of miles away. I'd been sitting five minutes, maybe ten, when my cell pinged that I had a new text message. I almost didn't have to look to know who it was; my office was leaving me alone for this trip. Sure enough, it was Lilac's number.

This was not a report about our dog. "I'm excited today wanna know why?"

Sitting in the sun, knowing the sexy hottie was thinking of me and wanted to share her day with me, this horny married man couldn't stop texting three letters back, right away. "Why?" Yeah, I took the bait.

"Cuz," she wrote, "I got a new necklass wanna see it?"

Assuming she meant "necklace," and wondering why she cared that I saw some new necklace, I didn't stop myself from seeing where this was going. I typed, "Sure."

Time seemed to drag slowly on that pool deck, under the afternoon Caribbean sun, it was an eternal couple of minutes before my cell pinged that I'd received a picture text. Not sure what to expect, I opened it, and was greeted by one sensationally sexy photograph. It was a picture of Lilac for sure, a bust shot, with her face and top half of her torso, sort of down to a spot midway between her petite boobs and her innie belly-button. Her blonde hair was messy, unkept, almost like she hadn't showered; she had no makeup, but her tanned face was still attractive. She was scowling at the camera, a funny face, hardly a sexy one. My eyes gravitated to her small piece of clothing -- she was wearing only a hot pink tubetop, a single, thick, strapless garment wrapped horizontally around her slender torso and covering most of her small breasts. A little cleavage showed on the top, and the bumps of her firm nipples were pretty obvious. Dangling over the tubetop, between her boobs, was a gold chain with a heart-shaped pendant dangling midway between her soft breasts.

Lilac quickly sent a follow-up email. "Dont mind me i lk [look] like shit," she opined.

Sitting on that hot, padded bench, my penis was growing in my shorts, my eyes glued to the sight of her tightly-wrapped boobs. This vixen was teasing me mercilessly, did she have any idea of the effect on me? I had to put a stop to this, I knew. I really had to.

But, did I tell her to stop? Did I ignore her? No, I wrote back a friendly, flirty message. "You dont look like shit," I wrote truthfully, thinking of something clever to say and then typing it, "Even when you look like shit you dont look like shit." I wasn't sure what that meant, but it sounded cute to me.

Lilac sure thought it was cute. "Awww ur [you're] sweet," she texted quickly. That made me smile, I had to admit. It was rewarding to know a sexy young woman was tickled by my attention, as much as I knew it wasn't a good idea.

But in the realm of bad ideas, the all-text conversation up to that point was nothing compared to the next round of messages.

Lilac wrote again, right away, "Wanna see what i lk [look] like rite [right] now?"

Again, quite the teasing line. I had no idea what to expect. It was 3 pm or so my time, and I wasn't sure if I was an hour ahead or not. So, being the middle of the afternoon back home, how bad could it be, I figured? Maybe she was in a bikini, like the one I saw her wearing at the pool a few weeks earlier. That would have been nice to see. But, I knew I couldn't invite something too risque, and the bikini might not even pass that criteria. So, at the risk of not being cute anymore, I pretty much spelled out my grown-up rule. "OK but only if ur mom wouldnt mind."

The teen didn't get what I meant; Lilac quickly responded, "UMMM why wd [would] she even no [know]?"

Explaining quickly, I typed, "I mean dont show me wot [what] she wouldnt want u [you] 2 [to] show me." I figured that would be pretty clear.

It wasn't. "UR FUNNY," typed the teen blonde, "I dont kno [know] what dat [that] means." But, quickly following that message, I received her second picture text of the afternoon. This one I didn't have to open, it just scrolled in front of my eyes.

YOWZA!

It was a photo Lilac took of herself standing in front of a full-body mirror. The little bitch was topless, with a white towel wrapped around her waist as if she was going to take a shower. I couldn't see her tits, she had one hand clutching one boob, and her other tit was strategically hidden behind her hand and the camera as she took a non-flash picture of her reflection in the mirror.

Hot. Fucking hot. Her hair was still a mess, but who cares. Her caramel, tanned skin looked smooth and expensive, without a blemish, her frail shoulders and slim tummy would be the envy of 99.9% of adult women. Girl was fucking delicious, just a sensuous, prime example of the perfect female form.

Still, as much as I gawked at the photo and instantly wanted to see more -- as in, see her without the towel, and her hands down -- I knew, being a rational, married man, that I couldn't see more. I actually felt my hand burning just holding the camera near my head, under the rim of my hat to keep it in shade. I looked around, a fear rising that my wife or one of her siblings was coming out to see what I was doing. The prick is sexting with a high school senior-to-be, they'd say.

I was deliberating what to say back, something firm to put a stop to this, when Lilac explained a bit more. "Im gonna take a shower," she wrote, confirming the obvious, "itz HOT."

Erasing what I was about to send, I went halfway, trying to be cute but still firm. "You r hot," I typed, my fingers trembling, "but u cant show me pics from the shower cuz im married." I actually hated typing that, and before I clicked send, I thought about erasing that too, and saying, send me pics from the shower. That was the message I really wanted to send.

Lilac might have missed the last part, about me being married. "OMG I shd [should] get a waterproof cell," she typed, as if contemplating the idea of nude photos from the shower.

My attempt to avoid this line of conversation failed, she didn't pick up on me being married, and now I was horny and not going to repeat it. "You could sell those pics," I wrote to her, wondering if maybe she was actually going to send me some of her nude in the shower.

Lilac sent back an emoticon of a toothy smiley-face, and wrote, "4sur bt wd u bi them?" ["For sure but would you buy them?"]

After typing "Yes!," I didn't send that -- instead, the battle in me was being waged message by message, and for this one, the married adult was taking over. "No like I said im not allowed to see them," I wrote, then added a moment later in all capitals, "IM MARRIED."

On her end of the conversation, a few thousand miles away, the blonde teen was horny, being mostly nude in her room about to shower, and showing off her body to a married man. Like she showed off her tits to me, quite deliberately, inside her loose shirt in my living room the other day. She had my attention, and it was turning her on to keep feeding my lust.

So she wrote, "Ur not huh?" It was odd, since I just wrote her I'm married, but I believed her to be responding to the prior message where I told her I wasn't allowed to see pictures of her naked in the shower.

To repeat, she asked if I really wasn't allowed to see those kind of pictures. And she followed up her message with a third picture text, which scrolled onto my screen like an invitation from the devil. A photo of her reflection in the same mirror, but with her tits uncovered. Yes, I saw a photo of her nude breasts, those gorgeous little, A-cup boobies, creamy white, with triangular tan lines from her bikini top. Her nipples were brown, little, stiff. She had on a funny scowl on her face, like she was disturbed about something, but I think it was just to be silly. One hand was holding the camera to her face, so she could see the photo she was taking; her other hand was sort of waiving to me, two fingers up like a peace sign, but bent crooked at an acute angle.

My eyes were glued to the sight of her tits, fuck they were insanely sexy -- petite, so proportionate on her little frame. Not a busty girl, but with her skinny shoulders and slim hips, her breasts were divine, just perfect. My mouth watered at the thought of suckling them. Lower on the photo, her smooth, soft tummy cut off where her towel was wrapped around her, and my cock wanted to see another photo with the towel removed. That's what I wanted.

I must not have responded fast enough; I wasn't even thinking about typing, I was staring at her picture. Lilac typed, "did u get that?" She must have been anxious for my response.

She got my response, except it wasn't what she wanted. I was angry, frankly. I was being teased, and I couldn't deal with it. I actually deleted all three of her photos -- seriously, I deleted them -- and wrote, "That was SO inappropriate!" I didn't just hit the send key, I banged it with my thumb, as if doing that would send it faster, or make the message more stern.

The teenager must have thought I was teasing. "Nu uh," she typed, which I believe were the sounds "nuh-uhh." She was either mocking me, or disagreeing, but either way, my message wasn't coming through.

The hot Caribbean afternoon was melting my brain, not to mention the hot teenager sexting with me. I had to do something, I wanted to get up and walk around, sweat was beading all over my body. I felt guilty, I felt eyes of my wife and her family on me, which of course wasn't true but I was unnerved anyway. Lilac sent another message, "Want another one?" Five minutes earlier, I probably would have said yes, assuming I'd get to see her nude, see her cunt. But now, overheated, angry as shit, I just put an end to it.

"DO NOT TEASE ME ANYMORE," I typed, "IM MARRIED."

This time, message received.

"Geez ok tht ud like it," she wrote. ["Thought you'd like it."]

I sighed, not wanting to make her angry, but knowing I did the right thing. "I am not allowed to say I did," I wrote, very diplomatically. I was actually proud of that message, for a moment; I held my ground, but told her I liked it. I mean, what living male wouldn't like it? She showed me her hot titties!

My mood changed, as once again, I didn't understand my audience. She was 18, she was not a grown up. She was horny and doing things that were not a good idea, but she didn't know any better. Her messages reflected profound distress.

"Alrightiethen," was her first message ["All rightie then"]. A moment later, her second, "g2g kthxbi" ["Got to go, ok, thanks, bye"]. Extremely dismissive.

I slumped into the sizzling hot leather bench, my back against the concrete wall, baking in the scorching sun. That cool breeze from earlier either had stopped, or was of no effect anymore. I felt defeated, emptied of energy. I was on the verge of seeing her nude, but instead, I made her mad. I knew it was the right thing to do -- but, then, tell my why I felt like shit?

And another thing made me feel worse. You fucking idiot, I told myself, you fucking deleted the pictures!

* * * * *

The texts from her stopped coming to me after that incident, not surprisingly. That Monday evening, after she put Tigger out, she texted my wife that the dog was fine. That was a signal to me that she was now going to ignore me. I'd pissed her off.

Of course, I had forgotten how teenage females run hot and cold; it could be the end of the world with them one day, but the next, it was like it had never happened. Such are teenage hormones, and I wasn't accounting for that. More about that later.

Running parallel to these events, my office was having a minor crisis without me. Well, major crisis. Our second-largest customer was getting into a pissing contest with our third-largest customer, lawsuits threatened and all that, and we were being told to declare our allegiance. Were we with them or against them. Work was being frozen, and worse, we were being subtly threatened with being sued ourselves for sharing work for our #2 customer in projects with #3. It wasn't true, but a mid-sized company like mine couldn't survive that kind of war. It was bad.

My business partner let me in on the details Monday morning. My Monday evening, the temporary crisis seemed to simmer down, and he was telling me to stay on vacation. There was going to be a meeting planned the following week when I got back, and my office just had to prepare for the meeting. It would take a lot of work -- going through projects, to prove to our customer we weren't selling them out to another client -- but I wasn't critical to the project.

I told my wife about it, and she knew the importance of the event. "Do you need to go home?" she asked.

Go home. It was plausible. The vacation wasn't for me, it was for my wife and her ritzy family, so if I left, my wife wouldn't be alone. Some might say she wouldn't miss me, although that wasn't entirely true. The main airport was just a half-hour taxi ride away, I could be home by mid-day the next day, Tuesday. I knew my office could survive the week without me; but, on the other hand, my presence there could really help improve our chances of getting back in good graces with our customer at the meeting the following week, and avoid any messy hit to our revenues.

So what was bothering me? The thought that I had an ulterior motive for going home. When my business partner told me to stay put, I was questioning his recommendation, but possibly not for business reasons. Was I rejecting him because I wanted to be home for a half week without my wife -- so I would have opportunity to see Lilac's titties in the flesh? And more than just those titties?

That Monday evening, I had a pretty gut-wrenching conversation with my wife, but Lilac of course was never mentioned. I didn't want to bail on her vacation. She had been looking forward to it for weeks and weeks. But my business was in jeopardy, we couldn't afford a multi-million stoppage of revenues. I might have a job, but I'd be making less, we'd have to lay off people -- it was a bad situation. No matter what I was being told by the office, my wife probably correctly inferred, they needed me there.

"You need to go home, Mike, I'm sorry, that's just the way it is," my wife told me, comforting me.

Damn, it was actually happening. Around midnight that night, I booked the last seat on a flight home on the 8 am flight. I'd be home just after lunchtime, and could be in the office all afternoon and evening.

It was a whirlwind, happening so fast. I was sleep-deprived, sitting in the gateway waiting for the plane to board, saddened that I had to abandon this vacation to paradise and leave my wife behind. I was nervous about the situation at the office, of course.

And, there was Lilac. But, I knew I shouldn't -- and couldn't -- think about her.

I figured, I would be too busy at the office to see her at the house. Hell, I probably wouldn't get home until midnight, the folks at the office were burning the late-night oil to work on this massive presentation we owed in a week's time. We had to go through hundreds of deliverables, trying to make our case we weren't selling out client #2 to client #3. It just sounded ridiculous, but companies in heated competition are that way. You don't tell them they're wrong; you have to show them they're wrong. That was the primary goal for the week, there was no time to flirt with Lilac, much less have sex with her at my house.

Yeah, I figured, she would fuck me if I wanted to -- she was putting herself out there, wasn't she?

Sitting there, a bundle of nerves and emotions, my wife called me. Remember to tell Lilac that I would be home, my wife said, so she's not surprised if you're home -- but, if I was going to be at the office long hours, she still needed to come take care of the dog, at least in the middle of each day, if not in the early evening too.

So I did it. Sitting there in the terminal, tired, worn down, supposedly on vacation but having it end abruptly, I called Lilac. I figured this was going to be strictly professional. My fingers were too tired to text, and she didn't understand half the things I texted to her anyway.

She answered quietly, and I just spoke casually. I told her I had to come home for work, that I'd be leaving early in the morning but she didn't need to come mornings anymore. Still needed her to put the dog out each mid-day, and if she could still come by in early evening, that would be good because I'd be home probably really late each night.

I heard a pause, as if she wasn't understanding. I figured, how dense could the teen be -- she was already planning to come to our house three time a day, and I was telling her, it only needed to be two times, she could sleep in if she wanted. This wasn't rocket science. Why didn't she just say, yeah, okay?

"Um, okeeee," came her sing-song reply, with a giggle. "Um -- wait -- when will you be home, again?"

Tired, not thinking, I just looked at my ticket, added commute times, and told her. "About 2. You should still put Tigger out at lunch, in case I'm delayed."

The girl seemed chipper. "Alright -- you'll be at the house at 2, is that it?"

"Yeah." I was tired, I wanted to get off the call, but I didn't want to be too abrupt. Actually, I was nervous too, wondering if the subject of her naked tits could be raised. I hoped not, I didn't need further complications.

"Um, okay!" Lilac giggled agreeably, "well, have a nice flight!"

* * * * *

Flight was perfect -- I slept the entire way. It was in first class, and you have no idea of the expense of a first-class ticket from the Caribbean to the continental US, bought just hours before the flight. It was, almost a five-digit ticket. But the company would pick it up; myself, I got a ton of room to stretch out, relax, and sleep.

I had been in my house not even five minutes, at the most, when the front door seemed to unlocked and open by itself. I was standing in the dining room nearby, looking through the mail Lilac had brought in from the past couple of days, and I looked up surprised that the door was opening. Maybe I'd forgotten to lock it, maybe the wind blew it open? Which was stupid -- it was July, there was no fucking wind.

Into the house stepped Lilac, looking like a vision from a dream. Her hair was blazing hot -- golden, brushed out, flowing down from her petite head and down her slender shoulders and back. She was wearing makeup, possibly lipstick, some eye shadow; she looked refreshed. But her body was the star of the show. She had on a white bikini top, with triangles covering her A-cup boobies, the rest of her tummy and torso completely uncovered, a deep golden bronze tan from spending every day for a month at the pool. I suspected she had on a bikini bottom, but around her slim hips was a white skirt, probably a little wrap, something to wear commuting to the beach or pool.

My jaw agape, I dropped the mail onto the table and looked at her, frozen solid, the sexy, delicious teenager almost nude as her slender, sexy legs pivoted her super-slim body, closing the front door, then she took a step into the foyer. She glanced over, saw me standing there, and let out a little yelp, her hand holding my house keys to her opened mouth, putting a shocked look on her face. "Oops, you're home already!" she announced.

Obviously, I said to her, trying not to stare at her body. I'd seen those tits without a bikini top, but they almost looked sexier wrapped in the slim white garment -- teasing, seductive. Suddenly, all I was thinking about was Lilac. Her body, her girlish charm, her teenage enthusiasm. I was home alone, and she was here -- dressed for the pool.

Those sexy, tanned young legs strode in my direction, until she was standing next to the table near me. "I was just gonna check on ol' Tigger again," she said, probably lying to me, "then go over to the pool, ya know?"