Sexting the Don: An Age Gap, Mafia Romance (Silver Fox Daddies)

Am I really doing this? Am I flirting over text with a freaking mob boss?

My heart is racing as I hold my phone, staring at the suggestive text I just sent to Enzo.

The anticipation is exhilarating, and though I can sense he’s being a bit flirty, I need to tread carefully. I don’t want him to think I’m simply selling myself for financial help. I’ve never been that kind of girl, and never will be.

The screen lights up with his next text and he’s taken the flirting up another level.

You have my attention, Mandy. Now, let’s see what else you can do to keep it.

The message sends a jolt of excitement through me that’s so intense that I can hardly think straight. I can’t help but smile, feeling a rush of confidence.

The idea of a mutually beneficial relationship intrigues me, but I also want to ensure he sees my true intentions. His teasing messages make me feel seen, and I have to admit, it’s thrilling.

This is all new territory for me. I hop off the bed, pacing back and forth in my small room above the garage. I need to play it cool. I don’t want to seem desperate, even if I am.

I take a deep breath, doing my best to come up with a reply.

Oh, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.

The reply is a bit of a tease, not committing to anything. But hopefully, it takes the flirting up a level or two. I still can’t believe this is all happening.

The reply comes a few moments later.

You have tricks? I’m intrigued. How about for your first one, you remind me of what you look like.

It doesn’t take a brainiac to realize what he’s asking for—a selfie. There’s one problem, though: I’m in my jammies, with all of my makeup long since washed off. I’m not looking my best.

I type up a quick response, deciding to be direct.

I hope you’re not expecting a picture of the pure glamor you saw earlier tonight. I’m dressed for bed.

My heart still pounding, I hurry over to my mirror, trying to tease my hair into something presentable. I’m dressed in nothing but a spaghetti-strap top and a pair of sleep shorts, clothes that I’ve owned since high school.

I’m right in the middle of trying to decide if I should put on something sexier when another text comes through.

I’ve got a feeling you stun no matter what you’re dressed in. Show me.

I adjust my top slightly, making sure it flatters my curves without looking too deliberate.

Turning to find the best lighting in my room, I open the curtains to let the soft glow of the streetlights in, creating a warm ambiance. I experiment with a few poses, trying to decide what looks best.

After a few attempts that make me laugh at myself, I finally find a pose that feels natural yet alluring, holding the phone high enough to capture just the right angle.

After a few deep breaths, I press the shutter button. The camera clicks, capturing the moment. I look at the photo, my cheeks flushing with both embarrassment and pride.

It’s subtly sexy, and I decide it’s enough to catch his interest without being over the top.

I attach the photo to a message, my heart pounding as I hit send.

Hope you like it, Mr. Martelli. I press send, holding my breath, half-expecting him to shut this down.

To my relief, the response doesn’t take long. This time, his reply comes with a different tone, more playful and clearly pleased.

Now, another. And I want this one to be … less inhibited.

A smile spreads across my face, my earlier embarrassment melting away into excitement. He’s into it, and so am I.

Feeling bolder and more confident, I reply, Let’s see what I can do …

His words ignite a mixture of excitement and nerves in me. I pause, questioning how bold I’m willing to be. The thrill of pushing my limits wins out, and I go for it.

I adjust my top to a more suggestive angle and, with a racing heart, snap a bolder photo, this time showing off a bit of cleavage. I check it—sexy but classy—and send it off before I can chicken out.

Enzo responds quickly, his enthusiasm unmistakable.

Good. But I want even less inhibited than that.

A cold spike of fear runs through me when I realize what he means.

He wants downright nudity.

Am I ready? I could easily tell Enzo that I won’t do anything like that.

The more I consider the matter, however, the more fun it seems.

So, I decide to split the difference. I step over to the mirror, phone in hand, and take a deep breath.

When I’m ready, I pull my tank top down just a bit, enough for one of my breasts to come out. Then, I cup it with my hand, covering my nipple with one finger. I grab my phone and snap a pic before I lose my nerve.

This better?

I’m nearly beside myself with nervousness, having just done something far more scandalous and out of my comfort zone than what’s normal for me.

Relief washes over me when the text bubbles appear.

Not bad. But you’re blocking my perfect view.

Oh boy. Enzo must’ve sensed the hesitation, and now he’s telling me to give him what he wants or to quit wasting his time.

I’m nervous, but more than that, I’m excited. There’s something about him that makes me want to obey. So, with a hard swallow, I step back over to the mirror. I pull down my top once more, exposing my bare breast.

The shutter clicks, and I quickly hit send before I have second thoughts, not even taking a moment to look at the picture. Just like that, the seal is broken—I’ve sent my first nude.

Gorgeous. Now, take your top off.

His approval sends a wave of hot arousal through my body, my pussy clenching. I don’t waste any time. I take off my top and toss it aside, leaving me in nothing but my skimpy sleeping shorts.

I’m feeling bolder, my nerves melting away by the second. When I’m ready, I step over to the mirror once again, putting my hand on my hip and cocking it to the side. My breasts are on full display, and I snap the photo.

This time, I glance down. I look … good. Like, really hot. I’ve always been proud of my body from a fitness standpoint, but I’ve never paid much attention to my looks from an erotic perspective. But now I see they’re one and the same. My legs are well-toned, my middle is trim, and my boobs are full and perky.

With a naughty grin on my face, I send the pic.

Much, much better.

Then another text.

You’ve got me hard, Mandy.

My eyes flash, and I stand there in silence for a little while, trying to process what I’ve just read.

I take a deep breath to calm myself down. What the hell am I supposed to do with this information?

The thought lingers in my head, and I realize I’ve just given myself a good question to ask him.

What am I supposed to do with this information, Mr. Martelli?

Whatever you want. But I’ve got some ideas.

I bite my lip, and another hot wave of arousal runs through me.

Such as?

Take the shorts off. But not your panties. And send me a picture.

My legs feel weak beneath me. The nervousness is fading, but at the same time, I’m still heading into unknown territory.

So far, it’s been fun. Is he planning on helping me with the money situation? Who the hell knows? He could just be using me to get himself off.

Then again, maybe I’m using him. I can stop this whenever I want, after all. And though I’d been a touch shy at first, I’m quickly realizing this has been an experience I’ve desperately been needing.

I step over to the mirror and hook a thumb underneath the waistband of my shorts, slipping them down my thighs and kicking them off. My panties are nothing special, powder-blue hipsters, but it’s not like I own anything sexier. I’ve never had the need.

This time, I try a different pose. I turn around, putting my shapely ass on display. I glance over my shoulder, turning just a bit so part of my boob is visible. I snap a shot and send it off.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Glad you like it.

Tell me this … are you wet?

God, this guy is bold. And I kind of like it. He clearly knows the effect he’s having on me.

I am. Very wet.

The response comes right away.

Good. Now, I want you to touch yourself.

Reading the words is surreal. I blink hard, feeling like I might faint at any second. Touch myself?

How?

I type the word without even thinking, my cheeks reddening as soon as it appears on the screen.

Do you need me to walk you through it? I can sense his sardonic tone through the text.

No, I think I can manage.

A shame. It could be more fun that way. Tell me when you’re touching yourself.

I hurry over to my door, making sure it’s locked. Mom and Jimmy never bother me up here, but I want to be on the safe side. Once that’s done, I rush back to the bed and get under the covers, slipping off my panties and kicking them out of the way.

I roll my shoulders and get comfortable, spreading my legs and placing my hand on my belly. I close my eyes and slowly let my hand drift down over the hair above my pussy, then lower.

I’m warm between my thighs, more turned on than I’d realized. Images of Enzo form in my mind. I remember what he told me, that he’s hard for me.

The thought of him touching himself, of him being hard as stone at the thought of me, gives me the last push I need to move my hand to my pussy. A sigh escapes my mouth as I touch myself, spreading my lips open and placing my fingertip on my clit.

I lose myself deeper into the fantasy, imagining Enzo looking at those pictures of me, stroking himself, hard, animal grunts pushing out from the depths of his chest as he brings himself closer to coming.

Soon, I’m in a nice rhythm, making slow circles around my clit, the pleasure building and building.

Shit. I was supposed to text him when I was touching myself. But how the hell would I do both at the same time?

I take my hand away and text him.

I’m touching myself.

Good. Tell me how wet you are.

Really wet. Super wet. To make my point, I add a few water drop emojis.

Are you fingering yourself?

No, just touching.

Finger yourself.

Mr. Insistent.

I type my reply.

I’ve never actually done that before.

Are you serious?

Serious as can be.

There’s a pause. Then, the dots appear.

I want to ask you a personal question.

I hesitate, wondering what could be so personal at this stage.

Then it comes: Are you a virgin?

The question shocks me, and for a moment I’m not sure how to respond. Part of me wants to evade, to keep some mystery, but another part—the one swayed by the honesty of our conversation—opts for the truth.

Yes, I reply, my heart thumping a bit harder as I send the message.

Almost immediately, Enzo responds, his message cutting through any subtlety.

Send me your address.

I freeze, suddenly unsure if I’m ready for the implications.

I live in the apartment above my parents’ detached garage, I type back, trying to add a layer of caution to it all.

He doesn’t back down. Instead, he demands more firmly, Your address, Mandy.

After a quick moment of hesitation, I tap out my address and send it to him. Instantly, I’m hit with a cocktail of feelings. I’m a bundle of nerves, totally thrilled and a little scared, all rolled into one.

But let’s be honest, there’s also this electric buzz of excitement—Enzo is hands down the hottest guy I’ve ever chatted with, and thinking about him being my first … well, it’s kind of thrilling.

All the same, it’s not like I’m committing to anything. I barely know this guy, and I’m not about to give him my virginity simply because he’s insistent. If he’s pushy, I’ll send him on his way, simple as that.

Needing to do something with all this pent-up energy, I spring into action and start tidying up my already clean apartment. I fluff up the pillows, straighten out the magazines, and give the floor a quick sweep.

Once the place is looking sharp, I dash off to my wardrobe and pick out something that feels both comfy and cute. While I’m changing, I can’t help but replay our entire chat in my head—the flirty texts, his asking for my address, his curiosity about me.

It’s all pretty overwhelming and a tad surreal. But underneath all that, there’s this simmering excitement and anticipation about what might happen when Enzo finally gets here.