The pictures kept coming.
Every few days, usually late—two in the morning, three-forty, once at 4:12 while the rest of the world was still asleep—my phone would light up with a single image and nothing else. No caption. No “delete this.” Just her.
Fully dressed, always. Long skirt brushing the tops of her shoes. High neckline. Sleeves that stopped at the wrist. Tznius down to the last button. But the lighting changed. Sometimes the soft yellow of their bedroom lamp, catching the way the fabric clung to the undersides of her breasts when she leaned forward to fix something on the dresser. Sometimes the cold bathroom mirror light, showing the clean line of her waist and the quiet, heavy curve of her ass under the skirt as she turned slightly, not knowing the camera was there. Once she was sitting on the edge of the bed, blonde hair down past her shoulders, one hand resting on her thigh, and the way the material pulled across her chest made it obvious how full she was. Five-eight. A hundred and thirty. Soft in every place the clothes were supposed to hide.
I never answered the pictures. I just looked. And looked again later. And again.
Moshe stopped pretending nothing was happening. He still learned with me. Still sat in the same seats. But the silences between us got heavier, and every time a new photo arrived he would glance at me across the table the next day like he was waiting to see if I’d say something.
I waited almost three weeks.
It was a Thursday afternoon, second seder, the beis midrash half-empty because a lot of the guys had gone home early for Shabbos. We were alone in the back corner. He’d just sent one the night before—her standing in the kitchen in a dark blue skirt and a cream blouse, sleeves buttoned, looking over her shoulder at something outside the frame. The blouse was tight enough across the chest that the shape of her was unmistakable.
I closed the gemara and kept my voice low.
“I jerked off thinking about her last night.”
Moshe’s hand froze on the page. He didn’t look up right away. Color started at his collar and climbed.
“What?”
“After you sent the picture. The kitchen one. I locked the bathroom door and jerked off looking at it. Came harder than I have in months.”
He swallowed. His knee started that nervous bounce under the table again. He pressed his palm flat against it.
“You’re not supposed to say that.”
“You keep sending them.”
Silence. The only sound was someone flipping pages two rows up and the distant hum of the air conditioner.
Moshe’s voice came out rough. “How many times?”
“Last night was the third. First one was the original picture. Second was the one where she’s standing by the closet. Last night made three.”
He dragged a hand over his mouth, then left it there for a second like he was trying to keep the next words in. When he finally spoke he was staring at the gemara like it might forgive him.
“Did you… think about her while you were with your own wife?”
I shook my head. “No. Just the pictures. Just her. Tall. Blonde. Those tits under the blouse. The way the skirt sits on her ass. I kept the phone in one hand and went slow so I could look at every part of her.”
Moshe’s breathing had gone shallow again. He shifted in the chair, and I saw the outline of his cock pressing against the front of his black pants before he adjusted the sefarim on his lap to hide it.
“I shouldn’t have sent any of them,” he muttered.
“But you did. And you’re going to keep doing it.”
He didn’t deny it. His ears were burning. He stared at the same line of gemara for a long time, then said, so quietly I almost didn’t hear it:
“I watched her get dressed this morning. The blue skirt again. I thought about you looking at the picture while you… did that. And I got hard. Right there in the bedroom while she was putting her shoes on.”
I waited.
Moshe finally looked at me. His eyes were darker, pupils wide.
“Send me the next one tonight,” I said. “And when you do, tell me if you jerked off after you took it.”
He held my gaze for three full seconds. Then he gave a single, tight nod, turned back to the page, and didn’t speak again for the rest of the seder.
That night at 2:51 my phone lit up.
A new picture.
And under it, three words:
I did. Sir.
