Chasing Bailey

It started with curiosity.

That’s what I told myself. A harmless thought, a restless itch, nothing more. A lie I whispered in the quiet hours when the walls of my life pressed too close. After years of living inside my own skin like it was a cage, I wanted to feel something again. Anything that might remind me I was still alive beneath the layers of responsibility and silence.

I loved my husband. I loved my children. But somewhere between the school runs, the late nights at work, the endless laundry piles and forgotten grocery lists, I had lost me. The woman I used to be — vibrant, reckless, laughing too loud, craving too much — she’d been buried under years of duty.

And grief.

My parents’ deaths had hollowed me out in ways I still couldn’t name. It was as though someone had carved open my chest and scooped out the center, leaving me smiling on the outside while inside I was nothing but an echo. I tried to carry on — birthday parties, family dinners, work deadlines. I became skilled at nodding in the right places, laughing at the right moments. But the emptiness clung like a second skin, impossible to peel away.

For five years, I told myself it would pass. That if I worked harder, if I poured myself into my family, the ache would dull. Instead, it grew sharper. More insistent. Until even in the safety of my own marriage bed, I felt like a ghost beside the man I loved.

So I tried to fix it. To fix me.

I talked to my husband. Over and over. Late-night confessions whispered into the dark, my voice cracking as I begged for something — anything — to shift. To break. To wake me up.

And eventually… he gave me permission.

If you need more… if you need someone else… I won’t stop you.

At first it was harmless. Or at least that’s what I told myself. Just messages here and there – little sparks thrown into the dark. Casual conversations with strangers who didn’t know me, who didn’t see the weight I carried of the roles I was trapped in. With them, I wasn’t someone’s wife. I wasn’t just “Mum.” I was Emma again. A woman. A body. A secret. Some of them were older, smooth with their words, the kind of men who knew exactly what to say to make me feel seen. They’d ask me what I am wearing, what I liked, what I wanted – things my husband hadn’t asked me in years. Others were younger, reckless, teasing in ways that made my cheeks burn, boys who flirted without hesitation or restraint. I told myself it was harmless because most of them faded as quickly as they appeared. A week, maybe two- of late night texts that made me blush beneath the glow of my phone, and then it would end. I wasn’t searching for love. I wasn’t searching for someone to replaced what I had at home.

I was searching for feeling.

Each new name, each new message, was like striking a match in a pitch-black room. The thrill of it – the way their attention made my pulse quicken, the way their compliments curled around my ribs like heat – became addictive. I craved the rush, the validation, the reminder that I was still wanted… still desirable.

It wasn’t about the sex, not really. It was about being seen.

The more I messaged, the more restless I became. Every “good morning” test, every check compliment, every playful what – if pushed me closer to a line I’d once sworn I’d never cross. I wanted more – more attention, more danger, more of that electric charge humming beneath my skin.

And then there was Bailey.

He was perfect.

Young. Reckless. Delicious in every way I shouldn’t have wanted. Twenty-two, with that wild, untamed energy that radiated straight through the screen and into my veins. He was eager, unfiltered, hungry in ways that scared me – and yet, God, I craved it. I craved him. And it all started from a simple swipe right.

I didn’t realise the impact he would have on me in such a short amount of time. I thought this was going to be easy. Harmless. A distraction. No feelings, no consequences. Just fun. Just games. But the moment his name lit up my phone, something inside me shifted. The idea of him was power – dangerous, electric addictive.

I became obsessed.

What was it about him? I couldn’t pull back, couldn’t breathe without wondering where he was, what he was doing, who he was thinking about. I told myself it was just going to be physical, just lust. But every late–night message, call, every teasing voice note, every moment he said my name like it was his favourite secret dragged me deeper into the fire.

I wanted him.

No – I ached for him.

I wanted to feel his touch. His kiss. The heat of his breath against my neck, his skin against mine, his teeth sinking into me until I forgot my own name. I wanted to feel him in me – filling me, ruining, taking what I wasn’t supposed to give.

His voice was my undoing – low and rough, curling through my ears like sin, making my skin prickle with anticipation. Every word he whispered felt like it was meant only for me, a secret I wasn’t supposed to have but couldn’t let go of. From the first moment, he had me. Completely.

And that terrified me.

Because this was never meant to be like this. I was meant to be in control. I was meant to hold the power – to play, to tease, to taste freedom and then walk away. But Bailey… Bailey flipped everything I thought I knew about myself. My obsession for him was taking over, bleeding into everything – my thoughts, my moods, my body.

I caught myself reaching for my phone at work, rereading his messages late into the night, refreshing the chat like an addict chasing another hit.

I started loosing myself in him.

Every time I heard Bailey’s voice, it lit something inside me I couldn’t control. That low, teasing tone would slide straight through me, leaving me wet, aching, and restless. I’d sit at my desk at work, legs pressed together, trying to focus, but all I could think about was him — what his hands would feel like, what his mouth would taste like, how it would feel to finally give in.

I started taking photos of myself during quiet moments – in the bathroom at work, late at night when the house was asleep, quick flashes of skin that no one else ever saw. I’d send them to him, desperate to keep his attention, to feed the fire between us. I was begging for it.

And when he gave it to me – when he told me exactly what he wanted to do to me – I’d burn for him. His messages were filth and temptation wrapped in the soft edge of control. He told me how he wanted to touch me. How he wanted to kiss me. How he wanted to take me apart, slowly, deliberately, until I was his to command.

Every word owned me.

He made me want things I’d never let myself want before. He’d described how he’d pin me down, how his fingers would trail down my thighs, how his mouth would leave bruises only we would know about. He’d whisper how he wanted to dominate me, and I could’t stop imagining it – couldn’t stop feeling it, deep in my bones, in the ache between my legs. Every time he excited me , every time he left me trembling and breathless wanting more, I took it out on my husband. I’d climb into bed still flushed from Bailey’s words, pretending it was about us when it wasn’t. And in those moments, when my husband was inside me, it wasn’t his face I saw.

It was Bailey’s.

And that was when I released it – this wasn’t harmless anymore. Bailey wasn’t just a distraction. He was becoming an obsession.

I thought I could wait.

That weekend, I had planned it all in my head – the drive, the hotel, the way his hands would finally be on mine instead of just words and promises. But Bailey told me he was going away for a week, snowboarding with family. I tried to play it cool, to sound unbothered, but inside I was restless, aching.

By Thursday night, I couldn’t take it anymore. The craving was too strong, building like pressure behind my ribs. I was in the shower when he called, his name lit up on the screen.

The moment I herd his voice, I started to shake with want. “ Tonight. I’ll drive. I don’t care how late it is, meet me.”

There was silence then his low chuckle – that sound that crawled under my skin and me whole body on fire.

“God, Em,” he breathed, teasing, flattered. Turned on. “Two hours? Just to fuck me?”

“Yes.” The answer fell out before I could even think. “ I can’t stop thinking about you.”

He wanted me there I could here in his voice. But he hesitated, telling me he had to be up at dawn to leave. That if we met, it could only be for a short while I told him it was okay, I’d wait – that the build up the anticipation, would make it better.

He laughed softly, but there was pride in it. I could hear it. He liked that I wanted him this much. Maybe he even liked knowing I was falling apart for him.

Friday at work, I was useless. My body was buzzing, hormones burning through me like wildfire, everything sharp and sensitive. I’d catch myself drifting in the middle of meetings, imagining the weight of his body on mine, the roughness of his hands. I couldn’t stop.

By lunch, I couldn’t hold it anymore. I locked the bathroom door, slid my back against the wall, and let my hand disappear below. My breath came fast, shallow, and when I came I bit down hard on my lip to stop the sound from escaping. The rush was sharp, electric – but the release was empty without him.

I needed him. The first day on his trip. Bailey sent me pictures from the slopes – his messy hair sticking out from under his helmet, his boyish features. I sent photos back, subtle at first, teasing, seductive. One picture turned into two, and by the third, I was practically begging for his attention.

I was high on him – completely intoxicated.

By the third day, everything changed.

The replies slowed. The tone shifted. No more long, teasing messages. No more pet names.

No more "baby".

Just short answers. Dry replies. Silence where there use to be heat.

I told myself he was busy, that he was with his family, that he was having fun. But the craving didn’t care about logic. The high was wearing off, and the withdrawal was brutal. Every minute without his name lighting up my screen was another twist of panic in my stomach.

My insecurity began to bloom like poison, thick and chocking. I started checking my phone every five seconds. Refreshing. Re-reading our old messages just to feel close to him again.

And then I started sending more. Too much.

Another photo

Another I miss you

Another I’m thinking about you

Anything to pull him back in, to make him want me the way I wanted him. But the more I reached, the more distant he became.

That night I was unravelling. Obsession gnawed at me, whispering that he’d lost interest, that I’d been too much, too eager, too messy. My mind was a storm of what-ifs and maybes, spiralling until it swallowed me whole.

I wanted him. I needed him. And the silence was killing me.

The following morning, I woke to find a message from Bailey, Sent late the night before.

“ I want to confess something… but don’t worry, I’m still interested in you.”

My chest tightened as I read it, my heart pounding in my ears. I stared at the screen, re-reading the words until they blurred. My stomach twisted with unease, but forced my fingers to type a calm reply, asking what it was he needed to confess.

And then… nothing.

The entire day passed in agonising silence. I couldn’t focus on work, couldn’t hear anything anyone around me was saying. My mind kept looping through possibilities, each one darker than the last. I told my self I could handle what ever it was – even if he had slept with someone else. I even messaged him saying exactly that:

“ If you’ve been with another women, it’s okay.”

But when he finally replied, he said it wasn’t that.

He said he was nervous.

Nervous about this – about me, about us, about the game we were playing. Nervous about the way we were planning to meet, the way the fantasy was suddenly close enough to become reality.

And yet, his words didn’t soothe me.It made my thoughts spiral harder.

Was he really nervous… or was this a way of letting me down gently?

My insecurity eating away at me, relentless and cruel, whispering all the fears I tried so hard to bury: maybe I was too old, maybe I wasn’t pretty enough, not skinny enough, not exciting enough for him. He was twenty-two. He could have anyone. He didn’t need someone like me.

I spent the rest of the day obsessing, checking my phone every few seconds, re-reading our old messages for comfort, aching with a constant, restless need. Finally, I asked him if we could talk on the phone that night, to just… hear his voice. To know where I stood.

When his name finally lit up my screen that evening, my whole body reacted. My breath caught, my stomach fluttered, and a rush of heat spread through me. Even before I answered, I was smiling like an idiot, craving the sound of him.

“Hey, Em,” he said when I picked up, his voice low, warm, threaded with something unspoken. And just like that, I melted.

His voice slid over me like velvet, soft and dangerous, sinking beneath my skin and wrapping around every nerve. I could hardly concentrate on his words, too distracted by the way he said my name, the way every breath between his sentences seemed to hum with quiet intimacy.

“ I just…” he started, his voice dropping lower. I’ve been with older women before. But nothing like this. But I am plenty interested in you.”

His words poured over me like heat, curling around my ribs, stealing the air from lungs. I closed my eyes, letting his voice wash through me, imagining his hands, his mouth, his breath against my neck. All I wanted was him – near me , on me, in me.

As we talked, I could hear it in his voice – Bailey was sick. Run-down, worn out from his week away on the slopes. Another wait. Another reason to hold back.

My heart wanted to believe him – to believe he was still interested, that he wanted me just as badly as I wanted him. But my head wouldn’t let me rest. It picked apart every delayed reply, every half-hearted response, every excuse. I kept replaying the gasps between messages like they were proof of something I couldn’t admit out loud.

The next morning, I vent to Hannah at work. She asked to see his messages, so I handed over my phone reluctantly. I watched her face as her eyes scanned the thread, her expression slowly shifting, softening into sympathy.

“Em…” she said carefully, lowering her voice. “ He doesn’t sound that interested.”

The words landed like a punch to the chest, stealing my breath. I made attempts challenging her that she was wrong. I wanted to tell her that she didn’t understand, that Bailey was not like other men that we had come to know. But a small vicious voice in the back of my mind whispered that maybe she was right.

I didn’t want her to be.

So I fought harder. I kept pushing for his attention in every way I could – a flirty photo here, a playful message there – desperate to keep his focus on me. But with every delayed response, my confidence splintered. Even when Bailey reassured me, telling me he wasn’t on his phone much, that he wasn’t ignoring me, my chest still tightened, my stomach still sank. I wanted to believe him. God. I wanted to.

But the silence between us was louder than his words.

I started sinking into myself – insecure, restless, sad. The more I reached for him, the more he seemed to drift away, I couldn’t tell what was real anymore. Was he sick? Was he busy? Or was this just the slow unravelling of something that had burned bright, too fast?

Hanah watched me spiral for days before she finally said what I’d been avoiding .

“Em… let him go. Find someone else.”

I hated the way those words tasted, but part of me listened anyway.

That night, I matched with Liam.

Nineteen. Keen. Flirty. So eager it almost made me laugh. He was cute, in an effortless, boyish way. His attention came easy, un complicated – no games, no silence, no overthinking. He wanted me, he made it obvious.

But the spark wasn’t there.

Still, when he asked to meet, I said yes. Maybe I wanted to prove something to myself. Maybe I wanted Bailey to see I wasn’t waiting around for him. Maybe I just wanted to feel wanted by someone.

After work, I walked into the car park and spotted Liam waiting, leaning awkwardly against his car. He was tall, broad shouldered, nervous energy radiating off him as I approached. My heart thudded, not from excitement, but from the weight of what I was doing – using him, when all I wanted was someone else.

He stepped forward, hesitating only for a moment before leaning in, his lips brushing mine in a trembling, eager kiss. I kissed him back, letting myself get lost in the warmth of it, hoping for that dizzy intoxication I craved.

For a fleeting moment, I felt something – a spark, faint and hollow. But it was gone as quickly as it came.

He wasn’t Bailey.

He wasn’t even close.

I pulled away, forcing a smile, pretending the rush was enough. But inside, I felt emptier than before, my chest aching with truth I couldn’t escape: I was tangled in something I couldn’t let go of, tied up in a man I’d never even met, craving him like an addiction I couldn’t feed.

Bailey still owned me, and he didn’t even know it.

“ God , you’re beautiful,” Liam whispered, his voice quiet but rough with want.

I wanted to feel flattered, but the words didn’t land the way I wanted them to.

Before I could process it, Liam’s hand slid down, grazing the curve of my thigh before inching higher. He hesitated for a moment, searching my face for permission, and I didn’t stop him. I couldn’t.

I needed to feel something.

His hand slipped beneath my waistband, fingers tentative at first before growing bolder, brushing over the heat between my legs. My breath caught, my head tilting back against the seat as he explored me slowly, trying to read my reactions, trying to make me want him the way he wanted me.

I let him touch me, I let him try.

But even as my body responded, my mind wasn’t there. It was somewhere else entirely.

It was baileys voice I herd in my head. Bailey’s hands I imagined on my skin.

Bailey’s breath I pictured against my neck.

The ache I felt wasn’t for Liam.

When Liam finally pulled back slightly, his lips swollen and his cheeks flushed, he searched my faced like he was hoping to find something there – desire, hunger, maybe even need. But all I felt was emptiness.

I forced a small smile, whispered something about having to go, and slipped out of the car.

Walking across the car park, the cool night air hit met hard, reality settling heavy on my chest. My body was humming, yes, but it wasn’t enough. Nowhere near enough.

I wasn’t satisfied. Not even close.

I wanted Bailey.

I needed Bailey.

And it made me furious –the amount of power he had over me, how he’d tangled himself into my thought so deeply that even with another mans hands on me , I couldn’t escape him. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, I was already his.

By the time I got home, the taste of Liam’s kiss had already faded, leaving nothing behind but frustration and a hollow ache I couldn’t shake. I’d let his hands explore me, let him whisper how beautiful I was, let him try to give me a release I thought I needed… but it wasn’t him I wanted.

It wasn’t Liam’s name on my lips when I closed my eyes.

It was Bailey’s.

Every touch had been wrong. Every kiss, misplaced. My body had been there in that car, but my mind – my need – belonged to someone else entirely.

And that realisation burned.

I slammed the front door harder than I meant to. My husband looked at me from the kitchen, his expression soft, questioning.

“ You okay?” He asked, his voice calm, gentle, like he was trying to read me.

I nodded too quickly, avoiding his eyes, muttering something about being tired. I dropped my bag, brushed past him, and disappeared into the bedroom before he could push further. My chest was tight, my skin hot, my head buzzing with the chaos inside me.

I collapsed onto the bed staring at the ceiling as music played softly in the background – a weak attempt to drown out the thoughts clawing at my skull. But the silence between the songs felt louder than anything else.

I reached for my phone. Again. And again.

My heart leapt every time the screen lit up, but it was never him. Not Bailey.

I scrolled back through our messages, re reading every word like they might mean something different a second time. Every picture. Every late-night promise. Every teasing reply that had left me breathless and wet, aching to be touched by him.

But now?

Now, there was nothing.

The hours stretched long, the night heavy and endless, and still, no reply. When Bailey did respond it was short. Clipped. Cold.

“Can’t talk right now.”

“I’m tired.”

“I’ll message you later.”

I knew he wasn’t well, but my thoughts turned cruel.

Was he bored of me already?

Was he talking to someone else?

Was I too much, too needy, too desperate?

I told myself I wasn’t clingy. I wasn’t trying to be. But the way I kept reaching for him, begging silently for his attention, made me hate myself a little.

I turned my phone face down on the pillow and stared into the dark, whispering to myself like a promise I didn’t believe:

“Leave him alone, Em. Stop chasing. Let him come to you.”

But seconds later, I flipped the phone back over, checking the screen again.

Nothing.

I closed my eyes and swallowed the ache rising in my chest, the kind that burned deeper because I knew the truth – no matter how many times I told myself to pull away, I couldn’t.

Bailey had me completely.

And he was not even trying.

The house was quiet.

The kids were finally asleep, the soft white noise travelled down the hallway. From the lounge room, I could hear the muffled sound of my husband’s playstation – his low laugh at something on the screen, his entire attention somewhere else, anywhere but here.

And maybe that’s what gave me the nerve.

I slipped into the bedroom, gently closing the door behind me until the faint click sounded like a secret. My heart was already racing, heat spreading beneath my skin as I leaned against the door for a moment, breathing slow, steadying myself.

I sat on the edge of the bed and unlocked my phone. My thumb hovered for half a second before I went where I always did – the hidden album.

The one filled with him.

Bailey

Photos he’d sent me. Selfies. Shirtless shots. The lazy grin. The messy hair failing above his brow. The curve of his mouth that made my entire body ache. My chest tightened, breath hitching as I scrolled slowly, my pulse thundering louder with each swipe.

I shouldn’t have been there.

I shouldn’t have wanted this so badly.

But I couldn’t stop.

My fingers trembled as I set the phone beside me, Bailey’s picture glowing faintly on the screen. I lay back against the pillows, sliding one hand beneath the waistband of my pants, closing my eyes as I let his face burn behind my lids.

I imagined his voice, low and rough, teasing me the way only he knew how. I imagined his hands – strong, sure, demanding – pushing me open, pulling me under.

I imagined his breath hot against my neck, the scrape of his teeth on my skin, the weight of his body pinning me down.

My body responded instantly, arching into the touch, a soft gasp sliding past my lips. My fingers moved slowly at first, tracing circles over my clit, pretending it was him – his mouth, his tongue, his fingers inside me.

“Fuck..” I whispered into the empty room, biting down hard on my lip to keep quiet, my other hand clutching at the sheets. Every nerve in my body burned, the tension tightening with each flicker of imagined sensation, every thought consumes by Bailey –by what he’d do to me if he were here, by the way he’d ruin me without hesitation.

I was spiralling, lost in him, my breath uneven and desperate. The harder I tried to quiet my mind, the louder his voice became–all the filching promises he’s made me, all the ways he’d said he wanted to take me apart.

My release hit fast and sharp, my body shaking, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts as I lay there breathless, staring up at the ceiling.

But the moment the rush passed, the emptiness returned.

Because no matter how hard I chased it, it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough without him.

And still I wanted more.

Saturday had come around I spent all evening from the previous night waiting for him, I spent all morning looking for distraction persistent that I would not message him. After a two hour walk and shopping it got to eleven in the morning and I got impatient not hearing from him. I messaged him good morning and after an hour still nothing. I went to the back yard and laid down a blanket the sun warm against my skin, sinking deep into my bones, but it didn’t soothe me the way I hoped it would. One hand resting lazily on my stomach as the heat wrapped around me like a heavy blanket. The world was quiet. The kids were out with their father.

It should have been peaceful. It should have been enough.

But it wasn’t.

My phone rested beside me, face up, taunting me in silence. I hadn’t herd from Bailey since the morning of the previous day, and every passing minute without his name lighting up my screen gnawed at me. The sun was hot, but my thoughts burned hotter – restless, needy, trapped in a loop I couldn’t escape.

I closed my eyes and let my mind wander where it always did.

To him.

I imagined Bailey here with me, standing above me with that lazy, cocky grin that had ruined me from the start. I could almost feel the weight of his gaze on my body, lingering low at my hips.

God I could almost hear his voice – low, teasing, wicked – telling me exactly what he wanted to do to me out here in the sun. My thighs pressed together instinctively, a soft, frustrated sigh leaving my lips as heat pooled low in my stomach.

I reached for my phone, unlocking it without thinking, scrolling back through his pictures – the ones I’d saved. My chest rose and fell harder with each swim, my fingertips brushing over the screen like I could somehow touch him through it.

The silence stretched on, until frustration bit sharp at the edges of my desire. I wanted his attention. I needed his words.

Still nothing.

I stared up at the cloudless sky, the sun beating down on me, feeling like I was burning from the inside out – part shame, part want, part frustrated at how much power he had over me without even trying.

Because even here, in the quiet of my own backyard, surrounded by the life I’d built…

All I wanted was him.

I wanted his attention, his words, his voice – him.

My thumb hovered over our chat, scrolling back through every message, replaying his old words, interpreting what he meant. My stomach twisted with each glance at the time. Nothing. No reply. No call.

I told my self to stop. Leave him alone, Em. Stop chasing. Let him come to you.

But I couldn’t.

My chest felt hollow, my breath uneven, like I was waiting for something that wasn’t coming. It was pathetic, the way my entire mood hinged on the sound of a notification. The heat inside me twisted into something sharp – frustrated, humiliation, a tired kind of ache.

I hated how much power he had over me.

So I did the only thing I could to take it back – I drafted the goodbye message. My heart thudded so hard I felt it in my throat, but my pride was louder than my longing.

My fingers shook as I typed:

“Alright, I get it.

Hope you feel better soon, and enjoy your time at the mines. Maybe our paths will cross again someday. Thanks for the fun we did have… and the fun we could have had. I just wish you’d been upfront with me. You’re actually a really cool guy, and I enjoyed talking and flirting with you. Shame it wasn’t mutual, but… that’s life.”

I stared at it for a long moment, my thumb trembling over the send button. And then… I pressed it.

Instant regret flooded me, cold and chocking. My chest tightened as I locked the screen and tossed the phone aside like it burned. I told myself it was done. Over. That I had to let him go.

But minutes later, my phone buzzed.

“Hey, sorry, only just woke up.

Feeling worse today to be honest.”

I froze, staring at the words. My emotions slammed into each other – relief, shame, irritation, longing. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Before I could reply, another notification lit the screen: a voice message.

My hand trembled as I hit play.

His voice poured into my ear, rough and tired, tinged with confusion.

“Em,.. I don’t really get what you meant in that message. I thought I’d been showing you plenty of interest. I just… I’m sick. That’s all.”

Hearing his voice made everything worse – or better. I couldn’t decide. My chest ached with the need to believe him, to hold onto him, but my head was screaming that this was just another excuse, another way to slowly push me away without having to say the words.

I messaged back anyway, trying to keep my tone soft, steady, casual, though my insides were chaos:

“Bailey, I don’t know… I find you so hard to read. Sometimes it feels like you want this, want me, and other times I feel like I’m being slowly pushed into silence. I don’t know where I stand with you.”

I stared at the typing dots on the screen, breath held, heart racing — and then his reply came:

“You’re overthinking. I do want this, Em. I’ve been sick, I’ve been busy, but I want you. Stop doubting it.”

It was exactly what I needed to hear, even if I wasn’t sure I believed it. His words slid through me like heat, softening the sharp edges of my insecurity. My shoulders loosened, my chest eased, and for a moment, it was enough.

Because no matter how hard I tried to convince myself to pull away, his grip on me wasn’t loosening. If anything, it was getting tighter.