Much like today she’s in the same position on her bed. Her eyes are glassed over and her mouth is parted like she’s begging for it to be filled. Instead of her hand, she’s using a vibrator, pressing it on her clit as she pinches her nipple with her other hand. Her skin is glistening with sweat and I just want to lick her once to see if she tastes as sweet as her name.
The room fills with the sounds of my muffled groans and flesh on flesh. The volume on my phone is low, but not so much that I can’t hear her raspy moans. I tune out everything else and imagine her here, in the room with me, as we masturbate in front of each other.
That’s all it takes.
I cum to her voice, her body, the way she saysbabylike she means it just for me. When I catch my breath, everything hits at once.
The raffle.
Shit, I need to see if she dropped the link.
I set the phone on the bed and pull off my shirt, cleaning up my cum then tossing it on the floor. I’ll put it in the laundry later. I have more important things to do first.
I click back over to her main page as if it’s calling to me like the bat signal.
My fingers move across the keyboard on my phone as I fill out the entry form. It’s asking for basic information. Name, email, active subscriber number.
Once I’m done I quickly hit the submit button and send up a silent prayer that I’ll be picked. Not once does it cross my mind how crazy this is. All I know is I need her. And if there’s even the smallest chance I could have her for real —
Then fuck it, I’m taking it.
Chapter Seven
COVE
My night’s already trash.
It starts with the blue screen of death and the shrill, soul-sucking sound of my laptop fan kicking into overdrive. Then comes the spinning beach ball. Frozen everything. A small scream. A bigger one when I realize the last three hours of allergy alerts I updated? Gone. Just...evaporated. Like the universe saw me being proactive and said, “No thanks, bitch.”
Ishouldhave backed everything up to the drive. Or the cloud. Or whatever-the-hell. But I didn’t. Because I’m human and sometimes I believe in false gods like auto-save.
So now I’m sitting here, a cold cup of tea in one hand, burrito in the other, trying not to scream. I’m supposed to go live in twenty minutes. Makeup’s already on. Toys charged. But my head is stuck in school mode, and I can’t shake it.
If I don’t have my files organized before Monday, it’s chaos. The front office needs to know who got cleared for gym. I’ve got five kids on daily meds and three more being evaluated for behavioral plans. If I show up unprepared, I’m not just frazzled—I’m dangerous. A distracted nurse misses things.
And I don’t miss things.
So I take a breath, slap my laptop like a misbehaving child, and do the only thing I can.
I bail.
I toss up a post on my BTL page:
CLOSED FOR THE NIGHT
Sorry sugars, had a tech nightmare and real-world things to handle. I’ll be back soon. XOXO
Then I swap my sparkly thigh-highs for sweats and dive into damage control.
I pull out my backup clipboard (yes, I’mthatbitch) and start manually rebuilding the day. Which kids had head injuries? Who came in for stomachaches and left with a note? What did I forget to flag for Monday’s follow-up? I cross-check every name with my physical logbook, re-enter what I can from memory, and try not to think about how many parents I’ll probably have to call and pretend I didn’t lose their forms.
It’s messy. But I’m making it work.
I’m elbow-deep in medical forms and printouts from the school nurse software that looks like it was coded in ninety-seven when my phone chimes with a soft buzz.
BTL app. Private message.
I glance at it, expecting a “where u at tonight?” or some variant of “pussy now pls.” Instead, I see the name.
