I’m never texting you again. You’re a sadistic sex monster
Show me your clit
She does, instantly, her fingers spreading her lips around the swollen, dark pink flesh. I have to squeeze my hand around the base of my cock for a moment and close my eyes, take a deep breath. A few more drops of precum slide down the head of my cock.
You like the show?
It’s a great show. Better because you’re having so much fun
Fuck off, no I’m not
I think you are. I think you like being filled up and on edge like this. Showing off for me
Come on
I don’t even know what makes this so good. Maybe she’s right and Iama sadistic sex monster, but there’s something about Lola swearing at me and cursing my name butstillnot touching her clit because I said not to that makes me feel fucking feral. I feel like a meteor could hit my front yard right now and I wouldn't notice.
Touch it. Slowly.
She does. The chat turns into a string of nonsense words because speech-to-text isn't very good at what I assume is garbled moaning. Her thighs clench and her hips buck and I can't hear it or even see her face, but I know she's coming. I let my hand speed up and then I'm clawing at the sheet on my bed, forcing my eyes open as I try to memorize everything about this and then come all over my stomach.
Then there’s a pause. I drop my hand and stare up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to catch my breath. Hoping Steve is still watching some loud movie in our living room, because even though I tried to keep it down, Lola makes it hard to… do that, sometimes.
She pulls out the toy, tosses it somewhere, and flops down on her stomach, face just out of frame. I appreciate her thighs and ass in a purely aesthetic way.
Okay, that one’s going on the yes pile
There’s a pile?
Well, if three is a pile
The good ones are expensive and I’m still unemployed
I bite my lip and swallow the offergive me your address and I’ll send you a truck full of sex toys. Not that I have much in the way of disposable income—teaching eighth grade English is not exactly the path to great riches—but I’d max out all my credit cards if I got to watch her use them.
She rolls onto her side, head still out of frame, the blue necklace sticking to her chest as she props herself on an elbow.
I like your necklace
Thanks, it’s dead butterflies
So we’re casually wearing insect murder jewelry now
I’m sure you’ve never killed a spider
I put them outside when I can
Is it just butterfly wings?
I think the background is butterfly wings? I found it at a vintage store a while ago, they said it was from the 40s.
She undoes the chain at the back of her neck, grabs her phone, and holds it closer. It’s big for a necklace, maybe two inches across, the background of the circle a bright, iridescent blue with black pine trees painted on top of it with one single bird up in the sky. Or something. It’s pretty, I don’t know how necklaces made of dead bugs work.
Pretty
Thanks, it was my consolation prize to myself after applying to forty jobs.
How’s that going?
