ME
Oh cool. To where?
Peyton sends a link attachment, and like the idiot I am, I click on it without thinking. Immediately, I’m greeted with a moving, uncensored video of a hyper-realistic dildo. Flustered, I quickly exit out of the tab and tap on our thread.
ME
You just sent me a sex shop.
ICARUS
Indeed I did. Any recs?
I’m beginning to think that the photo she sent was no innocent act. A heavy pulse emanates between my thighs, my clit throbbing at the thought of it. Of Peyton touching herself. Pleasuring herself.
Of me helping her.
I do the mental equivalent of spraying myself with a water bottle, repeating in my head “Bad Darcy.” Because the way Peyton makes me feel isn’t something I could chalk up to justsex. And, as we established, rather bluntly, I can’t let anyone be more, and Peyton simply doesn’t have time to.
But it’s useless. Because somehow, when I snap back into reality, my hand is moving between my thighs.
ICARUS
NM
I found just the one.
I want to ask which one it is. I want to know exactly what it looks like, the shape, the color, the vibration settings so I can picture it pumping in and out of her. So I can imagine it rubbing against her pretty pink clit in a rhythmic motion until she weeps. But while my hand seems to be following no instruction from my brain, I at least have enough self-control to not ask.
Anyway, I’ve got to go. Thank you again for the present. Sleep tight x
I blink, reading the message a couple more times.
I’m unsure of her intentions, not that they matter. Because one way or another, I scroll up into the thread, click on that photo, and fuck my hand until I fall apart, moaning her name into my pillow.
Thirty
Peyton
“It’s seven!” I sing, popping my head into Avery’s childhood room. He lets out a low, protesting groan, opening his sleep-stuck eyes to glance at the clock on his nightstand. I remember the birthday he got that nightstand. He was turning thirteen, and, as usual, requested a very specific set of items.
1) an encyclopedia of dogs
2) new socks from Reggie’s Grocery in the clear and red packaging
and
3) the dog-shaped table
My parents scoured every inch of Greenrock Valley for a dog-shaped table, only to find that such a thing didn’t exist. At least, not in the confines of the tiny mountain town. Eventually, my dad just paid my Uncle T to make one. It’s a little lopsided, and one of the front feet is definitely an inch wider than the other,but when Avery unwrapped it, he was so excited he couldn’t talk about anything else for a week.
“It’s 6:57,” he grumbles, tossing a pillow over his head and rotating in the opposite direction. I roll my eyes, lingering in the doorway as if I don’t know that he isn’t going to budge. Sticking my forefinger out, I flick it up in a quick motion to turn on the light.
He doesn’t move.
“Come on!” I plead, like a child because even when we’re eighty, I’ll still be the annoying little sister. “Don’t you want to open presents?”
Avery mumbles something that doesn’t make it past the muffling of his pillow. I flip the light switch off.
