Page 4 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

I let out a loud scream, scrambling to delete the messages. But it’s too late. The blue tick indicates he’s seen it all.

Chapter Two

Laurel

I hurl the phone onto the couch like it’s on fire. My stomach lurches so violently I think I might be sick.

That’s it. Any slim chance I had of salvaging this is gone. I walked into his house uninvited, gawked at him naked, blurted out that his cock was huge like some brain-dead horny teenager, and now, I’ve sexted him a full-blown fantasy about how badly I want him to ruin me with it.

He’s going to forward every single screenshot to Dr. Ellis first thing tomorrow. I can already picture the subject line: “Inappropriate Conduct by Employee Laurel Harper.”

I’m done. Finished. My teaching certificate will be shredded, my name blacklisted from every school district in the tri-state area.

I tip my head back, eyes squeezing shut. “God,” I whisper, voice cracking, “now would be a really good time to just… end the world.”

My fingers dig into my scalp, tugging hard at the roots until it stings. “What is wrong with me? Seriously, what the actual fuck is wrong with—”

Ping.

The phone vibrates against the cushion.

I freeze. Slowly, like I’m approaching a live grenade, I lean forward and peek at the screen.

Leonid Volkov: What would you give?

“What?” I whisper to the empty room, as I reach for the phone. My thumbs move before my brain catches up.

Me: What?

His reply is almost instant.

Leonid Volkov: You said, and I quote: “What I would give to have him split me open with that cock.” So I’m asking. What would you give, Ms. Harper?

I bring the phone so close to my face my nose almost touches the glass. I read it again. Then a third time. My mouth falls open. Heat floods my cheeks. He’s not angry. He’s not threatening to report me. He’s… playing along.

I should apologize to him and shut this down. Instead, my traitorous fingers type:

Me: What would you want?

The three dots appear immediately.

Leonid Volkov: I ask the questions. Answer my question.

My pulse is everywhere, throat, wrists, between my legs. I’m trembling.

Me: Anyone tell you, you’re bossy?

Leonid Volkov: All the time. Now. Tell me. What would you give to feel every thick inch of my cock stretching you open? To have me pin those pretty wrists above your head while I fuck you rough and hard until you’re crying my name?

I make a small, involuntary sound. My free hand presses against my stomach, trying to calm the riot happening lower.

Me: Anything.

Leonid Volkov: Be specific, Ms. Harper. I want details. Would you beg? Would you crawl? Would you let me tie you to my bed and edge you for hours until you’re shaking and dripping and promising me anything just for permission to come?

My knees buckle. I sink onto the couch, legs weak, breath ragged.

Me: Yes. All of it. I’d beg. I’d crawl. I’d let you do whatever you wanted. I’d be so good for you.