Page 23 of Sexting the Pakhan

I think you do,I type.You’re just making me say it first.

This time she doesn’t answer right away.

When she does, the message comes in pieces:Maybe I want to hear you say it.

I smile.Then I’d sit down and pull you over my lap first.

Silence.

Then:Why your lap?

Because I’d want you spread against me while I talked to you.

The dots flash.

Talked to me how?

I push my trousers open just enough to ease the pressure and palm myself slowly through my briefs.Like I already know how wet you are from this.

That one keeps her quiet longer. Long enough for me to stroke myself once, firm and slow, and imagine her staring at the screen with that little catch in her breathing I can almost hear now.

Then:You’re very sure of yourself.

Tell me I’m wrong.

A full minute.

Then:You’re not wrong.

Fuck.

I tip my head back for a second and grip harder.

Good girl,I send.

Her answer doesn’t come immediately. I can almost feel the effect of it through the silence.

Then:I shouldn’t like that.

But you do.

Yes.

Heat curls low and dark in my gut. I stand and walk to the window, phone in one hand, the city glittering below me while I stroke myself in slow, controlled pulls.

Put your hand between your thighs,I type.

No answer.

Then:I already did.

My mouth curves.Tell me what you feel.

She takes her time now. Not because she’s uncertain. Because she’s savoring it.

My fingers.

A beat later:And the way you’re making me think.