Page 97 of Sexting the Pakhan

I stared at the message until the letters blurred slightly.

My hand moved before I replied, sliding under the hem of my shirt, over my stomach, lower. My body responded with humiliating speed, heat gathering between my thighs, skin toosensitive after so many months of ignoring it. I’d barely touched myself before I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stay quiet.

Me:I am.

Unknown Number:Slowly.

Me:You don’t know how long it’s been.

Unknown Number:Tell me.

I almost typed Ruslan’s name.

I don’t know why. Maybe because memory and need are terrible together. Maybe because the last man who touched me like that was him, and after six years, my body still keeps records my pride refuses to read.

I deleted the thought before it became words.

Me:Too long.

Unknown Number:Then don’t rush.

Me:I hate you a little.

Unknown Number:No, you don’t.

I didn’t. That was the problem.

I hated myself a little, maybe. I hated the loneliness. I hated the fact that my body could be pulled awake by a stranger’s words while the real man I should have hated was somewhere in the world not knowing he had daughters.

But the unknown number was separate. He had to stay separate.

I keep driving, hands steady on the wheel now, while the memory moves deeper into places I shouldn’t be thinking about in traffic.

Last night, my hand slipped between my legs, and I tried to follow his instructions slowly. It felt impossible. I was already wet, already aching, already too aware of the silence around me and the phone glowing beside my pillow.

Unknown Number:Are you touching your clit?

Me:Yes.

Unknown Number:How?

I covered my face with one hand, mortified even though he couldn’t see me.

Me:You are really asking for detail?

Unknown Number:Yes.

Me:Circles.

Unknown Number:Soft or hard?

I swallowed a sound.

Me:Soft.

Unknown Number:Harder.

My hips lifted slightly into my own hand, and I squeezed my eyes shut.