Sext God

On my day off, I decide to clean my house.

I'm not good at this. I might be slightly better at it than Bunny’s family, but I am not really good at this. I watched TV shows when I was a kid like reruns of the Brady Bunch and Sabrina The Teenage Witch and stuff like that and everybody's house was always spotless. It drove me crazy! Nobody ever had dusty fingerprints on their credenza, or cabinets that were stuffed with a mishmash of things that didn't even go together. Everybody had spaces that were always perfectly put together.

But cleaning also feels kind of good. I'm not on a schedule, not really concerned about what order I get everything done in. I could actually get less than everything done and nobody would probably care. I know my dad wouldn't really complain. In fact, probably no one will even notice. Just me.

When I was in college, Bunny used to tease me about being a ‘directionless overachiever.’ That's what she called it. What she meant was that I like to be very good at things that didn't seem to matter to anybody. It wouldn’t get me a better grade, but I still wanted to make sure my PowerPoint presentation had really nice transitions between the slides. That sort of thing, where I would get too hung up on details.

And in the end, she was right anyway. None of the extra little bits that I did made any difference when I ran out of money. I just couldn't afford to go to school anymore, overachieving or not overachieving. It all sort of fell down the drain the same way.

With my headphones on, cleaning seems to go by pretty quickly. I work from the back of the house forward, making sure the linen closet is organized,

with the towels folded and stacked precisely. I like it when the towels are all the same shape and they all line up really neat.

See? Absolutely nobody cares about that.

Aretha Franklin is just belting one out in my ear when my phone chirps suddenly, interrupting the song. I pull it out of my back pocket, thrilled to find out I have a new series of text messages. They come quickly, one right after another, and I open Instagram to get the messages.

I'm thinking about you, it says. Thinking so much about you.

Are u thinking about me?

I blink several times, thrilled to see these words.

Yes, I answer. I am thinking about you too.

What are you thinking about? he asks.

You first, I counter.

Good, he answers. I like to go first.

You saw what I'm working with, didn't you? Did you like it?

I smile to myself. I remember it vividly, his beautiful cock. I never thought that it would be so beautiful, but it is.

I did like it, I tell him honestly.

It's in my hand right now.

I want to fill your fingers too. I want you to make me hard. Can you do that?

Yes. I want to, I tell him.

I want you to wrap your fingers around me. Pull on me a little bit. I want to watch you lick your lips before you get on your knees in front of me.

My breath is quick and hot. My hands tremble as I blink at the phone. The messages are coming so fast, it's like a roller coaster. It's thrilling. I shift my weight to one side and feel my panties gush with wetness.

I want to feed you my cock, he says.

I bite my lip, hard. I hold my breath so I can’t moan.

I want to slide my cock across your tongue, feed it to you, fill your mouth.

Shuddering, I drop slowly into the dining room chair. My thighs clench together and I roll back and forth, trying to relieve the pressure that's building in my pussy.

Oh my God, he texts. I'm so hard for you. I'm so hard right now, I could cum.

Yes, cum, I write back instantly.