Day 20
Spend the day sexting.
You’d think, after all the filth I’ve heard and said over the last three-ish weeks, that putting something in writing would be easy.
You’d be wrong.
While Violet babbles in the seat of the grocery cart, I wrack my brain to find something sexy to say. Should I be doing this in the canned veggie aisle? Probably not, but the day’s errands can’t be skipped on account of needing to draft a slutty SMS.
Daniel started the day easily, texting me immediately after getting into his car (while still in the garage—the door hadn’t even opened yet):
I can’t wait to get my hands on you tonight.
My first instinct was to say, “Same!” or give the message a thumbs up, but that’s a cop out. I went with the slightly better,
I can’t wait to have your hands on me.
There. I did it.
Violet and I stroll through the dairy aisle where I shiver against the cold.
“Let’s get you some yogurt,” I say to my happy babe, who smiles back.
God, I can’t wait until she can talk. There’s something maddening about narrating the world aloud for your baby’s benefit while they can’t respond, but I do it anyway, because I read that hearing more words during the first 1000 days of life is associated with better test scores, or something.
Buzz.
My heart rate spikes with the vibration of a text message. Maybe it’s Mom, wanting to know if we’ll come over for dinner on Sunday.
It’s not.
Just my hands, or you want my tongue too?
Suddenly, the chill emanating from the open refrigerator door dissipates. A creeping warmth splashes pink across my neck and chest—I can feel it.
Both. And more than that, too.
I debated adding an eggplant emoji for effect.
Are you feeling shy, baby? You can tell me you want my cock. I know you do.
I slap my phone facedown against the handle of the cart before anyone might see. Violet flaps her hands in imitation, smacking them against the cart. “That’s right, Vi,” I whisper to her, “We’re all done with that for now.”
I don’t hear anything from Daniel for the next several hours, either because he’s waiting for my response or he’s tied up in meetings. When my phone buzzes during Violet’s second nap—early afternoon—I set down my book and grab it from the ottoman.
You did get shy on me. Was that too much?
His ability to prioritize my comfort is one of the best things about him. It’s endearing.
No, just been busy with errands and getting Violet down.
It feels strange to follow up that text with something sexy, so I try a different tactic.
Leaning forward on the couch, I place my elbows on my knees.
Bringing my upper arms to press against the side of my breasts, I create some surprisingly substantial cleavage and practice angling the phone to maximize the impact.
The shirt I’m wearing isn’t meant for this kind of exposure—it’s a V-neck sweater from JCrew I’ve had forever—but with a tug at the hem, I pull it down just enough to frame my tits beautifully.
After no less than fifteen shots I deem unworthy, I take one I like and text it to Daniel before I get sheepish.
Hot DAMN, mama
Fuck
His curse makes me laugh. The giggle tickles up my throat and buoys my confidence so much that I pull the sweater off entirely.
Once I’ve slipped out of my bra straps and let the cups pool around my waist, I look at the camera once more.
Maybe these tits aren’t as tired as I thought?
I throw an arm across myself, taking care to lean forward and scoop them together so they sit nice and high.
I angle my forearm down so just a hint of my nipples are showing.
For deniability’s sake, I pretend they could be shadows.
With only five attempts this time, I capture the shot and send it to Daniel.
The fluttering ellipses on the screen stop and start, then stop again. My stomach sinks. What was I thinking? The man is at work. I’m not even a year postpartum. Maybe he didn’t want to see all of that.
Oh, he did.
He really did, because his next message says,
I’d give anything to lick up your chest right now. How am I supposed to work on this fucking spreadsheet when you’re topless and taunting me with your perfect fucking tits?
With no more desire to be coy, and bolstered by the unfettered desire in his words, I reply,
How about you put your cock between my tits instead of your tongue?
Never once, in our years of marriage or dating before that, have we tried titty fucking.
But after the last few days of exploring, it sounds fun enough.
Plus, I can picture him reading the text at his desk, thrown back in his chair, with one hand rearranging himself in his pants and the other tugging on his hair.
He’s going to be jumping out of his skin with three more hours to go in the office.
Would you spit on it for me?
Yep. And I’d lean down and lick the tip. You’d hit my tongue every time you pushed up. You wouldn’t last long.
You wouldn’t either. How wet are you right now? Tell me.
No wait. Show me.
I’m not about to take a photo of my pussy—a girl has a right to boundaries—but it doesn’t stop me from sliding two fingers beneath my panties and dipping them inside the growing pool at my entrance. Shit.
Withdrawing them, I place the sticky digits on either side of my nipple and use my left hand to snap a photo. It captures the glistening liquid stringing between my fingers just how I wanted. His reply comes as fast as I send it.
FUCK, Molly. Fuck me. Are you trying to kill me?
No, but I AM trying to fuck you later.
Can you take one more for me? I’ve got a meeting in five and I need four to deal with this raging semi but I need one more. Lick your fingers for me, baby.
I don’t need my years of people pleasing to convince me of his request. My tongue slides flat from my mouth, and I place my index and middle finger to weigh on it.
With my camera switched to boomerang (I’m a millennial after all), I hit record and close my lips to suck.
When I’ve licked them clean, I take one more photo of me licking the tip of my finger.
Should I be concerned about hackers finding these some day? Or them ending up on the dark web? It’s too late for that; I hit send.
Imagining Daniel writhing, unable to calm himself and trying to will his body to retreat, has me feeling smug. Powerful. Sexy as hell, even with a messy bun and pair of leggings clinging to my body.
DO NOT text me again, Molls. I'm serious, I can’t take it. Don’t respond to this next one until you can do so in person.
I nod, waiting for whatever last word he wants to get in.
After thirty seconds, the wall of text appears:
When I get home, we’re going to get Violet to bed.
And then you’re MINE, baby. I’m going to lap at your pussy until there’s nothing wet left because I've swallowed it all. I’ll make sure you’re flooded again before I fuck you, and you will be, because you can’t help but gush when I pull your nipples into my mouth and tug.
You’re going to be begging for my cock, Molls.
And after this, today? Making me hard in my office?
I’m going to make it hard for you. Maybe I won’t let you come. Maybe I won’t let you STOP coming.
When I get home, you better be ready to play.