Page 5 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

Leonid Volkov: Good girl.

He didn’t speak them out loud, but I feel the words everywhere.

Leonid Volkov: Tell me what you’re doing right now. Are you wet for me? Touch yourself and describe it. I want to know exactly how much you’re aching.

My hand trembles as it slides underneath my skirt, between my thighs, pressing against the damp fabric of my panties. A soft moan slips out before I can stop it.

Me: I’m soaked. I’m so swollen it hurts.

Leonid Volkov: Show me. Send a picture. No face. Just how wet that sweet little pussy is for a man you barely know.

I hesitate for half a second, then the last shred of reason snaps.

I stand, legs unsteady, and shimmy out of my panties. The cool air hits my overheated skin and makes me shiver. I sit back down, spread my thighs, angle the phone between my legs, and snap the photo of my pussy, glistening with wetness.

I hit send before I can overthink it.

The reply comes fast.

Leonid Volkov: Fuck. Look at you. So pretty and dripping for me. Touch your clit. Slow circles. Imagine it’s my tongue.

My fingers obey instantly. A broken moan escapes as I obey, circling, teasing, hips rocking against one hand, while I type with the other.

Me: Leonid… I’m already close.

My breath hitches. My fingers pump faster, curling, chasing that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. I picture him above me, wet hair dripping onto my chest, hooded eyes locked on mine, that scarred, powerful body driving into me with ruthless precision.

The pressure builds, coiling tighter and tighter in my core. My hips rock, and the coil snaps.

My back arches off the couch, a choked cry tearing from my throat as pleasure crashes through me, wave after blinding wave. My inner walls flutter and pulse around my fingers, slick heat coating my hand, my thighs trembling so hard they shake the cushions.

I ride it out, gasping, until the aftershocks leave me boneless, limp, chest heaving.

The phone pings again.

Leonid Volkov: Did you just come touching yourself for me?

My fingers tremble as I type.

Me: Yes.

Leonid Volkov: Good. Now lick those fingers clean. Send me a picture. Show me how sweet you taste after coming like that.

Heat floods my face again, but there’s no hesitation this time. I pull my hand free, glistening, sticky, and bring it to my mouth. The taste is musky, salty-sweet, unmistakably me. I drag my tongue slowly along my fingers, sucking them clean, then angle the phone with my other hand, making sure just lips and fingers are in the frame.

I send it before doubt can creep in.

Leonid Volkov: Such a good girl.

Exhaustion hits like a freight train. My limbs now feel heavy, and slowly my eyes begin to drift closed.

I curl onto my side, one leg hooked over the back of the couch, and let sleep pull me under, still half-dressed, still tasting myself on my tongue.

Leonid

I stand in the master bathroom, my phone resting on the black marble counter, screen lit up with the photo Ms. Harper just sent.

Her lips wrapped around her delicate fingers, tongue dragging along the length like she’s savoring every drop. So fucking innocent and so fucking filthy at the same time.