Page 41 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

Athena: Got home.

But that’s not all that she’s sent me. Attached to her message is a black lace snapshot. Curves and fever-bright eyes, mouth parted, barely any fabric hiding the heat of her skin. The second photo arrives before I’ve swallowed the first breath: she’s on the bed now, one knee up, lace pulled higher, gaze darker. Another text follows.

Still thinking about that bathroom.

You made me feel so good tonight.

I can’t stop touching myself.

I loosen my tie, drive the heel of my hand over my mouth. Years of discipline mean nothing when her impulses hit like this.

You hungry? I type.

Her answer comes moments later. Yes.

Nathan: Show me more.

Athena: Hold on.

The image comes through slowly, punishingly, then floods the screen. She’s sprawled on silk sheets now, one strap off her shoulder, the lace peeled down to her waist, fingers disappearing between her thighs. She looks straight at the camera like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. My cock hardens against the zipper.

Nathan: Tell me what you’re doing.

Athena: Thinking about your mouth. About how you held my throat.

I chuckle softly as I type my reply. For someone who’s always appeared so sweet, Athena has a kink for punishment, and that makes me crave her more.

Nathan: You liked that?

Athena: I want it again. Next time.

There’s something deliciously suggestive in the way she says next time, like she already knows there will be one and dares me to deny it. The anger that Cindy triggered shifts into a darker focus.

Take the lace off. Spread your knees wider.

She sends another picture. Every inch of her is bare now, thighs glossy, fingers slick, nipple pebbled and begging for teeth. She’s in her bed, lights low, hair down in reckless waves. I feel twenty-five and war-hardened at the same time.

Nathan: Say my name, Athena.

Athena: I prefer calling you Daddy.

That pulls another groan from me. I’d rather be at her place now, pulling her off the sheets and on my lap so she can fuck my cock. But I’m too wired for the drive.

Her next words come as a breathy confession. My fingers are inside. I’m fucking myself thinking about how you pounded me against that mirror.

Nathan: Call me. Speaker. Don’t stop moving your hand.

The phone rings once. I answer and her moan pours through the car, husky, intimate enough that the dash lights blur.

“I’m so wet,” she pants. “I smell like you.”

“Describe it,” I order.

The rage I felt for Cindy has curdled into a singular need to get inside Athena and stay there until she’s hollowed out. I want the filthy details. I’m imagining her legs spread on those sheets, her fingers working double-time just to keep from screaming while I’m not there to do it for her.

I want to do more than just see her; I want to fuck her brains out, pin her down and bury myself so deep in her that she feels my pulse in her throat.

“I’ve got two fingers pumping inside me,” she says, voice trembling, “and my thumb on my clit, little circles like you do, and I’m dripping all over my sheets, Nathan, I can’t⁠—”