Page 32 of Josephine and Clay

Even the ache is good; especially the ache.

My brain splits. Half of me inside the memory of him, the other half still here, teetering on the ledge, reckless and needy. For a heartbeat there’s no difference.

My thighs shake. My fingers slip, half helpless, the knuckles flexing high. I bite so hard at my bottom lip that the copper taste flashes, lightning in my mouth.

My phone chimes. I snatch it up, pulse roaring in my ears.

Clay: Are you close?

Josie: Fuck yes

I almost laugh. It’s obscene, the sharpness of it, how easy he can make me say what I want. What I want is to fall straight through the couch, through the floor, into his hands on the other end of the phone.

Clay: Don’t come. Not yet.

It’s a command so abrupt, so pointed, that my entire body goes rigid. I slow down, muscles screaming, every nerve singing in the lengthening pause.

I hate him for it, this faceless control.

My hand goes slack, then I force it back to a slow grind, every inch of myself locked in burning stasis, all of me pulling against his word. I want to scream at him, make me, make me, make me, but it’ll always be me holding the phone, my own obedience. The tension grows violent, animal.

The typing bubble appears. Then disappears. It toys with me. My chest hammers.

Clay: Tell me how you’re touching yourself.

I don’t think about it; I just answer, a stripped confession:

Josie: Two fingers. Hard. I can’t stop.

He replies immediately.

Clay: Good girl.

My thighs lock, tremors running from the sockets of my hips to my toes. I dig into the upholstery with my free hand, praying the storm outside will drown out any noise I might make. The ache is savage. I’m hovering, orbiting the outer edge of release, not enough air to breathe or scream or plead.

Josie: I hate you so much right now

Clay: No you don’t.

He’s right, and that kills me. More than the ache in my hand, more than the spill and kick of my heart. I don’t know if I’m angry or grateful, if this is punishment or gift, and it doesn’t matter because my body is one long, tight line, every bit of me strung up and vibrating. I can’t think. I don’t want to.

My hand circles faster, starved for friction, denying friction despite it. I breathe through my teeth, let the groan twist out of me because what else is there to do? I listen for the next order, my phone pressed flat to my sternum.

Clay: Beg for it.

The first sound is a hiss; the word “please” jams up behind my teeth, refusing to pass. I want to be hateful, to call him a fucking bastard, to break my own rules and flood the phone with all the ways he’s hurt and built me, but what comes out is a whimper, part plea, part warning.

My thumb stutters over the screen, damp and trembling.

Josie: Please Clay please I need it

Josie: I can’t wait

A long pause, the ellipsis blinking, receding. I slap my palm over my mouth, try to ride it out, but I’m losing, I’m coming apart. This shatter is different, not soft or sunlit, but a break like a bone, loud and necessary. I want to be raw for him. I want to show him everything.

Clay: Let go.

I arch, I sob. The heat is all the way through, slick between my thighs. I hold the cry in my chest and let it rip through my core, a pain sweet pulse that leaves nothing untouched. Everything spasms. I ride the waves until they dull, until what vibrates in me is only leftover static, a ghost of breath and aftershock and his name in my mouth, nearly silent.