This isn’t the same situation at all. I don’t have a claim on Randy; we’re doing whatever we’re doing. He’s been messaging quite a bit, so he seems to have picked up on my decision to give him a try. Casual messing around, I guess. Possibly casual sex, depending on what happens next weekend.
He finally messages me at midnight. I stare at my phone for a good long while, debating whether I want to respond. Violet made a good point about Randy being a fun rebound. Based on all my internet research/stalking I know what’s going on between us isn’t going to be serious. I think I can handle that. I want to be able to handle it. I’ve been with Benji for seven years so I have no idea if I can handle it. I’m going to try.
Randy and I have incredible chemistry, and he gives amazing orgasms, but I’m also not interested in being the phone fuck after the bunny fuck. Sloppy seconds are still sloppy, even if they’re virtual.
When I get back to him the next day, I make a point of linking to one of the pictures of him with the boob girl, so he knows I’m not an idiot. My phone rings right away. My stomach flips and tries to turn itself inside out as I answer the call. “Hi.”
“Are you stalking me?” The hint of teasing in his voice makes the flippy feeling even worse.
Shit. Maybe the social media creeping is getting out of hand. I go with nonchalant. “It’s only stalking if I’ve erected a shrine.”
He chuckles. I wonder what that sound would feel like against my vag. “That chick was one of Lance’s friends.”
“Who?”
“One of my teammates. Listen, I need you to take a picture of your room for me.”
His unexpected explanation and request throws me. “Why?”
“So I can see your shrine.” I can practically hear his cockiness.
It’s my turn to laugh. “I can’t. I’m at work.”
“Take a picture anyway.”
“What’s the point if you can’t see my shrine?” I bite my knuckle to stop the giggle.
His voice is low. “So I can see you.”
Oh my God. Now my girl parts are freaking right out. I made a point of messaging him when I knew I wouldn’t have much time to banter. “I’ll take one before I get on the ice.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Talk to you soon, okay?”
“Okay.”
He ends the call and I stand in front of the mirror in my skating outfit. It’s a simple, black, skirted leotard with neutral tights. Nothing spectacular. I hold the camera up high like Sunny does, smile, snap a pic, and hit send without looking at it. I try not to think about the butterfly storm in my stomach. Or the buzz between my thighs.
I toss my phone in my locker, snap it shut, and hit the ice. I have about fifteen minutes to warm up before my girls arrive. After this morning session, I’ll spend the afternoon working at the coffee shop, then come back to do an evening class at the arena with the older kids.
Getting next weekend off for the engagement party has been a pain in my ass. I’m working extra shifts at both jobs this week to make up for missing three days. It’s hectic, but it’ll be nice to have a break. I do a few laps around the ice to warm up. The sound guy puts on my music, and I practice the routine I’m working on with the girls today. It’s simple because they’re young, but some of them are so talented. Watching them develop into dancers is as painful as it is inspiring.
I don’t have time to check my phone again until I get home that night. I’m exhausted, but Randy’s messaged me, so I flop down on my bed and scroll through them.
The first one is a screen shot of the slutty chick’s selfie with Randy, but he’s pointed out her comment, which I failed to read before because her boobs were my focal point. He rejected her. That makes me feel better than it should.
The next image is a picture of what’s obviously Randy’s hand down the front of his underpants. It’s the pink pair again, with my lovely warning: TINY DICK INSIDE.
Did u jerk it 2 my skating outfit?
The response is immediate:
Yes
I’m sure he’s joking:
Pervert
I laugh at his response:
Yes. I still want a pic of ur room. 2b sure ur not a stalker.
I take off my sweatshirt so I’m wearing a tank and leggings. I search my closet for anything I have that’s round. I find golf balls, but those aren’t big enough. Eventually I find a set of mismatched tennis balls. I stuff those down my shirt, strike a pose in front of the mirror, and snap a pic from the neck down. I giggle as I press send.
My phone rings. “Hello?”
“You’re killing me; you know that, right?”
His deep voice goes straight to my crotch. I flop down on my mattress. “You like my boob job?”
“Don’t mess with your boobs. They’re perfect the way they are. Especially when they’re in my mouth.”
His candor throws me, and all I can do is make a whimpery moaning noise.
“You remembering what that was like?”
“No.”
“Yes you are.”
“I gotta go. It’s late. I have to work in the morning.”
“How much do you work?”