Oral fixation evidence

The bathroom light buzzed overhead as I raided Bella’s toiletry shelf. Her favorite paddle brush—rubber handle ribbed for grip—fit snugly between my lips, the taste of synthetic vanilla coating my tongue. I angled the phone down, catching the way my lips stretched obscenely around the thick base, saliva glistening at the corners. The shutter clicked. *Like this?* I attached the photo, pulse hammering in my throat.

James’ reply was immediate—a visceral, three-letter explosion: *FUCK.* The bubbles convulsed, then spat out another message: *Those lips were made for wrapping around me.* I could almost hear his ragged breathing through the screen, could picture his fist tightening around himself as he stared at the image. Another text followed, darker now: *Wouldn’t even last a minute with your tongue tracing my slit.* The crude honesty sent a jolt through me—no polished seduction, just raw need.

I traced the edge of my phone, considering. Power wasn’t just in the tease; it was in the pause. I typed, slow and deliberate. *Are you throbbing for me now? Or still thinking about her?* The distinction was razor-thin, a trap disguised as curiosity. *Her*—the unnamed phantom in his house, the girl whose reflection he’d seen in every deliberate stretch of my body over the past month.

His reply came in brutal fragments: *Both.* Then: *She’s burned into my fucking eyelids.* The typing bubble pulsed, vanished, returned with venom. *But you’re the one holding my cock hostage.* My breath hitched. The duality was electrifying—his fractured attention, the way he simultaneously pictured my lips around him while remembering my thighs splayed on his patio lounger. He still didn’t know they were the same body, the same pulse.

Upstairs, Bella’s bedroom door creaked open—footsteps crossing to the landing. I held my breath, counting the seconds until her descent. When the stairs groaned under her weight, I typed faster: *Hostage? Poor SilverDaddy. Maybe you need incentive.* I attached another photo—my fingers hooked into the waistband of my lace knickers, elastic stretched taut to reveal a glimpse of honeyed skin below. The angle was just shy of obscene, the tease calculated.

Three sharp raps rattled my door. I nearly dropped my phone. "Flic?" Bella’s voice cut through the silence, muffled through the wood. "Mum’s heading out for drinks with her book club lot, and I’m off to my restaurant shift. You good for dinner?"

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice steady. "Yeah, absolutely fine." The lie tasted fizzy on my tongue, like cheap Prosecco. "Hope your shift’s not too brutal."

Bella’s shadow lingered under the doorframe—she was probably tying her apron strings, the one with *"Kiss the Cook"* embroidered in loopy red thread. "Text me if you want me to bring back leftovers." Her footsteps retreated down the hall, punctuated by the familiar creak of the third stair. The front door clicked shut seconds later, sealing me in silence.

James’ reply vibrated against my thigh before I could exhale: *Incentive? Try necessity.* The words dripped with want, edged with the kind of desperation that made my stomach flip. *Right now, I need a mouth on my cock like I need oxygen. Preferably attached to a young woman in nothing but lace.* The specificity sent heat pooling low—he wasn’t just picturing any faceless girl. He was picturing *me*, legs bare, back arched, lips parted around him. *Cherry on top? Watching her gag when she takes me too deep.*

My fingers traced the scalloped edge of my knickers—black lace, delicate as spider silk. *What kind of lace?* I typed, letting the question linger like the drag of fingertips. *Frilly pink innocence? Or something tighter? Darker?* The pause before his reply stretched taut as the elastic digging into my hips.