Text back

"Your room," you type, your fingers clumsy on the screen. "I picture a big, fluffy bed. White sheets. You're in the middle of it. The fabric is that rustling sound. You're touching yourself slowly, teasing yourself. The hum is a song you're trying to distract yourself with, but you're losing focus. Your breathing gets faster right at the end. You almost came, but you stopped. Just in time." You send it.

You wait. The silence stretches. You've never been so anxious for a text message in your life. This is more intense than any edging session. This is real.

Your phone buzzes. "Good boy," it says. "I'm so happy. You passed the second test." You feel a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with lust. It's validation. It's acceptance from a woman you've only ever seen on a screen.

"Are you free tomorrow night?" she asks.

"Y-yes," you stammer out loud, typing the letters with a tremor in your thumb. "Completely free."

"Good," she replies. "I have a suite at The Grand Meridian hotel. Downtown. Be there at 9 PM. Room 714. Don't be late. And wear something clean. For me."

The message hangs there, glowing on your screen. A date. With Sabrina Carpenter. The thought is so absurd, so impossible, it feels like a dream. You're going to meet her. You're going to be in the same room as her. Your cock, which had been ignored during her test, is now rock hard, straining against your jeans. But you don't touch it. Her command, "No touching yourself," still echoes in your mind. You want to be good. You want to be ready.

The next twenty-four hours are a blur. You clean your room, not just for her picture this time, but for yourself. You take three showers. You stand in front of your closet, a sea of graphic tees and hoodies, and panic. You have nothing "clean." Nothing that says presentable.

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