a difficult call

You call her parents the same day.

Both of you were taught early not to sit on this kind of thing. A burned shed does not get better because you wait until Sunday.
You put the phone on speaker at first, then think better of it and take it off, standing in the kitchen with a towel around your hips and the smell of wet ash still clinging faintly to your hair.

Sandra’s mother answers on the second ring.

You give them the clean version. Fire bowl. Too much kindling. Summer-dry wood.
The shed roof caught.
You and Sandra put it out fast with the barrel and the hose. Nobody hurt. The corner is charcoal, half the face of the roof is black, the structure underneath looks sound but they should get someone to look at the shingles. You are sorry. You will help pay. You will call a roofer if they want.

They are just glad you are not hurt.

All that jazz.
Her father asks the practical questions. Her mother makes the sound parents make when the picture in their head was much worse than a toasted shed.
They thank you for calling immediately.
They tell you not to panic.
They tell Sandra, through you, to stop treating accelerant like a personality trait.

You laugh in the right places. You omit, strangely and entirely, that the shed burned because the two of you were too busy fucking like animals in the open. You omit the crucifix. You omit the trail of black footprints down their hallway.

You also omit the curious circumstance that their precious daughter is suddenly on her knees in front of you, discarded your towel, now trying to make you slip up.

Sandra has your cock in her throat.

Not playing. Not teasing in the gentle way. Delightful, focused deepthroating with the sole mission of punching a moan out of you while her mother’s voice is in your other ear. She takes you to the hilt, swallows around you, pulls back just far enough to breathe, and goes again. Her eyes are bright with crime. One hand is on your hip to keep you from stepping away. The other is wrapped around the base so she can stroke what she is not currently suffocating herself on.

“Uh-huh,”
you say to her father, too high.
“Yeah. We—weee got water on it fast.”

Sandra hums.

The vibration nearly ends you. You grab the counter with your free hand and lock your knees. She looks pleased enough to be paid. When you glare at her she only sinks deeper, nose against your stomach, and stays there until your voice has to come out through clenched teeth.

“No, we don’t think it reached the beams. Surface damage. I’ll send photos.”

“Good boy,”
her mother says, which realy is not a phrase you needed in this moment.

Sandra pulls off just long enough to grin, spit-slick and wicked, then licks a slow stripe up the underside and takes you again, slower, meaner, timing the swallows for whenever you have to answer a question. You give a report about insurance and roofers and how the fire bowl is going to stay empty for the rest of the trip, and the whole time your girlfriend is trying to make you moan into a call with the people who raised her.

“Is Sandra there?”
her father asks.
“Put her on.”

Your soul leaves your body, following the seed in that currently drains into her hungry maw.

Sandra does not get off her knees. She holds out one hand for the phone without taking you out of her mouth. You shake your head so hard your vision dots. She narrows her eyes and hollows her cheeks.

“She’s—in the bathroom,”
you lie, badly.
“I’ll have her text you.”

You do not know how you get through the last two minutes. You promise photos. You promise a quote. You say goodbye like a man stepping off a ledge. The second the call ends you drop the phone on the counter and look down at her.

Sandra finally lets you free with a wet sound, rests her cheek against your hip, and smiles like she has won a war.

“You didn’t moan,”
she says, mildly disappointed.
“Rude.”