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Of course I'm not to give up the contract to Lori Coleman. That would be ridiculous. But an even bigger question is, how did the communication even occur between them? Did Lori contact Melanie? Or vice versa?
Does Lori realize that Kirkman is in town?
The implications of the question make me see red. There are only a few different ways that Lori could've found out that don't involve Dahlia or Bunny.
They both better hope that one of those ways is how Lori found out. They better not be involved.
“Okay, back,” Melanie tells me. “What was I saying?”
“You're asking if I knew Lori Coleman,” I remind her.
“Oh, right! Well… it's probably nothing. But if you don't think you can get the detail together to go to MGM with Kirkman —”
“I'll handle it,” I cut her off.
“You sure?” she says sweetly. “Because I could just go ahead and call Lori —”
“— it's handled. Talk soon.”
I disconnect the call and carefully put my phone down so I don't accidentally smash it. I'd like to get to the bottom of this immediately, but I might need to take a breath for twenty or thirty seconds to make sure I’ve got everything under control.
Instead, I find myself opening Instagram.
What are you wearing? I ask her.
A pink dress and sandals, she texts back immediately.
No, underneath, I continue. Tell me about your panties.
…
Also pink, she texts back after a ten second hesitation.
Show me.
They’re lace, she continues. Stretchy and tight.
I don't want you to tell me. I want you to show me.
…
I shouldn't be so forceful, I know it. I’m trying to keep my tone light, but I just want her obedience. I just want to feel that feedback loop of pleasure. I just want her to fucking obey me.
After a few more seconds, a picture appears. Again, it's the slanted angle of a camera that’s being furtively shoved between her thighs. The pink of the panties is pale, I can tell, but in the shadows, it looks dark like a candy drop. Slightly translucent, and I can almost see the fluff of hair behind it.
I want you to touch yourself, I tell her. I want to know that you're making yourself wet.
Okay.
Do it, I command her. Are you doing it?
In a few moments, I get another picture. Similar angle, but this time there is more light. Her skirt is drawn back, and her fingers are buried within her panties. I see the strain her hand, see the outline of her knuckles as her fingertips are hidden between her juicy, plump folds.
My hand drifts down, and I find my cock already hard and pulsing. Staring at the photo, I spread my fingers to expand it until it is as close up as I can get. My groan fills my chest as I fist my cock, bringing myself to a clenching, explosive climax, fueled by frustration and longing.
When I'm done, I realize that I'm glad that she obeyed me, but I don't feel satisfied. Like a drug, I need more. It is just a taste, and that only makes me hungrier. Every time we communicate, it's just another morsel. Another tease… another taunt.
This is not the path to satisfaction, not like this. I need more. I'm not some pimply teenager who is going to be happy beating off to the fantasy of a girl. I need a real woman, the real satisfaction of a live woman underneath me.
