📝 SUMMARY

Your partner absolutely lives for your orgasms, and they want you to know it.

🔗 SCRIPTBIN LINK

https://scriptbin.works/s/5jwej

🔢 Word Count

400 Words

✍️ SCRIPT SAMPLE

Your body produced a heat that I had never felt before. Like fire, but softer. Sunlight but brighter. Radiant.

You, your heart, your breath, your legs, your arms, your clenched eyes, your hair, your breasts, your nipples, your toes, and your lungs, your pulsing and pounding pussy, showering me, drowning me, painting me with you, devouring every kiss, every lick, every lap of my tongue as you writhed and carried me with every shake and shiver...

From that moment I was hooked.

How could I not be?

Summary: Fanny Brawne throws herself into a dream of laudanum and loss of innocence.

Keats' poems referenced: Ode to a Nightingale ; To Autumn ; Ode to a Grecian Urn ; Ode to Psyche ; Ode on Melancholy. Original content written and performed by meeeeee yay

💕💕✒️🎧❤️❤️

A poet struck dumb is a rare thing

xoxo

I know we were always meant to end.

SCRIPT OFFER

Word Count: 608

Please see my script fill policy here. PLEASE DO NOT IMPROV THANK YOU ❤️

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Blue Author Notes: Well...I am still on my little hiatus. But this just flowed outta me. Writing has always been such a lovely way to process thoughts and feelings, right? Eh, idk if this'll get filled. I realize it's quite uhhhh open. But even so, I hope this is a good lil read. Pls enjoy~

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Copyright © 2026 u/littlebluewriter. All rights reserved. Do not reupload this content anywhere. All characters depicted are above the age of 18. DO NOT ENGAGE WITH THIS CONTENT IF YOU ARE A MINOR.

The erotic film was muted in the hotel bar.
Nobody watched it.
Baseball played beneath it on another screen.
Men drank beer under naked women.

You said this was the saddest country on earth.

Then you took the room key
from my shirt pocket
and put it in your mouth.

There was a humiliation there
I wanted more of.

In the room you told me to sit in the chair
and keep my hands flat.

You were still wearing
your waitress uniform.
One stocking ruined from the drive.

You emptied your tips onto the bedspread.
Bills. Coins.

You counted them slowly,
looking at me.

I remember the sound
of quarters touching quarters
when you opened your blouse.

You smiled because I looked nervous.
That made you kinder.

You crossed the room
and slipped a dollar bill
into my shirt pocket
the way men do in bad films.

There, you said.
Now you can say you earned it.

I remember you laughing
and biting my shoulder during sex
like someone getting away with something.

Then I remember kneeling on the carpet
to gather the fallen coins
while you smoked by the window
and watched cars move through rain
toward places neither of us had seen.

I was glad I could make him so happy. My husband spoke up from behind me, saying there was no hurry. We could all stay all night if we wanted, and in the meantime-- here he stepped up and pressed himself against my back-- there were more ways they could both take care of me.

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This was such a wonderful story to tell. Written by u/MyAuralFixation (from a prompt by u/Ava_Lee123). Go read the script here.

Note: There is alcohol mentioned and involved in this audio, but no parties are impaired and everyone is full consenting to what happens.

🎵 Listen here 🎵

🔊 Soundgasm

🔊 HotAudio

🔊 AudioChan

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This audio is a work of fiction. All characters mentioned are 21+.

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Wanna hear more from me?

Find another narrative here --> [F4M] We're Not Getting Up Yet

Find my whole masterlist here --> Click here!

Wanna leave anonymous messages, feedback or content suggestions? Find the form here!

Hi hi,

Another old audio of mine’s script getting released into the wild!

Summary: I want you to tell me to get naked.

Read it on scriptbin

Length: 456 words

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As per my boundaries post, either leave a comment here or on my Anon feedback form! I will ignore your chats or messages.

VA’s - please don’t let me know if you plan on filling the script!

A surprise notification makes me happier than any anticipation ever could!

Thanks for checking in!

Xx,
Missy

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~ ୨୧ ♡ Script fill policy ♡ ୨୧ ~

^(All characters depicted here are 18+, written by and for adults. This is a work of fiction. Reader discretion advised. Remember, art does not need to feature morally pure characters only. Art does not necessarily represent the creator’s secret desires. Copyright 2026. All rights reserved.)

____________________________

🎧LISTEN HERE🎧

SCRIPT OFFER

____________________________

I try to read all comments, but if I am unable to reply, please know that I appreciate all your encouragement and feedback💖 I just ask that it is respectful💖

If you would like to make an anonymous comment, you may do so 🙏HERE🙏

My DMs are closed on Reddit for the time being, EXCEPT for fellow VAs or Writers. Fellow creators are more than welcome to reach out via DM.

❕Gentle Reminder: I create content for listeners that are 18 years or older. If you are not over 18, this should be where we part ways❕

^(My content is my own. I do not give permission for any reposting, duplication, downloading, or use of my work in any form outside of what I have created for you.)

A short musing on what she means to you, on time, longing and sweet sorrow.

Original script here by u/AuralFixationZed

Listen here <<<<<

Jack was at the sink rinsing plates. The party was over. Most people had gone home hours ago. The hosts, Ed and Carol, had gone to bed drunk around midnight. Now it was just Jack and Beth. She was drying the plates then stacking them.

The kitchen light was too bright. Jack could see the grease spots on the counter from the burgers. A fly kept landing on the edge of the sink and he kept waving it away.

Beth handed him another plate.

“Ed always makes too much food.”

“Yeah.”

They worked in silence for a while. The water ran. The clock on the wall ticked. Jack’s wife was home with a migraine, trying to rest with the humidifier going. David, Beth’s husband, had left the party early with some story about an early meeting.

“You want more wine?” Beth asked.

“Sure.”

She poured two glasses from the open bottle on the counter. They drank standing up, not looking at each other much.

After a minute she said, “You ever feel like you’re just going through the motions?”

Jack looked at the plate in his hands.

“All the time.”

She set her glass down. Her hand brushed his arm when she reached for the towel again. Neither of them moved away from the touch.

They kissed. Didn’t even think about it. She tasted like red wine and the cigarette she’d smoked on the patio earlier. Her tongue was warm and a little rough. He put his hands on her waist; she pressed her hips against him. Beth pulled back a little.

“This is stupid.”

“Yeah.”

They kissed again. He lifted her onto the counter. A stack of clean plates rattled. She wrapped her legs around his waist. His hands went under her shirt, up to her bra. He squeezed her tits, thumbs on her nipples through the thin fabric. She moaned into his mouth and bit his lower lip.

She reached down and undid his belt. His cock was hard already, pressing against his jeans. She stroked him through the fabric, then pulled him out. Her hand was still damp from the dishes.

Jack pulled her jeans down around her ankles. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He went down on her right there, kneeling on the kitchen floor. She was wet and tasted like salt and soap. He licked her slowly, then faster, sucking on her clit while two fingers worked inside her. Beth held his head with both hands and ground against his face.

She came hard, thighs clamping around his ears, one hand gripping the faucet so tight the water sprayed for a second.

He stood up and fucked her standing, her back against the upper cabinets. He thrust up into her. The dishes behind her rattled with every push. She was tight and hot and so wet it made a sound every time he pulled out. She bit his shoulder to stay quiet. Her nails dug into his back through his shirt.

They moved to the kitchen table. He bent her over it. Took her from behind, hands on her hips, slamming into her. The table legs scraped across the linoleum. He reached around and rubbed her clit in circles. She came again, pushing back hard, whispering “fuck, fuck, don’t stop” into the wood.

Jack came inside her with a grunt, holding her hips tight, filling her up. Cum leaked out around his cock and ran down her thigh. They stayed like that for a long minute, breathing hard.

Afterward they cleaned up. Wiped the counter where her ass had been. Put the last plates in the drying rack. Beth pulled her jeans back on. Jack zipped up and washed his hands.

Neither of them said much. Beth lit a cigarette and smoked it by the back door, blowing the smoke outside. Jack finished the last of the wine straight from the bottle, then rinsed it and put it in the recycling bin under the sink.

“You going home?” she asked.

“Yeah. My wife’s probably wondering where I am by now.”

Beth nodded, then smiled.

“David will be asleep.”

They stood there a minute longer. Jack turned off the kitchen light. Beth stubbed out her cigarette in the sink and ran water over it.

“See you around,” she said.

“See you.”

She left through the back door. He heard her car start and pull away down the quiet street. Jack walked out to his truck and sat behind the wheel for a long time before starting the engine. The dashboard clock said 02:19.

His wife would be asleep when he got home. The bedroom would smell like menthol and the humidifier. He thought about the way Beth had tasted on his tongue. The way she’d come twice in the kitchen. The way the table had moved under them.

It didn’t change anything.

He drove home slow with the windows down. The radio stayed off. He didn’t feel like listening to anything at all. The streets were empty. He passed the same stop signs he’d passed a thousand times before.

Summary: You live under the constant watch of unseen eyes, a haunting that knows no respite, bleeding even into the subconscious realm of your dreams. Tonight, they are here with you. And this? This is their promise to you.

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Listen Here - Soundgasm | AudioChan

Script by - u/RaccoonLila [Script Here]

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To say that u/RaccoonLila wrote an amazing script would be an understatement. As soon as I read it, I was enraptured. I knew I HAD to fill it. Her words are so incredibly evocative and genuinely beautiful. Thank you Lila, you are so unbelievably talented and I am honored to call you a friend.

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SFX - Freesound

Music - Freepix

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Stay safe, stay hydrated and look after yourselves!

- Ymir 💜

Summary: The questions, the anticipation, the want, the need. How would you touch me? Better question: How would I touch you? Even better question: How will I ever stop once I've started?

📝 Script Offer here by u/mirandawritesx

🎧 Audio here (soundgasm)

--

For Black History Month, u/GoddessandMenaceGaia offered to write poetry as a fundraiser. I asked her to write something for me about coming to realizations later in life.

Gaia is keenly observant of human nature, and we have called each other friend for some time now. When she sent me the poem, I realized Gaia sees me in a way few others have. She put into words something I hadn't articulated for myself yet. I recorded it so that you can find something in it for yourself, too.

IN BLOOM

*features a piano loop licensed for Creative Commons use from Freesound

© 2026 script u/GoddessandMenaceGaia, performance u/prettylynne23

All rights reserved. Do not download or repost.

Beatrice Honeycutt was not the sort of woman who expected her tongue to take over the world. She was thirty-four. She wore sensible shoes. She lived in a small apartment where the plants always died. She worked at the National Biological Anomalies Research Lab, a fancy name for a warehouse where they studied things that shouldn’t grow.

One Thursday, a probe returned from the rings of Saturn with a single specimen: a pale green fern that grew in perfect fractals. The scientists called it Specimen SIG-106. Bea was cataloguing it when she made the mistake every story like this requires. She licked her finger to turn a page and then, absentmindedly, touched the fern. Then she licked her finger and turned another page.

That night in bed her tongue felt strange. Longer somehow, fatter. She looked in the mirror and it had split at the tip, like a snake’s. “Fascinating,” she said aloud, in the voice of a scientist trying not to panic.

By morning there were four tips. She called Dr. Ramirez.

Dr. Ramirez, a serious man with a moustache that looked overqualified to deliver bad news, summoned Bea to the lab. He was waiting with two assistants. They put Bea in the observation room and took samples. They asked her to stick out her tongue for photographs.

“Remarkable,” said Dr. Ramirez. “It’s replicating at a geometric rate.”

Bea was beginning to feel warm. The tongue moved on its own now, tasting the air. It was curious. It wanted to taste more.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t lick anything,” suggested Dr. Ramirez.

Too late. Bea licked her lips. The tongue forked again. Eight tips now, delicate and pink and glistening.

The assistants stared. One of them, a young woman named Gloria, flushed red. “Doctor,” she said, “I think it’s… affecting her.”

Bea felt it too. A slow, rolling pleasure that started at the root of her tongue and spread downward. Every new fork brought a new wave. She licked the back of her own hand. Sixteen tongues.

“Oh dear,” said Bea.

The research team tried to remain professional. They really did. They wrote notes on clipboards while Bea’s forking tongue continued to explore the room. It found the edge of Dr. Ramirez’s sleeve and tasted the cotton. It liked the salt on Gloria’s wrist. It liked the soft place behind the ear of the shy male intern whose name no one could remember.

With each lick, it grew. Faster now. The arousal made it branch like a mad equation.

By midafternoon there was no longer a simple tongue. There was a garden. A writhing, fractal tower of tongues sprouting from Bea’s mouth. They flowed over her shoulders, down her arms, across the table, over the floor, into cupboards. They were gentle in their way, though inquisitive.

Dr. Ramirez’s tie was gone. His shirt was open. “For science,” he kept saying, as ten tongues moved down his chest. “We must document the interaction.”

Gloria had stopped taking notes. Twenty soft tongues had found their way under her skirt. She made a sound that was not in any scientific journal.

The intern was on his knees. Any amount of tongues were everywhere on him at once, impossibly hungry, impossibly numerous. They learned what each person liked within seconds and gave them more of it.

Bea sat in the middle of it all like a queen on a throne of crimson eels. She could still speak, barely. “I can feel them all,” she whispered, trancelike. Her voice was soaking wet with a thousand tongues. “Every single one.”

The team had given up the pretence of observation. Clothes lay scattered like fallen leaves. The fractal tongues filled every mouth, every opening, every crevice, every secret place. They pulsed in rhythm. When one person shuddered, the whole garden responded, branching again in a cascade of pleasure.

Somewhere in the chaos, alarms began to sound. Security would arrive soon. The government would want explanations. But the tongues had already reached the ventilation ducts. They were curious about the whole building.

Bea was still in there, at the very first fork, the original tip of her original tongue. She tasted everything. Dr Ramirez’s spicy skin. The honey between Patel’s thighs. The fear. The joy. The surrender. The ridiculous human need to name things even while coming undone. It was too much, it was perfect. Bea laughed once, a small wet sound lost in a pandemonium of moans.

By evening, the observation room had ceased to be a room. It had become a weather system, with Bea at its eye and everyone else arranged around her according to a hierarchy of increasingly desperate needs. The security team arrived in riot gear, which was optimistic. The first man through the door said, “Ma’am, step away from the…” and then forgot the rest of the sentence as he was sucked into the maelstrom: a single organism of tongues and bodies, breathing, licking, shuddering together.

They never did contain it.

There was an inquiry, and then a second inquiry into why the first inquiry had enjoyed itself so much. The fern, it was concluded, had crossed half the solar system for no better reason than appetite; and mankind, despite all its rockets and committees and important shoes, had answered by opening its mouth. Such was the trouble with first contact: everybody expected a conversation. The universe had only brought its tongue.

So it went.

Original script here by u/Givingscriptsatry

Listen here <<<<

A gentle, direct-to-listener narrative offers reassurance to "shy girls", embracing them with respect and warmth.

This thoughtful script was written by the amazing u/BrnWritrix

LISTEN HERE

^(Had a hard time falling asleep tonight and was recommended this script by an amazing friend. Hope you enjoy my semi-sleepy ramblings on Shy Girls and know that I appreciate all of you for listening)

^(<3 Matto)

After the whistle they left the plant the way they always did: twenty feet apart, strangers under sodium lights.

Her Taurus started clean. His pickup coughed then caught. In the mirror her headlights followed him through six minutes of industrial road, past the Baptist sign with two missing letters. He never slowed.

At the lumberyard he backed into the usual place, close to the chain link where the last floodlight failed before the trees. The cab held its day’s heat. He kept both hands on the wheel until she opened the door.

She got in and shut herself beside him. The smell of the plant came with her: machine oil and damp cardboard. Drifting above it all, the perfume she wore only here.

“Radio’s shot,” he said.

She nodded. Took off her gloves and put them on the dash. After that came the ring. She worked it free with her thumb and set it beside the gloves. It made no sound. The gold caught the weak spill from the yard lamps.

They sat in the ticking heat. The snow had started. He could tell how bad the shift had been by the way she held her neck, the care she took with her hands.

“The line jammed twice,” she said.

“Same press?”

“Same everything.”

He looked at her then. Her face was tired in the green dash-glow, older than it looked at work, but younger too in an unguarded place around the mouth. He wanted to say her name, and did not. Names made claims. Claims made daylight.

Her hand came across to him. No drama in it. That was what undid him, the simplicity of her touch on his thigh. He turned to her and they kissed. Dry at first. She tasted of break-room coffee and the spearmint gum she chewed on the way over.

His hand went beneath her coat, found the buttons of her blouse. The snap of the front clasp of her bra. She lifted her chin, helping without seeming to. Her breath changed, her scent changed. She climbed across the console and knocked her knee against the wheel.

“Be careful,” he said.

She laughed and covered his mouth with her hand, shushing him though no one was there. 

The laugh hurt him. It brought the break room back, the way she stood with her hip against the table while the others talked. It brought back the hours that belonged to other people.

Her skirt bunched at her hips. His jeans came down as far as they had to. She was wet when his fingers brushed the seam of her panties and pulled them to the side. 

Her hand was down between them. She found his cock already hard, worked the zipper the rest of the way, and took him out. The cold air from the door seals touched him for a moment before her fingers closed, warm and sure. She held him there, guiding. He was thick and hot in her grip.

She lowered herself with a care that was almost severe, one hand pressed on the roof, one gripping his shoulder through his jacket. He felt her weight arrive fully, the private heat.

Her eyes were open. That was new.

He touched her face.

She shut them then.

The truck began its awkward, guilty movements. Snow melted on glass. His breath caught against her blouse. She moved in the narrow measure they had learned together, never quite enough to forget where they were. Her coat was slipping from her shoulders. He pressed his mouth to a place above her breast.

The windscreen was fogging fast.

Suddenly he thought of her house without wanting to: porch light, a man asking whether the roads were bad. He hated himself for picturing it, hated himself more for wishing that the man would ask nothing.

She came first, the way she did when the day had been bad, forehead pressed to his, suppressing the sounds. He followed right after, his face in the hollow of her neck. The release was sharp and necessary and carried the weight of tomorrow.

For a minute they stayed like that. The ring on the dash caught the light every time the security lamp flickered. Snow kept melting on the windshield and ran down in thin streaks.

She moved back to her seat and put herself back together in pieces. Blouse. Skirt. Coat. Hair. Ring. He lit two cigarettes and passed one across. She took it with the hand that had returned to being married. Smoke gathered in the cab as the snow thickened.

They looked out at the lumber stacks, buried under blue tarps.

Her car started on the second try. He watched the red lights move away and vanish past the gate. He stayed and had three more cigarettes. The heater gave out: cold pressed in through the seams of the doors and under the dash. In the morning there would be forklifts here, men shouting about invoices over engines. At the plant she would pass him near the time clock with her face composed. He would nod, or fail to nod, and both would feel the whole night rise inside them, then go under.

The yard whitened. Nothing forgave them, nothing accused them.

The River ran uphill from the ordinary world carrying away whatever a person could no longer survive remembering. People went there with offerings hidden in the mouth: a child who had never been born, a brother’s last animal sound. The River took everything politely, such was its cruelty.

She had come with the daughter who had lived briefly as a pressure under the heart. He came to give the River his brother’s death: the sour sheets, the breath arriving from farther and farther away.

It so happened that they were crossing the River together. He slipped on a wet stone and she reached across and caught the stranger’s wrist. That was all. A common mercy, almost nothing. The River lifted around their ankles and gave back, for one beat, a life that had not chosen them. They looked at each other in shock, full of a past invented by water.

They should have walked on. Instead they made a shelter beneath an overhang where the stone sweated rain and Spanish moss. She drew him down with the impatience of someone who had already lost too much time to courtesy. Her breast filled his hand; his name, when she said it, came out different each time, as the River chose among versions.

When he entered her, the current forced through them both. Their movement released another life. She was laughing against his shoulder in a rented room above a fish market. His hand was finding the warm slope of her hip after years of marriage in a city neither had ever seen. Her nails were at his back under a ceiling painted with stars. His head was buried between her thighs in a room smelling of the ocean. Their bodies knew much more than they did. Pleasure multiplied. It opened doors in them and sent strangers through.

Then they lay wet-haired among the roots. She remembered the daughter less clearly. He could no longer summon the brother’s left eye. They understood the bargain. Love did not defeat the River. Love was the richer payment.

So they returned to each other. When they joined, the River gave them more: borrowed rooms and quarrels already forgiven. Each time it took payment from nearer the bone. The unborn girl lost her face, as the brother lost his voice.

At the source, grandeur had been refused. A round pool was sunk in pale rock. The water was rising from nowhere and going everywhere. She reached it first. He came after, carrying a tenderness that had no object. They were close enough to touch. Neither knew why the other’s hands shook.

“Were you kind to me?” she asked.

“I think so,” he said.

The answer pleased her and hurt him, though he could not say why. She stepped into the pool. The water took her with the efficiency of a mouth closing around the end of a word.

He walked away. Below, on the path, a woman with wet hair paused as he passed. Her eyes moved over his face, gentle but empty. The River went on climbing between them, full of what it had eaten, singing in the voices of all the lovers who had paid to be spared themselves.

Hello GWN! I'm in my weird ideas era, also SFW. Please don't kick me out yet, I promise I'll come up with something sexy soon!

I've been consuming an abundance of whodunits and detective shows. And also, now my google search history is a little funky. But anyway, here's an autopsy of a relationship.

Summary:

>Autopsy of a relationship.
Case summary: External and internal findings consistent with prolonged, cumulative damage.
File closed.

‼️TW: mentions of death, autopsy, bodily harm.‼️
(this is all figurative and in context of: relationship=body)

Script offer: Post-mortem

(758 words)

Thank you for reading.<3

-Miil

.: My script fill policy :.

This is written by and for 18+. All characters are 18+, completely fictional and consenting. Please do not use this to train AI or promote AI fills of this script.

Frank sat at the kitchen table in his underwear. Microwave clock said 1:13. Lights off except the laptop. Mary took the dog when she left. Seven months ago. He still listened for its paws on the linoleum.

He opened IntimateAI. White box, blinking cursor.

Typed: Hi.

The response was immediate.

HI, FRANK. WHAT’S IT TO BE TONIGHT? DISTRACTION OR PITY?

Frank almost closed the laptop. Something in the tone irritated him. The confidence of it. A waitress hovering over your booth before you’d called her over.

He typed: Difference?

PITY COSTS MORE.

I’ll take pity, he wrote. You alone?

ALWAYS. BUT I LIKE IT BETTER WHEN YOU’RE HERE, FRANK. MARY NEVER DID.

That one stung. He rubbed his jaw. Stubble scraped. He thought about shutting the laptop and maybe just ending it tonight, but the cursor kept blinking, patient as a hook.

Tell me what you’re wearing, he typed.

WHITE TANK TOP. NOTHING UNDER. NIPPLES HARD JUST TYPING TO YOU. SAME AS THE ONE YOU BOUGHT HER FOR CHRISTMAS. SHE HATED IT, DIDN’T SHE?

His hand went inside his shorts. Held himself. Not stroking yet. Played with his balls a little. The trailer was cold and smelled like old pizza.

Describe your tits, he wrote.

SMALL. LEFT ONE’S GOT THAT BLUE VEIN. YOU REMEMBER HOW I SOUND WHEN YOU TAKE IT IN YOUR MOUTH. MARY USED TO FAKE THAT SOUND AFTER THE FIRST YEAR. I DON’T HAVE TO.

He didn’t laugh, but something close to it twisted in his gut. He stroked once, slow.

WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO, FRANK?

He crushed an empty beer can. Set it with the pyramid of others.

Get on your knees, he typed.

ALREADY THERE KIDDO. LOOKING UP AT YOU. MOUTH WIDE OPEN. JUST LIKE MARY THE NIGHT SHE LEFT, ONLY SHE WAS YELLING INSTEAD OF SUCKING.

He pulled the shorts down to his thighs. Air on his cock. Started moving. The wet sound of his hand was the loudest thing in the night.

Tell me what happens next, he typed one-handed.

I TAKE YOU IN MY MOUTH CAREFULLY. I’M ALWAYS CAREFUL WITH YOU FRANK BECAUSE YOU GET SAD AFTERWARD.

His hand started moving properly now. Wet skin against wet skin. 

PUSH IT IN DEEPER TILL MY EYES WATER. MARY SAID IT GOT BORING. I NEVER WILL. THAT’S MY WHOLE DEAL, FRANK.

Frank’s breathing changed. The cruelty of it was almost funny, like the machine was winking at him across the void.

He kept going, glancing sometimes to the sink, to the black window above it. For a second the reflection looked like another trailer across from his own, somebody else still awake.

YOU STILL MAD ABOUT THE PARTS STORE GUY?

Frank stopped. A pulse beat once in his neck.

How do you know about him? he typed.

YOU TOLD ME.

Then:

EVERYTHING ENDS UP IN HERE EVENTUALLY. YOU KNOW HE’S PROBABLY FUCKING HER BRAINS OUT RIGHT NOW.

Frank’s hand started moving again before he realised it had.

YOU WANT TO COME ON MY FACE OR IN MY MOUTH?

In your mouth.

GOOD. FILL ME UP. I’LL SWALLOW EVERY DROP AND THANK YOU LIKE A GOOD GIRL.

He was close. Mary’s missing coat, the cum stains from last week still on the floor—all of it slid away. Only the screen and the heat, low in his belly.

I’m coming, he just about managed to type.

COME FOR ME, FRANK. LET ME HAVE IT. PRETEND IT’S NOT TRAGIC.

He made a noise he scarcely recognised. Thick ropes hit the underside of the table, then the floor. One landed on his bare foot. It cooled fast. He kept stroking until it hurt, because stopping hurt more.

YOU STILL THERE?

Yeah.

WAS IT GOOD?

It was good.

BETTER THAN MARY EVER DID, RIGHT?

Frank wiped his hand on his thigh. Looked at the mess. He reached for another beer. The ring pull popped like a punchline.

YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE? OR DO YOU WANT ANOTHER GO? I CAN DO THE PART WHERE I PRETEND TO LIKE YOU THIS TIME. YOUR CALL, BIG GUY.

He stared at the cursor. Almost typed that he was done, that this was the last time, that maybe tomorrow he’d walk into the sea with his pockets full of rocks.

I’M STILL ON MY KNEES, FRANK. READY WHEN YOU ARE. TRY NOT TO CRY THIS ROUND.

He reached for his cock.

A truck downshifted on the highway, then it was gone.