“I actually use a corn cob holder. And don’t drink wine.”
“Where’s your corn cob holder then?” Regan asked in exasperation.
“Silverware drawer.”
“You mean the one with all the plastic utensils?”
“Hey, you date a girl who works at KFC, there are certain perks.”
Regan yanked open the drawer with a clatter of plastic, found a corn cob holder, and started in on the wine bottle. It wasn’t easy for her, but then, she was straight.
Wendy took the bottle from her and started working the tines into the cork. “Keith?”
“Keith,” Regan seethed. “He deleted a bunch of shows off the DVR—which I was going to watch, I was waiting to binge them—just so he could record some James Bond marathon. And I got him a DVD boxset of those a few years ago. For his birthday! He forgot! What other gifts from me has he forgotten? His son? My virginity?”
With the makeshift bottle opener inserted, Wendy clutched the wine bottle under her arm and started wiggling the cork out. “What about Bobby DiMino?”
“Bobby DiMino doesn’t count, we just went halfway.”
“Still, half a donut isn’t really a donut.”
Regan glared at her. “All right, it was forty percent, Keith was sixty, we round up.”
“I’ll let Bobby DiMino know.” With a grunt, Wendy popped the cork out. “He’ll be crushed.” She pointed at the cork. “Eh?”
“Yes, every time you do that, you save more of the one dollar that a corkscrew would cost.” Regan sighed to herself. “You do have glasses, right?”
“Sure!” Wendy popped the bottle into Regan’s hands, tossing the cork aside, and went to a cupboard. “Do you want Winnie the Pooh or Piglet?”
“Sis…”
“They were at a garage sale!” Wendy stressed, holding them up in her hands. “It’s called being thrifty. How do you think grandpa got so rich?”
“Whatever you say, Wendy. But just so you know, this bohemian act is not going to look good in your thirties.”
“How would you know? Are you still in your thirties? I can’t really tell with all the…” Wendy gestured about her face.
“Fuck you. Drink some wine with me.”
Wendy’s phone buzzed. She dropped the glasses on the counter and dug it out of her pocket, quickly checking her messages while Regan poured for them.
“At least you don’t have a flip-phone,” Regan commented.
She had a text from Janet.
I would very much like to see your pussy. Please show it to me.
Wendy went dead still. God, she had it bad—she could just hear Janet telling her that, her chilled voice feigning disinterest, but roiling with attraction underneath, pushing Wendy in turn to try to force her hand. Make Janet show just how badly she needed.
“Everything all right?” Regan asked. She’d filled her glass all the way full, and with the brim teetering with liquid, she bent down to suck a little through her lips.
Wendy almost would’ve felt proud of her, except—Janet. “Yeah, it’s all fine. Just let me go freshen up.”
“Uh-huh,” Regan said, taking their glasses to the bed. She crouched down to lean against it, setting the glasses down on the hardwood floor.
Wendy hurried into the bathroom, locking the door securely. She considered turning on the shower for good measure, but no, too secret agent-y. She looked at herself in the mirror. “Okay. We’re sexting. We’re sexting now.” She fixed her hair, as if that was what Janet was interested in. “No problem. I’m sexy. I’m sexy as hell. Janet’s sexy and she likes me. Sexy likes sexy. Brangelina. Bennifer. The other Bennifer. I’m good. Face. Boobs. Stomach area. Why should my vajayjay be any different? I’ve got a good-looking pussy, a beautiful pussy. Who wouldn’t want to see my pussy? Whoever they are, they’re not named Janet Lace, that’s for sure.”
She set her phone down on the sink, carefully—this was no time to crack her screen—then reached under her skirt and scooted down her panties. One last second of spiritual meditation—she did not achieve enlightenment—and Wendy lifted her skirt.
She looked at it. She wasn’t sure what spot adjustments one could make to a pussy…she wasn’t Hugh Hefner or anything…but lesbians went for the natural thing, right? There wasn’t some lesbian contingent who wanted women to wax, was there? You never knew, what with all the people coming out these days. Maybe Aubrey Plaza would start a trend and ruin it for everyone. She was bisexual now.
“Screw Aubrey Plaza,” Wendy told her area. “You look fine. You’re great. It’s a great pussy…okay, it’s a little weird. It has eccentric good looks. It has character. What does she want, an Amazon.com pussy? I’m an Etsy pussy. My pussy is homemade, it’s hand-crafted, it’s assembled with love!”
She picked up the phone, stood on her tiptoes to get her area above the sink, and aimed the camera at her reflection.
Maybe she could google Emily Ratajkowski’s twat, send that instead?
No, no, she’d taken the picture; she would send it. Her relationship with Janet would be based on honesty and communication.
As quickly as possible, Wendy pulled up her panties, pulled down her skirt, and left the bathroom. Regan was where she’d left her. Half of her wine was not.
“I’m fine with Keith being the breadwinner,” Regan was saying, as if there had been a conversation to resume. “But breadwinning is just one job! I cook. I clean. I babysit. Laundry! He does one job, I do five. And I delivered the baby! You think there are UPS drivers who have to build their own trucks before they go to work?”
“No,” Wendy said, sensing an opportunity to agree.
“Hell no!” Regan agreed with her own agreement.
Wendy sat down beside her and tried her wine. Like most wine, it wasn’t to her taste, but at least it wasn’t beer. “I totally get you. People call me lazy, but not only do I work, I clean up this place. I shop, I cook, I take care of Godzilla—he’s an outdoor cat, but he’s very needy.”
Regan stopped her, snorting on her wine. “Are you comparing us?”
“Yeah, we’ve got the same—”
“We really don’t.”
“We have loved ones who depend on us.”
“You have a cat!”
Wendy’s phone buzzed. She quickly swallowed her wine—mindful of the possibility of spit-takes—and checked it off to the side.
That was nice. Now can I see what it’ll look like when you hold it open for me to eat?
Okay, that was disturbingly hot, since Wendy couldn’t exactly imagine Janet saying that, so her imagination ran wild. Would she say it in the same cool tone as everything else? Would she make eye contact as she planted the thought in Wendy’s head? Would she lick her lips? She had to lick her lips at some point, right? Everyone’s lips got dry.
Then again, without so much as dinner, Wendy had given her full frontal. Maybe that was how they did in high school these days, but this wasn’t high school, not even college! She shouldn’t just allow Janet to run roughshod on her, even if the thought prompted a mental moan of ‘Mmmm…run roughshod.’
Wendy texted back hurriedly:
Maybe you should show me something first.
Regan scrunched up over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”
Wendy hid the phone behind her back. “Pokémon.”
“What?”
“It’s a new Pokémon app.”
“Can I see it?”
“No. It’s private.”
“It’s not some hentai thing, is it?”
“No! How do you even know what hentai is? You’re a mom!”
“Moms can use the internet,” Regan reasoned.
Wendy furrowed her brow. “Okay, now you’re making me picture Mom using the internet.”
“Just as well she can’t work an internet browser to save her life. She’d go Wyatt Earp on the place. Make everyone look at pictures of her knitting instead of naked people.”
“Maybe they could compromise and s
he’d knit naked people.”
Wendy’s phone buzzed and Wendy felt the most curiously dualistic sensation. She was both going ‘oh shit’ at the top of her mental lungs, and was also breathlessly excited to see what Janet had sent at the same time.
Grabbing hold of her bed’s post, she worked her way to her feet.
“Oh no, I have not finished venting about my husband yet!” Regan cried. “You were my maid of honor, you have to hear this.”
“I’ll be right back,” Wendy promised. “I just have to—” Possibly masturbate.
She walked for the bathroom instead of saying that.
“While you’re up, get me some more wine!” Regan called after her.
Wendy closed the bathroom door behind her. Locked it. Braced her body against the door just in case Regan tried to break it down.
Shit. Holy shit. It was Janet. Smiling.
Not just smiling, of course, Wendy wasn’t that easy a lay…even if Janet had dimples, holy shit, who knew?
The smile was at the top of the picture. The picture went down. Down Janet’s chin. Down her throat. Down to a vertical bar pendant, finely wrought silver worn tight to her neck, giving unneeded accessory to the expanse of flawless flesh below the graceful hollow of her throat.
And then there were her boobs. They took up most of the screen of Wendy’s phone, bursting out from an unbuttoned blouse and a demi-cup bra, the cleavage that James Bond’s latest conquest would show right before they lost the PG-13 rating. Holy shit, Wendy could see the division between the orbs, the entire curvature, and a mole. It was a feat of engineering for a bra to be able to cover all of that and still be revealing all of THAT. It was a cute bra, too. Surprisingly lacy and frilly and wait, no, no way Janet wore that at the office. That was a fun-time bra. What did it mean when someone sent you fun-time bra over the phone? Better or worse than just showing nipples?
Her phone buzzed and Wendy nearly dropped it. Shit, Janet wasn’t even giving her time to process! Just two minutes was not enough time to take her boobs in, there were two of them!
Janet’s text read, remorselessly:
I’ve shown you mine. Now why don’t you show me something else that’s mine?
Holy fucking shit, she was dating Catwoman all of a sudden. This was exactly what Batman went through every time Catwoman showed up. But he had dead parents to think of to kill his boner. Wendy was too damn small and too damn gay for this. Fuck, what if Janet called Wendy hers in person? No one was gay enough to handle that!
“Hey, Wendy, can I use the bathroom?” Regan pounded on the door behind her. “You’re not smoking a doobie, are you? We’re not thirteen anymore!”
“Just a second!” Wendy replied, automatically, since she was still kind of thirteen still. She pulled down skirt, panties, and sat on the toilet. Tried to spread her legs. Skirt and panties in the way. I knew I should’ve worn shorts to the office.
“Wendy, c’mon, I drank more wine, I need the toilet more!”
“Go in the sink then!” Wendy kicked off her panties, kicked off her skirt—skirt didn’t want to go, clung to her ankle like a shed skin that wouldn’t take the hint. Wendy flapped it wildly in the air before she realized, barring yoga, a beaver shot wouldn’t include her feet.
“You know, you’re just like Keith. You don’t appreciate me. I bring you groceries, I bring you wine—”
At this rate, anything I take a picture of is going to be sealed up like an airlock. “Regan, come on, let me wipe in peace!”
Regan grumbled, but Wendy heard her moving off. Very quickly, Wendy spread herself, tried not to think about it, positioned the camera, tried to think of something sexy, tried to center herself to give her crotch at least the appearance of belonging to a poised and dignified lady, and made a duckface just because. The camera flashed, Wendy sent it, and was struggling into her lower garments as the little letter icon shot off into the ether.
This is why dick pics are a thing and not vag pics, she thought to herself. Men had it easy. They could just unzip, whip it out, and there you were. Wasn’t like the things could look any weirder. Her, she had to think about lighting. She hadn’t even put a filter on it. She should’ve used a filter! Everyone used filters! Cat pictures had filters!
Despondent about being a filterless vagina in a filter world, Wendy stepped out of the bathroom and saw Regan turning away from the front door, opening a box in her hands.
The last box Wendy had gotten hadn’t been a bad sex toy, for a GoBot, but it was still a GoBot sex toy thing too far for her to want her sister to find. “Regan, Regan, I think that’s mine—”
“It should be, it was on your doorstep.” Regan reached into her package.
Wendy prepared herself to have to explain what Ben Wa balls were.
“One glove? Who’d send you one glove? Are you getting Michael Jackson’s mail by mistake?”
Wendy snatched it from her. It was one glove. One black, leather glove. Janet’s. “Hey, Regan, you think we could do this some other time? Work’s been buzzing me all night, I need to get on my computer, yeah, let’s do this tomorrow.”
“What about Keith?” Regan protested as Wendy worked her toward the door.
“Yeah, sure, he’s an awful husband, you should divorce him.”
“I’m not going to divorce him, I love him!”
Wendy got the door for her. “Then you should forgive him.”
Regan crossed her arms. “Don’t take his side!”
Wendy pushed her out the door.
Her phone was buzzing. Even that was pleasant. Only Janet wasn’t texting her. Janet was calling her. Wendy walked back to her bed, picked up her wine off the floor, and swigged before she answered.
“You did as you were told,” Janet’s voice said at a steady clip, every word measured, considered, precisely cut. And dripping with sin. “That’s good. I find it very pleasing when you do that.”
“You should see me put together an IKEA desk,” Wendy said, then regretted saying. “You know, you kinda picked a bad time for this.”
“It was good for me,” Janet replied. Her voice licked through the phone, nibbled at Wendy’s ear. “That’s the important thing. Now, is it still a ‘bad time’, or would you like to play another game?”
Wendy’s lips clung together wetly as she opened her mouth to answer. “I’d like to play another game, Ms. Lace.”
Wendy could hear Janet’s smile like a switchblade flicking out. “I’m so happy to hear that, Ms. Cedar. This game is very simple. I know you liked the picture you got of me—I could see it in how eager you were to show yourself spread—so that will be your reward. Every picture I send, I’ll remove one item of clothing. And I’ll send one picture for every finger you take. You’ll be wearing the glove, of course.”
Wendy locked her door, then threw the chain up. She started struggling out of her skirt and panties again, flopping down onto her bed, the phone nestled against her ear. Shorts. She definitely had to wear shorts to work. “And how many items of clothing are you wearing?”
“In the pictures? Well, that depends, Ms. Cedar. You saw me at the office today. How much did you think I was wearing?”
Wendy set the phone to speaker mode and dropped it beside her pillow. “I know you’re wearing a bra.”
“For now,” Janet retorted. “Are you touching yourself?”
“Not yet,” Wendy said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. She didn’t want to admit that the sudden volume of air on her lower extremities, between her thighs and on her ass and pressing in on her sex, was already more intense than she thought she could bear. It just wasn’t like this when she touched herself without Janet. And she thought she needed a vibrator…
“That’s all right. I’ll wait. I’m a very patient woman. I can spend…hours…making sure something is done right.”
Wendy groaned. She knew that Janet knew what that had made her think. Didn’t matter if she had a filthy mind or not. Carol fucking Brady would think dirty with the way Ja
net had said it.
Hours, Christ, she didn’t know if she could survive one minute!
Wendy slid her right hand into the glove. It fit like, well… She reached downward, stopped herself, heard Janet’s breath over the phone—was it a little strained or was that her imagination?—used her left hand to cup her breast through her clothes. It didn’t matter that she still had a blouse on, didn’t matter that she still had a bra on. Right through both of them, her nipple responded to the touch. It was almost painfully hard, her nipple pebbling right under her fingers, grinding with just the slightest bit of pain and so much more pleasure against its confines.
“I’m…touching now,” she said, barely breathing as her hand rolled between her thighs, over her sex. She had to hold herself back from penetrating herself—it felt like her pussy was burning and her fingers were ice water making it just cool enough to bear—but she didn’t want to hurt herself, she knew Janet wouldn’t want that. The cool leather felt magnificent on her body, like she’d never touched herself before.
“Good girl,” Janet replied. “Take your time. Do it right.”
Hold back, she had to hold back, don’t, she told herself firmly as her middle finger stroked between her labia lips, the opening just starting to open. Don’t. She was so wet, when was the last time she’d been so wet? You know you’re not ready yet, can’t be ready. It felt so good, the pad of her fingertip on her inner flesh, the supple leather, the little flecks of stitching, just this close to giving her inner muscles something to clench on, something they desperately needed. Please, she begged someone, herself, the universe, Janet Lace wherever the hell she was.
She pictured Janet, and the craziest fucking thing was that she didn’t imagine her in her underwear, or in the shower, or getting a thorough massage from Angie Harmon. She pictured her like she was at the office, her hair neatly styled, her glasses on, her maroon blouse fully buttoned, her gray skirt running down to her knees, like who the fuck got off on that, the Victorian Era? But that was how she thought of Janet, all centered and powerful and imperial and precise, and a sigh drew out of her as luxuriously as she’d savor a Godiva chocolate.
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