Memories of Emma

Speaking of. I looked down at my phone, knowing that I ought to delete it, though not in any hurry to do so. But a new message had appeared beneath it.

He scooped some up and fed it to me. But you'll have to make do with a tissue.

I read the first sentence three times before making it to the second. Was this really Emma? The idea of her swallowing cum, and what amounted to permission to wank to the photo (as if I could have done anything but) had my dick nearly back to full strength. I grabbed my shirt -- not ideal, but all that I had to hand -- and roughly wiped down my front. With the same certainty that I'd felt when tossing her back her phone earlier, I knew that the game was over for tonight. But I couldn't let her get the last word.

Slut, I texted back. I could still see the look in her eyes when I'd said the same earlier: the acceptance, the pride, that so belied her half-hearted denial. I needed a shower. And another wank, came the vote from below my belt. It wasn't wrong. I snuck out to the bathroom, more boldly than I should have, and opened her picture again while waiting for the water to heat up. I studied it. I swear to this day I could still draw the pattern of cum splatters. Then, with a sigh, I deleted it. Emma had trusted me with it, and if somehow it got out from my phone -- it wasn't a thought that I wanted to entertain. And besides, she'll send it again if I ask. Once I was in the shower, I stroked myself more leisurely with a bit of conditioner, and came again to the image of Emma sucking on cum-coated fingers: my cum-coated fingers.