Sex Texts

Mindi fires off a text. Black lace. Bedroom eyes. The kind of shot you don't send by accident. Rebel stares at her phone, heart kicking against her ribs. Mom follows up, meaner this time—stockings split open, hand between her thighs. Rebel's throat goes dry. Mindi tells her to return the favor. Says it’ll help her sleep. Rebel hesitates, then peels off her tee, snaps a shaky pic. Maybe that kills it. But Mindi keeps texting, filthy and fast, and Rebel can smell the game. She creeps down the hall anyway, telling herself it’s just to set things straight. The door clicks behind her. Mindi’s hand locks the knob. Rebel tries to speak and ends up with her mother’s mouth crushing hers, tongue pushing past any protest. She backs up, but the bed’s already there. Panties slide down her hips; she grabs them, white-knuckled, until Mindi’s tongue replaces the fabric and Rebel’s grip turns to nothing. Mindi pins her open and works fast—mouth, fingers, spit-slicked ass, whatever keeps Rebel twitching. Every time Rebel tries to crawl away another climax drags her under. They bite moans into pillows, listening for the shower. The second it shuts off, Rebel bolts, bare feet silent on the carpet, leaving the scent of sex and guilt hanging in the dark.