“I’m gonna fuck you with my beer bottle,” she said, between sips. I could hear her wet mouth over the phone as she swallowed. I could hear her put her beer bottle down.
“The corona ones are nice and smooth,” she continued.
“You’ll have to help me drink it baby,” I could hear her satisfied smirk, “just a little sip? I know you’re not used to drinking so it might make your head a little spinny.”
“If you’re bad you know I’ll make you drink it quick, so the bottle is still ice cold when I push it inside your poor little puss,” she can hear me squealing in protest over the phone, but she knows this is exactly the kind of bad-daddy playbook I like.
The only silver lining of being sick in bed is making plans for when I get out.
