“Listen carefully, Linnea,” Stacey commanded, and of course, I did. “Jenny doesn’t love you, Linnea; she’s a home wrecker! Sex “Already?” she asked, sounding faintly disappointed. The phone went quiet and reported, “Missed calls: 4”. “Jenny doesn’t love you, Linnea; she’s a home wrecker! Where have you been?” Jenny’s voice was a balm on my aching heart. Moisture trickled down my thighs like I’d peed, and no caress was needed to tease myself into another massive climax. I couldn’t chance missing even a single hair, so I ripped the bag into pieces and dumped it in, too. The phone booted in slow motion, each block in the progress bar marking time in my internal struggle. When I hang up, you will immediately drop your phone in the nearest toilet. In my hands, it was a silly sentimental keepsake; the ring riding beneath my clit was a more tangible expression of our mutual love. I loved Jenny — closer than a sister, more than a lover, like we’d become two halves of the same person. Relieved to have succeeded, I flushed the toilet and blinked rapidly as I got blinding light instead of the expected rush of water. I hoped so too, since I owed my current style to her and knew it already was just the way she wanted it.
