Never Over
By LilDean.
Her message was simple: ‘Hey Stranger 😜 How are you?’ Like we hadn’t spent six months tangled in each other’s beds, her teeth marks still faint on my shoulder. I exhaled through my nose, the smell of stale pizza and unwashed sheets thick in my room. My fingers itched to type something clever, but all I managed was ‘Alive. You?’
Debbie replied fast, always did. ‘Fine, fine. Still working at that shitty cafe.’ Then, before I could think of something else to say, another text popped up—’ So, you still mad at me for fucking Jake? 😂’ My stomach twisted. I could picture her grinning at her phone, one eyebrow cocked like it was all some big joke. Like she hadn’t wrecked me in three texts last April.
The phone buzzed again, insistent. ‘Come onnn, it’s been months. You’re not still sulking, right?’ I stared at the words until they blurred. The memory of Jake’s smug face—broad shoulders, thick wrists—flashed behind my eyes. Debbie had called him “harmless,” just some guy from her sociology class. Harmless. Right.
My fingers moved before I could stop them. ‘Nah. Don’t care anymore.’ A lie so brittle it tasted like cheap vodka on my tongue. The three dots appeared immediately, pulsing like a heartbeat. I clenched my jaw, waiting for the knife-twist, the next jab disguised as a joke.
The AC shuddered again, and suddenly the room felt too small, the walls pressing in with the weight of all the things I hadn’t said. My phone buzzed—’Liar. 😏 You always care.’ Her words dug under my skin, familiar as her laugh. I could almost hear it now, that sharp, musical sound that used to make my chest tighten.
I typed fast, thumbs clumsy with something between anger and want: ‘Why are you asking, Debs?’ Sent it before I could chicken out. The dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared, as if she were weighing her words. My pulse hammered in my throat. Maybe she was drunk. Perhaps she was bored. Maybe Jake had left her alone in that shitty studio apartment with the leaky faucet she always complained about.
Debbie’s reply came in pieces. First: ‘Idk.’ Then, after a pause that dragged: ‘Miss this.’ My breath caught. This. Not ‘you’. Just ‘this’—the late-night texts, the push-pull, the way she could unravel me with a handful of pixels. The phone buzzed again. ‘You were fun.’ And there it was, the real knife—past tense. I stared at the words until my eyes burned, the ghost of her fingers tracing the same old bruise.
Then her following message lit up the screen, vicious as a cat batting at a half-dead mouse: ‘Speaking of fun… dick hard right now? 😏.’ The emoji winked at me, mocking. My face went hot. I glanced down at my lap, where my thin cock lay limp against my thigh, pale and hairless as a peeled shrimp. The truth was pathetic, but the lie—that I was rock-solid, that I hadn’t spent nights imagining her riding me while Jake watched—would be worse.
‘Thinkin about me?’ she pressed—another buzz. ‘Bet you are. Bet that little babydick of yours gets all twitchy just from my smile.’ My throat clicked when I swallowed. She wasn’t wrong. Even now, spite curdling my stomach, the memory of her grin—sharp at the edges, sweet in the middle—sent a jolt through me. I could feel myself filling out, slow and shameful, against my thigh.
The phone buzzed again. ‘Come on. Touch it for me.’ A command, not a question. My fingers trembled when I palmed myself through my boxers, already damp at the front. Fuck. Fuck. She knew exactly how to play me, how to hook her fingers under my ribs and pull until I unraveled. The AC groaned, spitting lukewarm air across my flushed skin. I should’ve said no. Should’ve thrown the phone across the room. But my breath was coming short now, hips lifting into my own touch.
‘Tell me you’re touching it. Tell me you’re obeying.’ Her words hit like a slap—hot and stinging. I gritted my teeth, but my thumbs moved anyway: ‘Yeah.’ The confession left me raw, exposed. The dots danced. I pictured her biting her lip, that little crease between her brows when she was deciding how far to push.
She replied fast, triumphant. ‘Good boy.’ The praise burned worse than the taunts. My cock twitched in my hand, half-hard and leaking against the cotton. The fan whirred, useless against the sweat pricking my neck. Another buzz: ‘Show me.’ My stomach dropped. The cracked screen reflected my wide eyes at me—already reaching for my waistband, already losing.
The flash went off before I could think, bleaching my pale thighs and the thin curve of myself in harsh white light. The image loaded pixel by pixel, grotesquely intimate. My thumb hovered over send. The AC died mid-rattle, plunging the room into silence except for my own ragged breathing. I tapped it. Watched the ‘delivered’ stamp appear like a verdict.
Her reply came faster than I expected: ‘LMAO oh right… THAT’S why we broke up 😂’ The laugh-cry emoji spun, mocking. My stomach dropped. I could almost hear the snort she used to make when something was funny-but-cruel, that little exhale through her nose. Another text: ‘Still cute tho. Like a pinkie swear with abandonment issues.’ The screen blurred. I tasted copper—I’d bitten my cheek.
The dots danced again, agonizing. ‘Honestly tho, it’s kinda hot you’re still this obsessed.’ My thumbprint smeared the glass as I gripped the phone tighter. Obsessed. The word prickled under my skin like a splinter. She wasn’t wrong—the proof was right there in my sweat-slick palm, in the way my hips jerked when she teased me—but admitting it made my teeth ache.
‘Happy you’re still fapping for me,’ she sent, followed by a winking devil emoji. ‘Feels like I totally won the breakup.’ The screen burned in my hands. Won. Like this was some game she’d scored points in. Like I was just another trophy on her shelf next to Jake’s thick wrists and her sociology textbooks. My chest tightened. The room smelled like salt and shame.
‘Send me one,’ I typed before I could stop myself. The dots pulsed. Then stopped. Then pulsed again—long enough that I could imagine her smirking, dragging it out just to watch me squirm. ‘Only if you admit something first,’ she replied. My pulse spiked. The mattress creaked under my shifting weight. My fingers hovered, slick with sweat. ‘Like what?’ I sent it, already regretting it.
Her answer came like a noose tightening: ‘Write “I’m a small dick boy.” Say it nice and pretty for me.’ The phone slipped from my grip. The AC kicked back on with a whine, blasting air that suddenly felt like needles. My cock, still half-hard against my thigh, looked obscenely small in the dim light—like something that belonged in a middle school locker room, not a grown man’s bed.
The dots pulsed again, impatient. ‘Come on, say it. You know it’s true.’ My throat clenched. I could already hear her laugh, that bright, razor-edged sound that used to make my stomach flip. My fingers trembled over the screen. ‘I’m a small dick boy,’ I typed, the letters glaring back at me like a confession. Sending it felt like dropping my pants in public.
Her reply was instant. ‘Good start! 😘 Now the loser part.’ The kiss emoji burned worse than the words. I swallowed hard, the taste of bile sharp in my mouth. The room smelled of sweat and the faint, mildewy reek of the AC. ‘I’m a fapping loser,’ I sent, my face burning. The words hung there, ugly and undeniable. My cock twitched against my thigh, traitorous, as if the humiliation had its own sick pull.
‘Almost there!’ she chirped, like we were playing some twisted version of Simon Says. ‘Last one: tell me you’re stroking that sad little thing for me RIGHT NOW.’ A droplet of sweat slid down my temple. My fingers twitched around my phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The truth was worse than the lie—I was touching myself, had been the whole time, my strokes shallow and shameful. ‘I’m actually stroking for my ex,’ I typed, the admission like gravel in my throat.
Her reply was immediate—’Congrats, lil champ! 🎉.’ Followed by a string of party popper emojis that felt like salt in the wound. I could practically hear her giggling through the screen, that breathy little laugh she used to let out when she knew she had me cornered. My stomach twisted, but something darker coiled beneath the humiliation, hot and insistent. ‘Where’s my reward?’ I sent back, my pulse hammering so hard I could feel it in my fingertips.
The dots danced for a lifetime before her following message loaded—a photo, grainy and close-up, her lips parted around the swollen head of a cock so thick it strained her mouth. The shaft glistened under the flash, veins standing out like ropes under skin, the tip flushed dark and leaking against her bottom lip. My breath hitched. Jake’s. Had to be. The realization punched through me like a fist to the gut, but my own traitorous dick jerked in my hand anyway, smearing precome across my knuckles.
‘Tell me you’re close,’ she ordered, and I could almost hear the smirk in her silent text, the way she used to bite her lower lip when she knew she had me on the edge. I squeezed myself, the ache sharp and humiliating, and typed ‘Yeah’ with trembling fingers—half-truth, half-plea. The photo had done its damage; my hips stuttered against my palm, chasing the ghost of her touch, the memory of her weight straddling me before she realized how little of me there was to take.
Her reply came seconds later, a bullet between the ribs: ‘LOL pathetic. You’re actually getting off to your replacement?’ The words dripped with lazy cruelty, but my cock twitched anyway, betraying me. My phone screen fogged with my ragged breaths as I pictured her sprawled on Jake’s bed, one hand tangled in her chestnut hair while the other held her phone aloft, watching my humiliation unfold in real time. ‘Pathetic,’ she’d murmur, and the word would curl around me like a noose.
Another buzz. ‘Go on. Stroke to his dick like the baby-dicked cuck you are.’ The command landed like a boot on my throat. My hand moved without permission, fingers tightening around my own meager length, imagining the stretch of her lips around Jake’s thickness instead. The AC groaned again, spitting out a gust of stale air that did nothing to cool the sweat beading along my spine. I could almost taste the salt of her skin, the way she used to gasp when I—no, when ‘he’—filled her up.
‘Tell me when you cum 😂’, she texted, the laughing emoji spinning like a knife between my ribs. My jaw clenched. The worst part wasn’t the taunt—it was how my stomach flipped at the thought of giving her what she wanted, of letting her hear me unravel. I squeezed my cock harder, the pressure just shy of painful, and typed ‘Fuck you’ with fingers that didn’t feel like mine. Her reply was instant: ‘Nah, you’re the one fucking yourself to my boyfriend’s dick pics. Hurry up, I’m bored.’
The orgasm hit like a car crash—sudden, brutal, leaving me shaking. My hips jerked as I came in thin, pathetic spurts across my stomach, the mess barely enough to coat my fingers. The shame burned hotter than the pleasure. ‘Did it,’ I managed to text, the words blurring through the aftershocks. My phone buzzed before I could even catch my breath. ‘Awwww! Congrats on the baby batter!! 🎂’ she wrote, followed by a vomit emoji. ‘Hope it was worth the post-nut clarity, loser.’
Then, like she could smell the weakness in me through the screen: ‘Say you love me.’ My thumb froze. The room smelled like sex and sweat and something sour underneath. I did love her. That was the sick joke—even now, with her cruelty glinting in every text, my chest ached with it. ‘I love you,’ I sent, the words raw as an open wound. The three dots appeared immediately, pulsing like a threat.
Her reply was softer than I expected: ‘Awwww 🥰’ followed by ‘That’s so sweeeeet.’ But then—’Too bad love doesn’t make your dick bigger 😂’. The laugh-cry emoji spun, vicious as a kick to the ribs. My stomach hollowed out. I could picture her flopped back on Jake’s sheets, phone held aloft, that familiar smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. ‘Say it again,’ she demanded, ‘but this time say “I’m a tiny-dicked loser who loves you.”’
I swallowed hard, my own come cooling on my stomach. The words glared up at me from the screen, a trap disguised as a request. My fingers trembled. ‘I’m a tiny-dicked loser who loves you,’ I typed, each letter like swallowing glass. Sending it felt like stepping off a ledge. The dots appeared immediately, pulsing like a warning siren.
Her reply came fast—’Awww 🥹’—the teary-eyed emoji somehow worse than the laughing ones. ‘You’re so cute when you’re honest,’ she added, and I could almost hear the syrupy sweetness in her voice, the same tone she used when scratching behind a cat’s ears right before it bit her. ‘Does it turn you on?’ she asked, ‘being this pathetic for me?’ The question landed like a scalpel, precise and cruel. My cock twitched against my thigh, still oversensitive, still hers.
‘Yeah,’ I admitted, the word sour on my tongue. The truth was worse than the lie—humiliation coiled hot in my gut, twisting tighter with every breath. ‘Good,’ she shot back, ‘because I’m soooo happy I can still make you cum.’ The letters bled smugness, each one a pinprick. ‘Maybe I’ll do this again next time I’m bored,’ she added, and the casualness of it—like I was a game she’d picked up between classes—made my throat tighten.
Her following message was a flurry of sweetness and knives: ‘Alright, babydick, gotta go! Jake’s picking me up 💕’ The heart emoji glowed pink, innocent as a Valentine. ‘Try not to cry into your lil’ shrimp tonight, okay? 😘’ The kissy face winked, a final twist of the blade. My fingers clenched around the phone, the cracked edges biting into my palm. The room smelled like sex and shame, the AC whining like it was laughing at me.
The End.
*The opinions/views expressed in this story (and in any comments) are those of the author and do not represent this site. We support freedom of speech. This story has been submitted directly to this website for publication. Thanks for your submission.