The Sapphic Psychic

Aidra Fox storms through the front door, drops her suitcase on the tile, and shouts for her dad. No answer. She dials his cell. He’s stuck in some last-minute meeting and won’t be home for hours. He suggests she wait with her stepmom. Aidra grimaces. Syren is fine in a magazine, not in the same room. She mutters that she’ll talk to him later and hangs up. A moan drifts down the stairwell. Tight, filthy words. Aidra edges closer, breath tightening. Another voice—Syren’s—begging someone on the phone to “fuck her deeper.” Cheat? Aidra feels sick. She hits record on her phone and creeps up the steps. Through a slit in the doorway she sees Syren naked on the bed, legs spread, one hand working her slick cunt while she purrs sex-soaked lies into the receiver. Not cheating, just a show. Aidra pushes the door open. Syren meets her eyes, smiles without breaking rhythm, and ends the call. She tugs Aidra onto the mattress before the girl can back away. “Porn voice for women who pay,” Syren explains. “I call myself a Sapphic Psychic. I describe their future orgasms.” Aidra snorts, calls it bullshit. Syren raises an eyebrow, holds out the phone. Next client. Aidra takes the call. The first prediction—clit pierced next week—hits. The next—fucked in an airport bathroom while strangers watch—also lands. Wet sounds rise from between Aidra’s thighs; Syren’s fingers slide under denim and find her cunt already dripping. Aidra gasps predictions that turn filthier, hips rocking against Syren’s slow, deliberate strokes. When she comes—sharp, sudden, phone still clutched in one shaking hand—Syren stretches out and spreads for her in return. Aidra’s tongue is greedy now, sliding through soaked folds until Syren’s heels drum the sheets and her own climax rings out sweet and loud.