My Roomie's Toy

I came out of the shower and found my phone nearly dead. No charger in sight. Lisa’s door stood open. She’d left ten minutes earlier for her nine o’clock lecture, and her room looked like the tide had gone out—clothes everywhere, sheets twisted. The white cable lay on her nightstand, so I stepped in to grab it. Then I saw the vibrator. Black silicone, half-hidden in the tangle of duvet, still gleaming with a fresh coat of her. I knew better, told myself to keep walking, yet I reached out. It felt warm. Heavy. My pulse kicked. I licked it. The taste hit sweet, faintly metallic, unmistakably hers. That single, filthy contact burned straight between my legs. Before I could think, the towel hit the floor and I slid between her sheets, still radiating her leftover heat. Her scent—sweat and some sugary perfume—wrapped around me while I twisted the base and the motor kicked in, low and steady. I opened myself and fed the toy in, inch by inch, until the stretch knocked the breath out of me. My hips rolled, chasing that blunt pressure, and the second the crown dragged over the right spot I came—fast, sharp, a full-body jolt that made me bite the pillow so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. When my thighs stopped shaking, I eased it free. The shaft was slick again, but the shine was mine now. I set it back exactly where I’d found it, wiped my mouth, grabbed the charger, and left.