I Write My Own Future

Sasha Heart isn’t leaving until she says her piece. Serena Blair shifts, uneasy. She shouldn’t marry that idiot, Sasha says, and Serena’s excuses—she’s already invested years, everyone else is doing it—sound weak even to her. Sasha slides closer, hands glistening with warm oil. Fingers press deep into knotted shoulders, coaxing stiff muscles loose. Oil trails down Serena’s spine and Sasha’s breath brushes her ear: take the top off. Serena hesitates, but the straps slide away. Then Sasha’s palms move lower. Panties follow. Finally her own. Thick curls at Sasha’s core catch the light beside Serena’s bare, pink skin. Two bodies stretch across cool sheets. Fingers part slick folds, tongues slip and circle, hips grind. They meet and rock until wetness smears the inside of thighs and the weight of every unasked question finally quiets.