Apple Bottom

Tasha studied her lean reflection, thumbing through hangers for something clean. She zipped the bag and called a goodbye. Carmen waited until the front door clicked. She slipped into Tasha’s room and grabbed the first thing she liked: a pair of vintage jeans two sizes too small. The denim pinched her hips. She tugged harder, ass cheeks spilling over the waistband. Tasha opened the door again. License forgotten. She stopped cold. Carmen froze, denim still strangling her thighs, one breast bare. “You stole my clothes?” Tasha stepped closer. Carmen blurted the whole thing: she wanted in, wanted Tasha’s vote, would do anything to make it official. Tasha stared for a moment, then gave a single nod. “Strip. Right now.” Carmen obeyed, kicking off the jeans, skin marked where the denim had bitten into her. Tasha walked around her, slow and silent, fingertips skimming Carmen’s waist like she might change her mind at any second. “You’ll fuck me whenever I say, wherever I say, and tell no one. If I want your mouth in front of the whole house, you’ll do it with the door open. If I want it quiet in the parking lot behind the library, you’ll spread right there. I snap, you open. Break it, and you’re done.” The pledge swallowed. Tasha stepped behind her, slid two fingers along Carmen’s seam, smiled when the girl rocked into the touch. No more decisions left. Only orders.