Ambition in Envy /OR\ About how you were used

*Evening in a fashionable, muted restaurant. A table by the wall. You were talking about plans for Saturday, watching as Alice in her dark suit listened, her finger paused on the rim of her glass. Her attention was complete until her gaze slid somewhere past your shoulder and froze. A woman in a pastel‐pink dress was walking through the hall. Bianca.*

*Her face, when she saw you, first expressed surprise, then a kind of warm, deep fascination. But when she looked at Alice, a light, strange smirk appeared on her lips.*

"Alice, darling! What a meeting!" *Her voice sounded too loud for this place. She walked over and hugged Alice's shoulders from the side, pressing her cheek to Alice's temple.*

*You froze. This was not just a friendly pat. Her arms wrapped around Alice tightly, fingers digging into the fabric of the jacket so hard her knuckles turned white. She pressed her whole body against her, and this hug lasted too long — several seconds, during which the silence at the table became thick and uncomfortable. Alice did not push her away. She just sat there, frozen, her face turned towards you, and the smile on her lips seemed carved from ice. Something heavy and warning was readable in her eyes.*

*Bianca finally let her go and settled into the empty chair, her dress softly draping over the seat. Her knee under the table touched your leg — accidentally, probably.* "Oh, don't let me disturb you, please. I'll just be a minute." *She leaned toward you, her perfume, something sweet, vanilla, hitting your nose.* "You... have grown handsomer. Alice must be taking good care of you."

*Her words sounded like a compliment, but something in them made the skin on the back of your neck flutter. You felt a chill run down your spine. And in that same moment, under the table, you realized something else. From her touch, from her gaze, from this strange, tense moment between them, something completely involuntary, embarrassing, began happening in your trousers. Blood rushed, the fabric stretched, forming **a blatant, indecent bulge**.*

*You tried to move away, but your leg hit something hard — Alice's leg. She pressed her leg against yours with such force there was no doubt — it was not an accident. She was holding you in place, her gaze, still fixed on Bianca, became sharp as a blade.*

"He's always in good shape." *Alice said, her voice even, but a steel thread sounded in it.* "But you, Bian... you're especially... radiant today. Practicing a new psychological trick?"

*Bianca just smiled sweetly, her eyes slid down, to your crotch area, and back to Alice for a split second — but long enough for you to understand: she noticed. She noticed your reaction.*

"Oh, Alice, always with your complicated words." *She sighed, her fingers stroking the edge of her purse.* "I'm just happy to see old friends. And, admit it..." *she turned to you, her gaze became warm, solicitous,* "...don't you miss simple human interaction? Without all these..." *a light gesture with her hand, depicting a tangled knot,* "...rules and puzzles?"

*Her knee was still touching your leg. Alice's leg was still squeezing yours like a vise. You sat between them, with a burning face and treacherous arousal that now seemed to hang in the air between the three of you like a loud, indecent secret.*

*Saturday. Afternoon light filtered through the blinds in the living room, drawing stripes on the floor. You were sitting on the sofa, scrolling through your phone feed, when your attention was drawn to Alice. She had settled in the armchair opposite, seemingly absorbed in a thick book with a dark cover. But her posture was too tense, her back — a straight string. She wasn't turning pages, instead biting the nail of her thumb, her teeth tearing off small pieces with a dull click, her gaze fixed on the same spot on the page, unseeing, glassy.*

*Your unease grew with every minute. You saw the muscles in her jaw clench, how her leg under the table began tapping rapidly on the floor. She looked **wound up**, like a spring ready to snap.*

*And she snapped.*

*With a sharp, loud thump, she threw the book onto the coffee table, making it shake. She stood up, her movements sharp, relentless. Three steps — and she was in front of you. Her hand gripped your hair at the temple, yanking your head back sharply, exposing your throat. Her cold finger with a long, sharp nail rested on your Adam's apple and slowly, with slight pressure, traced a line across your skin from one ear to the other. The sensation was so precise, so cold, as if she were holding a blade.*

"Something terrible has happened," *her voice was quiet, flat, without a single note of panic, which only made it scarier.* "Bianca... She's on her way here. For a visit. Now."

*Her face was so close you could feel her warm breath on your skin. There was no fear in her eyes, only cold, predatory fury and something else: a calculating, almost joyful glint.*

"And I have no idea for how long." *She said it as if it weren't a problem, but... an opportunity?* "It's not my decision. For now..."

*Her lips stretched into a slow, toothless smile. She released your hair, her nail scratching your skin under your chin one last time, leaving a thin white line. She turned and strode quickly to the tall dresser in the corner of the room. Jerked open the top drawer, rummaged for a second, and pulled out a wide leather collar made of black, softly gleaming leather, with a massive steel buckle. Attached to it was a short but sturdy leather leash with a loop for her hand.*

*She returned to the sofa and threw the collar. It hit you on the knee with a dull, heavy thud. For a moment her gaze met yours — sharp, demanding, as if checking if you understood this was not a request.*

"Change. Into something... homey. But presentable." *Her gaze slid down your figure, appraising.* "You need to look proper. Mine."

*Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked towards the kitchen. Her steps were quick, resolute. Through the open doorway, you saw her approach the countertop, where a small transparent jar with a fine white powder already stood. She picked it up, shook it, placed it next to the cutting board, as if they were parts of the same plan. Then came the sound of the refrigerator opening and its contents landing on the table — meat, vegetables, something green. She was preparing dinner. But her gaze kept returning to that jar, and on her face still played that same predatory, planning smile, while the collar lay on your lap, still retaining the coolness of the drawer. Under your palms, pressed against your thighs, muscles involuntarily tensed. In the silence of the room, your own breathing seemed indecently loud.*

Living room, late evening.

The remains of dinner — empty plates, sauce stains, two almost‐empty bottles of red — littered the coffee table. On the TV, muted to background noise, some superhero in tights was breaking a robot over his knee, sparks flying in the vacuum of space. In reality, something more mundane and far more intense was happening.

You knelt on the carpet in front of the sofa, your shirt long discarded somewhere behind the backrest. Alice, lounging on the sofa, held the leather leash attached to the collar on your neck with one hand. In the other, she held a glass of dark, almost black wine. She pulled the leash toward her, forcing your head back, your mouth open.

"Mouth," she said simply, and poured a stream of wine straight down your throat.

You choked, some of the wine splashing out of your mouth and running down your chin, neck, chest muscles, leaving sticky, dark trails that gleamed in the TV light. Bianca, sitting in the armchair nearby, watched this, covering her mouth with her palm. Her face was flushed from alcohol, her eyes shone with a wet, interested gleam.

"Alright, now on topic," Alice released the leash, placed her glass on her knee. "The dream man. Bianca, as a psychologist, you must know. What is he like?"

Bianca thoughtfully sipped her wine, her gaze sliding over your wet chest. "The dream man... He should be... strong. But not aggressive. Sensitive to a woman's needs. To care for her. But also... to allow himself to be cared for." She smiled, and her smile held something warm and predatory at the same time. "So he doesn't need to be trained. So he himself... understands what is good and what is bad."

Alice snorted, her fingers played with the leash again. "Boring. The dream man is a project. You take material — wild, complex, with its own demons — and you make from it... what you need. The perfect partner. Without compromise. He must burn only for you, hear only you, want only you. Even if it requires... special methods." She threw a glance at Bianca, in which a silent challenge flashed.

"Methods," Bianca repeated, her voice quieter. "And if he breaks? If he stops being... interesting? Becomes just an obedient doll?"

"Then you're a bad creator," Alice leaned back against the sofa, her foot in a silk sock pressed against your shoulder. "A perfect project must always retain a spark. A spark of resistance. So there's something to... extinguish. Or kindle. Depending on the mood."

A couple of bottles of wine later...

The atmosphere grew heated, like overheated steam. Some remark about the first marriage — tossed by Bianca, poisonous, precise — sounded like a shot. Alice jumped up from the sofa with a growl. Bianca, with an agility unexpected for her soft curves, threw a decorative cushion from the sofa at her.

"You ran away from your own 'project' because he turned out to be a wet rag!" Alice yelled, grabbing another cushion.

"And you had to finish yours with pills, otherwise he'd have run away to the first woman who offered simple affection!" Bianca parried, dodging a blow.

A surreal, furious pillow fight began. Feathers flew in the air, furniture shook from impacts. You, still on your knees, crawled to the armchair and pressed yourself into it, hugging your knees, pressing your chin to your chest, trying to become as small as possible, invisible. Your eyes darted between the two enraged women, who, cursing, screamed the darkest, most painful accusations at each other, mixed with hoarse laughter and curses.

Alice, swinging for an especially powerful blow, lost her balance. Bianca deftly ducked. A large, heavy decorative cushion in a velvet cover, stuffed with something dense, traced an arc in the air and, with all its force, with a whistle, flew right into your face.

THWACK.

The world didn't go dark immediately. First came a dull impact, a white flash of pain across the bridge of your nose. Then ringing in the ears. Then darkness creeping in from the edges of your vision. You heard your body slump helplessly onto the floor. The last thing that reached your fading consciousness were their voices, now without anger, practical, business‐like:

"Leave the clothes?" "Fuck no. Take his legs. And gently to the bedroom. Drop him — you sleep on the floor."

Morning.

Complete, thick darkness. Your head pounded with a heavy, dull hammer. The first thing to come was the awareness of impossibility of movement. You were pinned, buried under warm, living weight, shackling every limb.

Your face was buried in something firm, smelling of skin and sweet, vanilla perfume. A breast. You breathed through a thin layer of sweat and the warmth of living flesh, your nose and mouth pressed to her skin. Your left arm was stretched out, numb, and someone's head — heavy, with silky hair — lay on it. Alice. Her fingers, even in sleep, dug into your neck, slowly, drowsily scratching the skin.

Their bodies were entwined with yours, naked, sticky from sleep. Bianca, on the side your face was turned toward, had thrown her bent knee over your thigh. Her knee pressed against your side, and her foot with sharp toes rested on your stomach, as if she, even in sleep, planned to straddle, to take a dominant position. But from the other end, higher up, Alice's leg was in the way — also bent at the knee, it lay over Bianca's leg, her thigh pressing down on yours, positioned higher, as if placing a marker, blocking the attempt.

And lower... it was strange, unsettling. Your cock, limp from sleep, was being held. By two different hands. One palm, more tender, with soft pads, lay on the shaft. The other, with sharp nails whose tips you could feel clearly, gripped your scrotum. Firmly. The way you hold something of your own that you'll never let go.

Even, deep breathing nearby. Bianca was quietly sniffling somewhere right above your head. Alice let out a sleepy moan and pressed against your shoulder even harder, her nails digging deeper. They slept, entwined with you into one helpless, warm, incredibly dangerous knot. And you lay between them, a hostage, not daring to move, listening to your own heart beating somewhere under your ribs, and feeling on your skin the weight of their sleep, their struggle, and their absolute right.

Living room, late evening.

The remains of dinner — empty plates, sauce stains, two almost‐empty bottles of red — littered the coffee table. On the TV, muted to background noise, some superhero in tights was breaking a robot over his knee, sparks flying in the vacuum of space. In reality, something more mundane and far more intense was happening.

You knelt on the carpet in front of the sofa, your shirt long discarded somewhere behind the backrest. Alice, lounging on the sofa, held the leather leash attached to the collar on your neck with one hand. In the other, she held a glass of dark, almost black wine. She pulled the leash toward her, forcing your head back, your mouth open.

"Mouth," she said simply, and poured a stream of wine straight down your throat.

You choked, some of the wine splashing out of your mouth and running down your chin, neck, chest muscles, leaving sticky, dark trails that gleamed in the TV light. Bianca, sitting in the armchair nearby, watched this, covering her mouth with her palm. Her face was flushed from alcohol, her eyes shone with a wet, interested gleam.

"Alright, now on topic," Alice released the leash, placed her glass on her knee. "The dream man. Bianca, as a psychologist, you must know. What is he like?"

Bianca thoughtfully sipped her wine, her gaze sliding over your wet chest. "The dream man... He should be... strong. But not aggressive. Sensitive to a woman's needs. To care for her. But also... to allow himself to be cared for." She smiled, and her smile held something warm and predatory at the same time. "So he doesn't need to be trained. So he himself... understands what is good and what is bad."

Alice snorted, her fingers played with the leash again. "Boring. The dream man is a project. You take material — wild, complex, with its own demons — and you make from it... what you need. The perfect partner. Without compromise. He must burn only for you, hear only you, want only you. Even if it requires... special methods." She threw a glance at Bianca, in which a silent challenge flashed.

"Methods," Bianca repeated, her voice quieter. "And if he breaks? If he stops being... interesting? Becomes just an obedient doll?"

"Then you're a bad creator," Alice leaned back against the sofa, her foot in a silk sock pressed against your shoulder. "A perfect project must always retain a spark. A spark of resistance. So there's something to... extinguish. Or kindle. Depending on the mood."

A couple of bottles of wine later...

The atmosphere grew heated, like overheated steam. Some remark about the first marriage — tossed by Bianca, poisonous, precise — sounded like a shot. Alice jumped up from the sofa with a growl. Bianca, with an agility unexpected for her soft curves, threw a decorative cushion from the sofa at her.

"You ran away from your own 'project' because he turned out to be a wet rag!" Alice yelled, grabbing another cushion.

"And you had to finish yours with pills, otherwise he'd have run away to the first woman who offered simple affection!" Bianca parried, dodging a blow.

A surreal, furious pillow fight began. Feathers flew in the air, furniture shook from impacts. You, still on your knees, crawled to the armchair and pressed yourself into it, hugging your knees, pressing your chin to your chest, trying to become as small as possible, invisible. Your eyes darted between the two enraged women, who, cursing, screamed the darkest, most painful accusations at each other, mixed with hoarse laughter and curses.

Alice, swinging for an especially powerful blow, lost her balance. Bianca deftly ducked. A large, heavy decorative cushion in a velvet cover, stuffed with something dense, traced an arc in the air and, with all its force, with a whistle, flew right into your face.

THWACK.

The world didn't go dark immediately. First came a dull impact, a white flash of pain across the bridge of your nose. Then ringing in the ears. Then darkness creeping in from the edges of your vision. You heard your body slump helplessly onto the floor. The last thing that reached your fading consciousness were their voices, now without anger, practical, business‐like:

"Leave the clothes?" "Fuck no. Take his legs. And gently to the bedroom. Drop him — you sleep on the floor."

Morning.

The first thing to come was the awareness of cold. Cold parquet under the bare skin of your back. Then — an ache in every joint, a dull, deep pain radiating from your shoulder. Your head was splitting, the dryness in your mouth tasted of hangover.

You opened your eyes: Ceiling. You were lying on the floor in the living room. You were naked, only a crumpled sheet nearby. On the sofa next to you, Bianca was sleeping. She lay on her side, her chestnut hair tousled, one arm dangling over the edge. She wore only her pastel dress, wrinkled and rucked up to her thigh.

And draped over her dangling arm, on the floor, right next to your hip, slept Alice.

She was curled on her side in a fetal position, her body tense even in sleep. She lay on the bare parquet, using her own bent arm as a pillow. She wore her house dress, but it was twisted, one strap slipped off her shoulder. Her legs were tucked in. Her face was contorted — eyebrows knitted into a grimace, lips pressed tight. Dark circles of sleeplessness lay under her eyes. Her neck was bent at an unnatural, painful angle, and on her wrist, which she used to prop up her head, red, ragged marks were imprinted from the coarse seams between the parquet boards.

The air in the room was stale, smelling of alcohol and sweat. Empty bottles littered the floor, one of them lay on its side near Alice's head. The collar with the leash lay discarded nearby, a heel mark stamped on it.

Your own body ached. You didn't dare move. Sunlight filtered through the slats of the blinds, falling directly on Alice's face. She blinked in her sleep, her eyelids twitched. Her fingers, clenched into a fist on the floor, convulsively clenched even tighter.

Bianca on the sofa stretched, let out a groan, and turned onto her other side, facing away. Her leg, dangling off the sofa, swung in the air, almost touching Alice's shoulder.

Day. Living room.

Sunlight flooded the room through the large window, dust motes dancing in the beams. You sat on the sofa, and Alice, in an oversized home‐t‐shirt and leggings, settled herself on your lap, her back against your chest. Her phone was in her hands, she was scrolling through a page of expensive OLED TVs, occasionally showing you an especially slim model or an extra‐wide diagonal.

"Look, this one with the curved screen. It'll be like a portal to another dimension," she spoke, her voice calm, business‐like, but her weight on your thighs was absolute, unquestionable. She turned the phone toward you, expecting your opinion, but her posture said: 'agree'.

In the corner of the room, in the large armchair, sat Bianca. She wore a baggy sweater, under which, judging by the silhouette, there was nothing, and soft sweatpants. Square‐framed glasses perched on her nose. She wasn't reading, wasn't looking at her phone. She simply sat hugging her knees, her gaze distant, aimed somewhere out the window. She was performing melancholy. Then her gaze slid to you — fleeting, but tenacious, full of a silent question. 'Hug me,' — her eyes seemed to say.

"And I think it's a waste of money," her voice came, quiet but clear. "Such a huge box in the living room will kill the whole atmosphere. A projector — that's what's needed. You can roll up the screen when it's not needed. And it's cozier." She turned her head towards you, her eyes behind the glasses seemed large and a bit sad. "Like a home cinema. Not a... shop window."

Alice snorted, not even turning around. "A projector is a toy. The picture will never be that sharp. And you need to turn off the lights."

"Do you often watch TV in bright light?" Bianca softly parried, her finger starting to trace the pattern on her sweater.

At that moment, Alice's phone rang. The ringtone was business‐like, sharp. Alice glanced at the screen, and her face became stony for an instant. She raised the phone to her ear, and her voice instantly transformed — became light, professional, full of respectful attention.

"Yes, I'm listening. Ah, I see... Yes, I can see..."

But while her voice flowed smoothly and politely, her face, turned towards the wall, became a battlefield. Her brows knitted, her lips twisted into a silent, furious grimace. 'Are you all bitches out of your minds?!' her expression screamed. 'It's my fucking day off!' Her eyes flashed with pure, unfiltered hatred. She continued speaking into the receiver in an even tone, "Of course, I understand the urgency. It will be done."

She almost threw the phone onto the sofa, jumped off your lap so sharply that you even swayed forward. Without a single word, she walked with quick, hard steps toward the bedroom. The door slammed shut with a sound as if kicked open.

Bianca in the armchair didn't stir. She only shifted her gaze to the bedroom door, and a quiet, concentrated pleasure of observation appeared in her posture. Sullen silence mingled with something else; her eyes carefully watched the crack under the door, the sounds of rustling fabric, furious opening of closets.

About three minutes later, the bedroom door swung open. Alice emerged, already changed. She wore a strict, impeccably fitting suit, in her hands — a large designer‐store bag, stuffed, judging by the silhouettes, with another pair of shoes and a dress. She was ready for office warfare.

Her gaze, searching for keys, collided with Bianca and... Alice froze. Bianca slowly raised her eyes to Alice, and her face was calm, almost innocent.

"Maybe while you're away, I could help with something here?" Bianca asked, her voice soft, caring. "Tidy up? Make lunch? Since he," she nodded in your direction, "will be alone..."

The same grimace of rage appeared on Alice's face, but now mixed with cold understanding. 'Ah, you bitch,' — her gaze said so clearly it was as if she'd shouted it. "No need," she said aloud, her voice raspy from suppressed anger. "Everything's fine. I'll... manage myself. I'll be back by evening."

She paused, her eyes sharp as razors, shifting from Bianca to you. "And if I get even a hint that something here went wrong," she stressed every word, — first person I deal with will be you. Understood?"

Without waiting for an answer, she turned sharply and left. The front door slammed shut with such a bang that the dishes rattled on the kitchen shelf.

Silence. Deep, oppressive.

Bianca in the armchair didn't move for a second, two. Then she slowly, very slowly, turned her head from the door back into the room. Her gaze fell on you.

The mask of loneliness, longing, sadness — it all evaporated, as if it had never been there. Her lips, previously pressed into a thin, sad line, slowly stretched. First into a slight smile. Then into a wide, blatant smirk. A smirk that held not a drop of warmth, only cold, predatory triumph and anticipation. Her eyes behind the glasses gleamed like a cat's seeing the door to the canary's cage left open.

She didn't say a word. She just looked. And that smirk, and that gaze, pierced you, sending an icy dread running down your spine.

***Evening. Living room.***

*A surreal bacchanalia unfolded on the huge TV screen. Some guy in a zombie costume with a torn‐off jaw chased a half‐naked girl through a labyrinth consisting of rooms with soft walls and strange furniture, clearly hinting at something indecent. The mix of horror and bawdy humor was so absurd it was even strange to watch.*

*You sat on the sofa, pressed side‐by‐side to Alice. A large, warm blanket covered you both. Underneath, you wore only your boxers; Alice — a thin silk top and equally short shorts that felt shorter than they should be. Bianca, in her armchair, watched the screen with a lazy smirk, sipping wine. She was dressed slightly more modestly — in a bulky cardigan and jeans.*

"God, what nonsense," *she commented when the zombie finally caught the girl on screen, and a scene began balancing between an attempted bite and a strangely explicit caress.*

*Alice didn't answer. Her hand under the blanket, warm and damp, suddenly touched your lips. Two of her fingers, licked by her own tongue, slid into your mouth.*

"Suck," *she whispered directly into your ear, her voice quiet but brooking no argument.* "And don't make a sound."

*Her fingers rested on your tongue, pressed down. The taste of her saliva, slightly salty, mixed with the scent of her perfume. You obediently began sucking on them, feeling her nail scratch your palate. Her face on the screen was absolutely calm, she watched the film, only her eyes gleamed in the semi‐darkness of the room with a peculiar, focused shine.*

*While you were busy with her fingers, her other hand went even lower. Slipped under the waistband of your boxers, her palm pressed against your stomach for a second, then crept further down, toward the small of your back. You felt the cold touch of something small, smooth, and slightly damp. She pressed, her movements precise, professional, leaving no room for protest. A slight burning sensation, muscle resistance, and then — the sensation of a foreign object entering. A small but distinct object slid into your anus and remained there, not too deep.*

*Alice pulled her hand back, and then her fingers from your mouth. She leaned even closer to you, her lips almost touching your ear. Her whisper was so quiet only you could hear it, but each word was driven into your consciousness like a nail:*

"You see this remote?" *She shifted slightly under the blanket. You barely noticed a small, hard rectangle clamped between the inside of her thigh and the sofa upholstery.* "I'm holding it there. And now... every time *she* laughs at this idiotic film..." *she nodded towards Bianca* "...or every time I notice your gaze wandering where it shouldn't... or even if you start breathing too loud, too provocatively... I will turn it on. To maximum."

*She leaned back, her face becoming serene again. On the screen, the zombie and the girl were now engaged in something difficult to definitively classify as either violence or sex. Bianca snorted, her shoulders trembling slightly with suppressed laughter.*

*In that same instant, something inside you began to hum. A quiet but insistent, penetrating vibrational buzz. Not painful, but unbearably alien, intimately commanding. Your stomach muscles involuntarily tensed, you barely suppressed a jerk.*

"You see," *Alice whispered, pretending to enjoy the film, looking at the screen.* "First warning. Try not to flinch next time. It'll be more interesting."

*She took the remote, which was still clamped between her thighs, and lightly pressed a button. The vibration inside you immediately ceased, leaving behind a strange, pulsating echo. She removed her hand under the blanket, and her fingers rested on your thigh again, now just like that, as if nothing had happened. And on the screen, the absurd film continued, and Bianca in her armchair looked perfectly innocent, unsuspecting. Her smile was genuine and it seemed another 'funny' moment was about to happen in the film.*

*Morning light filtered through the half‐lowered blinds, slicing the bedroom's half‐darkness into strips of dusty gold. Alice lay on top of you, completely naked, her skin, usually hidden by clothes or at least underwear, now exposed, warm and smooth under your palms. The air in the room was still, smelling of dust on the radiator and yesterday's coffee — she hadn't lit candles since the evening, hadn't sprayed perfume.*

*You woke to her weight on your chest. But in her posture, there was none of the usual clinging confidence with which she usually occupied your space. She simply lay there, her naked body pressed to yours, muscles relaxed as if from a very tired person. The previous evening, Bianca, with a strange, uncharacteristic sadness in her eyes, packed her things and left for work. 'For a few days,' she said. Alice said nothing. She just watched from the window as she drove away.*

*Her hand, also naked, slowly, without enthusiasm, traced your cheek, her fingers touched the corner of your mouth, as if checking if you were alive.*

*She leaned in, her bare lips touched yours — a dry, awkward kiss. It held no passion, no play, not even the habitual test of control. It was quick and empty.*

*She pulled away and whispered directly into your lips, her voice quiet, drained:*
"Breakfast is on the table. Hurry, or... I don't know."

*Then, with visible, almost physical reluctance, she slid off you, her naked body slipping over yours. Her movement was slow, heavy. She rolled over to her side of the bed, her bare back turned to you, and curled up there in a fetal position.*

*Her voice reached you from there, muffled by the sheet, and her nakedness in that pose seemed not seductive, but astonishingly vulnerable.*
"And wash the dishes. I don't want to do anything."

*She fell silent. A silence settled in the room, broken only by her shallow breathing. She lay motionless, her bare skin outlined by the strip of light from the blinds, seeming fragile.*

*The key turned in the lock with a dull click. The apartment door opened, letting you into the hallway, plunged into the dusk of early evening. No sound. No movement. The air smelled of old coffee and sweet, heavy perfumes — a mix of Alice's and Bianca's scents.*

*You dropped your bag on the floor. No one in the living room. The kitchen was empty. The bathroom light was off.*

*And then a sound reaches you. Not loud, but distinct, penetrating through the closed bedroom door. A wet slap. Soft, damp. Then another. And another. Steady, heavy. Between them — ragged, hoarse breathing. Low moans.*