A room comes with a cost - Part 3 - Sexgeschichten

A room comes with a cost - Part 3

... ghosting inside, the stretch a phantom itch I couldn't scratch without fresh shame.

"You're twisted," I hissed, but there was no heat in it... more exhale than fire, the rebellion fizzling into tired smoke. Fork scraped plate, pasta cooling untouched.

Anna's words landed like a slap wrapped in silk... soft, stinging, impossible to ignore. She reached across, snagging my wrist... cool fingers on my pulse, which jumped traitor under her hold.

"Hey... lean in. Next shift, sit with those fossils. Let 'em buy the soda, brush your knee. Tips stack, rent clears, and boom: Power flip. You're the tease now."

Her thumb stroked once... deliberate, a mini-check of her own... before releasing, eyes locking mine with that ENF fire.

"And tonight? Touch yourself thinking about it. Own the heat before they do."

I yanked my hand back, heat crawling up my neck, but the spark? It lodged deep, twisting the rebellion into curiosity.

"You're deranged. But... thanks? For listening. Not judging."

A half-smile, watery at the edges.

"Call after shift? Diner closes late."

"Deal. And Sarah?", she winked, standing fluid, sundress swishing like a dare.

"Send the pic. Skirt up, bare legs. For research."

Her laugh trailed me to the trash, light and filthy, burrowing under my skin like a promise.

The afternoon classes melted into a haze of half-heard lectures and fidgeting thighs, every shift in my seat reigniting the booth's ache, the lap's burn.

The walk to ...

... Midnight Brew felt longer in the fading light, September chill nipping at my bare legs under the jeans... armor I'd shed soon enough. The neon buzzed mocking as I pushed through the door, grease and stale coffee hitting like a wall. Vic was behind the counter, barking orders at a dishwasher, his paunch straining the grease-spotted apron.

"Sarah! Back room. Shake a leg."

The office was the same cramped hell: Mirror propped on crates, the uniform draped over a stool like a dare. Blouse low-cut and clingy, skirt a pleated joke that ended mid-thigh. I locked the door... habit from home, pointless here... and stripped quick, jeans pooling at my ankles, tank yanked over my head. I stood there a beat, mirror mocking: Flush-cheeked, thighs marked faint from the spread last night, a ghost bruise blooming where Liam's fingers had pinned. I reached for the blouse...

The door banged open. No knock, no warning... Vic, cigar stub clenched in his teeth, filling the frame like he'd owned the lock all along.

"Forgot to say..."

I yelped, spinning sharp, one arm snapping across my chest to cage my bra-clad breasts, the lace digging into soft flesh. The other hand flew down, palm slapping over my mound, fingers splaying desperate to shield the cotton panel from his stare. Heat exploded in my face, heart slamming ribs... exposed, half-naked in underwear, the mirror behind me throwing my ass into profile, cheeks still faintly pink from the handprints.

"Out! What the fuck...?"

Vic ...