The Roommate Special

Little Puck walks through the front door and freezes. There’s her roommate, Oliver Davis, pants at his ankles, pounding away on the living-room couch like the rest of the apartment doesn’t exist. She almost laughs out loud, but he’s so deep in his bliss he doesn’t notice, so she tiptoes past and lets him finish the show alone. It keeps happening. She catches glimpses of him stroking in the kitchen while the coffeemaker beeps, then again by the pool with nothing but sunshine for cover. She never says a word; it’s become her own private sitcom. One afternoon she flips the script. Little Puck parks herself on that same couch, legs spread, fingers gliding in and out with wet little noises. Her breathing gets louder, hungrier, and right when her hips start to buck, Oliver swings the door open and almost drops his keys. "I’ve seen you everywhere," she pants, never slowing her hand. "Couch, kitchen, pool—figured it’s only fair I get a turn." Oliver’s face goes nuclear. Little Puck grins, nods at the bulge already testing his zipper. "You can jerk it for me right now," she says, voice husky. "And if you’re good, maybe we skip the solo acts and touch each other instead."