Fun in her flat

The sweater comes off first. You grab the hem and pull, and the wool slides up your ribs, over your saggy breasts, and catches on a dreadlock. You shake your head, and the ropes of hair swing, and it comes free. You drop it on the floor.

The tanktop is next. You peel it over your head, and the fabric scratches your shoulders, your neck, the underside of your jaw. You toss it onto the bed, and it lands in a heap, splayed like something that's given up.

Your fingers find the button on the cargo pants. It pops open with a soft click. You work the zipper down, and the fabric loosens around your hips. You hook your thumbs into the waistband and push, and the pants slide down your thighs, past your knees, and pool around your bare feet.

The air hits your bush immediately. Cool, moving through the open window, a draft that Wren never bothered to seal. It's not a cold day, but the flat is old, the windows thin, and the breeze finds you. It lifts the coarse hair between your legs, and you feel it—every strand, every follicle. The wetness from earlier is still there, tacky against your inner thighs.

You step out of the pants. You're naked now. Fully naked in Wren's flat, in Wren's body, with Wren's keys still in your pocket and Wren's cat nowhere to be seen.

The thrill is sharp. It runs from your scalp down your spine, a tingle that settles in your nipples, your clit, the soles of your bare feet on the hardwood. You're trespassing. You're wearing someone else's skin, standing in someone else's home, and no one knows. The world outside this flat—the hallway, the neighbors, the street—has no idea.

You walk to the living room. Your hips sway, and your small breasts move with each step, the nipples stiff from the draft. The floorboards creak under your weight, and you stop, listening. Nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a car passing.

The bookshelf is crammed with paperbacks. You run your finger along the spines—Le Guin, Butler, a worn copy of Stone Butch Blues. You pull one out, flip it open. A receipt falls out. A grocery list in Wren's handwriting: oat milk, tampons, cat food, wine. You put the book back.

The couch is sagging, covered in a crocheted blanket that's seen better days. You sit, and the cushions swallow you. Your bare ass presses into the fabric, and your bush brushes against the blanket. You spread your legs, just a little, and the air moves across your cunt, cool and teasing.

You stand again. The kitchen is small—a counter, a sink, a two-burner stove. There's a French press on the counter, half-full of old grounds. A mug with a chip in the rim. A dish rack with one plate, one bowl, one spoon.

You open the fridge. It's sparse: oat milk, a jar of pickles, leftover rice, a wilted head of lettuce, a bottle of white wine with maybe one glass left. You close it.

The bedroom again. You stand in the doorway, looking at the unmade bed, the tangled sheets, the vibrator on the nightstand. It's purple, silicone, about six inches long, with a curved tip and a single button on the base.

You pick it up. It's cool in your hand, smooth. Wren's memory surfaces—she bought it two years ago, at a shop on the other side of town. She's used it maybe a dozen times. It's not her favorite, but it works.

You climb onto the bed. The sheets are rumpled, smelling of sleep and skin. You lie back, and your dreadlocks fan out across the pillow. You spread your legs, and the draft from the window finds you again, cool on your wet bush.

You turn the vibrator on. The buzz is low, steady, a hum that vibrates up your arm. You press it against your inner thigh first, just to feel it, and your muscles twitch. Then you move it higher.

The tip touches your bush. The vibrations travel through the hair, a strange, diffuse sensation. You press harder, and the silicone parts the coarse curls, finds the skin beneath. Your clit is small, hooded, and when the vibrator touches it, your hips jerk off the mattress.

There.

You close your eyes. Wren's memory guides you—she likes it slow at first, a steady pressure, no rushing. You hold the vibrator against your clit, and the buzz builds, a warmth spreading through your pelvis. Your other hand moves to your breast, cupping the small weight, thumb brushing the pale pink nipple.

The thought comes unbidden: She would hate you.

You smile. Your eyes are still closed. She would hate you so much.

Wren, who trusts her neighbors. Wren, who leaves her keys in her tote bag. Wren, who doesn't lock her door when she's just running down to the mailbox. She would hate you for this. For wearing her skin, for touching her body, for lying in her bed with her vibrator pressed against her cunt.

The thought makes you wetter.

You press the vibrator harder, and your hips start to move, a slow grind against the silicone. Your hand leaves your breast and slides down your stomach, through the thick hair, and your fingers find your entrance. You push two inside, and the stretch is familiar now, welcoming.

Her friends.

You think of Jess, with her purple hair and her confident grin. Jess, who went down on Wren in this very bed. You think of Sasha, with her sharp features and her fogged-up car windows. Sasha, who made Wren squirt in a parking lot.

Her neighbor.

Mina. The shy smile, the cardigan, the way she clutched that envelope. You imagine her here, in this bed, her black hair spread across the pillow, her round face flushed. You imagine peeling off that cardigan, that blouse, revealing what's underneath.

Your fingers pump faster. The vibrator buzzes against your clit, and the pressure is building, coiling in your belly, spreading through your thighs.

You're close.

You curl your fingers, searching for that spot, and when you find it, your whole body jerks. The vibrator slips, and you reposition it, pressing hard, and the orgasm hits you like a punch.

Your back arches. Your heels dig into the mattress. A cry tears from your throat—Wren's voice, raw and broken—and your cunt clenches around your fingers, waves of pleasure rolling through you, one after another. The vibrator keeps buzzing, drawing it out, and you can't stop, don't want to stop, until finally the sensitivity becomes too much and you pull it away.

You lie there, gasping. The sheets are damp beneath you. Your hand is slick. The vibrator is still humming on the mattress beside your hip.

You turn it off.

For a long moment, you don't move. Your chest heaves. Your thighs tremble. The draft from the window cools the sweat on your skin.

Then you sit up. You wipe your fingers on the sheet—Wren's sheet, she'll wash it eventually—and swing your legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold. You stand, and your legs are shaky, but you manage.

You find a towel in the bathroom, a faded blue thing hanging from a hook. You wipe your thighs, your cunt, the damp spot on the sheets. It's not perfect, but it's enough.

Then you go to the kitchen.

The French press is still on the counter. You dump the old grounds, rinse it out, and fill it with fresh water from the tap. There's a bag of coffee in the cabinet, whole beans, dark roast. You grind them in a small electric grinder, and the smell fills the flat—rich, bitter, earthy.

You boil the water. You pour it over the grounds. You wait.

The mug with the chip in the rim is still on the drying rack. You grab it, and when the coffee is ready, you press the plunger and pour. Steam rises. You add a splash of oat milk from the fridge.

You take a sip.

It's different. You've never liked coffee—too bitter, too harsh, always made you jittery. But Wren's tongue knows this taste. Wren's body has drunk a thousand cups of this exact coffee, standing in this exact kitchen, looking out this exact window. The bitterness is familiar now. Comforting.

You drink the whole cup.

You set the mug in the sink. You look around the flat—the books, the posters, the sagging couch. The vibrator is still on the bed. The towel is still on the bathroom floor.

The day is still young. You have Wren's keys. You have Wren's body. You have Wren's memories, her friends, her neighbor, her whole life spread out like a map.

You could stay. You could explore more. You could go back to your own flat, dissolve the suit, and pretend this never happened.

You lean against the counter, naked, and you ponder.