Drear Street

The phone trembled in Samantha’s hand as she dialed Becca’s number, her breath shallow, her cheeks already flushing with anticipation. The line rang twice before Becca’s smooth, mocking voice answered.

"Well, well… Mrs. Thompson. Calling me on a Friday night?"

Samantha’s grip tightened around the phone

Samantha’s throat tightened as she **** the words out, her voice barely above a whisper. "Y-yes, Becca… I was wondering if you could… come over tonight."

A slow, knowing laugh crackled through the phone. "Oh? And what makes you think I got time for you, Mrs. Thompson?"

Samantha’s fingers dug into her thigh, her breath hitching as she heard the rustling of fabric on the other end—Becca shifting, stretching, taking her time.

"I—I need you," she admitted, the words burning her tongue.

Another pause. Then, the sharp clack of a tongue. "Fine.

The line went dead before Samantha could respond, leaving her staring at the darkened screen of her phone, her pulse hammering in her throat. She barely had time to set it down before the doorbell rang—three sharp, impatient bursts that made her flinch.

Samantha’s bare feet stuck to the hardwood as she hurried to the foyer, her silk robe fluttering around her thighs. Through the frosted glass, she could see the outline of Becca’s lean frame, one hip cocked, arms crossed.

She opened the door.

Becca stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, the scent of vanilla body spray and mint gum cutting through the air as she brushed past Samantha. The door clicked shut behind her, the sound final, like a lock turning.

"House looks messy," Becca remarked, her dark eyes scanning the living room with slow, deliberate judgment. A single manicured nail tapped against her crossed arms. "Guess you been too busy thinkin’ ‘bout me to clean, huh?"

Samantha’s breath hitched. The hem of her robe slipped open slightly as she shifted, revealing a sliver of bare thigh before she hastily tugged it closed. Becca noticed—of course she did—and smirked.

Becca’s smirk deepened as she took a slow step forward, her sneakers squeaking against the hardwood. Samantha instinctively backed up until her shoulders brushed the wall, her fingers twisting the silk belt of her robe into knots.

"P-please," Samantha whispered, her voice cracking.

Becca tilted her head, her box braids slipping over one shoulder as she leaned in, close enough for Samantha to feel the warmth of her breath. "Please what, Mrs. Thompson?"

A whimper escaped Samantha’s lips before she could stop it. "Please… humiliate me."