Sleeping Gwen

"Gwen," you breathe, the word falling out before you can second-guess yourself, and James's grin sharpens.

"She's right down the hall—already here, already accessible, and I know her cycle well enough to know she's in her fertile window."

He nods slowly, pocketing the Frenzy Tab as you both slip out of the room on unsteady legs. You lead him through the dark house on tiptoes, past family photos and half-remembered landmarks of your childhood, until you reach Gwen's door.

It creaks open to reveal her sprawled on her stomach in an oversized t-shirt and cotton panties, one leg bent, face half-buried in her pillow, breath slow and even.

"Help me," you whisper, and together you work with trembling hands—sliding her shirt up over her head without waking her, peeling her panties down her hips, James letting out a low, guttural groan at the sight of her bare, flushed pussy.

You find a couple of old silk scarves in her dresser and carefully bind her wrists to the headboard, then her ankles to the bedposts, spreading her wide open. She stirs once, murmurs something unintelligible, and settles again.

James crushes the Frenzy Tab into her water glass on the nightstand and holds it to her lips; she drinks in her sleep, swallowing reflexively. You both wait, hearts pounding, watching the flush spread across her chest as the drug takes effect—her breathing quickening, her nipples hardening, her thighs beginning to tremble.

"God, look at her," James mutters, already stripping off his sweatpants, his cock jutting out thick and angry and leaking.

You climb onto the bed beside her, back against the headboard, hand sliding between your own legs as James positions himself between Gwen's spread thighs.