totally not lovebirds

You lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.

“I’ll come straight over the second you’re back from the doctor,”

you promise quietly. “Just text me.”

The words taste a little bitter. Knowing she’ll start the pill tomorrow stings more than you expected. Somewhere between the rooftop, the alley, and every creampie you’ve already given her, the raw need to breed her in earnest has settled deep into your instincts. The idea of that window closing—even just for the sake of the “benefits” arrangement—sits uncomfortably in your chest. You don’t say it out loud. Neither does she.

Sandra nods, eyes still a little too shiny from the kiss earlier.

“Okay. I’ll go first thing. Then… we have the whole two weeks.”

Leaving is harder than it should be.

You start walking in opposite directions, only to both turn around after a few steps. Another short, wordless kiss. A forehead press. Her hand lingering in yours. You manage another ten metres before one of you looks back again. It happens three more times—small, reluctant returns, quiet touches, the kind of struggle that belongs to people who are supposed to be “just friends with benefits” and are clearly failing at it. Only when the distance finally becomes too great do you both force yourselves to keep walking.

The night air feels colder without her.

Tomorrow her parents leave. She’ll go to the doctor, start the pill, and then the house will be empty for two full weeks of holiday. No classes. No interruptions. No reason to stop. You’re already aching for it—planning to fuck her brains out the moment she gets home, pill or not, and make use of every single day you have together.

The friends-with-benefits label is still the official story.

Neither of you is doing a very good job of believing it tonight.

You barely make it home before your phone is already buzzing.

Sandra’s name on the screen. You answer on the first ring. Her voice is quiet, a little rough, like she’s already in bed.

“Hey… you home safe?”

The conversation starts soft and careful—just checking in, the usual best-friend noise—but it doesn’t stay that way. Within minutes the silence between sentences grows heavier. You hear the faint shift of sheets on her end. She hears the same on yours.

“Are you…?”

she asks, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

That’s all it takes.

The call turns filthy fast. You stroke yourself to the sound of her breathing, to the soft wet noises she’s already making on the other end of the line. Sandra describes exactly how she’s touching herself—two fingers buried deep, trying to recreate the stretch of your cock, palm grinding against her clit while she pretends it’s you. You tell her how hard you still are, how you can still feel the way her cervix opened for you in the alley, how you keep replaying the moment you pumped her full while that couple walked past.

Both of you are relentless.

Young, bottomless libido takes over. Every time one of you finishes the other is already pushing for more—another round, another description, another desperate

“don’t stop yet.”

Sandra comes first with a broken little cry she tries to muffle in her pillow, gasping your name like a secret. The sound alone pulls you over the edge right after. Then she’s still going, fingers moving again almost immediately, voice shaky and needy as she tells you she’s still so empty, still leaking what you left in her earlier, still wishing you were there to fill her again before the pill starts.

You match her. Stroke for stroke. Orgasm for orgasm. The call stretches long past midnight, both of you too wound up to sleep, too addicted to the sound of each other to hang up. Every few minutes one of you mutters the same quiet truth:

“I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

“Me neither.”

By the time you finally force yourselves to say goodnight, your sheets are a mess, her breathing is still uneven on the other end of the line, and both of you are already aching for the moment her parents leave and the house is finally empty.

Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.