Your best friend texts you

Your fingers find your mouth before you've decided to bring them there. The taste is salt and something muskier, something that belongs to Janice. Your tongue curls around your middle finger, cleaning it slowly, and your eyes stay locked on the reflection.

The woman in the mirror watches you suck her own arousal from your fingertips.

This is Janice's taste.

You slide your index finger in next, coating it, then pull it out with a soft pop. The flavor is strange and intimate, a private thing you were never meant to know. Your other hand rises to your breast, cupping the heavy weight, thumb grazing the nipple. It stiffens immediately, and you watch the flesh tighten, the areola puckering.

She's beautiful.

The thought arrives unbidden, and it's true. Not in the polished way of magazine covers, but in the real way—the way a body looks when it's been lived in. Her stomach has a soft roll when she sits, a gentle pooch below the navel that you find yourself stroking with your palm. Her thighs spread slightly when you shift your weight, revealing the slick pink folds between them.

You can't stop looking.

Janice. Your neighbor. The woman from 3B who smiled at you in the hallway, who asked about your day, who called you "Marty" like it was a real name. She's twenty-eight, maybe twenty-nine. She has a job in marketing, a tired kind face, and a gentle way of moving through the world that made you feel seen for a second.

And now you're wearing her.

You're standing naked in your bathroom, wearing her skin, her breasts, her cunt. The same body she showered in this morning. The same hands that unlocked her door. The same mouth that said "Good night, Marty" last Tuesday.

She's in her flat right now. Probably watching TV. Probably making dinner. Completely unaware that her body is here too, that you've taken it, worn it, made it cum in your bathroom mirror.

The thought makes your stomach clench. Not guilt, exactly. Something hotter. Something darker.

You squeeze your breast harder, and Janice's memory flickers.

She's in bed. A man above her, his hands on her hips. He's older, maybe thirty-five, with a beard and kind eyes. She likes him. She likes the way he holds her, the way he whispers her name. They've been seeing each other for three months, and she thinks—

The memory cuts off. Another one surfaces.

She's alone. Crying. The kind of crying that comes after a fight, after a door slams, after the silence stretches too long. She's on her bathroom floor, the tiles cold against her thighs, and she's telling herself she's fine, she's fine, she's—

You push the memories away. They feel too real, too heavy, like wearing someone else's grief.

But there's more beneath them, a whole history of touches and nights and quiet mornings. Janice has been loved. She's been fucked. She's been held and hurt and left and wanted. Her body knows things your body never learned.

Your fingers find your clit again, just brushing it, and your hips twitch.

There's so much more to explore.

The phone buzzes on the tile.

You ignore it, but the sound is insistent, vibrating against the floor like an insect. It buzzes again. And again.

Someone really wants you.

You pull your hand away from your breast and bend down, your new center of gravity making you wobble. Your thighs press together as you reach for the phone, and the sensation of skin on slick skin sends a small shiver through you.

The screen is bright. A notification from Dan.

"dude you there? we were supposed to play at 9"

Fuck.

You check the time. 9:14 PM. You completely forgot. You'd promised to play co-op tonight, the usual Tuesday ritual, hours of shooting aliens and cracking jokes. Dan is your best friend. He's the only person who texts you regularly, who invites you over, who laughs at your shitty jokes and never makes you feel like a ghost.

Your thumb hovers over the screen.

"yeah sorry got distracted"

There. That buys you a minute.

You look at your reflection again. Janice's face stares back, her lips still swollen from your orgasm, her hair a mess, her skin flushed. Her body is humming, not satisfied, just awakened. You can feel it in the way her thighs press together, in the way her nipples haven't softened, in the deep, wet pulse between her legs.

She's not done.

The thought is clear. Janice's body wants more. It wants to be filled, stretched, used. It's been eight months since she was touched by someone else, and the hunger is still there, simmering beneath the surface of her everyday life.

But Dan is waiting.

You could peel the suit off. Slip back into your own skin, your own small, forgettable body, and spend two hours shooting aliens with your best friend. Tomorrow you could print another suit. Cathy. May. Mara—Dan's twin sister, the one with the tan skin and the confident laugh, the one who's always been just out of reach.

Mara.

The name lands in your chest like a stone. You've seen her in a bikini, seen the way the fabric clung to her curves, the way she tossed her hair and smiled like she knew exactly what she was doing. She's Dan's sister, which makes her off-limits in a way that only makes you want her more.

You could print her. You could wear her. You could feel what it's like to be a woman who's never doubted her own desirability.

But Janice is still here. Still warm. Still wet.