Don't Mind Me

Whitney’s sliding on her jacket, suitcase rolled up, two fingers raised like she’s promising the lobby she’ll dominate that bracket. Eliza’s grinning like she just rigged the scoreboard—Eliza’s got 48 straight hours of me-time, and she plans to wear herself out two-handed. Her carry-on never clears the gate. Cancelation text. Two hours later the lock clicks, Whitney walks in, and she freezes mid-step. Eliza’s on the couch, legs kicked wide, phone low, volume not-low. Wet-sounding, unfiltered whimpers batting around the room like cheers. She hits a new octave right as Whitney shuts the door. “Schedule says it’s my weekend,” Eliza pants, never pausing. Whitney’s hands fly up—no arguments. Their old arrangement still stands. Whitney flicks on the PC and boots the game, lip caught between teeth. Chat pings in her ears. Tough to sound coherent when her teammate in-real-life keeps groaning like a porn mod triggered in the middle of the lobby. Eliza catches the stutter. She scoots over, bare thigh warm and sticky against Whitney’s jeans, still stroking slow, hips rolling to every accidental moan. She tosses one thigh over Whitney’s lap. Game controllers idle in motionless hands. Screens blur. Eyes lock. Eliza grins—feral, bratty. “Quit pressing buttons. Let’s fuck.” Whitney yanks her headset off. Mouths crash, tongues clash. Tits come out fast, sucked hard—nipples leaving shine on their lips. She leans Whitney back against warm upholstery and slides slick fingers between her own legs one last time, letting Whitney watch before she trades controller cords for her wrist.