Smashwords

I’m so excited I’m bursting at the seams. My high heels click ferociously across the marble floor all the way to the elevator. My fingers tremble as I call the twenty-eighth floor.

The doors close. I see myself in their reflective surface. The smile on my face is enormous.

As the elevator car zips me toward our room, I look myself over. Silky, bronze-colored button-down blouse. Black pencil skirt that hugs all my curves. Long black hair tied up into a neat bun. No bra or panties. I headed for the airport immediately after leaving the office early, knowing that I couldn’t be late for our rendezvous. We only get to share this night together once a year, and this one will be extra special—the tenth anniversary of our first night in this luxury New York City hotel together.

Tonight, we’ll be staying in room 2808. Last year 2708; the year before, 2608. Our first night here we were eighteen and staying in room 1808, and have kept the same room, different floor tradition ever since. We’ve decided this will be the last time. I try not to think about it as I step off the elevator and walk down the twenty-eighth floor corridor.

Chewing my bottom lip, I stand before the closed door, key card in hand. My whole body buzzes with anticipation. I slide the key into the lock and push open the door. The curtains are drawn, the room dark and silent.

She’s not here yet.

Disappointed, I drop my duffel bag on the lush, carpeted floor beside the king-sized bed. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 7:15. Where can she be? She’s never been late before.

It’s still light outside when I peek through the thick, heavy curtains. The mid-July sun is setting, casting golden rays across Central Park. The view is more spectacular the higher and higher the room.

But we won’t be paying attention to the view.

I sit on the foot of the bed, kicking off my heels, wondering how to pass the time before she gets here. After fixing myself a glass of bourbon—neat—at the room’s mini bar, I pick up the remote and aim it at the TV. Shopping channels, reality shows, news—I pass them all right until I get to the X-rated channel. The channel we’d stumbled upon that night ten years ago. The night that changed everything between us.

A threesome is taking place on the screen. Two busty women dressed like belly dancers writhe against some guy with an enormous erect cock. The guy reclines on a bed, much like the one I’m reclining on right now, and strokes himself as the ladies turn toward each other and kiss. They begin to undress each other, hands sliding over each other’s stiff nipples. My own nipples harden and press into the fabric of my blouse when I realize how much the two women look alike. Almost identical.

A soft beep startles me just before the door to the room flies open. I click off the TV and stand, almost losing my balance from the anticipation. Through the doorway she appears, dropping her bright pink, coral-printed carry-on bag on the floor. Her sundress is also pink and coral. Her black hair is loose and curly, flowing just past her shoulders. Different from mine, but still identical.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says as she steps toward the bed. “Flight delay.”

It doesn’t matter to me. I’m just elated to see her.

And turned on.

She steps closer toward me, close enough that I can smell the peppermint on her breath.

“Happy birthday, Corey,” I whisper.

“Happy birthday, Ro,” she says, pulling me into a deep, hard kiss. My hands tangle into her curly hair as I press her against me, wanting more of her mouth. Traces of peppermint gum linger on her tongue as I suck it.

With a low moan Corey breaks away, and before I can respond she’s popping open my blouse.

Smashwords

Smashwords

The twins are spoiled bitches. My doormat dad has been married to their gold-digging, trophy wife mom for three and a half years now. In addition to being stuck up and shallow, the twins take things from my room without asking all the time. They constantly make fun of my clothes, but think nothing of raiding my closet. Brittany and Courtney—or Brat and Cunt, as I like to call them—are the fucking worst.

After five blissful months away at college and surrounded by fellow dancers and artists, I’m stuck at home for three months with my stupid, slutty stepsisters. I have no idea how I’ll survive it.

Britt and Court were lounging in the pool in their itty-bitty bikinis when I got home from my run. If I want to make it as a ballerina, I need to keep my body in tip-top shape. But as I check myself out in the mirror before my shower, I can’t help but wish I was less athletic and more curvy. Curvy like Cunt and Brat. They’re built like pinup models, eating whatever they want without gaining a pound. Their mom is similar, but at least she does a lot of yoga. The twins are just lucky, and they spend all day in the pool and doing nothing. They’re still out there now, giggling and splashing water on each other when I get out of the shower.

I realize now is my chance to steal some of my stuff back. I get dressed in a tee and a pair of runner’s shorts before sneaking across the hall to their room.

Their place is a mess, which is no surprise considering how lazy and useless they are. Stepping over piles of clothes and bits of cosmetics, I easily spot my magenta cardigan on the floor—the same cardigan Court said made me look like a “dyke librarian.” That fucking bitch. And my bright blue tights are hanging off the headboard of Brat’s bed. After telling me how fat they made my ass look, that whore has some nerve taking them without asking.

Half a dozen articles of my clothing are tucked under my arms when my toe brushes against something hard on the floor. I reach down and see something bright pink poking out of a sock. Without thinking, I pick it up.

A vibrator?

My mouth drops. The twins just leave their sex toys lying around? I’m surprised one of them would even need a sex toy. Both twins have hot, beefy boyfriends who they’ve been fucking since high school. Do they really need masturbatory aids? At least it’s not myvibrator. The twins already make enough fun of my single status. If they stole my vibrator, I’d have to kill them.

I hear giggling and footsteps coming up the stairs—the twins are out of the pool already! And though I have every right to take my clothes back, I freeze. With the vibrator in my hand I feel guilty for being in here. When I hear them on the landing I panic and dash into their closet, closing the door partway so that I’m hidden. Hopefully they won’t stick around too long, and as soon as they leave I can slip back into my room with my stuff.

“I am bursting at the seams,” I hear one of them say, just outside the room.

It’s Court the Cunt. She’s two minutes older than Britt, and maybe that’s why she always acts like she’s in charge. She talks down to me all the time even though I’m five months older than her. Actually, Court talks down to everyone, especially her mom. With her long blonde hair, C-cup breasts, and pouty lips, she gets away with being a controlling bitch. She enters the room first, and even I have to admit she looks smoking in her sapphire blue bikini. Her wet tresses are plastered to her back. Her ass is practically spilling out of her bikini bottoms. I finger the vibrator in my hand.

“We should have stayed in the pool,” Britt replies. Britt the Brat isn’t as cruel and nasty as her twin, but she’s shallow and spoiled. She throws tantrums, and her mom always convinces my dad to buy her expensive things to win her over. My dad’s so naïve, but Britt is not without her charms. Her hair is shorter than Court’s, and curly. She’s got the same knockout body, though, and her black one-piece leaves very little to the imagination.

“No way,” Court says. I hear her close the door, but can’t see her. “Em’s car is here. And we can’t have that bitch narcing on us.”

Narcing? What is she talking about? I turn a blind eye to all the twins’ stupid shit. In fact, since I’ve been home from school I’ve been going out of my way to ignore them.

“Forget her,” Britt says, “And get over here.”

Court giggles, and then it gets quiet. I can’t see them from my spot in the closet, but soon I’m hearing more giggles and soft smacking sounds. Followed by a soft moan. What is going on out there?

As silently as possible, I inch closer to the edge of the closet and peer outside. Britt and Court are kissing—with tongue!

Smashwords