Living Vicariously

Becky busts through her front door, slams it shut, and leans back like the world’s chasing her. Keys still in hand, she risks a look out the window—and yelps. Gwen’s out there, frozen on the sidewalk, eyes locked on her like a cat that won’t blink. Next day she drags Mitchell inside. “Gwen’s stalking me,” she says, voice tight. “Stay tonight?” He nods, no questions. Night rolls around. They’re mashed together on the couch, some dumb show flickering. Becky’s curled into his ribs like a scared little sister. Mitchell slides an arm around her and fights a smile. She settles in, doesn’t notice the bulge in his jeans or the hope on his face. A crash snaps the quiet. Mitchell’s up, between Becky and the noise. He creeps toward the back, and Becky holds her breath—until he mutters it’s nothing and turns around. That’s when she feels the heat of someone right behind her. Gwen. Mitchell shouts a warning, but Becky’s already bolted to him. Gwen lays it out flat: she’s obsessed, wants a front-row seat to Becky getting railed. Mitchell tries to laugh it off, but Gwen keeps feeding that little fire. “You’ve wanted her too, admit it,” she teases. He folds—yeah, he’s wanted her, and he’s pissed she never noticed. Gwen’s still grinning when Mitchell turns to Becky. “Let’s just do it. One time. She walks after that.” Becky hesitates, pulse racing, but the promise of peace is too sweet. She nods. Gwen licks her lips, victory already wet between her legs.