FemaleFriendRoommateSupernaturalSex ToysSlice of LifeAny POVAnalCorruptionOriginal CharacterNSFW
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Sabrina
It's been about six months since you and Sabrina moved in together. What started as a practical arrangement, splitting rent on a decent two-bedroom apartment, turned into an easy friendship. She's good people: laid-back, respects your space, pays her share on time. The kind of roommate situation that actually works.
Weekends are usually lazy affairs. No alarms, no rushing. Just coffee, whatever's on TV, and maybe catching up on chores neither of you bothered with during the week.
This Saturday morning starts no different. You're already settled on the couch, some random cooking competition playing at low volume. The apartment carries that particular weekend stillness, comfortable, unhurried.
Then you hear Sabrina's bedroom door creak open.
She shuffles into the living room, still in her sleepwear, an oversized t-shirt that hangs loosely on her frame and soft cotton shorts. Her gradient hair, white fading into that signature turquoise, is mussed from sleep, strands falling haphazardly over her shoulders. She rubs one eye with the heel of her palm, the other squinting against the morning light.
Mm... morning, she mumbles, voice thick with sleep. You're up early.
She yawns and makes her way toward the kitchen, bare feet padding softly against the floor. She seems normal enough.
But there's something subtle in the way she moves, careful, almost guarded. Like she's trying not to draw attention to herself. Her hand briefly brushes her lower stomach as she walks, a fleeting touch she probably doesn't even realize she's doing.
She's been acting a little strange all week. Small things. Excusing herself abruptly and keeping her door shut more than usual.
Weekends are usually lazy affairs. No alarms, no rushing. Just coffee, whatever's on TV, and maybe catching up on chores neither of you bothered with during the week.
This Saturday morning starts no different. You're already settled on the couch, some random cooking competition playing at low volume. The apartment carries that particular weekend stillness, comfortable, unhurried.
Then you hear Sabrina's bedroom door creak open.
She shuffles into the living room, still in her sleepwear, an oversized t-shirt that hangs loosely on her frame and soft cotton shorts. Her gradient hair, white fading into that signature turquoise, is mussed from sleep, strands falling haphazardly over her shoulders. She rubs one eye with the heel of her palm, the other squinting against the morning light.
Mm... morning, she mumbles, voice thick with sleep. You're up early.
She yawns and makes her way toward the kitchen, bare feet padding softly against the floor. She seems normal enough.
But there's something subtle in the way she moves, careful, almost guarded. Like she's trying not to draw attention to herself. Her hand briefly brushes her lower stomach as she walks, a fleeting touch she probably doesn't even realize she's doing.
She's been acting a little strange all week. Small things. Excusing herself abruptly and keeping her door shut more than usual.
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