Won't Breathe A Word

Sami's parents finally shut the door and left. Quiet settled over the house like a held breath. She smiled to herself, waited exactly three seconds, then whipped out her phone. Within an hour the living room was thick with bodies, music, red cups, and the smell of cheap weed drifting toward the ceiling. Next morning the hangover still pounded behind her eyes when the doorbell rang. Carl from next door stood there, arms crossed, smirk already in place. He’d seen the cars. Heard the noise. Watched the last kid stagger out at dawn. Sami’s stomach dropped. She had another strike on her record; one more and her parents would pull the plug on everything. Carl stepped inside without asking. "I keep my mouth shut," he said, eyes traveling over her thin frame, "if you give me what I want." Her heart slammed once, hard. She glanced at the hallway, empty, parents miles away. His hand brushed her waist, then dipped lower, fingers sliding beneath the hem of her tiny crop top. She shivered, breath catching as he found bare skin, then the hard little points of her small tits. He pinched one, rolled it, and she bit back a sound. Two fingers pushed past the waistband of her shorts, parting her folds with ruthless ease. She was already slick, traitorous heat blooming under his touch. He leaned in close, voice low. "Not a word to them. Ever." She nodded, quick and shaky, hips twitching as his fingers worked deeper, curling just right. The threat hung in the air between them, sharp as a blade, and the only way out was to let him use her.