Charlotte’s obsession was a live wire. Every sway of her hips, every lingering look was a blatant advertisement for what she wanted: Michelle’s hands, mouth, and tight, wet pussy on hers.

The breaking point came on a Tuesday. Michelle pushed open the bedroom door and froze. Charlotte was on her knees, straddling a plump pillow. Her leggings were around her ankles, her ass bare and clenching. She was grinding down, her slick cunt making a soft, wet *schlick-schlick* sound against the fabric. Her head was thrown back, a low moan escaping her lips.

Seeing Michelle, Charlotte didn’t stop. She slowed, her eyes glazing with lust. “See what you do to me?” she panted, circling her hips. “This pillow… it’s nothing. Imagine it’s your thigh. Your face. Join me. Please.”

Michelle’s face twisted in disgust. “Get a fucking grip, Charlotte,” she spat, turning on her heel. “You’re pathetic.”

The rejection only fueled Charlotte’s spite. That night, she stumbled in late, reeking of cheap perfume. Right in the middle of their shared space, she peeled off her dress, letting it pool at her feet. Naked, her tits heavy and nipples hard, she made a show of stretching, letting Michelle see every curve, the trimmed strip of hair above her dripping slit. She slid into bed without a word, the silent invitation hanging, toxic and thick.

The most brazen offer came on a rain-slicked afternoon. Charlotte cornered Michelle in the kitchen. “Name your price,” she whispered, voice husky. “Just tie