Chapter 2: Mutts
The last box finally wrestled into place, Esme sagged onto the oversized couch. It swallowed her whole, enveloping her in plush burgundy velvet that smelled faintly of old cigarettes and lavender sachet. The incense burner on the rickety coffee table sent lazy spirals of sandalwood smoke into the air, competing with the rhythmic whump-whump-whump of the box fan oscillating in the corner. Exhaustion settled deep in her bones, a pleasant ache after the day’s labor. City sounds drifted through the slightly open window – distant sirens, the low thrum of traffic, the occasional shout. Normal. New.
Willow had eventually stopped vibrating like a tuning fork and fled to her room after a flurry of overly enthusiastic "make yourself at homes" and "need anything at alls". Esme smiled faintly, recalling the redhead’s flushed cheeks and darting eyes. Nervous type, she mused, or maybe just awkward with new people. She hadn’t met June yet – "grabbing groceries," Willow had squeaked – but the apartment felt lived-in, cluttered in a way that spoke of shared lives: mismatched mugs on the counter, a stack of graphic novels beside the couch, vibrant murals covering any free wall space with chaotic, joyful energy.
She pulled her knees up, resting her chin. The silence of the apartment deepened as the city’s nightlife hushed slightly. Then, a new sound intruded. A low thump. From behind the wall shared with Willow and June’s room. Followed by a muffled gasp. Esme tilted her head, listening. Silence again. Probably just settling, or one of them dropping something.
Then it came. A sharp, rhythmic creaking. The distinct, accelerating complaint of bedsprings under duress. Creak… creak-creak… creak-creak-creak-creak…
Esme’s brow furrowed. Okay. Not dropping something.
A low moan seeped through the plaster. High-pitched, breathless. Willow. Then another voice, lower, guttural, almost a growl. June. Words were indistinct, swallowed by the wall and the fan’s drone, but the tone was unmistakable. Raw. Urgent. Hungry.
The creaking intensified, becoming a frantic, unrelenting staccato. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump! Against the wall. Hard.
Esme sat up straighter, her tiredness evaporating. Heat crept up her neck. She wasn’t a prude, but… wow. They weren’t exactly subtle.
Then the sounds shifted. The creaking slowed, replaced by wetter noises. Slurping. Gasping breaths that hitched and broke. A high, keening whine. Willow again. "F-fuck! Yes! Like that! God, just like her!"
A muffled reply from June, deep and ragged: "...so fucking big... imagined it all day... fucking dripping..."
The coarse language, the sheer intensity vibrating through the wall, made Esme flinch. She pulled her knees tighter to her chest. This felt… invasive. And weirdly specific. "Like her"? Who? A fleeting, unsettling thought tried to form, but she pushed it away. Ridiculous.
The noises escalated. Panting now, loud and frantic, like overheated dogs. Short, sharp cries punctuated the wet sounds. "Ohgodohgodohgod!" Willow babbled, her voice thick, almost choked. "The... the shape! The way it... moves!"
A low, drawn-out groan from June, full of agonized pleasure. "Can't... stop thinking... jeans... straining... fucking perfect..."
The fan’s hum seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the symphony of their abandon. Grunts, slapping sounds, desperate panting that dissolved into choked whimpers. A sound Esme could only describe as cartoonishly exaggerated – a high-pitched, almost comical "Aaaaaahn~!" – tore from Willow, followed instantly by June’s answering guttural roar, muffled as if her face was buried in something.
Then, abrupt silence. Heavy, gasping breaths. The frantic energy dissipated, leaving only the rapid, shallow panting of two people utterly spent. A soft thud, like a body collapsing.
Esme sat frozen on the couch, the plush velvet suddenly scratchy against her skin. The incense smelled cloying. The fan’s whump-whump-whump was the only sound now, absurdly loud in the aftermath. Her face burned. Her earlier dismissal curdled into cold, unwelcome certainty.
"Like her." "The shape." "The way it moves." "Jeans straining."
Images flashed: Willow frozen in the hallway earlier, glass of water slipping, mouth slack… staring. Staring with wide, glazed eyes, a thin line of drool glistening on her chin. Staring directly at Esme’s backside as she bent over the box.
A wave of visceral discomfort washed over her, prickling her scalp. It wasn’t just noisy sex. It was… about her. Her body. Specifically, the part currently clenched tight with unease against the couch cushion. The sheer, unvarnished lust directed at her, amplified and acted out mere feet away through a thin wall, felt like a violation. A clumsy, juvenile, horrifyingly specific violation.
She slowly uncurled herself, standing on shaky legs. The living room, cozy just moments ago, felt suddenly exposed. Vulnerable. The vibrant murals seemed to leer. She needed air. Space. Anything but this suffocating intimacy she hadn't consented to share. She took a silent step towards her own room, the floorboards groaning softly under her weight. From behind the wall, a final, sated sigh floated through, blissfully unaware.
Esme stopped. Her hand hovered over her doorknob. Down the hall, the faintest click – a latch? She froze, ears straining, every nerve ending screaming. Was June coming out? Was Willow? Could she face them now, knowing what she knew, knowing what they’d just been doing, picturing her? The cheerful, chaotic apartment felt like alien territory, charged with something dark and sticky she hadn’t signed up for. She held her breath, body rigid, bracing.