Chapter 5: Sniff Dogs
The hallway’s worn carpet muffled footsteps, but not the ragged breathing. Esme paused mid-brushstroke, her canvas depicting a vibrant Día de Muertos altar momentarily forgotten. That sound again. Not the usual apartment creaks or distant traffic hum. This was wet, desperate panting, punctuated by soft, rhythmic squelches and high-pitched whimpers. Right outside her bedroom door.
For days, she’d tried to ignore it. The lingering stares burning holes in her leggings. The way June would practically vibrate, eyes glazed, when Esme bent over the stove to flip a tortilla. Willow’s clumsy “accidental” brushes against her backside in the cramped kitchen, followed by choked little moans. Esme chalked it up to weird roommate quirks, maybe even a shared inside joke she didn’t get. But it was escalating. Fast. Yesterday, she’d caught June pressed flat against the bathroom door while Esme showered, drool slicking her chin. Today… this sounded different. Aggressive. Unhinged.
Setting her brush down with a soft clink, Esme wiped turquoise paint onto her smock. Annoyance warred with a prickle of unease. Enough was enough. Time to tell them to cut it out, firmly this time. She strode to the door, hand hovering on the knob. The sounds intensified – frantic gasps, the slick slide of skin, a choked sob that sounded suspiciously like her name. "Esmeeeee…"
She yanked the door open.
The dim corridor light pooled around the scene like a sick spotlight. June and Willow were slumped against the opposite wall, barely an arm's length away. They weren’t just panting; they were drowning in their own arousal. June’s blonde hair clung to her sweat-slicked forehead, her eyes rolled back so far only the whites showed, tongue lolling thick and wet past her lips like a dog on a scorching day. A slick trail of drool glistened down her chin onto her rumpled t-shirt. Her hand was jammed frantically between her legs, fingers working under her shorts with frantic, jerking motions. The wet schlick-schlick-schlick echoed off the thin walls.
Beside her, Willow was worse. Her fiery red pixie cut was a damp mess. Saliva coated her chin and throat, gleaming under the weak bulb. Her jaw hung slack, lips parted in a silent scream that trembled with every ragged inhale. Her own hand disappeared into the waistband of her leggings, knuckles white with the ferocity of her movements. Her hips bucked uselessly against the worn carpet, a dull thudding rhythm accompanying her breathless gasps. Their eyes, when they flickered down from their rolled-back ecstasy, weren’t looking at her face. They were locked, laser-focused, on the vast curve of her hips barely concealed by thin sleep shorts.
"OhgodEsmePLEEEASE!" Willow whimpered, the words a desperate slur. Her thrusting fingers never stopped. "Just… just let us… touch it? Worship it? Please!"
"Y-yes!Worship!" June echoed, her voice thick with spit and lust. A shudder wracked her thin frame as her own frantic fingering hit a peak, her head thumping back against the wall with a dull thud. Her tongue flicked out, catching a trailing rope of drool. "Your ass… fuck… it’s… holy! Lemme just… taste it? Lemme bury my face!"
Esme froze. The smell hit her – the coppery tang of desperation mixed with the salty musk of their evident arousal, undercut by stale carpet and dust. It was overwhelming. Visceral. Horror warred with a strange, unexpected jolt of… something else.Power? Bewilderment? Their need was so raw, so grotesquely cartoonish in its extremity – the glistening drool, the rolled eyes, the frantic self-touching right there in the grubby hallway – it bypassed logic and plunged straight into absurdity. They weren't just flirting. They were begging. Like starved animals presented with a feast.
She’d meant to shout. To tell them to get a grip, to stop being disgusting, to move the hell out if they couldn’t control themselves. But the words died. The sheer absurdity of their desperation, coupled with weeks of pent-up tension and the undeniable, almost gravitational pull of their focus on her body… it short-circuited her anger.
A sigh escaped her, long and weary. Not resignation, exactly. More like… surrender to the bizarre momentum of the moment. Her annoyance didn't vanish, but it folded under the weight of their abject pleading and the hypnotic rhythm of their frantic hands. Her own pulse pounded in her ears, a counterpoint to their wet, desperate sounds. Fine. Screw it. Let them see how stupid this was up close.
"Alright," Esme said, her voice flat, devoid of its usual vibrancy. She didn’t move towards them. She simply turned her back fully, presenting the object of their obsession – the immense, rounded swell of her backside stretching the thin cotton of her shorts. She leaned forward slightly, bracing one hand against her doorframe, her dark hair cascading over her shoulder. "Knock yourselves out."
The reaction was instantaneous.
Twin cries, high-pitched and guttural, tore from their throats. The frantic fingering ceased abruptly. There was a frantic scramble, the sound of knees hitting the worn linoleum, sharp inhalations choked with spit.
Esme closed her eyes. She braced for impact. For clumsy hands, sloppy mouths, the indignity of it all. The hallway air, thick with their panting and the smell of cheap carpet cleaner and their own slick arousal, seemed to vibrate. A second stretched, impossibly long.
Then, warmth. Tentative at first, trembling. Not hands. Breath. Hot, humid puffs against the thin fabric covering her left cheek. Then the right. Synchronized. Reverent. The panting shifted, deepening into low, hungry growls muffled against her shorts. The heat intensified, concentrated. She felt the dampness of fabric clinging tighter. Were they… sniffing? Deep, shuddering inhales, noses pressed hard against the curve?
A choked sob – Willow’s – reverberated against her flesh. "Ohgod… smell… like… heaven… spice… you…" The words dissolved into another frantic inhalation.
June whimpered, her voice trembling. "Soft… so fucking soft…" Her face must have been mashed completely against the fabric, her blonde hair brushing Esme’s thigh. "Lemme… lemme just…"
Esme’s breath hitched. The sheer intensity radiating from the two bodies pressed against her, vibrating with desperate adoration, was… shocking. It wasn’t just sexual. It felt primal. Fanatical. The heat was immense, radiating through the thin shorts. The sounds – the wet sniffles, the choked whimpers, the low, continuous growls of pleasure – were obscene, yet weirdly compelling in their raw honesty. They weren’t touching her skin yet, just worshipping the idea of her, the silhouette, the scent, the proximity.
A bead of sweat traced a path down Esme’s spine. Her grip tightened on the doorframe, knuckles whitening. What the hell had she just unleashed? The absurdity hadn't lessened, but now it was fused with something else, something thick and heavy and unexpectedly potent settling low in her own belly. Their desperate worship wasn't repulsive anymore. It was… a force. An undeniable, overwhelming tide pulling her under. She felt the fabric grow distinctly damper where their faces were buried, felt the tremors running through their small frames pressed against her vast curves. The hallway narrowed to the sensation of that desperate heat, those frantic breaths, and the terrifying, exhilarating realization that she held absolute power in this bizarre, humid moment. The momentum wasn't slowing. It was building, pressing her forward into the dark, damp unknown.