WHO ✵ ⸻ rachel pasternak. twenties. designer ; inés navarrete. twenties. designer.
OPEN TO ✵ ⸻ f
PLOT ✵ ⸻ rachel and inés are frenemies with violently blurred boundaries enjoying a cozy little social gathering at a mutual connection's miami condo. y/m is the night's main entertainment: prepped tied up and pretty for the game of seven minutes in heaven taking place in a stupidly immense walk-in closet <3 please no n.on c.on/d.ub c.on, i'm operating under the assumption that y/m is eager to be there.
the prosecco in rachel’s system had gone straight to her head, elegant bubbles popping warm and fuzzy along every nerve. the gathering had been moving smoothly enough, the way these things usually did. sickly sweet compliments tied in backhanded ribbons, the predictable banter, the indulgent little party favors tucked into palms with practiced ease. but this particular night felt different. there was an electric current in the air, thin and shimmering, tying every guest together like one of those investigation boards with red string looped between suspects — except the string here pulsed with the shared knowledge that, in a walk-in closet at the back of the condo, a woman was waiting for a round of seven minutes in heaven to begin. a doe who had wandered willingly into a plush den of hunters and practically asked to be restrained.
the two besties drank that knowledge down like a shared secret. they’d clinked glasses, giggled against the rims, stolen kisses from each other between vapid conversations. and when their turn to enter the closet finally approached, rachel felt the bubbles in her blood fizz with something hotter, heavier, sweeter.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
she let the brunette lead her toward the closet by the hand, even though rachel was the more intoxicated of the two. inés adored watching her walk — the sway of her hips, the unapologetic curve of her ass advertising itself like something out of a glossy magazine editorial. she caught herself biting into her lower lip, manicured fingertips itching to touch, to caress, to undress. only sheer will held her together, the promise that they’d be in the closet soon enough. since they’d opted to go in together, they’d been granted not just seven but fourteen whole minutes with whatever pretty little thing was waiting inside. they’d have to make every second count.
a sliver of golden hallway light cut across the walk-in before being swallowed as the two slipped inside, locking the door behind them. “oh, look how cute,” inés half-cooed, half-giggled, referring to the glowing mushroom lamp perched atop the island in the center of the closet — the kind used for jewelry and watches and other little luxuries. the lamp glowed a deep, erotic orange, almost red, its shape and color both suggestive in a way that made the air feel warmer. it was the only source of light in the empty closet. well, nearly empty. the femme curled on the circular plush rug — the single piece of softness in the otherwise empty space — looked ripe for devouring. her arms were pinned behind her, wrists tied in a knot that looked ceremonial rather than cruel. the mushroom lamp’s molten orange light spilled across her naked body, gilding her like some forbidden artwork left out on the rug for them to unwrap
“the lamp, the girl, or both?” rachel murmured, her inquiry followed by a low, throaty chuckle. the kind that informed inés of shenanigans galloping over the horizon like some wild stallion torn straight out of hellfire.
“maybe we take both home,” inés shot back, her smirk sharp enough to slice through the dimness.
both women turned toward the flower pressed out on the rug, heads tipping in near-perfect unison, the air around them rippling with the promise of trouble.