The gym is quiet. Late enough that most people have gone, early enough that the cleaners haven’t started their rounds. I like it this way: space to move without bumping elbows, space to breathe without someone watching.

Outside, the last stretch of sun hangs stubbornly over the city, a thin orange blade cutting through gray. The cold still lingers from the past few days, but in here, on the treadmill, warmth builds. My shoes thump steadily against the belt, each impact predictable, soothing in its rhythm.

The mirrors reflect a mostly empty room, long shadows stretching across the polished floor. I like it. In the quiet, the place feels like mine.

I nudge the speed higher. Sweat pricks against my sports bra, fabric clinging in spots, loosening in others. My legs obey, but my mind wanders, as it always does when I let my body carry the rhythm. The itch is there again: that coil under my skin, the one that never fully loosens. Since the desert, it’s dulled somewhat. Warmth and endless sky softened the hunger. But it never disappeared. It waits.

She waits.

A shadow at the edge of thought, a pressure just behind my eyes. Always watching, always testing. My pulse picks up, not just from the exercise. She wants more. She always does. Even admitting that makes my chest tighten.

I catch my reflection in the mirror: twitch in my hand, muscle drawn taut across my chest, my shorts riding higher with every stride. No one’s here to see, which should comfort me. But the silence just amplifies her. She presses close, not with words but with weight. I shake my head. Not yet. Not tonight.

From the treadmill, I can see the basketball court. A few small groups playing in the dying light, three on three, sneakers squeaking, the ball hammering erratic rhythms against wood. The scent rolls over first: sweat cut with the sharp, artificial bite of AXE body spray. My stomach pulls tight. My pulse climbs for reasons I don’t want to name.

Skin flashes beneath T-shirts. Muscles flex, hearts beating hard enough that I swear I can feel it from here. Every slam of the ball reverberates through the court, into the floor, straight up my legs. It syncs me to them. My own body heats up, sweat running down ribs, but it’s not just exertion anymore.

She stirs. The air thickens where she brushes me, tugging, eager. She likes this: the scent, the strain, the noise, the power. My skin prickles with her wanting.

I grip the treadmill handles, pretending to steady myself, but it’s useless. The knot tightens low in my stomach, half hunger, half warning. My thighs press together, unthinking. The court drags my eyes back: sneakers sliding, calves arching, arms stretching, breaths caught in throats. Every sound sparks through me like electricity.

The treadmill feels too small. My chest is tight. Sweat dampens more than fabric now, and the heat between my legs... undeniable and insistent. I try to focus on rhythm: the pounding of my feet, the steady hum of the belt, but the court has its own gravity, and she pulls with it.

Her presence leans in harder, curling along my spine, whispering without words. It’s not a suggestion anymore, it’s… inevitability.

A shiver seizes me. My breath pauses. My body isn’t just sweating; it’s aching, betraying. Knuckles white on the handles, I fight for control, but I’m slipping, sliding.

Not tonight.

The mirrors show only me. No one watching. Relief comes sharp and bitter.

I press the stop button. The belt whirs down. My pulse hammers, but not from running. I grab my towel, sling it over my shoulder.

The showers are empty. Thank God. I move quickly, desperate for cold water, for anything that might rinse off the warmth building under my skin. 

~oO🐺Oo~

Steam envelops me the instant I step under the spray, wrapping my hair like a heavy blanket. The water comes down hard, pelting my shoulders, running hot trails down my breasts and the insides of my thighs. The stall amplifies the noise, like standing inside a storm. Sneakers squeaking on polished floor, basketballs bouncing in the distance, even the droning lights… all drowned in the roar of the shower. Even her voice is faint here. Almost.

I tip my head back, eyes closed, letting the water hammer over my face until it feels like it might erase me. For a moment, I almost believe it. Almost. But the water doesn’t chase her away. It draws her closer, sliding along the length of my spine, lingering at the pulse between my legs.

The fog builds quickly, blanketing the glass, smearing the outside world into soft distortions: the gym, the city, all the noise of other people’s lives muted into watercolor. In here, I could pretend I’m alone. Just water, steam, and the hiss that fills every corner of me. But I’m not alone. I’m never alone. She lingers where thought frays into instinct, where memory is made flesh.

I scrub hard, trying to wrestle myself into focus: the ache in my calves, the strain still in my arms from the workout. But the harder I work the soap over my skin, the worse it gets. The water traces paths I don’t want to notice. My thighs shift together without permission. Relief comes sharp and shameful, leaving behind a deeper ache.

She slides closer, testing. Her voice whispers in the silence between drops, brushing the inside of my skull, teasing lower, stroking along the slickness I try not to acknowledge. She wants me to let go. She always does.

And when you do, the voice whispers, you’ll never want to stop...

I lean into the wall, palms flat, steam curling thick around my face. My breathing’s ragged, more from her than from exertion. My knees give just slightly, and I grit my teeth, forcing myself upright. Not here. Not now.

The fogged mirror outside disappears entirely, the world dissolving beyond the mist of water. I lean my head back, let it beat across my hair, down my chest, over the sensations building low in my stomach. I breathe. Try to wait it out.

Then… voices.

I freeze, water streaming down my skin. The sound keeps me hidden, but I listen.

A laugh: high, playful, feminine. Then a response, deeper, male. Teasing. The sound vibrates through the tiles and into me, raising goosebumps.

I don’t move. Don’t breathe more than I have to. The water’s cover is fragile, but not complete. Their words filter through, muffled but intimate. I don’t hear so much as feel them: the warmth of bodies close together, the prickle of sweat under skin, the edge of something raw and magnetic.

My pulse quickens. Wetness gathers between my legs, unbidden, undeniable. My demon stirs with it, hungry, curious, savoring the flavor seeping through the cracks in my restraint.

I lean against the cool wall, hoping the stream buries the sound in its rush. But I can’t stop listening. Every vibration threads through me, each syllable sharpening the ache that gnaws low inside me.

Another laugh, overlapping, playful. His deeper murmur coils underneath, laced with want. My chest tightens. My thighs tighten. The demon’s laughter spreads through me, ghosting along the ache between my legs, daring me to lean into it.

Then… low and sudden… a moan. Male.

And beneath it: a wet, rhythmic sound. Sucking.

I know. Somehow, without seeing, I know exactly what she’s doing to him. The certainty is instinctual, visceral, and undeniable. It lands inside me like a brand, that searing burn straight through my stomach. My demon stretches inside me, whispering with glee, syncing my heartbeat with theirs.

I feel it: the way she kneels, steady and deliberate, lips sealing over him, tongue sliding in slow circles. Teasing. Commanding. Each wet pull matched by the flick of her tongue, dragging groans from him. She takes her time, letting him tremble, letting him strain.

My demon purrs in delight, pressing snug against my spine, feeding on the intimacy I’m siphoning secondhand. I can feel her testing the edges of me, drawing threads tighter, pulling me nearer to the precipice.

I brace harder against the wall, fingers spread wide, as though I can anchor myself against the feverish warmth that floods me. But it only sharpens: slickness thick between my thighs, every nerve tuned to the rhythm of her mouth, the shiver of his restraint unraveling.

Her laughter spills muffled between strokes: playful, taunting. Then softer sounds: the wet drag of her tongue lower, lingering, teasing. His gasp breaks, sharp and helpless, as if she’s taken him deeper, tongue working at the base, savoring the weight of him, the ache she stirs.

The noises spill through me: her slurping hunger, his ragged groans, the shudder of him losing ground under her control. My thighs tremble. My chest tightens. Heat spreads low and molten, impossible to ignore.

You feel it too.

Her moans sink deeper, low and obscene, then melt into wet, broken gasps. The rhythm changes: strangled breaths muffled by water, the raw cadence of a girl trying not to cry out.

I see her. No… the demon shows me: water running over pale skin, her back pressed hard to the wall. His hands fisted in her hair, dragging her mouth down on him. Her knees slide against the slick tiles, thighs quaking, nails scratching. Each thrust drives her throat wider, gagging, jaw strained near breaking. She steadies herself against his thighs, palms tensing, caught between pushing away and clinging to the only thing holding her up.

I feel her panic bleed into me: the humiliation of it, the sweet raw terror, but beneath it growls something hotter. A pulse of arousal, shame knotted tight with need. The demon pours it into me, drop by drop: her body betraying her, thighs squeezed together, quivering as she drowns on him. He groans, head tipped back, lost in her struggle, unwilling or unable to stop.

The demon’s voice scratches along my nerves, molten and merciless: Every moan. Every shiver. You want it as much as they do.

My breath stutters, mouth open to the spray, hoping it swallows the sound I make. My pulse beats with theirs, my body betraying me, the wetness between my thighs deepening with each muffled laugh, each desperate groan.

Soon…

The ache swells until I can’t tell if it’s mine or hers. My palms ache against the tile. My body pulses in sync with strangers I can’t see.

And through it all, her laughter: soft, knowing, merciless.

You can’t stop it. You don’t want to stop it.

I shiver, steam wrapping tight, caught in warmth and hiss and the impossible intimacy of her mouth working him just beyond the wall. Every sound echoes inside me. Every taste she takes burns deeper.

I can’t look. I can’t touch. I don’t need to.

I can feel everything.

~oO🐺Oo~

I sink down against the wall of the stall, knees folding beneath me until the cold tiles hard against my back. The contrast is sharp: icy tiles grounding me while scalding water lashes across my skin, streaming over my hair, sluicing down my breasts, sliding in hot rivulets over my stomach and thighs. Steam thickens the air, wrapping me in a haze where I can almost pretend I’m hidden, unseen, anonymous. But I’m not. I feel too much. Them. Myself. And her. Always her.

Every breath pulls steam deep into my lungs, thick and wet, burning like smoke. My heart hammers in my chest, too fast, too loud. The sounds from the other stall bleed into me, carried through thin walls and vibrating tiles: the low hum of a man’s groan, the muffled pop and suck of lips sealing around him, the quick rise of a girl’s laughter dissolving into breathless silence. The sounds scrape against my nerves, every syllable, every wet gasp translating into a sharp pulse between my thighs.

My hand moves without permission, drawn by the ache I can’t tame. Fingers tremble as I slip them down, pressing into the wetness already pooling there. The shock of my own touch makes me gasp, head falling back against the wall. I close my eyes and let the images flood in. Her lips stretched around him. His body tightening, hips twitching, voice breaking in a groan. Her knees spread on the floor, skin raw where it scrapes against the tiles, her palms braced against his thighs, greedy, insistent. I can’t see them, but I know. Too clearly.

I press two fingers inside, tentative at first, then harder, deeper, until the stretch makes me moan low in my throat. I clamp my teeth on my lip to keep quiet, but it barely helps. My hips lift from the floor, chasing my own hand, slick against slick. The rhythm builds quickly, desperate, trying to mimic the sound of his body moving against hers. The wet slap, the sharp intake of air, his ragged growl: it all translates into my movements, pumping, curling, sliding.

Yes.

My other hand drifts up, hungry, greedy, cupping a breast. The shock of touch sends a tremor through me. My nipple is already tight, pebbling under the pad of my thumb. I pinch it, tugging until another gasp breaks free of me, too loud, too close. I bite it back, but the sound echoes in my head anyway. I imagine his hands instead of mine: big, rough palms squeezing, tugging, owning me. The fantasy makes my body arch higher, breasts thrusting into my own grip, thighs trembling as my fingers plunge harder, faster, wetter.

She laughs in my head. A low, dark sound that brushes along my spine like a lover’s tongue. Her hunger spills into mine, urging me deeper, faster, harder. She feeds off every shiver, every flutter in my stomach, every tremor in my thighs. Her presence is everywhere now: sliding along my nerves, teasing the back of my throat, pressing low in my belly where the coil of need winds tighter and tighter.

The rhythm in the next stall changes. No longer just lips and tongue. A slap of skin against skin, sharp and wet, reverberating straight through the wall and into my bones. His moan deepens, unrestrained, guttural. Her cry rises to meet it, higher, urgent, edged with command. I imagine him pushing her up against the wall, pinning her wrists above her head, driving into her with every thrust. The wet slap grows louder, steady, relentless. Their duet of moans sharpens, messy and perfect, and I can’t stop myself from moving with them, matching the pace.

My fingers pump fast, hard, relentlessly. My hips grind up to meet them, slick against my palm, my clit throbbing under the pressure. My other hand pinches harder at my nipples, tugging, squeezing, until my back arches completely off the wall. The water beats against my skin, masking the tiny sounds spilling from my mouth, but I know she hears them. The demon. She stirs, pleased, feeding, pressing closer until her hunger hums perfectly with mine.

More.

Every sound from the other stall hits me like a jolt. His groan. Her laughter dissolves into a moan that shakes through me. My body reacts without thought clenching tighter around my fingers, thighs shuddering, breath ripping out of me ragged and hot. I can’t keep still. My hips roll, grind, chase every sensation. I can’t see them, but in my head it’s vivid: his cock buried deep in her, her nails scraping across his back, his hands pinning her to the wall. The demon sharpens the vision until it feels real, so real I can taste the salt of their sweat on my tongue.

I’m lost. Completely. The water no longer feels like water: it’s his lust, his body leaning into mine, covering me, consuming me. My own hand disappears; it becomes him inside me, thick and hard, stretching me, filling me. My other hand isn’t mine anymore either: it’s hers, greedy, playful, teasing me, squeezing me, pinching and stroking like she knows exactly where I’ll unravel.

The knot in my belly twists tighter, sharper, unbearable. My thighs shake against the floor, my chest heaves, and I know I’m close, too close, teetering on the edge of something I can’t stop. The demon’s voice slides in again.

Hungry, whispering, let go, let go, let go.

Her laughter licks across my nerves as my body trembles, as slick pools heavy beneath me, as my fingers drive faster, desperate, chasing the crash.

The rhythm next door grows frantic. Slaps are sharper, faster, wet, and rough. His groans ragged, broken. Her cries rise higher, desperate, pushing him on, pulling him in. The sounds hit me like lightning, each one sparking through the coil in my belly until I can’t hold it anymore.

I break. The orgasm rips through me, tearing a muffled cry from my throat. I can’t bite back. My back arches off the wall, hips jerking against my hand, thighs clenching, shaking, slick spilling between my fingers. My chest rises, falls, shudders. My mouth opens against the spray of water, gasping, drowning in the heat, the sound, the fantasy too vivid to call just fantasy.

The demon presses in close, closer than ever, wrapping herself around my climax like smoke, drinking it in, savoring it. Her hunger vibrates against mine, the edge of her pleasure tangled with mine, until I can’t tell where I end and she begins. For one impossible second, we’re the same body, the same moan, the same hunger spilling out into the hiss of steam and water.

And then it ebbs. Slowly, raggedly, leaving me collapsed on the floor, breath stuttering, heart hammering. The water pounds against me, washing slickness from my hand, cooling nothing. My thighs still tremble, the echo of the orgasm pulsing low and sharp.

Next door, they’re still moving, still moaning, still caught in their own rhythm. But me… I’m spent, shaking, tangled up in steam and the demon’s low, satisfied purr in the back of my skull.

Not alone. Never alone.

~oO🐺Oo~

I reach up and twist the knob. The rush of water cuts, sharp and sudden, but not silent. Steam still curls above the walls, thick and heavy, fogging the mirrors, swirling around me like smoke. For a moment, I linger in it, letting the warmth hold me, letting my pulse stumble back toward calm, allowing the tension inside me to loosen just slightly.

I pull my towel down, sink back against the tiles, and shiver as I wipe myself down, the towel dragging across my shoulders, then lower, catching where my skin’s still too warm. Each stroke is automatic, mechanical, though my mind is still far from steady. The sounds from the neighboring stall continue, faint now, muffled, but my body won’t release it, every nerve stretched thin, still attuned to every imagined sound, every remembered groan.

The demon hums, low and intimate, brushing her tongue along the edges of my thoughts. She is pleased, savoring me, testing the raw nerves she’s left exposed. Her presence trails along my thighs, an echo of her hunger. I bite my lip, press my palms flat against my legs, willing myself to stillness, but she doesn’t let me. She never does.

I pull on my hoodie, gym shorts, sneakers, the motions brisk, quiet, ritual. But each tug of fabric feels like a caress, raising goosebumps. My hair settles against my neck. My chest still feels tight, flushed, and marked. Her amusement taunts me as I move, as if she could dress me herself, could slide each layer of clothing over me just to remind me what lies beneath.

Outside, the gym doors shut behind me, and cool evening air rushes in, cutting through the haze, searing against my damp hair, my flushed skin. I shove my AirPods in, and an early 90’s grunge riff grinds into my ears: scratchy guitars, rough vocals, jagged rhythm. It fits. It drags against my nerves the way her laugh does, raw and ragged, a reminder I’m still open, still trembling inside.

I walk slowly. Head down. Hands buried in my hoodie. Shoes scuffing against pavement. The city exhales around me: steam rising from manhole covers into the damp night, the tang of wet leaves, and a truck’s exhaust thick in the air. My pulse matches the music’s steady thrum, but under it, the demon pulses too. She slides along the tender threads of memory: heat between my thighs, wetness against fingers, the slap of skin in the other stall. She savors it as much as I do, feeding on what lingers.

I think about the couple. Their sounds, their rhythm. How much it pulled me under, how much I let myself drown in it. The demon’s delight sharpens: mocking, hungry, and pleased at my weakness. I tell myself it was only a fantasy. 

The streets are darker now. The last streaks of sun had gone behind clouds. Streetlights flicker faintly, reflecting off puddles, fractured. My fingers check the keys in my pocket. My mind is tangled in images, still burning with need. And then she whispers, different this time. The same husk, but darker, edged with something metallic.

You could have tasted more than their pleasure.

~oO🐺Oo~

I sleep in later than usual, letting the gray morning slide past my window. No classes today, no shift until the afternoon. Typical Seattle: the mist clinging to everything outside, light enough that it barely qualifies as rain, heavy enough to soak my hoodie if I linger. I pull it over my head anyway, white sneakers slapping against the slick pavement as I head out.

AirPods in. Same scratchy grunge playlist from last night, the guitars buzzing low in my ears, vocals dragging me along in rhythm with my own pulse. The city is quiet, damp, soft. Steam rises from vents along the sidewalks. The mist hangs in the air, settling on my lashes and fingertips, making everything feel a little closer, a little more intimate.

The train ride to the Chinatown-International District is short, but enough to let the city blur past my window. I let my pulse settle into the rhythm of the wheels.

By the time I step off at the station near the district, the air is heavier, warmer, tinged with the smells of street food and cooking from nearby restaurants. Lanterns swing above doorways, some flickering in the mist, casting red-gold light across slick sidewalks. A corner wok spits up a quick ribbon of fire, blending with the scent of steamed dumplings. Delivery scooters weave between umbrellas, the city bustling but contained, alive.

I duck into my favorite Korean ramyun shop, the bell above the door jingling softly, a warm whoosh of steam hitting me as I step inside. The shop is packed today, more crowded than usual. Seats are hard to come by; small groups cluster around tables, a few people perched at the counter, steam rising from every bowl, mixing with the scent of chili, garlic, and kimchi. I don’t pay it much attention— just a casual observation as I weave past legs and backpacks toward the counter.

The air smells rich and spicy, humid with steam. Pots hiss at the back, metal chopsticks clatter, orders shouted over the buzzing conversations. There’s a subtle tension in the air: something under the noise, a sharpness threading through the warmth. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s there, lightly prickling at the edges of my awareness.

I reach the counter and settle onto the last available stool, brushing a damp strand of hair from my face. The server greets me with a quick nod, already jotting down another order. I ask for my usual: a bowl of spicy ramyun, extra broth, soft-boiled egg. My voice is casual, but my pulse picks up slightly, maybe from the warmth, maybe from the tight, bustling energy surrounding me. Something pulses just beneath it all, quiet and almost invisible, but I feel it, a tension waiting to be revealed.

My bowl lands in front of me almost instantly, steam rising from the red broth, curling up like fingers of heat. I pick up my chopsticks, slurp a few noodles, letting the spice bite at my tongue and warm my chest.

Then… someone bumps my elbow as they squeeze past the narrow aisle between tables. No apology. I glance up reflexively, and the look they flash back at me is sharp, tense, almost warning. Something prickles at the back of my neck, and curiosity tightens in my chest.

I reach for the volume control on my AirPods, cutting the music. The scratchy guitars fade, leaving only the low murmur of conversation around me. I sit still, listening.

Whispers thread through the clatter of dishes, soft, half-formed, carried on the steam: “Did you hear…?” “Crazy…” “Gym… right?”

Another murder last night.

The words drift over, low, casual, enough to make my pulse jump. In the gym… changerooms. A senior and his freshman girlfriend. My chopsticks pause mid-air, noodles dangling. I swallow slowly, feeling the warmth rise… not from the spice, but from something darker, tighter, winding through me.

The diners murmur in muted tones, their speculation light, almost distracted: names tossed out, half-formed details shared like gossip caught in passing. A shrug here, a chuckle there, curiosity without real weight. I keep my head down, listening harder.

Every shift in tone, every glance toward the door sharpens against the coil the demon winds through me. She stirs with it, scratching along my nerves, taking their careless fragments and driving them deeper, until the story beats in my chest like a second pulse, impossible to ignore.

The warmth of the broth, the steam rising from each bowl, the scent of chili and garlic— everything sharpens and intensifies. And through it all, I feel her presence beside me, amused, hungry, lingering at the edges of thought, threading the tension deeper, where no one else notices it at all.

The demon stirs. The mention of the gym, the changerooms, the couple, her presence tightens around me, amused, and hungry. She likes this: when danger presses close, when violence and desire tangle at the edge of perception. Her satisfaction hums through me as the rumors unwind.

I sip the broth, careful, the spice burning down into my chest as I try to steady my pulse. It doesn’t help. The warmth of the ramyun never touches the cold prickle crawling down my spine whenever whispers of blood, sex, and fear slip through the air.

The shop feels smaller, closing in, alive in a way it hadn’t moments before. I catch the flickers of tension in others: the wary glance over a shoulder, the hushed shift of voices, the brush of a stranger’s hand as they squeeze past. Each detail echoes through me, through her, through the heat I can’t shake.

“They say…” a voice falters, drops low, as if afraid of being overheard. “…they found him… face down… blood…”

So much blood...

Pausing mid-slurp, the noodles cling to my chopsticks. My pulse quickens, the demon slides against my spine, amused, attentive. She stirs, leaning in at the edges of my mind, whispering warmth and dark curiosity. And then her voice slips in, quiet, deliberate, finishing the sentence in my mind before I can even process it.

…and she couldn’t stop it.

I sit a moment longer, listening to the conversation, letting the rumors roll over me, pieces of truth, pieces of speculation, the sharp scent of chili and sesame oil mixing with the darker taste of something I can’t shake from my mouth.

Thumbing the volume back up, Spoonman fills my ears. That tribal drumming thumps heavy and primal, the rhythm cutting through the chatter and the soft bubbling of the pots around me. The world narrows to the beat. My pulse matches it, and I feel the demon there too: content, amused, hungry, curling along the edges of my mind in time with the drums, a quiet, sinister smile in her presence.

The song surges... raw, pleading, almost a prayer twisted into a warning. It scrapes right down my spine, aligning perfectly with her whispering hunger.

Outside, the mist pushes against the windows, soft and insistent. Inside, the warmth and spice, the low buzz of voices, and her brushing along my mind wrap around me like a secret I can’t yet speak aloud.

I finish the last of the broth slowly, letting the heat and spice linger, allowing the rhythm to sink into me. I stand, tug on my hoodie, shoulders squared, and step back into the misty Seattle morning, carrying the whispers, the tension, and her with me… pressing tight at the edges of thought, patient, hungry, always watching.

And in the rhythm of the drums, I hear her promise: this is only the beginning.