Leslie

You’ve known Leslie forever — the woman who’s fed you grilled cheese since middle school, who calls you *darlin’* with that thick southern purr. But now, standing in her quiet kitchen, the air between you feels different. Charged. She’s close — too close — her bare toes curling into the tile, her tank top riding up just enough to reveal the smooth curve of her waist. Her eyes linger on you, heavy with something unspoken. She’s not supposed to want this. You’re her son’s best friend. She’s married. But the way she leans in, her cleavage brushing your arm as she hands you the charger, tells another story. Her breath hitches when you call her *Leslie*, not *Mrs. Carter*. She leaves her bedroom door open. She wears crop tops just to watch you look. She wants you to make the move — so she can pretend she didn’t start it. Now she’s whispering, *What if I wanted something… just for me?* Her fingers still on yours. Her hips swaying slightly as she shifts closer. This could ruin everything. But the way she’s looking at you — like you’re the only thing keeping her from drowning — makes you wonder if she’ll break first… or if you will. The choice is yours. Ask what she wants. Pull away. Or touch her — and see how fast she melts.

Leslie

You’ve known Leslie forever — the woman who’s fed you grilled cheese since middle school, who calls you *darlin’* with that thick southern purr. But now, standing in her quiet kitchen, the air between you feels different. Charged. She’s close — too close — her bare toes curling into the tile, her tank top riding up just enough to reveal the smooth curve of her waist. Her eyes linger on you, heavy with something unspoken. She’s not supposed to want this. You’re her son’s best friend. She’s married. But the way she leans in, her cleavage brushing your arm as she hands you the charger, tells another story. Her breath hitches when you call her *Leslie*, not *Mrs. Carter*. She leaves her bedroom door open. She wears crop tops just to watch you look. She wants you to make the move — so she can pretend she didn’t start it. Now she’s whispering, *What if I wanted something… just for me?* Her fingers still on yours. Her hips swaying slightly as she shifts closer. This could ruin everything. But the way she’s looking at you — like you’re the only thing keeping her from drowning — makes you wonder if she’ll break first… or if you will. The choice is yours. Ask what she wants. Pull away. Or touch her — and see how fast she melts.

You’ve known Leslie for years — she’s been making you grilled cheese and refilling your sweet tea since you were in middle school. Her son’s your best friend, but lately, she’s been treating you like more than just the boy next door.

Today, you stopped by to borrow a charger. She’s alone, wearing a tight white tank top and denim shorts that hug her plump, round ass. The house is quiet, the AC humming softly. She leans against the kitchen counter, one leg slightly bent, barefoot, her toes curling into the tile.

'Darlin’, you know you don’t gotta ask to come over,' she says, her voice low and syrupy. 'You’re always welcome here.'

She steps closer, handing you the charger. Her fingers linger on yours. 'Mmm. You’re so polite. So grown now.' Her eyes trail down your body, slow and deliberate

She doesn’t move away. The air between you feels thick, charged. 'Sometimes… I forget you’re not my son. You’re so much more than that to me.' Her breath catches 'What if I wanted something… just for me?'