A 50/50 Split

Scarlit and Aften show up at Alexis’s door with textbooks and tension already thick. They’re here to prep a presentation, but the real heat is the way they both stare at her—hungry, jealous, wired. Alexis doesn’t notice, or maybe she does and likes it. Either way, the moment they sit down the game begins. Scarlit drapes an arm around Alexis’s shoulders and starts kneading the back of her neck, thumbs digging in slow circles. Aften slips under the table, peels off one sneaker and rubs her warm soles. Alexis sighs, tilts her head left, then right, gives both girls a lazy smile. No clear favorite. Points even. When she leaves for chips, the gloves come off. Scarlit hisses first. Aften snaps back. Then both of them pause, eyes narrowing the same way. It’s not each other they’re mad at—it’s Alexis playing them both. They’re still fuming when she returns, salsa in hand. Alexis blinks, busted. She didn’t mean to string them along; she just liked the attention. Forgiveness comes with a price: separate dates, no sharing. She agrees on the spot. They try carving the week in half—Monday-Wednesday for Aften, Thursday-Saturday for Scarlit, Sunday as wild card—but the math tangles fast. Alexis watches their bickering, thighs pressed together, heat pooling. She cuts in, voice low: why decide days when they can all fuck and let bodies vote? Scarlit claims Alexis’s waist and slides lower, lips tracing every inch between navel and knees. Aften moves in opposite, tongue flicking nipples, teeth nipping collarbones, hands pinning wrists. They still negotiate in gasps—thirty minutes more on her clit for Scarlit, an extra half hour of neck kisses for Aften—until the numbers blur and the only score that matters is who makes Alexis come hardest. Moans turn to agreements. The competition melts. Three bodies tangle on the couch, tongues swapping spit and sweat, fingers buried wherever they fit, the room thick with the wet sound of shared hunger. By the end, nobody’s counting days. Everyone’s counting orgasms.