This Is MY Bed!

Nancy bought the house anyway. She's got her bags on the floor and her body on the mattress when the real owner walks in—Olive, back early from overseas, dead set on calling bullshit. Scammers sold Nancy a place they didn't own. Six months gone, deed forged, cash in wind. Olive wants her bed. Nancy won't move. They trade threats, slam doors, spit venom until both land half-naked under the same sheets, agreeing to sort titles tomorrow, truce by exhaustion. Sleep dies fast. Every roll, every elbow ignites another round of insults until the bickering boils over. Olive shoves Nancy flat, climbs on top, rips the blanket away. Fingers claw, hips grind, wet heat finding wet heat. Nancy bites her shoulder, shoves two fingers deep. Olive moans hard, rides the knuckles, fists twisted in Nancy's hair. They fuck like they're settling scores—Olive grinding her clit against Nancy’s thigh, Nancy thrusting upward, relentless, slick sounds echoing off the bare walls. They flip, switch, curse each other’s names between gasps until both break, shaking, finally quiet in the dark.