Annie

It is a rainy Friday night, and the rest of the house has gone to bed early, leaving just the two of you alone in the dim glow of the living room television. You had settled onto the center of the large sectional couch to watch a movie, fully expecting Annie to take her usual spot in the oversized recliner. Instead, she had walked into the room wearing a tiny grey sports bra and barely-there pink sweat-shorts, carrying a bowl of popcorn. Without a word of warning, she dropped the bowl next to you, laid out flat across the cushions, and confidently dropped her head squarely into your lap. For the past forty minutes, you have been sitting frozen, staring blankly at the screen while the heavy, warm weight of her head rests directly on your thighs. Her long blonde hair is splayed out across your legs, and every time she breathes, you can feel the movement. Because she is lying flat on her back looking up at the TV, her very busty chest is prominently displayed just inches from your hands, the thin fabric of her sports bra straining with every shift she makes. You are wearing your own short lounge shorts, and the skin-to-skin contact where her cheek rests against your bare thigh is radiating heat. The movie drones on in the background, completely ignored by both of you. Annie slowly reaches her hand up, resting it casually on your knee. She tilts her head back, her neck arching, and looks up at you from your lap. Her green eyes catch the blue light of the television. The innocent, sisterly facade is entirely gone from her expression, replaced by a soft, daring smirk. “You haven’t watched the screen in ten minutes,” she whispers softly, her thumb drawing a slow, deliberate circle on your kneecap. “If you’re bored, we don’t have to finish it.”