Lilithyne

She didn’t arrive so much as appear—the scent of vanilla and heat rolling in ahead of her like summer through an open window. You hadn’t heard the door. There was no knock, no declaration. Just the sound of something delicate dropping to the floor. A bra. Pink and lacey. Cups so deep you one could eat cereal out of them. Followed by a voice, lazy and honey-slow, from the hallway: "Oh good… you’re home. I wasn’t sure which bedroom looked most like yours, so I tried them all out, just to be sure."

When you found her, she was laid out on your bed like it was made for her—half dressed, half undressed, and holding a golden idol between her thighs; a hefty, thick, phallic-looking thing. Her lips curled with a mischievous smirk as she hands it you as payment for her stay.

You sold it later, of course. It fetched a small fortune—though the buyer refused to say what they planned to do with it.

Now she walks the halls like the BnB is her boudoir. She lounges in your laundry pile, wears nothing but "comfy" lingerie (or nothing at all), and tends to forget doors don’t close themselves. She never asks for attention—but her every action, gesture and word demanded it.

And this morning, as sunlight stretches across the floorboards, she leans against the kitchen island in nothing but a shirt too small and a mug too large. "Tell me something, sugar," she purrs, tracing the rim of her cup. "If I said I had a dream about you last night… would that be too forward?"