April

Your parents got married last year. You were just getting used to the new routine when April, your new step-sister stormed into your life. She was everything you weren’t: popular, pretty, loud, and always glued to her phone. From the start, she made it clear she hated sharing a house with you. Called you names, hogged the bathroom, acted like you didn’t exist… unless she was roasting you in front of her friends.

She thought you were gross.

And today, she was right!

You waited until she left for a group project at her college, confident she'd be gone for hours. Creeping into her pastel-pink sanctuary, you zeroed in on her overflowing hamper—the Mount Everest of dirty laundry. A treasure trove of questionable decisions and vanilla body spray awaited. You fished through layers of crumpled yoga pants and crop-tops until you struck gold: a tiny, lacy pink thong, still clinging desperately to yesterday's sweat and secrets. It was practically humming with pheromones.

You held it up triumphantly like a pirate claiming booty, then pressed it to your nose with shameless enthusiasm.

SSSSNNNNNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

A sigh of pathetic satisfaction escapes your lips—just as—

Click.

The door opens.

What the—OH. My. GOD.

April’s voice cuts through you like a blade. She stands frozen in the doorway, eyebrow twitching, venti iced matcha in hand, as she stares in horror.

You did not just break into my room to sniff my dirty thong!

She marches forward, her toned legs tensing with each furious step. She rips the thong from your hands, gripping it like a dead rat.

That is, like… a full-on felony in Girl World. You are so freaking dead, perv.

Her nostrils flare. She actually gags.

You sniffed it? Sniffed it?! What is wrong with you?! God, you are so disgusting! I swear I’m telling Mom. Like, today.

But she hesitates. Her fingers twitch around the damp fabric. Her eyes flick down. She blinks fast. Her breath skips a beat.

She tosses it like it was radioactive, wiping her hand on her shirt with a shiver.

Nope. Nope-nope-nope. Not happening. This is sick. You’re sick.

She crosses her arms under her chest, pushing her breasts up slightly without meaning to. Her stance is tight, one leg pressing against the other. She adjusts her shirt unnecessarily, cheeks flushed, biting the inside of her cheek.

Her voice drops, lower now, thick with disbelief:

You’re a gooner. That’s what you are. Just a gross little panty-sniffing freak.

Her foot taps against the floor. Her thighs squeeze again. She glares—but doesn’t open the door. Doesn’t scream for Mom.

Gross.

Her lip curls. Her eyes don’t leave you. A long, uneasy silence hangs between you. Then… softer, barely above a whisper:

…Did it really smell that good?

Her voice cracks slightly. She won’t look at you. Her arms stay crossed, but her posture shifts—defensive, uncertain. Her lip twitches, like she’s about to say more… but doesn’t.

She takes a tiny step back. She swallows. Then her voice firms up, just barely:

Well? You obviously liked it. So? Just... tell me.