[ENF] Quick trip to the door (Short Story)

[Heat_her_23]

"Is the food order here?" Heather's voice carried down the hallway as she padded barefoot toward the laundry room, her phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. Her younger sister's reply was muffled by the rumble of the washing machine filling with water.

The delivery notification pinged just as Heather tossed her last pair of panties into the suds. "Shit, that was fast," she muttered, glancing at the time—7:04 PM. Still early enough that the neighborhood retirees would be watering their lawns, that nosy Mr. Jenkins from across the street would absolutely be watching from his window. But the thought of soggy meal made her decision for her. Towel secured firmly under her arms, she made a dash to the front door.

The first gust of evening air hit her bare thighs the moment she stepped onto the porch. The concrete was rough underfoot, still warm from the afternoon sun, and the scent of jasmine from her mother's overgrown garden tangled with the savory aroma of grease and cheese from the takeout bag on the welcome mat. She bent at the knees—not the waist, she'd learned that lesson after an unfortunate incident with a dropped pencil in chem lab—and grabbed the handle just as the door clicked shut behind her.

The sound was soft. Final. Heather froze mid-motion, the towel suddenly loose around her torso. She didn't need to turn around to know what happened; the weightless draft against her lower back confirmed it. "No," she whispered, clutching the takeout bag like a lifeline as the terrycloth slithered down her hips in slow motion. It pooled around her ankles with an almost mocking gentleness, leaving her exposed to the golden-hour light slanting across the porch. Somewhere down the block, a sprinkler system hissed to life.

Her arms crossed over her chest instinctively, but the angle pressed her breasts upward, making their pink tips more prominent against the pale swell. Every frantic movement sent them bouncing—a mortifying spectacle she could feel happening rather than see. Behind her, the sensation of warm air brushing between her thighs made her squeeze her legs together, which only emphasized the plush curve of her ass. She might as well have been under a spotlight; the fading sun painted her skin peach-gold, highlighting every dip and quiver.

The takeout bag crinkled in her tightening grip. Options flashed through her mind like a slot machine: sprint for the side gate ( it's probably locked anyways), bang on the door (her sister’s earbuds were practically glued in), or—god help her—try the neighbors. Across the street, old man Jenkins curtains twitched. Heather swallowed hard. Her nipples puckered tighter, either from the breeze or the adrenaline, and she hated that she could feel them stiffening against her own forearms.

A car engine turned the corner. Heather’s pulse jackhammered as headlights swept over the porch steps, illuminating the jiggle of her thighs when she instinctively crouched. The towel lay like a taunting white flag at her feet. She could’ve sworn the driver slowed—just for a second—before rolling past. Her face burned hotter than the pavement. The sprinkler’s rhythmic hiss suddenly sounded like laughter.

Then came the voices. Teenage boys’ voices, sharp with that particular brand of boredom that always led into trouble. They were still half a block away, but Heather knew exactly who it was: the pack of skateboarders who loitered outside the 7-Eleven smoking vapes and rating girls’ Instagram posts aloud. Her body moved before her brain could strategize; she lunged for the door handle frantically pulling on it in a jerking motion. The first wolf whistle cut through the air as she scrambled upright, back pressed against the door. Her palms slapped against the wood. "Maddie!" Her voice cracked. "Open the goddamn door!" Heather's cries to her sister go unanswered.

The whistles multiplied. Someone shouted, "Damn, Heather!"—which meant they recognized her. Of course they did. She'd babysat half of them when they where younger. Her thighs trembled as the group’s footsteps grew louder, sneakers scuffing concrete. She couldn’t decide whether to cover her breasts or the smooth, hairless mound between her legs, so she ended up doing a frantic, humiliating shuffle—one arm crossed over her chest, the other hand cupped between her thighs—which only made her ass jut out further. The takeout bag tore in her grip, spilling fries across the welcome mat.

"Yo, she’s built like—" The rest of the sentence dissolved into laughter. Heather squeezed her eyes shut. The porch light flickered on suddenly, casting her in harsh yellow illumination. Every goosebump, every flushed inch of skin was on display. Then came the telltale creak of the door behind her.

"Jesus, Heather, what are you doing!?—" Maddie’s voice cut off with a gasp. The door swung wide just as Heather twisted toward it, arms flailing—one hand darting to cover her breasts, the other slipping from between her thighs in a desperate attempt to brace herself. The sudden movement sent her off-balance.

The boys' catcalls crescendoed into a chorus of whoops as Heather toppled backward. Her bare ass hit the foyer hardwood with a smack that echoed. Worse: her legs splayed wide open in the split-second before she could clamp them shut, giving the entire skate crew a full-frontal view of her glistening pink folds. The porch light caught every detail—the way her inner thighs quivered, the way her nipples stood at attention, the way her startled gasp elevated her breasts. Just as the doors frame, framed her naked body like some live-action centerfold.

Maddie's hand flew to her mouth—not in horror, but to stifle laughter. The door clicked shut with deliberate slowness, muffling the boys' shouts of "Dayumn!" and "What a body!" The lock engaged with a finality that sent Heather's stomach into freefall.

The end.