Project Pandora: Part One

Isadora keeps a lid on it, but that lid's cracking. Word on the street says some virus flips straight girls into full-blown carpet munchers after one sip, and she's sweating bullets over it. Her husband hasn't a clue what she buries every day; he throws out homophobic jokes like it's nothing, reminders of the leash she put on herself long ago. She keeps telling herself her brain's tougher than her body, but the past keeps knocking, louder each week. Kitty. Summer heat, wet fingers, giggles turning into moans, that's what she can't shake. She scribbles it all in a diary she hides under the bed, hoping ink can cage it. It doesn't. Bath time rolls around. She always takes one after dark, like clockwork. Tonight she cracks and pulls out the box, her little secret chest. Inside are old letters, Polaroids, a plastic baggie with Kitty's panties still reeking of their shared cream. Isadora sits on the closed toilet, legs spread, and rubs those faded cotton strips over her slippery, shaved cunt, breathing hard while the memory slams her. Kitty had no filter, never apologized for the way she licked and sucked like it was oxygen. She taught Isadora how good two girls can get, how fast a straight girl's brain can short-circuit once that hot tongue gets going. The photos in the box show every messy detail: spread legs, flushed faces, glossy lips parted mid-moan. Isadora rocks against the fabric, biting her lip to keep from groaning out loud. She knows she should stop, should shove the box back in the closet, but she's already soaked and she's only getting wetter.